Author's Note: Wait a second… Are we actually getting somewhere? Stop the presses!

sorry about the catfight; it caught me by surprise. (Particular thanks to Eltea for help with the aftermath, which was just cruel and soul-killing before. XD)

My health-nut complex submits to chocolate, too. Just, um, every five minutes…

I wish I was kidding, but I'm not. XD


IX. Agent of Chaos

Mello drew in a deep, satisfied breath of fresh air as the ungainly lot of them emerged out into the backyard of Wammy's House. It was a slightly bleak landscape out here—bit grayish; lots of pieces of playground equipment rearing from the dusty yard like dinosaurs' ribs. But that didn't matter, because Mello was entertaining glorious thoughts, thoughts that revolved around how one might use the Kinky Chain (for so he had christened it in a flash of two-in-the-morning ingeniousness) to trip Light without sending L tumbling to his death as well. Mello supposed he was whipping Light well enough with words—who had gone crying to "Ryuzaki" every time so far? Not Mello, that was for sure—but it wasn't quite enough.

Mello did have a tendency to do things a hundred and twenty-five percent, with all cylinders firing and all systems go, or not to attempt them at all. Was that a crime?

As L gazed interestedly around at the various less-than-stunning features of the yard, Matt delved into a bottomless cargo pants pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. He smacked it sharply twice against his palm (Mello suspected he completed the maneuver because he thought he should and not because he had any actual reason in mind), selected a choice specimen, and slipped it between his lips.

Mello was not going to think about Matt's lips. Nope. Not at all.

Matt had raised the lighter and was moving to flick it when—

"Matt-kun!" L cried.

Matt blinked, thumb halfway poised. "What?" he prompted bewilderedly.

"Not only," L griped, "does Matt-kun poison his own lungs with tar and chemicals, he seeks to compromise our pulmonary well-being as well."

Matt sighed. "If you don't want me to smoke, you could just say so. Roger won't let me smoke inside, either."

"As well he shouldn't," L murmured. "When you live to be twenty-five, you'll thank him."

Matt frowned, tucking the cigarette and the lighter back into a pocket. "Speaking of which," he noted, "how exactly have you conspired to live to twenty-five with a diet three-quarters composed of cake?"

L smiled. "A magician never tells," he answered.

Then a strange, startling, and unprecedented event took place: Light contributed something remotely useful.

"Isn't that one of those puzzle pieces?" he asked, pointing at a sliver of white visible in the dust.

In retrospectively amusing unison, Mello, Matt, and L all turned to look.

"Holy shit," Mello said. "Lightbulb actually did something."

Light stepped forward menacingly (or so he seemed to think). "You think I'm dead weight, don't you?" he challenged. "You think I'm just some sort of accessory—Ryuzaki's new tool kit that he only needs to use when the going's real tough, and even then it doesn't help much—isn't that right?"

Light-o was a bit of a hammerhead. Screwball. Doornail.

If only he'd provide some duct tape, which Mello could use to attach him to a wall and leave him there.

"Yes," Mello confirmed blithely. "That is right."

L closed his eyes, looking pained. "Gentlemen," he began.

But Yagamios, part of this balanced breakfast, wasn't having any of that this time around.

"No," Light retorted without so much as glancing at their leader-by-default. "You think you're hot shit, don't you, Mello? You think that because people let you get away with dressing like a sideshow and snapping at them, you're entitled to treat people like crap."

Mello had slammed his fist down on a nerve like a game show buzzer. He squirmed happily, but the Luminescent Wonder wasn't finished.

"Know what, Mello? You've got nothing on me—no right to act like I'm not worth the ground you're walking on with those frigging ridiculous boots." Light clapped a hand to his chest, eyes blazing, and Mello tried his very best not to snort.

His best wasn't good enough.

"I'll have you know," Light hissed, "the Kira Case would be nowhere and nothing without me. I've helped tons of—"

Mello tapped a fingertip against his chin. "Kira Case," he remarked thoughtfully. "Yes, I vaguely remember hearing about a Kira Case, back when there was one."

Oh, yes. He could see in Light's eyes that the maligned detective was about to bite someone's head off. It'd probably be his, but still—!

Mihael Keehl was nothing if not an agent of chaos.

Which helped to explain the leather thing, too.

And the fact that Light lunged for him with two clenched fists and one hell of a homicidal snarl.

Judging by the murder in Light's eyes, Mello probably would have gotten to see someone—well, him—get his fat head ripped right the hell off had L not snatched two handfuls of the boy's crimson knit sweater and yanked him bodily backwards.

Light stumbled, and L steadied him.

"I don't think you know what you're getting into, Mello-kun," he said quietly.

Mello smirked and moved to shrug, but L held a hand up.

"Light-kun," he announced, "has a mean right hook."

Mello was suddenly unsure whether or not he wanted to know how L had discovered this particular detail. Everything seemed a great deal sketchier with the Honorable Kinky Chain presiding.

Light's lip curled. "Go to hell, Mello," he snapped.

The rosary suddenly seemed just a little bit heavier where it hung against Mello's chest.

Light turned on his heel and stormed back into the house, L trailing helplessly behind him.

It was only when Mello felt the familiar contours of the crucifix beneath his tentative fingertips that he realized he'd lifted his hand.

Gravel crunched softly as Matt went and plucked the puzzle piece from where it lay nestled into the dust. He bounced it in his palm a little, pocketed it, and returned to the back porch, where he sat down on the top step and finally lit a long-awaited cigarette.

"He already feels like an outsider, y'know," Matt remarked. "You don't have to rub it in his face."

"He is an outsider," Mello retorted. "Not to mention an arrogant asshole and a supercilious prick."

Matt blew a thin stream of smoke. "You kept up with the Kira Case more than anybody else here. All the news reports, all the shit in the papers—you've probably still got all the clippings and printouts somewhere. L's greatest challenge, and his partner just happens to be a brilliant Japanese brunet with great eyes and a nice ass—"

"Middling at best," Mello muttered.

"—who shows up quite literally chained to his side. It's a Pat Benatar lyric made real."

"You," Mello informed him, "just got lamer than I even thought possible."

"Don't hate on Pat Benatar," Matt warned idly. "She might try to take her pants back." He itched at his head. "Really, Mel. There's no need to be jealous of Frightful Delightful, because whatever he is to L—and I doubt that even L knows quite what that is—he's not replacing what you are."

Mello sat heavily next to Matt, the planks of the porch creaking faintly in protest, and clutched at the crucifix again.

"He's still a supercilious prick," he mumbled.

Matt sighed, smoke curling elaborately. "Remind me why we're friends?" he prompted.

Mello managed a weak evil grin. "Because the world's too fair for me not to be one of a kind."

"Ah, yes," Matt agreed mildly. "Your blessed originality." He took a long drag on the cigarette, the end's embers flaring red, and glanced over, smiling a little. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe giving people a chance might help you in the long run?"

Mello kicked at the dust, watching a cloud rise and then settle lackadaisically right about where it had begun. "I gave you a chance."

Cigarette balanced between two fingers now, Matt shook his head. "So what do we have to do?" he asked resignedly. "Put the kid in some orange goggles and stripes? Dye his hair?"

Mello felt his eyes go round. "Oh, God," he breathed. "Can we please, please, please dye his hair?"

Matt's palm connected very solidly with his forehead.

Light was irritated, aggravated, displeased, disappointed, and exasperated to a degree that verged on epic. He felt, on the whole, extremely sour.

Which might have been a considerable part of the reason that something in him melted when, the moment they reached their room, Ryuzaki retrieved the massive box of candy and held it out to him.

"Take something," he suggested.

Light hesitated. Normally—

Ha. "Normal" had no place in this particular establishment, and, as such, ought to be avoided at all costs.

Accordingly, he delved his hand into the box, rummaged amongst its various brightly-colored contents, and retrieved a cookies-and-cream white chocolate bar.

"Jackpot!" he commented, taking it in both hands to admire his prize.

It was then that he noticed the disconcerted expression that had staged a coup of Ryuzaki's face.

"What?" he prompted.

Ryuzaki paused, his face going blank again, and shrugged. He smiled. "Nothing, Light-kun."

That was about as believable as "Mello won't do any permanent damage to your soul and psyche, let alone your defenseless retinas."

Light tossed the bar back into the box and retrieved milk chocolate instead.

Ryuzaki didn't speak, but momentary relief might well have flashed across his face before he ducked to slide the box under the bed again.

Settled on the comforter, the chain coiled between them like a snake twisting its silver length in the sun, Light nibbled at his acquisition.

Apparently, the world's greatest detective was really big on white chocolate.

Light couldn't blame him.

Half a chocolate bar (that was, ten minutes of a whimpering health-nut complex being beaten into submission) later, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Ryuzaki murmured without ungluing his gaze from the computer screen. Light wondered absently why he never asked who it was before offering permission to enter. Did he really feel that secure, or did he just want to give the impression of security?

The door swung open just far enough to admit Matt, for whose presence Light was suddenly grateful simply because said presence didn't belong to Mello.

"Got a present for you," Matt announced. With a deft flick of his thumb—Light wondered if the aptitude came from using lighters all the time—he flipped the white puzzle piece Light had seen in the yard towards the bed.

As was usually the case, Ryuzaki caught it effortlessly despite the familiar pretense of inattention. "Thank you, Matt-kun," he said. He examined his acquisition, turning it over in long, thin fingers, pale eyes sharp. "Is this mark permanent?"

Matt scratched his head, red hair parting obediently for his fingernails. "It looks like Sharpie," he noted, "but I feel like if it's there, that's because it needs to be there."

Ryuzaki nodded once and set the puzzle piece next to its brother on the nightstand. Light craned his neck to look. The two would fit together.

There was something reassuring about the way that puzzle pieces did that—the way they slotted right in with those around them, they way they belonged with the others.

Kind of gave you a weird, over-analyzed, pathetically metaphorical sort of hope.

Light looked bewilderedly down at his chocolate bar. What was in this shit?

As Light started scanning the ingredients list on the package for illicit substances, Matt adjusted the strap of his goggles. "So… I was thinking we could have a Halo tournament," he said, "if you guys are interested."

The idea of shooting the living hell out of a digital avatar of Mello sounded horrifyingly appealing. Light blamed the chocolate.

"Much as I do enjoy Halo," Ryuzaki replied, apparently perfectly serious, "we might be better advised to start seeking out all the places Near might have gone and searching them for puzzle pieces."

Matt stuck out his bottom lip. "One game?" he pleaded.