"What was that? Roger, what did you just say?"
"I'm afraid L is dead."
"He's dead? But – but how? Was it Kira? Did Kira kill him? Come on, Roger, you've got to tell me!"
"Probably."
"But he promised me he'd find Kira and execute him, and now you're telling me that he's been killed?"
"Mello!"
The soft sound of puzzle pieces hitting the floor interrupted them.
"If you can't win the game, if you can't solve the puzzle – then you're just a loser."
"So, which of us did L pick? Me, or Near?"
"He hadn't chosen yet. And now that he's gone, I'm afraid he won't be able to. Mello, listen. You too, Near. Can't the two of you work together?"
"All right. Sounds good."
"It'll never work, Roger. We can't do this together. You know I don't get along with Near. We've always competed against each other. Always." Pregnant pause. "You know what? It's fine. Near should be the one to succeed L. He's not like me, he never gets emotional. He just uses his head, like it's a game or a puzzle. And as for me, I'm leaving this institution."
"Wait, Mello-"
"Don't waste your breath. I'm almost fifteen years old. It's time I started living my own life."
/
The door closed behind him, and the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan. He maintained his composure until he was distanced from Roger's office, before doubling over in tears. His chest hurt.
L was gone.
L, who had been so kind to take him in, give him everything he needed to be successful, and mentor him from a distance. L, who had challenged him to be better, and given him a goal. Who had given him a reason to live. He was gone and he'd never come back. Not for Halloween – which, after some hacking and late-night tours of Roger's office, they had determined was his birthday; not for Christmas, not for anything.
L was dead. And Kira killed him.
All hope of being strong enough to take over L's role was gone as he sobbed openly. Students stared as they passed by, but it didn't matter. They would find out soon. None of it mattered. The tests, the grades, the rankings. It was all irrelevant. L would've picked Near. Near was level-headed. Even now, he was probably starting a new puzzle and playing with that stupid white hair of his. And if losing one person could devastate Mello this way, what chance did he have losing people every day in the line of duty?
He rubbed his eyes furiously. It went without saying that Wammy was dead as well. Though he was rarely present, his existence had made the world a little brighter. A man that picked children prostitutes off the streets was a man that would be missed. And what would this institution do without L? Who would create the tests? Who would call to make sure everything was satisfactory for the students? Would it be Near's job, now?
Mello choked bitterly on his tears. As if Near gave a damn about anyone here. The program would probably come to a screeching halt, at least until the Kira case was resolved. Anyone that could kill L was obviously a global threat and took priority over some kids at an orphanage.
He grit his teeth and straightened. Things would be different, and a lot of the students here would have to find other paths in life. Roger couldn't inspire all of them to be detectives, not without a role model. Everything would change. There were no more rules.
His eyes widened, and he started sprinting to his room. There were no more rules. He could find his own way to kill Kira. He could at least do that much; pay respects to L by avenging him. Near wouldn't care enough to do that. He'd try to find Kira on principle, but that wasn't the same. L deserved more than justice. He deserved vengeance. All the kids here deserved vengeance.
If I can't be first in L's eyes, I'll pay tribute to him by catching Kira first. I'll be first in my own eyes. And maybe, if L's watching, he might change his mind.
He burst into their room like a tornado, chest heaving and eyes wild. His gaze fell upon Matt instantly. Buried under the blankets with his PSP. Still a child.
Matt didn't pay him any mind as he emptied his backpack of workout clothes and began refilling it with clothes. He hadn't even looked up when Mello entered the room; his mood was still unpredictable, even on his best days. His best days had gotten so much better, though. Matt had truly helped him. He didn't like to think about what he might be like without the calming presence of smoke and quiet beeping. Mello allowed himself a short pause. There was no way he could take Matt with him.
He had spent years planning for this – for the day he finally left Wammy's, into the real world. It was always under the premise that he was the new L and had contacts, money, security, and a job. He'd never bothered to consider the circumstances of leaving without being L. Looking back, that seemed like a rather extreme oversight, but then, he had lost a lot of his common sense practicing being a genius.
No. Matt couldn't come with him. It would be dangerous, they didn't have anywhere to go, and Matt, frankly, deserved better. He deserved a friend who achieved his goals and became L and was the greatest detective in the world. He didn't deserve some kid running out of a financially sound institution into the jaws of reality. It wasn't even an option, really. So he'd be alone. Again.
Do all roads lead to isolation?
A soft sigh passed through his lips, chapped from years of stressed screams and outbursts. He would need lip balm. Lip balm, clothing, all the chocolate he currently owned, a flashlight, batteries, hydrogen peroxide, vitamins, and a small first aid kit. Those items alone would fill up his bag, and they weren't nearly enough to establish a base of operations. Luxuries like shampoo and lotion would have to be left behind. He wouldn't get a chance to use them anytime soon. He had to pack only the essentials. It might be weeks before he found a place to stay, if he found one at all. Mello's blood ran cold as he shoved things into his bag. On the streets, nothing was guaranteed. He might not make it at all. It was best to be objective about these things from the start so you weren't surprised later.
If he didn't make it, well… then it was up to Near. Mello begrudgingly understood that Near possessed the intelligence to find and capture Kira, eventually. He just had to get there first.
But where would he go? Was there anything worth staying for in England? The Kira case had taken place in Japan, and all the action would be going down there. He didn't feel remotely ready to travel so far knowing so little about the case, and having so few resources. So where did that leave him? Mello knew enough German to get by in a pinch, but he would need a working passport. Here was a huge catch 22. He had to protect his identity at all costs, which meant taking the time to manufacture a convincing fake – something he would need money and underground contacts to do. Mello briefly regretted walking out on Roger so quickly. There was no doubt in his mind that Wammy's had a protocol for this, but he had foolishly renounced his right to their protection. What a reckless move.
He knocked over a few things on his desk in the rush. Would he be able to bring his laptop? Would there be internet access points anywhere in the future? No doubt he'd need one to keep track of Kira's killings, but if there was no internet, then it was a waste of luggage. Mello hesitated, his hand grazing the worn exterior of his computer.
"You can buy a new one." Matt's said quietly. Mello turned to look at him. His roommate was sitting up in his bed now, blankets pooled around his slim waist. His goggles were shoved into his hair so the piercing blue eyes could see more clearly. Damn.
"I guess." Mello wasn't quite sure what to say.
"...are you coming back?"
"No." I'm not surprised. He probably knew L was dead before I did, anyway. "I have to catch Kira."
"Don't you think it's selfish to let three years of someone's life walk away?"
Mello paused. There were an infinite amount of ways to interpret that statement, and even more ways to react to it. He replied snidely, "Don't you think it's selfish to confine my potential?"
Matt set his game down, looking quite bored. "That response, while intended to hurt, holds no logical merit. Your potential has as much chance of increasing here than it does on the streets. In fact, I daresay you'd accomplish more here. This orphanage has resources, finances, and an adequate space for you to grow. So answer my question with an actual answer."
"I do think it's selfish, but I don't know why you asked, because it has nothing to do with this."
Matt's eyes narrowed in a rare display of emotion. He slipped out of his bed, straightening up to look Mello square in the face. Mello stared back defiantly. "You're a jerk, you know that? I do whatever you want, whenever you want, and then you just leave."
"Are you saying I'm your life, then?"
"I'm saying my life consists mostly of you, since you decided I'd be a useful asset." Matt's arms were now crossed over his chest – a sign that he was legitimately angry.
"I never decided – "
"Are you really going to stand there and weave some intricate lie about my perception of our "friendship"? Do I really seem like the type of person to fall for that? I took psychology ages ago. There's nothing you can run by me that I haven't read or witnessed before. Mello, I'm trying to tell you you're being a complete ass – you've always been a complete ass, and you won't listen to me. Don't you think I've earned a little credibility over the years? Don't you think my opinion matters a bit? I'm trying to help you, again, because you're not going to get anywhere if you handle this without thinking."
Mello grit his teeth. "Who do you think you are?"
"I think I'm a person who knows you well enough to be able to back this up."
"You don't know me at all!"
Matt's eyes glinted dangerously. "You were born on December 13 to a blonde prostitute and a Mafia-hired assassin. She had a thing for chocolate, and passed the trait on to you. He had a nasty temper, which he took out on you, and you were unlucky enough to inherit it. Your mother left early, your father was killed in his line of work. You followed your mother's footsteps and prostituted yourself to earn a living until Wammy and L came to get you. You think you're the only student at this orphanage who knew L, who cared about him as more than a job. I know who he was, what he looked like. I'm not stupid. You're arrogant, childish, very susceptible to outside influence, run by an uncontrollable determination to conquer, and you're fucking brilliant, but your emotional weaknesses overshadow your intelligence constantly, and it becomes a vicious cycle that never ends. You like expensive chocolate, eating outdoors, playing sports and crushing your opponents. On the off chance you're not being a competitive, pig-headed ass, you read poetic literature. Appearances mean a lot to you. You like sophistication. You wear black all the time, but you're drawn to pastel colors and delicate designs. Black sets you apart from Near. Whenever you see Near, your knuckles clench and your pupils dilate. Near is the only person to ever get a physical reaction out of you on sight."
Mello opened his mouth to protest, but Matt was not done.
"You, for all the world, seem like a heartless bastard, but you're certainly not. I once saw you singing to a butterfly. Piano music calms you down, but you don't listen to it. You love being noticed. Praise is even better, of course. Compliments and approval stroke your oversized ego to the point of elation. You don't see the point of creative syntax. You're a cat person. You excel at algebra, but the moment theoretical mathematics come into the picture, you have trouble. Incidentally, you always scratch your nose with your left hand when solving math problems. You like the heat more than the cold. You have an eye for detail and sometimes miss the big picture. Your last name starts with a "K". You've slipped up several times, marking your personal belongings with "Mello K". When you play chess, you start the same way every game. As white, you use the Réti opening: knight to f3. As black, knight to f6. The Indian Defenses are your favorite for an opening setup. Every night after dinner, if you ate dinner, you floss, then brush your teeth, then floss again. You desperately need someone to talk with, but the second anyone proves smart enough to actually carry a conversation, they're a threat. That's why you haven't killed me yet. I'm not threatening. That's why you bother with me, and that's why I started bothering with you. If you have the gall to tell me I don't know you "at all", you've got another thing coming."
They stood in silence. Matt's chest was heaving with the effort of speaking so enthusiastically. The corners of his lips were turned up, though, and his chin was inclined slightly. Triumph.
Mello scanned him thoroughly. "Did you hack my background profile again?"
"I get bored."
In all honesty, there wasn't an appropriate reply for that.
But he tried anyway. "Oh."
Good effort.
Matt stuffed his hands in his pockets. "So, back on topic. You don't seem to think my opinion holds any real weight. If you wanted, I could list every instance since your arrival that disproves your faulty theory. You're probably a little tired of hearing my voice. Something you would like to add before you run off into the sunset without considering what I have to say at all?"
Run off into the sunset. It sounded like such a pleasant adventure.
"If it means anything, I never expressly said I didn't value your input."
"You asked me who I thought I was. What, did you expect me to take that as some form of soulful recognition?" Matt's tone, as usual, was flippant, but there were traces of actual emotion in there.
"Whatever."
"I thought you'd be grateful I spent so much of my life watching you. I'm being let down all over the place, huh?"
"Grateful?"
"Guess not."
"Do you want me to stay?"
"I don't care one way or the other. You can be cruel, and I've hit some pretty low lows because of your selfish temper. But you're creative and interesting."
"You do care." God, this is so cheesy.
Thin eyebrows, barely visible under the dark locks of hair, scrunched up with displeasure. "You don't know jack about me, so don't even try."
"Matt, I don't have time for this. Kira is out there, gloating because he just killed L, and you're holding me up here. You know I have to do this. I have to do it for me, and I have to do it for L, and I'm fucking sorry that you care and I'm leaving and you won't have anyone to follow or help, but there's no other way for this to happen and you damn well know it too." Mello snapped. Matt gave him a scathing look.
"So you were paying attention."
"I didn't pay attention to anything less than what you presented to the public. I have to go, Matty."
"But you paid attention. I didn't think you were capable." Matt's face softened slightly. "Wait. Before you leave, there's something you should have." Matt crawled under his bed and dug around through the traditional rubbish accumulated there. His socked feet kicked lazily at the air. When he found what he was looking for, he wriggled back out and produced a small box. Mello instantly recognized it as the first gift he'd ever given: a GameBoy.
So he didn't throw it away. Huh.
Mello gingerly accepted the offering, but didn't know what else to do.
"This is both a 'thank you' and a 'you're welcome'." Matt tucked his hands in his back pockets, looking at the floor sheepishly.
"What did you want me to do with this? Play with it when I'm bored?" Mello turned the box over in his hands, scanning the colored descriptions of what awaited inside.
Matt scoffed. "I did some stuff to it. To put it in terms you'd understand, it has a connection to my GameBoy." He held his own battered device up. "If... if you ever need me, you can get to me." An unpleasant expression clouded his generally neutral features.
Mello blinked slowly. "So... it's like a cell phone?"
"No. If you get abducted or something, the first thing they'll take is a cell phone. Why the hell would you rely on something so obvious? No, no. Disguises are good. No guarantees, but an old GameBoy isn't nearly as suspicious as a cell phone. Even if someone goes through your room or house or brothel or whatever, it's just a GameBoy. Quite literally. If anyone turns it on, a game of Pokemon starts up. Pretty normal. Now, you're smart. Should you require another asset, just turn it on and play through a few levels. When you get to... well. You'll probably figure it out." Matt tugged at his goggles distractedly. It seemed like his fingers were longing to return to their usual button-pressing. Mello wondered just how long his roommate – former roommate – could go without some form of technological fix.
"Why?" Mello felt a tightness in his stomach. This was making it really difficult.
"I don't really want to stay here. I'm kinda tired of it all. But you probably don't need me yet. So, whenever you do, I'm within reach."
"Okay. Thanks, then." Mello shoved the box in his overflowing backpack. "For everything. You really helped." Had to say it sometime.
He received a small smile. "Am I witnessing the apocalypse? Is the world ending? Should this be a national holiday?" ...ass. Mello shoved him lightly. This really was the second time he'd ever vocally expressed any form of gratitude to his "friend", though. Perhaps teasing was a given.
"I guess I'll go." I might actually miss this place. No, not really. I might miss Matt. Sarcastic, cynical, observational, lazy, intelligent Matt.
"One more thing." The gamer pulled out his laptop and flicked the screen on, fiddling around with some files. He pulled up a document covered in numbers and equations. Mello leaned in to make sense of it all. Looked like money. "You can't leave Wammy's broke. That's an embarrassment. Take your fifty thousand."
...
"My what?"
"Every student has a private trust set away upon entrance. Twenty thousand initially, another ten for second place, ten percent interest for two full years brings you up to thirty-six thousand three hundred- plus around fourteen-thousand I scrounged up from some other accounts. Mostly Near's. Happy early birthday."
He felt his brain short-circuiting. "How did you – what?" Some prank to play on your runaway roommate.
Matt clicked his tongue impatiently. "Usually, you'd get your money at eighteen, and you're forfeiting the five hundred thousand for graduation, but it'd be better if you had something to live on now. You also have a thing for even numbers. I figured you wouldn't complain about stealing some from Near, if it meant a nice fifty."
Mello sputtered, gesturing wildly. "How will I be able to access it? I can't have an ID, I don't want my pictures traveling around everywhere, and I can't operate a bank account until I'm of age..."
"Don't worry about it." Matt handed over a small envelope. It contained several different credit cards, each with a different name and account number, along with a pretty sizable wad of cash.
"Matt! How did you get these?" Mello demanded, looking through the information in disbelief. "I have an account? Don't you have to have pictures and names for those? Is all my personal data –"
"Calm down. I took care of it. These cards link directly to your trust here at the orphanage. You don't have an account with any third parties. They're pre-loaded with false information, so if the authorities look into it, they won't find anything of interest. L didn't mess around. You know that."
"So how is it that I can access my account? Does Roger know?" This is way too much to comprehend. I need chocolate.
"No. He will in a while, I imagine, but I locked him out of the system. The only people who can get to your money are you and I. L probably could've, but he... yeah." There was a weighted silence. "I think he would've wanted you to have it. So, you know, fuck Roger."
Mello sat down on his bed. This had to be a joke. He'd open up the GameBoy and it would produce a long string of coding, unreadable to anyone who wasn't Matt. He'd swipe a credit card and be instantly arrested for using a stolen identity. He let out a choked laugh. Matt raspberried before laughing as well. The atmosphere softened.
"I'll be here if you need me."
Those few words brought a sense of security with them, and Mello let out a resigned breath. "Okay. Thank you, Matt. Again."
Matt's mouth opened slightly, like he was about to say something else. His eyes were fixated at some point on Mello's forehead. The muscles of his face tensed up. "Mail."
What, like a milestone? This is a milestone in our relationship?"Wha–"
"Never mind." Matt said quickly, turning his wide eyes to the window. The sky was clouded and foreboding. It would probably snow later. "You'll do well, Mello. You're gonna go far. I know you will."
Mello grimaced. He zipped up his backpack, taking one last look at their room. The tacky curtains, the various bloodstains on the floor from their fights, the soft threading of his bedsheets, the books he used to pour over for hours studying, the soft scent of Matt's cigarettes that lingered on his side of the room. Mello swallowed thickly. He had to do this for L.
Arming himself for the cold weather, he stood, counting his breaths anxiously. As he passed his friend, the only friend he'd ever had, he ruffled Matt's messy hair. There were no more words. Matt nodded, but didn't make eye contact. The door shut behind him for the last time.
As he wandered down the hallway, he tried to memorize everything. The wallpaper was as smooth as ever; no wrinkles or tears in sight. The lighting remained soft. The paintings were still perfectly preserved. The wooden arches and vaulted ceilings continued to inspire his imagination. It was all beautiful.
It was probably the last time he'd ever live in such a place.
Many of the students stopped to stare. It was likely Roger spread the news of his departure already. What a fitting end. All his intellectual underlings would see him off. With a confident smirk, Mello stalked by his "competition". They'd be hearing his name on the news soon enough.
He stopped outside the iron gates. There would be no turning back after this. Birds chirped softly, as if asking him not to leave. Leaving was, all things considered, idiotic. But it would benefit him in the long run. Dying in some heroic maneuver for justice was more appealing than dying of old age. He smiled to himself and started walking again. The comforting sound of clocktower chimes faded into the distance.
No one paid him any mind as he wandered down Winchester's streets. The shops were all familiar, thanks to numerous day trips into town, and he had a pretty good idea of where he wanted to go. His cotton lounge clothes would do him no good in the real world; he needed a new face, a new identity. He needed to inspire others to follow him. He needed power.
There was a nice designer store a few blocks away he'd always admired. Their clothes had been too expensive to even consider during his time at Wammy's, but now that he had a little extra cash, it was worth investigating. He also needed to test out his credit cards. Better to be caught a mile away from the institution than on the border of some foreign country, where he could be arrested for fraud. The wind picked up and whipped his cheeks angrily. Mello sped up his pace, picturing what his heart must look like as it worked harder to pump blood through his body. Anatomy had been an interesting class.
A few minutes later, he was standing outside his destination. The House. Its name was the ultimate irony, and that was part of the reason he had picked it, besides the high quality fabrics inside. It was grandiose, but not as welcoming as Wammy's. He supposed stores weren't meant to look homey. Slipping inside, he avoided the overly-chipper clerks and made his way to the men's section. There were coats and vests all over the place, but none that would fit his small frame. He frowned. Just because his muscles didn't bulge out of his shirt didn't mean he was a woman. How sexist.
As he browsed the aisles, he vaguely wondered if his life would've been any different had he been born a girl. Perhaps his father wouldn't have beaten him so badly. Perhaps he would've done other things, instead. Mello blanched and waved the thought away. He didn't feel like he would be any different of a person, were his gender to suddenly change. It was a strange and frankly useless binary to judge people by. Maybe it should be done away with altogether.
Glancing at himself in a mirror as he passed by, he figured that people would have to ignore the binary anyway; there was no escaping the fact that he was rather androgynous. His hair had reached his shoulders some time ago, and he took pride in keeping it clean and well-groomed. For a lot of people, apparently that made him feminine. It was a ridiculous notion. As if taking pride in one's appearance was such a gendered concept.
He figured he wouldn't have any luck in the men's department and made his way to the women's section. If he actually pretended to be a girl, would people start asking questions? Probably not. Admittedly. He could get away with shopping for skirts and dresses without anyone being the wiser. It sounded like a fun challenge, so as he walked, he added a small swing to his gait. Just enough to create the illusion of hips. No one seemed to notice when he held up a skirt in front of himself experimentally. Not quite his style, but he could see how it was appealing.
Mello moved on to the substantially supplied outerwear racks. Winters were taken seriously, here, and there were plenty of jackets and coats to sift through. What would be warm, practical, and cruel? He was immediately drawn to some of the leather jackets. There were so many styles to pick from; some had diagonal zippers, some had shoulder pads, some had studs on the cuffs and some had a flair at the waist. Something soft touched his hand, and he shoved a few coats out of the way to reveal a beautiful black jacket. It had feathers lining the neck and hood (also black), and was longer than some of the other options. His face lit up and he tugged it off the rack.
A quick look in a mirror confirmed that it looked wonderful on him. Warm, with satin lining on the inside, and heavy enough to provide substantial protection. He glanced at the price tag. £380.00 wasn't too much for a good investment, was it? Not really.
Content with his choice, he continued looking. A few store clerks seemed surprised that he was unaccompanied; they saw him and immediately checked for other adults, but no one bothered him about it. Mello soon wound up in a more dailywear part of the store, filled with colors and patterns. He scowled. Nothing light. It had to be black. Always black.
He pulled a biker's vest out from a conglomeration of cottons and polyesters. It was a medium – maybe a little snug for his toned muscles – nope, it fit fine. In fact, it would probably be a little loose once he tried it on without a shirt under it. Cursing under his breath, he checked the price. £165.00. How do they justify selling this kind of stuff for such a price? Oh, yeah. Some guy with a French name made it. Well, five hundred out of fifty thousand isn't horrible.
"Finding everything okay?" A high pitched voice startled him. One of those older, makeup ridden ladies that talked too much. Great. He nodded and waved her off impatiently. Now was not the time.
It took about two hours to finish looking through the entire store. He picked up a few more things, like gloves, pants, and a new pair of shoes. The new ensemble would just ooze rich brutality. He was quite proud of himself.
"...and your total is two thousand two fifty two, even."
Fuck. I didn't mean to spend that much. Okay, which credit card... I guess it doesn't matter. He handed "Carly" a card at random and chewed the inside of his cheek. It would either work, or –
"Thank you for your purchases, miss. We hope to see you again!"
He grabbed his things and darted outside, not daring to believe his luck. Two thousand dollars, and nothing happened? Matt was a god. The streets were a little busier now, and he felt self-conscious in his youthful outfit. It was definitely time to change clothes. He considered going back inside the store and using one of their dressing rooms, but he didn't want to be seen by the same people more often than necessary. Better to keep a low profile. Thus, it would have to be somewhere dingy, cluttered, free of crowds, and nearby. Without a second thought, he ducked into a pawn shop. The quiet tinkling of a bell rang as the door closed. He drew his bags closer and glanced around. Dingy, but not dangerous. The cashier didn't acknowledge his presence. Perfect.
Mello hid behind some stocked shelves and began peeling his pants off. It didn't really matter if an innocent shopper got an eyeful. The Kira case was at stake. Besides, these cotton clothes were way too kiddy for a murder investigation. Perhaps he could set them aflame later. With some effort, he managed to pull on his new leather pants. They were nice and tight. No cold air would be assaulting his junk, no sir. They also laced up at the front, a minor detail he found delightful. The vest, as predicted, was a little big on his lanky figure, but cozy nonetheless. The coat was from heaven.
He sneezed as some stray feathers tickled his nose. That would take getting used to.
Change completed, he returned to the more open area of the shop, passing by piles of junk as he went. Instruments, books, tools, jewelry. Time was ticking, criminals were dying... there had to be something... but so far, not one item that could help him later. Maybe a convenience store would be more appropriate.
He paused. Convenience stores didn't have guns. Guns were useful.
Technically, pawn shops shouldn't have guns, either. The gun control laws in this country were insane. It helped keep civilian violence to an absolute minimum, which was good, but there were always people willing to break the law for their underground activities. He eyed the cold metal weapon with interest. A gun could provide him safety. It could also be used to threaten, interrogate, and achieve power. But how could he buy it? His fake IDs may say differently, but he was definitely not of age, and there was no way even that slimy shopkeeper would let him have it. There was always the five-finger discount, but this man probably saw a lot of thieves, especially if he had illegal contraband in his shop. He'd be expecting the worst.
"You lookin' to buy?" His nametag said "Mikey", but that probably wasn't accurate. Everyone whispered about Kira needing a name and a face to kill, so even someone like this would take precautions.
Mello drew himself up slightly. "What do you have that's sleek with a centerfire cartridge?"
"Centerfire? Going with self-defense? Can't argue with a 9mm, for that." The guy sounded wasted. Not good for business, but definitely good for Mello.
"Something... Italian." Everything was a little bit cooler if it was foreign-made. The Italians in particular had a good grasp on quality merchandise, anyway. "Mikey" slid the glass case open and set the gun on the counter.
"Beretta 92F, 9mm, effective up to one hundred and sixty feet, semi-automatic and capable of holding twenty rounds in one magazine. Of course, I can't offer you anything over ten rounds, by law." His lopsided smirk implied that he gave less than two shits about the law, but would probably charge an arm and a leg for extra rounds. He supposed that was only natural.
Mello picked up the gun and weighed it. It wasn't too heavy; its thin design and simple aesthetics were really attractive, to him. He liked sleek tools. Daring to press his luck, he asked, "Can I test it?"
Mikey let out a warbled chuckle. "Not here. There's a shooting range in the back, but it'll cost you."
"How much?"
"Twenty bucks."
"That's all?" Mello smirked and tossed him a bill. His money disappeared into the fabric of a pocket instantly. The man turned away to dig through boxes of bullets in a drawer. There were shuffling noises and the cocking of a gun could be heard. Turning back to face Mello, he handed the loaded gun over.
"Follow me."
They weaved through the junk and into a back room. Mikey jerked his head to another employee, who promptly took over the cashier. Their trek led them outside, where it had begun to snow, and into a large warehouse. The walls were covered in peeling paint and there was a distinct stench of… something. Mello wrinkled his nose. He hoped this guy wasn't going to try anything. His Capoeira skills would probably be enough to survive, but if there were any others in the building, he wasn't so sure. Any more than two against one and the odds of making it out alive decreased drastically. Could this be a trap? That would be a stupid way to die. Day one, follow an anonymous criminal into a dark building where no one can hear you scream. Fucking brilliant.
It wasn't a trap, thankfully. There really was a shooting range in the warehouse. He was provided with a set of grimy earplugs and some ammunition gun. As he was loading up, another man joined Mikey – tall, thick, and hairy. Disgusting, but probably a worthy opponent. His appearance was presumably a safety thing. It wouldn't be smart to let some kid have a gun, shoot Mikey, and leave without witnesses. Mello was a little surprised at their forethoughts; to be honest, the lax security so far was astonishing. Anyone could walk into that pawn shop and ask to see a gun. No ID needed. These guys were clearly into something.
"Okay, that there's the target." Mikey gestured to a small paper, outlined with colored zones in the shape of a man. "Fire at will, or whatever."
Mello took aim at a target and fired. He missed completely. The gunshot rang in his ears. These were some truly shitty earplugs. Mikey wasn't wearing anything to protect his ears, though, and Mello didn't want to seem weak. Determined, he tried again, adjusting the angles. Another miss. He could hear guffaws coming from behind him. With an annoyed growl, he fired without aiming. His bullet flew through the paper man's stomach. The laughing stopped.
He winced as his earplugs were pulled away. "First time shooter?"
"No. Just been a while." It was the truth. His father had let him fire a gun – in the house, no less – but had never trained him to use it properly. That was years ago.
"Hmm. You know, you look awfully young to be firing a gun."
"My dad was a hunter." Mello narrowed his eyes, fingering his weapon. If the atmosphere changed at all, things could get ugly, really fast. He paid particular attention to Mikey's movements.
"Oh?"
"Yeah." Not like he was being dishonest. His father just didn't shoot deer.
"I tell you what. If you can get a bulls-eye, next try, I'll give you that gun, free of charge."
What, is he joking? He's not even trying to hide the fact that he's a scumbag criminal. "What about the ammo?"
"'m afraid you'll have to pay for that."
Mikey's proposition sounded an awful lot like a challenge. It hadn't been Mello's intention to engage in reckless degenerate activity so early, but it was going to happen eventually. Why not now? He focused on sounding confident as he chose his next words carefully. "How about, if I get a bulls-eye, next try, you give me the gun, a twenty round magazine, ammo, and a space to crash, indefinitely?"
The hairy guy looked shocked. Mikey just hacked up some bile. He really needed to lay off the alcohol. "And if you miss?"
"Then you give me all that and I don't use my next three bullets to shoot you." At least, he'd have three if a regular 6-round magazine was in the gun. It was hard to judge by the weight alone, but it didn't matter – bluffing was just as important as showing off. They didn't need to know he was unsure about his weapons loadout.
"Ha. Kid, you have some spunk. Fine. Take your shot." Mikey crossed his arms.
While taking aim, Mello jumped as several loud bangs came from his right. The three of them scattered. Mello leaped behind a cabinet and paused to take inventory. Those were gunshots, too quick in succession to come from one gun, so there must be more than one threat.
Another shot and a resounding "ugh". Mikey flopped to the floor, blood pouring out of his wound neck. The bullet had gutted his trachea. Slowly, his eyes glazed over with death. Mello took a deep breath and tried to unclog his mind. This was very real, and very serious. If he wanted to live, he would have to eliminate the danger, and unless he could find another weapon, he only had one bullet to go on. Panic caught in his throat and he struggled not to cough. Any noise would give his position away. Think, dammit. What were his options? He tried to remember what he knew about guns. 9milimeters were infamous for shooting through a target entirely, but for that to work... well, he might as well try.
Mello grabbed a broken piece of glass off the floor and used it as a mirror. He rotated it for a few seconds before he caught sight of the attackers. Four guys, all armed. Mr. Hairy was nowhere to be seen. He'd probably bolted. A fair solution.
One of the men looked directly into the mirror, and he winced. "There's someone behind that box!" Way to point out the obvious. Mello crossed himself and chucked the piece of glass as hard as he could. Shurikens were never his specialty, but he knew the basics.
"Shit!" Sounded like it had hit something. He looked around desperately, but there were no more usable shards. Time to beat it. He saw the exit across the room. Gears in his head whirred at top speed, constructing an escape plan.
Mello balled his old clothes up and tossed them into the range, squeezing his eyes shut as more gunshots rang out. He sprinted forward in the opposite direction, hiding the gun in his coat. If they knew he had a pistol, it would complicate things. People acted differently when faced with something life-threatening.
"There he is!" Bullets whizzed by, and every gunshot made his heart leap into his mouth. Any one of them could end it. Luckily, his black clothes blended well with the darkness of the warehouse, making him difficult to aim at. Near would've been dead already. He smiled despite himself and took refuge behind a wall. The exit was just a little ways off, now, but his location was compromised and the clock was ticking.
What were his options here? He could make a run for it, try to get out to the streets and lose himself in the crowd. Small chance of success, hugely negative consequences if these men decided to put a bounty on his head for being a witness. Probably not the best solution. Surrender his weapons and beg for mercy? Zero chance of success, if they were at all good at their jobs, and imminent death. No. Use the leftover bullets in his gun to try and beat them in a firefight? That would inevitably mean he would kill them, or at least incapacitate them to make an escape route. The final option was to come up with a compromise between all of these.
He briefly pondered the possibility of murder. If it was self-defense, was that okay? Was it self-defense if he had walked into this place knowing he was in danger? Was it self-defense if he had illegally obtained a weapon used for killing, with every intention of using it? What would the end result be? Satisfaction? Fear? Guilt? Arrogance?
Killing a person, a living human being, was a grandiose jump from hacking computers for tidbits of information. Would it be justified? Would those four lives mean something, if he caught Kira? Was there a limit to how many people could die at his hands before it was no longer worth it? Was it okay to sacrifice some for many?
Did the ends justify the means?
He rubbed his temples anxiously. There wasn't time for this. He had to survive, or leaving Matt was all for naught. Mello took a deep breath, focusing his attention to the sounds of footsteps nearby, and imagined a 3D model of the warehouse. There were four men just behind his box. They were probably clumped together, heightening his odds – as long as he moved fast. With a steel grip, his flung himself out into the open, firing at the first body he saw.
To his dismay, no one cried out in pain, and he didn't hear the bullet connect with anything. His expression turned to one of horror as he realized his clip was as good as empty. He'd fired a blank.
It felt like his heart had literally stopped. Everything moved in slow motion, but his mind was racing. Why hadn't he checked for more bullets? It made so much sense that the shopkeeper hadn't given him a totally loaded gun, no one would give someone that kind of advantage, especially not some shitty kid – and the men in front of him were raising their weapons, and shit, he had to come up with something fast. Mello thought back to the orphanage, flying through memories like flipping through a book to find the right page, and finally settled on something that just might work. It was reckless and would probably result in his death, but it might work.
Quietly praising his drama class, he forced tears to well up in his eyes. Thinking about his mother made it easy. His body started shaking, and with a dramatic flourish, he walked out into the open. All four men raised their guns, aiming to kill, but his reddened cheeks and gushing tears made them hesitate. He was, after all, just a kid.
"Please don't kill me, I'm just trying to protect my brother…" He bawled. They looked puzzled but not completely convinced. That was fine; he only needed a few more seconds. Stumbling forward, Mello grabbed the jacket of the tallest one, looking up at the grotesquely dirty beard. He heard the other three men surround him. Their guns were probably still raised. He had one shot at this.
"What the fuck, fucking fag kid –" Mello sprung into the air like a cat, grabbing the man's head in his hands and giving it a rough twist with all the upper body strength he could muster. A sickening crack made him wince, the man crumpling before him. He hit the deck seconds later. Gunfire sounded, and there was a loud thump as a body landed thickly on the pavement. Mello praised his roommate with all his heart; Matt, having once purchased a shooting game, often commented with frustration about this very phenomenon among enemy troopers. Circles, or even triangles, were among the most inefficient of formations. Anyone trained in law enforcement or professional gunfighting knew that. These schmucks were obviously neither, and hadn't realized that their circle made friendly fire 1000% more likely. Idiots. He rolled out of the way as fast as possible and kicked someone in the stomach. From what he could see, there were two men on the ground, presumably dead. Not quite the odds he was hoping for.
Snatching up one of their abandoned guns from the ground, he barreled headfirst into the first person he saw. The man grunted with surprise but wasn't knocked over; he must've weighed at least a hundred pounds more than Mello. Gruff hands grabbed his hair and pulled. Teeth clashing and scalp burning with pain, Mello raised the gun and fired directly into the guy's face. Horrifying chunks of brain matter splattered everywhere and he dropped like a fly. Mello whipped around to find his final opponent wielding two guns and looking infuriated.
Before he had a chance to think so much as shit, the man crumpled to the floor. Hairy had apparently stuck around to watch. He stepped over the body, cracking his knuckles, obviously not concerned with the neck he'd just broken. Mello raised his gun threateningly.
The guy laughed. "Looks like you got yourself a place to stay."
Mello swallowed the terror and arranged his face carefully. He looked up at Hairy with a smug grin. "That's more like it."
Blood pooled slowly around the lifeless bodies. Four pairs of empty eyes stared into space. The room felt cold. Instinctively, he shrunk into his coat. Not even three hours out of Wammy's, and there was a body count.
At least he'd beaten Beyond.
Gathering his things with a half-hearted flourish, he waited for Hairy's next words. Likely to be orders.
"I'll call someone to get these fuckers out of here. There might be more lurking around, so go back to the shop and stay in the back, yeah?" Hairy kicked one of the bodies. It flopped helplessly. Mello felt like throwing up. True to his new image, however, he held his head high and left the range confidently.
His boots crunched through the snow. Sharp eyes watched for any signs of movement; trauma aside, if there were more hooligans out there, early detection would be desirable. A car horn blared in the distance. A stray cat's scrabbles came from the nearby dumpsters. A cool breeze ruffled the feathers of his coat. His nose itched as it was tickled. He smiled slightly. The serenity of the outside world made the blood on his hands that much darker. Who could kill a man when it was so nice out here?
Probably Matt. He hated nature.
Matt.
