Matt slid into the driver's seat of his car and slammed the door. His hair was still damp from the shower, but his mood hadn't lightened as it usually did. Things were harder for him these days. The addiction affected him in ways he hadn't thought possible.

Like now, coming down from his high, when his blood felt like mud in his veins and his thoughts were slow and disjointed. Matt had always been immaculate. At Wammy, his room was a wreck but Matt himself…Matt was perfect. He still wasn't sure if he was reflecting his system, or if the system was just a mirror of his personality but…the center made sense. The coding, the files, the programs… all of it was perfectly trained, groomed into something formidable and accurate. Matt's hardware may have been a jumbled mess of wires and various computers, but when the power came on, everything meshed perfectly.

Matt himself was the same in many ways. His hair was always clean, his clothing washed, his goggles clear…even his nails were kept trimmed and neat. When he became unclear, upset and disorganized, he took a shower, because the act of cleaning himself was calming. Restoring order and balance, it cleared his thoughts and allowed him to start fresh.

Except when fucking Mello was involved.

Mello had always, always, known how and when to hurt him. It was absurd the way the blonde got under his skin, with a few well placed words, and fucked with his head like it some toy of his. Especially when it was intentional…Matt supposed that was his fault, for opening up to him all those years ago. Mello had been the first person he'd spoken to on any personal level when he got to Wammy. They'd scared the hell out him, frankly, when they dragged him up the stairs and into a room, talking about they'd begin his training later…they'd worked on their introductions a lot since then, but his first day was almost a scar. Mello had been the one to convince him to eat, though that may have been more intimidation than anything else. Even so, it was Mello that made them stop the drugs…he'd always been grateful for that.

Why it was harder now…well, he supposed it was the morphine in his system. He started the engine and pulled out, heading across town. The drug itself was all good fun while it was in full effect, but after…after the high nearly killed him every time.

Matt didn't feel clean anymore. It tore at his sanity, stretched him thin to know that there was something that he couldn't change, something wrong that he couldn't fix. He felt as though something disgusting and sticky had been painted onto his bones, and no amount of scrubbing would ever get it off. He'd tried to quit once…just once, and the withdrawals had scared him so badly he'd almost killed himself trying to get his buzz back.

Matt was also a proud person. If he'd wanted, he could have made a blue call to Wammy, and enlisted in their medical facility for rehab. He could have been clean a year ago, and even now, at any time he wanted, he knew that he could still make that phone call.

Yet every time he made this trip to a random pay-phone wherever he was at, those were not the words that left his mouth.

He drove through the city, dimly trying to remember what it had been like to live there. He and his parents were from L.A. originally, but that…that was forever ago. The nostalgia inspired by these tall buildings and rolling hills was anything but calming. It reminded him of who he used to be…the life he might have had. He supposed that he would have inherited his father's company, in time. The man had built it from the ground up, and he'd been groomed for the job since he was about six. However, it was something he'd stopped thinking about once Mello drove him forward.

He punched the steering wheel in frustration when Mello returned to his thoughts. He was still pissed at him. Even the new Mello knew how to get into his head, and it's not like he was an open book or something. This new Mello was something else entirely. How he still got under his skin at the blink of an eye, Matt didn't know. He was a complete stranger, and possibly deranged. Even briefly wishing his death didn't ease Matt's anger. He'd always found it easy to lose his temper, and he supposed he was lucky that he was the quiet-type…he was lean, not built for fighting, and he'd have lost anyway.

He needed a fucking cigarette. A moment of feeling blindly through his vest pockets revealed that he'd left them on the fucking table at the fucking apartment, after fucking Mello pissed him off. What a great fucking day this was turning out to be.

He roared into a gas station and parked. It didn't matter if people thought he was trying to make up for something, because Christ knew, that's exactly what it was. His knee was aching again, and for once, he was glad it was his left. He wouldn't be able to drive at all, had it been his right. He reached over to the passenger seat and moved the pile of equipment there. He'd used his car for storage…the mess Mello had found the other night was a result of him double checking his entire system by dragging it up to the apartment and routing the entire thing. He'd brought most of it back down once Mello went to bed.

After a moment of digging, he finally found his wallet.

He straightened and hissed as his knee sung to him; tremors of pain making it shake slightly. After a moment of mental preparation, he opened the door and took a deep breath. A glance into his backseat revealed a cane, Wammy standard issue, lying on top of his reconfigured Xboxes. The thought of pulling it out never even crossed his mind. The cane was an open admittance of weakness, and damn him, but he was feeling pathetic enough already. Mello had insured that for the day. He didn't touch it.

He hated these calls, he hated the fucking morphine, and above all else, he fucking hated his gimp knee.

Using the car door for leverage, he pulled himself up and took a moment to adjust to the pain. Once he was sure that the leg wouldn't buckle under him, he shut the door and made his way up to the sidewalk and then to the pay phone. He passed the glass front of the store, and didn't glance inside. Better not to know how many people he was humiliating himself in front of. He normally wouldn't have bothered, but Mello's insults had made him slightly paranoid…he felt that if he made eye contact with any of these idiots, they'd know…they'd just know about his addiction, and they'd shake their heads and feel sorry for him. Matt couldn't handle that right now.

That was what really bothered him, in the long run…as long as he told himself that he just wanted the drug, and didn't need it, it wasn't an addiction. He knew better, and now that Mello'd had his fun pointing it out, he was hard pressed to think of it as anything else. He damn sure tried, though. He wasn't an addict…he was stronger than that.

He made it to the phone and pulled out his card. Ignoring the operated-voice's instructions to insert money, he dialed the number in white on the otherwise blank metal disk.

A pleasant-sounding woman's voice came on the line a moment later. "Code please?"

"G224-078."

"Pseudo-Matt? Confirm, please?"

"Joy."

"…Accepted, please hold."

Matt sighed and leaned on the glass box, trying to ease the pressure on his leg before it began outright shaking. A moment ticked by, and then an automated menu read off.

"If you're in danger and require immediate assistance, press 1. If you're in need of medical attention, press 2."

Matt thumbed the button, hating himself for it.

"Wammy Medical. If you're hurt and require immediate assistance, press 1. If you're in need of a safe house, press 2. If you're in need of a prescription drop-off, press 3. If you're in need of prolonged medical assistance, or rehabilitation, press 4."

As always, his finger hovered, but his addiction won out.

It was not an addiction.

Three.

"Prescription options." They were shaking their heads, he just knew it. The voice continued. "To set up a medical exam, press 1. To order a refill and drop off, press 2."

Two.

"Authorization code?"

"G224-078, for injury listing 0012."

"Confirm?"

"Joy." The phone beeped at him strangely as the computer searched its files, and there was a moment of silence. A beat too long, and he sighed to himself…that was the last thing he needed.

"Accepted. Request?"

"G224-078 requesting Medical transaction 326 from account WKV4. Amount, 300 hundred Euro, Medication code MOR23. Injury listing 0012 to confirm."

"Request pending. Confirmed."

A human came on the line again, this time a man. "Psuedo-Matt?"

"Yeah."

"How's your knee?"

God, he hated that question. He knew he was ordering too much morphine to accommodate the pain, but he never went in to change the quantity. The doctor on the other end would know that it was too much…he would know. "Still lame, still painful."

"Drop off will be determined by the safe house in your area. Method of Contact?"

"…Use the ghost in the security coding."

"The Jackrabbit?"

"Yeah." The ghost allowed him to keep tabs on Wammy without having to rely on direct contact. He could check it without giving away his location.

"Confirmed. Would you like to schedule the physical?"

"No." That was what it came down to…his leg and his drug. His entire life seemed centered around those two events now, but to Matt, his addiction was the heavier offense. He could tolerate his leg to an extent (until Mello made him feel like a cripple), but the morphine was something he was blatantly in denial about. It had been a decision, a long time ago, and as long as it was a decision…he supposed he could live with it. A decision…that's all, not a problem.

"Take care Psuedo-Matt." A click and the voice disappeared, but the line didn't go dead. Matt sighed and switched ears.

"What do you want, Near?"

"…You said you were going to quit." The quiet voice on the other end was just optimistic enough to be insulting. Near watched the Wammy lines for him, initiating a contact every time he ordered more of his meds.

"I lied. What do you want?"

"Nothing. I'm merely noting the fact that you jumped halfway across the nation in the course of a week. I take it you found him?"

"…Yeah."

"What's he like?"

"…He's not the kid I grew up with."

"I'm sorry to hear that. How is your knee, by the way?"

God, that fucking question. "The cartilage hasn't healed properly, and the knee cap is split. How do you think?"

"…Immensely painful. Like I said, I never blamed you for starting. And Mello's health?"

"Got a couple bullet scars, nice knife across his stomach, but other than that, I've actually never seen him better."

"Really? Count on Little Preacher to thrive in debauchery."

Matt rolled his eyes, wanting more than anything to just hang up now. "He asked about you too. Wanted to know if I was in contact with you…"

"I hope for both our sakes you told him no."

"Yeah…Any news on the case?"

"…I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."

"Mello's not talking either. You had to have found something, though…you managed to get an entire taskforce put together…and Mello's going to extremes."

"I'd rather not discuss that."

Matt was heartily sick of people thinking they knew best for him. "Whatever man…I gotta run. We're moving."

"Where to?"

"Near, you know better."

"You're not the only one worried for a friend, Matt."

"Near…Mello was never your friend." Matt hung the phone up and stared at it for a moment longer, wondering to himself why he'd just defended the bastard.

Son of bitch, only Mello could manage to piss him off enough to ruin a high, and then have him defend him not an hour later. He didn't understand it.

XXXX

Mello loved this couch…call him crazy, but zebra-striped leather amused him to no end. It was his favorite perch, and he lounged there now, watching Rod talk on the phone to one of his associates. The Mafia was a big organization, stretching across the whole of America, and Mello himself was only involved in this one section. He had contacts in New York, but no real power there. He'd waited until he'd arrived in L.A to assert himself, and once he'd begun making money for the organization, the rest had been easy.

Granted, the local police had been…expensive, but it was a benefit he wouldn't have passed up. It was nearing four in the afternoon now, and he was out of chocolate for the day. That was usually his cue to leave before he got irritable.

Besides, he needed to head back to the apartment and make sure Matt hadn't overdosed because he was angry.

He stood and stretched, and the Mafia stood with him in respect, except the whores. There were new ones almost nightly, so he didn't really pay attention to them. The big black man turned and covered the phone for a second. "You headin' out, man?"

"Yeah, I'm gone for the day. Keep'em on a tight leash Rod…I'll be back around nine tomorrow morning." He turned to address the rest of them. "Go ahead and have a drink tonight…just be sober when you get here tomorrow."

Rod grinned nastily and opened his mouth to add something to that, but the tiny voice on the phone said something that snatched his attention back. "No, I don't want Sub anything…."

Mello listened to the conversation as he donned his jacket. The Dom, who's real name was Dwight Gordon, was currently negotiating another arms deal. It wasn't going well…lately the dealers had stopped carrying the heavier guns that Mello favored. Kira forced them to back off, made them afraid to make too much noise. He couldn't really blame them, but it was still annoying as hell.

"Look, I said I wanted fully automatic." Rod's huge hand clenched around the phone, and Mello frowned slightly. He was not going to replace another one if the Dom got irritated. The big man was notorious for his amazing grip, and Mello had already bought him three new phones after he crushed them in his fist. "You've worked with me for years; I know you know the difference."

More from the small voice, and Rod's temper dipped into dangerous territory.

"Damn it, listen to me. The sub-machines are not enough…I don't want them anymore. I want the best you've got, and I know that you still carry them. If you want my business at all, you'll give me what I want."

Mello caught the Dom's eye and raised a questioning eyebrow. Rod just waved him off. "Do we have an agreement Cyrus?"

A moment of listening, and Rod grinned. "Alright, that's better."

"Work the prices, Rod. I don't care how high, just as long as we're equipped." Mello remarked as he headed for the door.

The big black man covered the phone as he passed, and Mello hated the fact that the man was so much bigger than he was. He barely reached the man's shoulders. He wasn't afraid of him, it just made him feel little…perhaps from his time in the monastery as a child. "Take it easy man…Why don't you take Lynsey home with you?"

A blond girl on the couch just in front of them turned around, looking Mello over. "Is he nice, Rod?"

"No." Mello replied bluntly, not even remotely interested in the pets that Rod insisted on keeping. He supposed the women made him feel powerful.

"I'm sure he'll try though." The Dom nudged him towards the girl. "Go on, she likes it rough anyway."

"…No."

Lynsey pouted up at him. "Oh, but I'm awfully curious…You look a little bit like a Preacher, you know?"

Mello was hardly paying attention, and just heard 'Little' and 'Preacher'. Little Preacher, at first a term of endearment from Eric and Roger, and later the insult of choice from Near…just like the old days, it sent a shock of anger through him, a scowl twisting its way onto his features. The girl shrank before him, suddenly nervous.

"Don't ever call me that again."

"Okay."

"Mello?"

"Shut up Rod. I'm going home, and the bitch stays here."

"Okay man…take it easy."

He headed for the elevator.

XXXX

"M0 Y320…"

Mello frowned into the phone, refusing to say anything just yet. Ratt shouldn't be calling him unless…

"We're currently operating under intel that confirms that the notebook that kills using a person's name in it is currently with the Japanese police."

"Good." He shut the cell phone without another word and just stared at the wall for a minute. A notebook, then?

He'd known that whatever Kira was using had to be small…small enough to be hidden, recovered, and hidden again while L was investigating his suspects. A notebook would fit that description, yet it was startling all the same. Was it the notebook that granted the power, or was Kira's power in the writing of the name itself? That didn't seem likely, or there would have been a lot more evidence. If Near had uncovered enough information to have a taskforce assembled, then he couldn't risk the thought of it being a hoax.

The notebook had to be real…he couldn't afford to think otherwise.

Still, he shivered at the thought.

He sat in his desk in the spare bedroom he'd turned into a lab of sorts. He was currently filling his rubber tubing with reactive chemicals. The helicopter he planned on blowing up was nice, and it was shame to waste the money, but it was better to not leave loose ends. He set the phone aside and returned to his work, tying the tubing shut with wire and checking for leaks. The rubber would melt with the initial blast, and the liquid inside would explode, setting off a chain reaction throughout the structure of the helicopter until nothing but pieces remained. Pieces too small to be identifiable, and certainly too battered to be traced.

The door eased open, and Matt put his shoulder to the door frame, watching. He smelled like water and damp cigarettes, and his hair dripped onto the towel around his shoulders. He'd begun to take his showers when Mello got back, apparently to escape his temper. Mello ignored him, picking up another length of rubber and securing one end before running the pipe. He had to fill them from bottom up to minimize air in the lines. Each section was about three feet long, and the acrid scent of chemicals was beginning to hang heavily in the air.

"Rubber?" Matt asked from the doorway.

"Yes." He started the flow gingerly, retracting the pipe as it filled. "It's easier to install."

"What are you blowing up?"

"A helicopter."

Matt made a strange face; but nodded anyway. "Okay…when?"

"As soon as possible." Mello tied that tube shut and put it alongside his others. "Look in my coat pocket, on the left. There's a set of coordinates that I need you to input into the missile."

"Have you got it installed then?" Matt's voice echoed down the hall as he headed for the jacket on the couch.

"Yes. It's in place, and ready to be programmed. We're heading out in an hour or so, so get your shit together."

"What kind of system is it?"

"Older military. It shouldn't take you more than an hour."

Matt reappeared in the doorway, the paper in hand. "Geez…this is going right over the president's head, isn't it?"

Mello nodded, and capped his chemicals. Storing the tubing in a drawer, he closed the suitcase at his feet and hefted it onto the table as carefully as he could. A notebook…a bloody notebook…God had a sense of humor after all. It made him sick.

"You okay?"

Mello wondered why he bothered asking. He ignored the question completely, brushing by on his way to the living room. The expression on his face was troubled…more troubled than he cared to admit. Things were finally moving to a point where they couldn't slow down.

XXXX

Mello shut the door behind the worried man, completely expressionless. He had no idea how this meeting would go, but he wasn't about to get the older thug's hopes up. Mello could be cruel if needed, and there were no reassurances to be had. He turned to face the woman in the chair, watching her try to listen carefully. The blindfold was loose enough to be comfortable, but secure, and with her hands behind her back, he had little to worry about.

The interrogation room was little more than an empty office with a table, lamp, and a couple of chairs. Simple, and effective, he had chosen it himself from the building that the Family had bought and were using as headquarters.

It suited him.

He let her sit there for another few minutes, just watching her over his shoulder until the sound of footsteps finally moved away from the door. She turned her head slightly from side to side, trying to determine if she was really alone or not. He read over the badge in his hands. The woman was a niece of one of his associates…an FBI agent with actual blood-ties to the Family. She was here because Mello needed some information, and there were two ways to do this...

Basic interrogation fell into two categories…Persuasion and blackmail. Even basic torture revolved around those two principles, because they stemmed from the two most powerful emotional reactions…pleasure and pain. It was always better to blend the two, when possible, because the result was a more complete control. While it was time consuming, a master like L could have it down to a series of gestures, blows, questions. Mello intended to be that good someday, but he was short on time right now. Once that list came in, they had to move quickly before their window of opportunity closed….

Blackmail was risky, and if she were proud, she'd try to find a way out of it. Persuasion would be more difficult to maintain, because it required Mello playing nice…Mello didn't do nice very well. Blending the two seemed to be his best option….

However, it was matter of personality, and he wouldn't know that until she started talking. He tossed the little leather folio onto the table. "Agent Hal Lidner?"

"Yes."

"I trust you are comfortable?"

The woman grimaced, shifting in her chair. "As much as the circumstances allow, yes. Who are you?"

"Your uncle…Ralph Bay, is a colleague of mine."

"A Colleague…so you're more Mafia scum…."

"If he meant so little to you, you wouldn't have met him at the café." Mello strolled over to the table and regarded the covered eyes. "Now, while I can appreciate the brave front that the FBI has trained you to have, you are going to be afraid of me before our relationships ends. I think we both know that, because you have a general idea of whom you are dealing with, and what I am capable of. News travels fast in the bureau, and your supervisor is likely watching for me."

She froze, turning her head slightly towards his voice. "…The missile… at the Arizona compound. That was you, wasn't it?"

Mello smirked, crossing his arms. "Yes. And if you didn't know that, then I highly doubt that you'll be able to track it down before I use it."

"…When did the Mafia grow a pair? What is this about? Money?"

"No…this is about Kira."

Her face paled and hardened instantly. The sudden silence, inspired by fear and hatred, excited Mello to no end. "You know Near, don't you?"

She didn't answer. He stood, pulled her chair back away from the table and turned her, leaving her in the center of the floor. Crouching before the chair, he stared up into her face with an undeniable smirk adorning his. "You know him…white as fallen snow, eyes that could rip the soul from your chest. The Genius child leading your seasoned officers…You know him. And I have a secret."

She tensed, and if she expected a blow, who was Mello to deny her? He was an impulsive person, after all. The back of his gloved hand cracked sharply across her cheek. The blow was restrained, for Mello, but the feminine jaw still snapped crudely, a flower of blood smeared across his glove as her lip burst under the pressure. He brought her around by the chin, the fresh cut starting to bleed slowly. "Near… has no idea where you are. The SPK is not coming to save you."

He paused to let that sink in.

"Now. Let's talk, Hal." He knelt before her and slowly untied the blindfold. It fell away and she winced at the sudden light. Her eyes were as startlingly blue as Mello's own, and he watched them widen at the sight of him. He was attractive, and these stares were hardly uncommon. It was something he never quite got tired of, and the irrepressible smirk graced his lips once again, turning his beautiful face into something dangerous…something to be feared.

And Hal was afraid.

However, as he stared back at her, holding her attention captive, he barely saw her. He was making a snap assessment of her personality, judging how much she had to be worked by the way she responded to him in these few crucial seconds of first contact, reading her before she had a chance to lock him out again. It made him realize that he likely shouldn't have hit her. Her personality allowed for a lot of play room. Push too hard and she would lock up…however…the pistol was not his only weapon, just his favorite. He lowered his voice slightly.

"My name is Mello. Near's probably told you about me."

She nodded, and he stood, rubbing the blood on his leather glove between his fingers.

"I know that he's likely told you a lot about me, in fact. What to expect, how to handle me in a difficult situation…He's likely instructed you on how not to make me angry. So I suppose it's in your best interest to know that he has no clue what he's talking about. We are different people now, and both playing a dangerous game." He paused to look back at her. "I trust you can appreciate that, considering that you're risking your life to work with him against Kira."

She hesitated; then nodded slowly. He circled around behind her, strolling as he spoke.

"Near and I are working towards the same goal, and he does not approve of my methods. I'm sure you've noticed, however, that he is reluctant to directly interfere with my work."

"He's the only reason we haven't tracked you down yet."

"Near himself can't track me down…I have a hard time believing that a bunch of bureaucratic cops will have an easy time of it."

"And if I'm bugged? If the SPK is tracking me?"

Mello lowered his tone slightly, cocking an eyebrow at the back of her head. "Do you want me to strip you?"

He let it imply everything. She sat up a little straighter, caught in her mistake, but said nothing. Mello reached back and pulled the other chair up just behind hers. The pistol slid into his grip, and he sat just behind her, throwing his arms around her shoulders as his legs propped out beside hers, his leather-clad knees brushing her thighs. He rested his chin on his arm, just beside her ear, and got comfortable. She tensed beneath him, her shoulders like steel.

She tried to jerk away once, and her fingers grazed the inside of his thigh. As expected, she froze, a high blush coming to her cheeks, and he just smirked in his victory. "Don't distract yourself…I'm trying to talk to you."

He could feel her anger and embarrassment in the heat coming from her body. He began toying with his gun, checking the magazine, cocking it. "You've had military training…it's in good condition isn't it?"

She nodded tersely.

"Talk to me, Hal. I like your voice."

"…Yes, it is. Professional."

He nodded to himself and decided to begin working at her temper. "I'm glad you agree. I have a little question, not really related to our subject but…did you know an agent name Tanner Hudson?"

"…No." A lie, he knew from her tone, and mentally added another thing to his list of thanks owed L. From the sound of it, she knew him personally…possibly worked alongside him at some point.

"He was a mole. Funny story really…I routed him when I got here, and I was just curious to see if you'd worked with him." Mello chuckled into her ear, even as something in him told him to stop, a slick oil-on-water feeling in his stomach. "You know how I found him out?"

"…No."

"We were in a gunfight with the police downtown one evening…and he was shooting in the wrong direction. I took a bullet to the shoulder." Mello let his hands hang limp, the pistol loose in one, his fingers hovering inches over her breasts…close enough that if she inhaled deeply, it would be highly inappropriate. A mere invasion of privacy…he had no desire to actually molest the woman. At the moment, he'd settle for pissing her off and arousing her at the same time. Better to keep his assets completely confused…letting them settle into one emotional mindset could be dangerous; it allowed them to focus. The gesture had its desired effect.

"Re…." She cleared her throat, and tried again, still shifting in her chair. "Really?"

"Yes…Of course I was sixteen then…still a kid. He wasn't trying to bring me down, and I think that's what killed him in the long run. No one that young in the Family could hit the broad side of a barn, much less target to wound…except me, of course. That's military." He smirked at the memory. Her attempts to inch away from his invasive hands only brought her throat closer to his mouth. He leaned in slightly, running his lips down the curve of skin. "Hope you didn't know him."

It crossed lines.

The emotional insult and the physical contact lit a fire in his captive. The cuffs rang as she suddenly pulled them tight and drug her nails down his inner thigh. He hissed in a breath, and brought the muzzle to bear on her chin. "Don't do that, love. I like it."

"You're sick."

"And you're in no position to call me names. Now…Let's talk about Kira."

"Let's not."

He tilted her head back, the pointed sighting-bar on the pistol's barrel digging into her soft under-throat. "Let's."

She didn't move, and he gradually relaxed his hold on her. The distaste and sense of unease took him again, and he sighed to himself. He hated touching women almost as much as wanting to touch men. "I am aware of the fact that Near received a skeleton file from…a mutual benefactor. It contained shreds of information stored by the original L to guide us towards Kira. Has he gained anything from this file?"

"Nothing more than a slight narrowing on location."

"Kanto region of Japan?"

"…Yes." Another lie…Near had figured out a lot more than that if his other contact wasn't bluffing.

"Good girl. Now, has he actually met the new L?"

"As far as I know there has been no direct communication." That meant that Near still hadn't made his move on the Notebook yet, and if he hurried, there was a good chance that he could land a viable hostage…possibly more if he went undetected long enough. There was no room for error, because there would be no second chances. If she were lying…

"As far as you know isn't good enough." The pressure returned.

"There hasn't been any!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, damn it, now stop! That hurts." Mello chuckled again, refusing to admit he was relieved, and took the gun away to graze his fingers over the red mark he'd left.

The next question was purely curiosity on his part. "What does he think of him?"

"Stop touching me…" Mello rolled his eyes behind her, but pulled his fingers away, and she continued. "He thinks the new L to be a brilliant liar, and completely useless."

"Those his exact words?"

"Yes."

"Sounds like him. Now, let's come to an agreement on-"

She cut him off by snapping her head back into his mouth. "I'm not helping you."

Mello saw red for a moment, and lowered the gun before he shot the bitch out of spite. She tried to rock her chair sideways, but he tightened his knees, and in the end the attempt at escape did nothing but piss him off. He tongued the inside of his lip, where his canine had sliced the tender skin open. The sweet copper of blood filled his mouth. Once he regained a little bit of his control, he brought the gun up again, glossing over the incident for the sake of time.

"Yes…you are. You're going to help me because this isn't about Near and Me…it's about Kira. Well…mostly about Kira anyway. Near and I both want him gone, and while our methods differ greatly, our cause is the same."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Because I haven't given you reason to do otherwise thus far." The temptation to shoot her was still great, and he stood, staying close enough to make them both uncomfortable as his hands came to rest on her shoulders. "Now, on that note, let me tell you this. You'll also help me for a few other reasons…like your uncle…and his brother, and his wife. And your grandmother…."

"You couldn't find my parents."

"I found you. Kira hasn't even managed that yet."

Silence.

Wasted time….

"Do we have an agreement?"

"What do you want?"

"Nothing more than a few minutes of your time whenever I need it. I like to keep tabs on my competition."

"You'd murder innocent people because of this 'competition'?"

"People, as a general rule, are not innocent, Hal Lidner." He came to crouch before her again, one knee on the ground, and picked up the discarded blindfold. "Does the name Starling mean anything to you?"

"…That was you too? You killed Dom Starling?" Her eyes widened, her tone slightly awed. There was no chance of that being a lie, because in reality, a total of five people knew that Dom Starling even existed before his murder. Mello had been one of them, and it had been the pilot that got him the good graces to actually meet the man. To this day, only those five, the team of police that investigated the murder and the FBI of California knew the man's name.

"A lot of everything has been me. So how's that for a first impression?"

She stared down at him and took a deep breath. "Powerful."

He retied the blindfold. "Good girl."

XXXX