(A/N:) Heh, you guys thought I was quitting on this, didn't you? But HA! I'm back with another chappie. For some reason, this one took an insanely long time period to write, and I've been meaning to bring this idea in a while ago, but it keps getiing pushed back. This was originally going to be a five chapter fic, but I can see that's no longer happening . . . .

So, because you were such faithful waiters, I give you the !

And now, for the wonderful disclaimer of the day:

Disclaimer: Mello Take II

Mello: Astreich does not own Death Note.

Astreich: Good boy! *pats head*

Mello: *walks in* WTF! How the hell'd you get your hands on Near's puppet of me?

Astreich: Erm . . . (censored violence)

This chapter is dedicated to Katsumi Hatake (you are ALWAYS there), jamesmaslowfan07, and iatethecookie (for her amazing and extremely UNLAZY review). Thanks, guys.

Warning: I may or may not have been high when I thought of this chapter's contents. . .

CHAPTER 3:

Sayu sighed for about the fortieth time that day. Her eyes were closed, and a faint line of drool had made its way down her face (not that she cared much, there were no men to impress), but she couldn't fall asleep no matter what she did.

Damn these restraints, she thought. She hadn't been able to feel her hands for hours, and the handcuffs forced her to pinch her shoulder blades back into an unnatural position behind her body. To hell, the people here wouldn't even allow her to lie down like any normal human being! It was cruel of anyone to do, even a band of (most-likely) mentally deranged kidnappers. No doubt they were all watching her on surveillance too, staring her down as though she were a part of some lustful porn tape. That may have been the most infuriating thing of all: knowing that somewhere in this Godforsaken building, a gang of normal people, mobsters or not, was laughing as it watched her struggle.

And there goes my pampered ass again, complaining. You know, self, that really isn't going to get you too far in this situation.

But at least mental complaints were more entertaining than doing absolutely nothing. As much as Sayu hated to admit it, the boredom had sunken in pretty quickly, and she couldn't possibly sleep any longer, even if she tried.

Groaning, she sat up and searched the whitewashed room for a source of amusement with a hawkish glare of concentration. There were no unnecessary details added to the living space, no table, no futon, no homeliness whatsoever, only the bare essentials. She could have been on the inside of a glowing, fluorescent cube for all she cared. But nevertheless, she inspected every aspect of the place anyway, looking for something to ease her boredom. The floor: plain white and bare; nothing to do there. The ceiling: fluorescent lights; nada, unless her game involved becoming emo and potentially going blind. The walls: ugly, plain; not a chance of anything interesting, reall- wait. That black spot in the far corner: what was it? A camera?

That'll be it, she thought. Not that it helps my mental state to know that my kidnappers are freaking perverts as well as lunatics.

To test her theory, Sayu inched towards the middle of the room, out of the Sacred Corner of Safeness, as she'd dubbed it. The black dot inched right along with her, and she sent it a menacing glare. She hoped the men on the other side would pick up on it and be intimidated, like they were supposed to. If looks could kill . . . . .

"Aw, sweetie, we know you're upset, but try not to death-glare the lot of us, okay? With a look like that on your face, I can't guarantee that one of us won't mistake you for Kira and 'pass rightful judgment' on you. Hah!" The sound of human voices, though garbled by a scrambling machine, startled Sayu so badly she jumped, and she suddenly understood just how used to the absolute silence that was her prison cell she'd really gotten. Wait . . . so this whole sitch is about Kira? I guess it makes sense. It's the 'big thing' in the world right now, and why else would an obvious idiot of a man bring up something as serious and completely unrelated as that at a time like this?

Then her train of thoughts was drowned in the oncoming of a new realization: they could hear her too. And herein lies my source of entertainment, she thought, smiling smugly. The boredom had gone, been lifted from her mind as hundreds of fresh ideas splashed through it, like a torrent of rainwater through a pipe after a thunderstorm. This was about to get good, real good.

"I love you, you love me . . ." she burst out randomly, bellowing the words of the famous Barney theme even though her voice still felt hoarse from screaming. This was a cheap little trick she'd dreamt up, designed to annoy the goons just a tad and aid them on their way to understanding her pain. However, not only would this be a vengeful act, it would also be a way to measure just how stupid they actually were. If this stupidity could come to her advantage as a means of gaining information (because everything, in a world with Light, needed a practical reason), it'd be all for the better. She wasn't sure where exactly knowledge like this could come in handy, but it was better to be prepared than sorry about it later.

"Shut it, prisoner," the jumbled voice said in response to her -quite bitchy, she thought- outburst. She only sang louder, drowning him out until he was forced to raise his voice.

"Dammit, SHUT UP!"

"La la la, I can't hear you!" she screamed finally, before launching into a song practically everyone on the planet knew. "La la, la la, Elmo's World! Elmo loves his goldfish, his crayon too . . . ." And suddenly, Elmo was reminding her more and more of Light's cutesy supermodel/pop star extraordinaire girlfriend, Misa Amane, by the second. Apparently, he wasn't the only one who referred to himself in third person.

I wonder where she picked that up from.

Shocked by her sudden revelation on classic children's television, Sayu fell into abrupt silence. And was surprised to learn that the Whiteroom (I have been naming stuff far too often lately - thought I was past the delirious stage . . .) could suddenly echo noises, even though it'd never done so previously. And that the echoes sounded like robots and could magically predict the next lines of the song.

And then she realized: . . . Those idiots . . . are singing along! Had her hands been free, she would've facepalmed. But this was far better a reaction than she could've hoped for, and things were finally starting to get interesting.

As the voices slowly died away, noticing she was no longer singing, Sayu decided to test just how far she could go with this.

"I throw my hands up in the air sometimes," she started, beckoning at the camera with her chin almost hopefully.

"Sayin' eeeyyo, gotta let go," they continued like obedient schoolchildren. Sayu smirked, bellowing along to the familiar tune, totally off key and not caring a bit.

When she'd finished, she stopped to take a breather, a small smile painted across her face. Singing could take a lot out of a person. She knew it from experience. A few years ago, she'd been keen on the idea of music and raring to go, signing up for several plays at a time, and even joining the middle school chorus to boot. A few dress-rehearsals and lead roles later, she caught herself wondering what had ever crossed her mind in the first place to make her think that was easy. Nevertheless, despite the work and effort that went into it, playmaking was an amazing experience and totally worth the trouble. Even during a kidnapping, she could still reminisce of her many on-stage screw-ups, or beautifully successful performances, or even her small teenage crush on the curtain boy (who'd turned out to be an absolute douche, of course).

"Aw, you can't possibly be done already," the scrambled voice complained, sounding rather childlike in its disappointment. It shook her out of the age-old memories dancing around her mind. "You're right," she muttered softly, sure that they couldn't hear her through the weak-looking microphone that hung suspended below the camera. "I can do better."

"Usher, anybody?" she questioned, beaming at the dark glass lens of the camcorder. There was a rowdy cheer that echoed around the room from the tiny speaker, and she blasted off into "OMG," the only music by the man that she knew the lyrics to. When he'd stopped in Tokyo on his world tour, that nuisance of a song had been blaring from the radio almost nonstop. And despite her dislike towards the guy and his style of music in general, Sayu had to admit that she'd eventually warmed up to it, like everyone does to an overplayed melody.

Hence the non-Japanese music choice. Thank God I studied English in college, Sayu thought gratefully, giving her past self a pat on the back. It's a lifesaver. Especially considering the fact that these idiot goons probably can't speak anything else.

Pretty soon, Sayu was lost in the music, prattling on through "Pokerface," "Baby," "Dynamite," "Every Time We Touch," and "Umbrella," to name a few. After a while, she'd made a subconscious decision to stop 'party-singing' and faded into her regular, deep, melodious voice. The goons had ceased some time ago, more content to watch their free concert than ruin it with the garbled scrambler. She seemed perfectly at ease with this, as though putting on a show for an audience was no big thing at all, and they had to admit they were pretty impressed.

When her repertoire was nigh-on empty, Sayu knew it was time to call it quits. To say the least, she'd enjoyed herself greatly for the past hour or so, and singing like she did back at home put her mind at ease. It's easier to believe you're not here when you think you're back in Japan, She thought solemnly, content for the moment. But wait. What have they taught me in theatre class for all these years? That a show needs a finale.

Gathering herself, Sayu shouted at the camera, "Hey guys! Do you happen to know the harmonies to 'For Good?' You know, from Wicked?" A scrambled backup was better than no backup, after all.

She giggled when she heard a gasp and an "Ooh, I love that song!" on the other end, then launched into the final act of the night.

Despite their apparent stupidity, the men (nothing more than overgrown boys, if you really thought about it) could carry a note quite well if they put their minds to it. Sayu found her voice harmonizing nicely with theirs, and the result sent shivers tumbling down her spine. It's a really pretty song if you get it right, and they got it right. She smiled. Her time in this prison cell might not play out as badly as she thought it would after all.

On the second verse, the backup vocals died suddenly, crisply, and Sayu was on her own. It instantly seemed so silent, so lonely without the deep, albeit cracked voices that she almost cut off right there, but continued anyway. So what if they decide to ditch me in the middle of a song, the bastards? I don't need them!

"Like a comet pulled from orbit, as it passes the su-"

And that was the moment her show ended. No finale, no dramatic curtain fall, no roaring audience. For then, a sharp hiss echoed through the room, signifying the opening of the door. She whirled, only to lay eyes on a very aggravated-looking leather-clad blonde, tapping his foot against the floor.

Sleep did Mello more good than he would know, even though his mind was constantly plagued by strange dreams of chocolate and little girls nowadays. After nearly two weeks of only sporadic naps, no more than two hours each, his system had slowly begun shutting down, oblivious to the sharp commands his mind was giving it. The feverish planning and almost non-stop action had sent him into a fervor, though towards the end, even he had to admit he wasn't thinking straight. It was pretty bothersome (and somewhat infuriating) to know that, unlike his greatest role model, the man whom he should've succeeded after his death, he was unable to go for weeks on end without rest and still be at his best. Then again, he was thinking of L, one of the most phenomenal and strange masterminds this world had ever seen. He knew that truly, he amounted to nothing compared to L, but it never stopped him from trying.

Still, it somewhat hurt to know he couldn't match even some of the most basic qualities the great detective possessed, such as his cool, imposing nature and severely accurate calculations. But many things stung Mello more, like the fact that no matter what he did, what stunts he pulled, what crazy trick he tried, he never measured up that overachieving, monotonous bastard of a sheep. Ever, not in his whole history at Wammy's, and certainly not now, in the field.

Damn him, he thought bitterly. But that's why I'm doing this. I'm going to prove to the whole world that I'm better than that albino twit. The tests thrown at us now are real, and if you fail, you die. There isn't second place to fight for.

It was the constant, sickly-sweet reminder of his almost-victory over Near that kept him going through his exhaustion, through his disgusting rages. This time, he was going to win. He was the one that took action, and wasn't afraid to kill in order to achieve his goals. It was what set the two of them apart; Mello took the initiative, and Near stayed locked in a room playing with his toys. They were similar from many points of view, yet worlds away. And with Near's obvious weakness in character, Mello would win eventually. He could count on it.

Heh, ambitious thoughts bright and early in the morning. Maybe I'll actually get somewhere with the girl today, he thought, stretching and not remembering feeling so refreshed in a long time.

So it was only natural (with his luck) that his positive morning parade was promptly ruined by the sound of raucous . . . was that . . . singing? Mello growled, instantly forgetting the shower he'd been dreaming of, and pushed past the thin wooden door into the hallway.

It only got louder.

"The hell?" he asked no one in particular, annoyed. He followed the noise until he could slowly begin to make out the words.

"To help us most to grow, if we let them . . . ." the gruff voices sang. Despite himself, Mello silently sniggered. Men? Singing Wicked songs?

The smile quickly vanished from his features, however, when he realized the loud melody was coming from the surveillance room, where they were supposed to be watching the prisoner. He bit his lip, wondering who had smuggled the booze in this time and what to do about him. I run this show, he thought, vowing to himself that he wouldn't let a lot of idiots ruin it for him, or for L's revenge. Sayu was a pretty girl, after all: if they were drunk, no doubt she'd have sweet-talked them into a tray of food and freedom of the wrists by now. That went against everything he'd set up in his mind, and his tower of plans would crumble to dust, just because one brick wasn't laid right.

So basically, he dreaded what he'd see when he walked in.

But when he pushed through the door, there were no people sprawled out on couches, drooling, or people arm-wrestling and smashing tables in the process. No, the whole lot he'd set on guard duty was there, intensely focused on the screens, even leaning forward slightly in their swivel chairs.

And sweetly singing the harmonies to one of the fluffiest songs he knew, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders and swaying side to side in the process.

If the situation wasn't as serious, he would have toppled to the ground laughing, but the way it was, he just beat them all up in rapid succession, until they were on the ground, nearly senseless.

"What the FUCK?" he screamed, just daring any one of them to look him in the eye. Every goon present quivered, and quickly averted their gaze, fearing Mello's wrath as though he were the Devil himself. He could very well have been, from their point of view on the floor, watching as his gleaming leather boots made their way slowly to the door. He walked with the pride and confidence of God himself.

As he left, fists clenched at his sides and a grimace painted across his face, one or two of them could've sworn his eyes glinted red for just a second there.

Mello's boots clicked softly on the floor as he walked down the hall with almost feline grace. He was questioning his resolve on the inside, unsure if he could face that girl again. The last time, he'd cracked as he stared into those teary eyes, wishing he could just send her home and be done with it. And there was just something so, so incredibly familiar about her it was striking; he didn't know what to think at this point. That on top of the ridiculous thoughts and dreams he'd been having lately added up to a jumbled mess of extreme confusion.

True, sleep had made it better, but in that brief moment of silence in the surveillance room, where no one had dared twitch lest they wished to face his rage on their own, Mello had heard an amazing sound. A beautiful sound, one that awakened all his doubt and guilt once more. It was a single voice, persevering even without an audience to hear. It was a sound of loneliness and solitude, but also of hope, and it gave Mello the chills. It was Sayu's voice, and it was calming to him, like a mother's lullaby is to her screaming child. So instead of throwing a fit and beating the failures of guards into oblivion, he'd lassoed his violent temper and tamed it, at least for the moment.

It was the thing that left Mello, though he would never admit it, scared. Nobody has ever been able to do that to me, not even those stupid psychologists that visited Wammy's. What the hell is with that chick? The witch . . .

He shook his head softly as he arrived at her door and pressed his hand against the scanner, waiting as it began to vibrate gently and read the dark crease-lines on his palm. After a brief moment, filled with only a shrill resonating note from beyond the mechanized door, the lock clicked open. With a barely audible hiss, a crack appeared in the wall, then widened to form a suitable entryway. Immediately, his senses were assaulted by the blazing light, but soothed by a sweet, hopeful melody as it wafted lazily through the air past him, oblivious to him. He winced, stepping through, the door sliding shut after him.

Keep singing, he thought, watching the still form of the black-haired girl before him. He closed his eyes, taking in his surroundings and breathing deeply. This stage of the kidnapping was much harder to physically do than he'd have thought possible when his mind was giving birth to this scheme. But, when all came down to it, it had to be done.

Keep singing, please.

His hard-soled heel connected with the tiled floor, producing a loud, resounding crack. Sayu Yagami whirled around in a split second, cut off mid-line, shining brown eyes widening as they met his narrowed ones. She cowered, folding in on herself and hunching her shoulders (as much as she could with handcuffs, anyway), but her pupils remained trained on his ferocious gaze. She was still meek, but a spark of rebellion had lit in eyes, and her face was set in stubborn determination.

Mello didn't know how long the two of them stood there, each frozen for his or her own respective reasons, but he knew one thing for certain: he would never lose to his captive in a staredown. She would avert her gaze, he would make her.

Yet no matter how much he scowled, no matter what sort of growl his throat emitted, she held her ground, and he was getting slightly frustrated.

Woman, you don't want me angry, he thought, a part of him silently pleading with her to drop her gaze. Just humor me; I don't want to hurt you again.

A shadow crossed her eyes for half a second, and as though reading his mind, she backed down. He sighed softly, facial features softening, and traced his wrists with the tips of his fingers, pondering his options now that he found himself in this situation.

Then he scowled, saying, "Give me your hands." It was too early, he knew, but it would be senseless to keep the handcuffs on any longer anyway. He may have been a killer, but he wasn't a sadist.

Within a minute or two, Sayu was sitting back more easily than before, rubbing her wrists and scowling at the angry red imprints the cuffs had left in her skin. She dared to sneak a glance at him, and seemed relieved that he no longer looked intent on killing her. He even went so far as grinning at her expression, though first making sure she wasn't looking.

Then a sudden urge, a longing, overtook him, and he slid his hand into his pocket, ripping out a chocolate bar (Hershey's Milk Chocolate, King Size) and fumbling with the wrapper. He closed his eyes as the semi-melted goodness slid over his tongue, and he savored it, knowing the rest of the day wouldn't get much better than this. As depressing as that would seem, it was the story of his life since he'd left Wammy's. He suspected that chocolate was the only thing that stood between him and insanity nowadays, though he was already on the verge of it.

Mello felt her eyes searching his face rather than seeing them. When he spared a glance down, she was intently locked onto the treat he held, an almost pleading look on her face.

He hesitated, but after a moment's consideration, he pouted and ripped off a chunk of his life's delight and tossed it in her direction. He could always just get another one, after all, and she probably hadn't eaten in more than a day and a half. A wave a pity washed over him as he watched her scramble after it, like a starved dog, and it pained him to know what just a smidge of physical abuse and hunger could do to a human being's pride. It was like she'd thrown it out a fourth floor window, climbed down, stomped on it twice, then walked away and forgotten about it. To think that, only three days ago, this same Sayu Yagami would have laughed at him in scorn if he'd tried to pull a stunt like that . . .

To hell with me and my conscience, he thought, kneeling down in front of the girl and offering her the rest of his chocolate bar. She cringed as he came closer, backing into the wall, before realizing what he was doing. She looked up at his face with terrified eyes, snatching the bar from his hand quickly, but only after he'd beckoned toward it with his head.

She's afraid of me. She's angry, she stubborn, but she's afraid. How could she be afraid, when I'm not even the biggest threat out there?

Then he realized that through her eyes, he was. He was the great, roaring dragon, imprisoning his princess in the tallest tower so she had to count down her days to Prince Charming's rescue. He was the Joker, playing games with her mind and terrorizing her in ways that man should not know. He was Lord Voldemort, inflicting pain on her again and again, in different forms each and every time until she was battered and scarred and in tears.

But most of all, he was Mello, a man uncaring, cruel, and violent enough to do something like this to another being. He'd always prided himself in, well, himself, and his initiative, and his cognitive abilities, and he hated the way this girl always made him question his very being. It was like she was dissecting him, looking deep within his chest and wrenching that long-forgotten heart back to the surface again.

Yet, no matter what she did, he couldn't bring himself to hate her.

This made no sense, because she obviously saw only that beast of cruelty and hatred within him, and hated him for it.

Then he bit his lip. What am I even thinking about? Since when do I care what some annoying black-haired college chick thinks of me? Focus, Mello.

Of course, it was right then that something so weird, yet so strangely important to him, clicked in his mind. The black hair, the deep brown eyes, the soft facial features, obviously smile-worn, the modest way of dressing . . . . . all that was needed to complete the image was a red bow on top. Now that he thought about it, he knew who she resembled. Was it even possible that . . . she was the same girl from his dreams? No, not dreams: memories. The memory from way back when, in England, at Wammy's House. That monstrously depressing day, as he sat on the wooden bench outside the wrought iron fence, wondering whether he should end it now, while he still could . . . . .

Chocolate.

Could it be?

Yes. It was. It was the same person.

It had to be.

He sized her up anew, the shock clearly evident on his face. She cocked her head to the side and sent him a questioning glance, wondering what was going through his head. He could tell she was trying to gauge him, trying to see if she could piece together his thoughts just from his expression, but he wasn't about to give her the chance.

Right, Mello. Back to business. I can think about this later.

"Sayu Yagami." It wasn't a question. It was a statement, spoken with vehemence as he began to pace purposefully back and forth across the room. "Like I said before, I have a few questions that I'm going to ask you, and you will answer me with nothing but the absolute, full truth. Got it?"

The sweet after-taste of chocolate that lingered on the roof of Sayu's mouth turned suddenly sour as bile rose up in her throat. Questioning? She had no idea what this whole bitch of a mess was about, and she was curious to find out, but she didn't want the interrogation to come. The nameless blondie hadn't actually said a single word to her up until a few seconds ago, and had actually shown her a smidgeon of the kindness in his heart. But when he'd spoken, oh, that voice, it was gruff and harsh, and the imminent threat in it was clearly evident. It canceled out her minutely growing trust for him (though she would never care to admit what she thought of her kidnapper) in an instant, snapped it clean in two, and filled her anew with that nervous tension that had held her in its embrace earlier. She was sure, no, positive, that what was about to come might turn out to be her worst experience in this whole blinding craphole of a dungeon. No, her worst experience ever.

I'm thinking too far ahead again. Stupid me, I know I panic when I do that, but I do it anyway. Just take what Blondie throws at you and throw it back at him, Sayu. You've done it before, and so has Light. And you've always been better.

Still, she looked up at him nervously, mouthing the word "What?" unable to bring it past her lips.

Nevertheless, he ignored her, looking meaningfully at the camera she'd located in the corner earlier, and nodding at it curtly after a second or two. Almost immediately, the door hissed open, and a burly man, burdened by two heavy-looking wooden chairs, nearly toppled in, placing them on the ground across from one another and backing away. Sayu noticed absently that he retained careful eye contact with the not-very-interesting floor, not even daring to glance up quickly at the blonde.

So he holds some form of authority here, she pondered mentally. But that doesn't really help me until I find out where "here" is. Some sort of organization? Definitely something under the market, anyway . . .

The blonde sat down with the grace of a cat, crossing his legs and beckoning to the other seat with a careless wave of his hand. She slid into it and intertwined her fingers nervously, almost expecting him to lunge at her in the next second. It was practically what he'd done last time, after all. She tensed subconsciously, hunching her shoulders.

"How are you feeling, Sayu?" he asked softly, startling her. The shiver-inducing menace had all but evaporated from his voice. When she dared to glance up, she saw that the ice in his brilliant blue eyes had melted, and his expression was warm.

She mentally amended her statement: very good actor.

"Just peachy, thanks," she exclaimed while glaring daggers at him, letting the snap and sarcasm drip into her voice. She couldn't help it; the way he'd asked her if she was okay was just too . . . normal. It didn't, couldn't, apply to this situation, and didn't deserve to be used as such.

Nevertheless, the blonde narrowed his eyes, though it was a subtle movement and she was sure she hadn't been meant to notice.

"Very well then. If that is what you get for an attempt at normalcy," here she barked out a laugh, "then let's carry on." So formal. It was obvious he was playing the Gentleman Criminal card here, and it was thoroughly unimpressive. Sayu supposed she liked it better than Option 2, however. That wouldn't have been pretty.

"It is my understanding that you are a killer, are you not?"

"Wha-" For a moment she was speechless. "Where did that come from?"

"And yet you avoided my question directly. What does that state about the answer? Or perhaps you just misunderstood. Here. To make it just a tad easier on you, I'll rephrase it: Have you ever killed any person? It could have been direct, indirect, or otherwise."

"N-no!"

"Very well, but can you say that you've never hurt another human being? Again, direct, indirect, or other."

Sayu's mental state was in the midst of building enormous skyscrapers of information, then crashing planes of dropped hints and unanswered questions into them, burning them to the ground. It was a jumbled mess of confusion as she tried to process this barrage of questions all at once. It was all going impossibly fast, jumping from one broad assumption to another in the space of half a second, and her brain just didn't function at 500 k.p.h. like his apparently did. She assumed this was the very point, to confuse a wrong answer past of her lips, but she was determined not to let that happen.

"Well, saying that I've never hurt anyone would not be the opposite of impossible, though I wouldn't say that I could say that I couldn't." (A/N: Yes, if you squint VERY hard, it does make sense.)

This did appear to stump him, but only for about half a second. Still, it was a small win for her side. He was scowling, but she realized with a start that it wasn't an unpleasant scowl, like before. He was almost . . . smiling. Sayu resisted the urge to quiver.

Uh-oh.

"So let me get this straight: You've never not done anything that would make you unable to not say that you weren't un-innocent, but as a human being you've not never needed to not notify a number of unnoticed notorieties? If it's so, go ahead and tell me."

Sayu became momentarily slack-jawed with wonder, her tension forgotten. He could formulate a response like that in half a second?

Equally wondrous was the fact that she had, indeed, understood everything he'd said.

"Yes," she said simply, gracing him with an innocent smile.

Impressed him with that one, didn't I?

He nodded thoughtfully. "All right. We aren't getting too far along doing this, are we? Though I have to say, you aren't as utterly stupid as you look." Sayu frowned, though she supposed it was probably true after all this time. She reflexively reached up and patted her hair down, winning an incredulous look from the blonde. 'What?' she wanted to say, but chose not to. This guy was already blunt as it was; she wasn't really after an insult-assault on her appearance.

"So do you know why I brought you here?" He questioned, some of the previous warmth returning to his voice. He's forgotten to be the cold gentleman! What a laugh! Sayu smirked inwardly, but held it in so as not to spoil her kidnapper's apparent good mood. He had quite a temper around him, and it was a fragile thing.

"No, of course, I don't know."

He was looking at her in a completely new light; she was sure of it. "Correct. Well then, Sayu, why do you think you're here?"

Sayu caught her mental walls before they could crumble. There were cracks running down the sides, all the time thickening until soon there'd be nothing left. This man was - quite simply - unlike anything she'd ever met before. He was all over the place in terms of, well, everything. He was high, then he was low. Cruel, then kind. Absolutely enraged one second and grinning the next. And the whole time, even through the ice that coated his aura, a strange warmth was seeping through. She could feel it, and was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

It was all part of his trap, his elaborate scheme to get her to say what he wanted her to, and to take advantage of it. Without the uttermost caution, she would fumble and fall right in, exactly where he wanted her. It was just an act, so tactical, so practiced, so perfected that she could barely read into it. That warmth was a lie; the layer of snow cloaking it had to come from somewhere, after all.

And yet, a prickling, itching little corner of her mind pleaded to let her believe that kindness in him was real.

Sayu watched him watch her with that steady, all-seeingly observant expression of his. What he had was a perfect poker face, and she absently wondered what he was thinking about at the moment. He'd caught her hesitation, for sure, but what that could mean to him she couldn't possibly know.

The only thing she did know was that his intellect was absolutely beyond her caliber, and she would have to watch herself no matter what. I have to be perfect. This is a test, and I have to get a 100, not a 98, she thought.

Then, as an added side note: please let me get a 100.

"Judging by the direction in which your questioning is going, and what I heard mentioned earlier by the guards," she began, knowing they were in for a big scolding (or, most likely, more than that) after she'd uttered the words. They'd been amusing, but hey, they were stillenemies. "I'd say you were after Kira's head. However, I don't know how that, in any way, relates to me or this kidnapping. What does taking me accomplish?"

Tread carefully, a bypassing thought whispered. The water can get deep in a footstep.

He nodded, shifting position slightly and tapping his fingers on the dark wood. "Very, very good. Judging by your school grades, I hadn't expected nearly this much of you. However, you ask for answers I, unfortunately, can't give."

Tread careful, tread careful, tread careful . . .

Then, just that suddenly, the soil fell from under her feet, and she needed to swim or die.

"Tell me, Sayu, did you know that your brother was Kira?"

The bomb had been dropped. What could she do? What could she say? What did he want her to say? What was she even thinking? "Brother" and "Kira." Two words that should never have been said in the same sentence around her. It put her mind into a flurry, no, an explosion.

The answer he was after, it had to be simple. It was one of those fifty-fifty things in which a person always made the wrong choice. But she couldn't hesitate. No, not for this one. He would read countless things of it, and perhaps that was the very response he was wishing for.

She wanted to shiver, she wanted to quake, she wanted to push it off to another time. She wanted, more than anything, to hide in a corner and make it going away. Admittance was the first step to recovery, they said, but she couldn't admit it, she just couldn't.

But she couldn't hesitate either.

"Yes," she said firmly, angrily, daring him to contradict her.

Then she put a hand to her lips, wishing the world she could take it back. Because in that question of swim or die, she had chosen death.

(A/N:) Astreich: I also do not own Lady Gaga, Cascada, Wicked, etc . . . . But HONESTLY, show me a girl that has not wished to play Glinda at least ONCE in her life.

Mello: So, you done using puppets?'

Astreich: DON'T KILL ME!