Paris, France
Revisited
Huff…Huff…
Creeeakkk….SLAM!
Mello fumbled for the deadbolt on the church door and rammed it home as four successive thwacks jarred against it. Within, flickering candlelight cast a wayang kuilt festival on the walls, shadows of heroes, devils and maidens' dancing madly before calming again, ripples on the surface of a restless dark. Spent, he supported himself against the nearest pew and twined the rosary around his hands in prayer.
"Oh Lord who art in Heaven, lend your protection to a poor sinning lamb." He whispered, inching his way along the isle to the altar, his pale brow slicked with sweat and chest heaving. It felt as if he'd been running forever.
What it boiled down to was that he should have known not to trust a politician. France had looked and acted the most neutral during the Kira years, which is why he had figured it the most convenient to start his search for Near; or rather, L, as he'd be calling himself now. The plan had gone so, so, perfectly at first. He entered the country with a complete false identity, courtesy of someone Sanada-san knew and occasionally bought forged press documentation from—ID, social security card, DMV records, everything. As Denuve he remembered every one of L's cases under that name, including the Minster whom L apparently did a very large favor for some years back. He remembered hearing L tell that particular story one night at the House and recalled the details meticulously. He planned for every possible contingency, every potential back-stab aside from the one that would have gone under everyone's radar: the mad cultist contingency: Mad Kira cultists, who didn't have a problem scouring the earth to find one person and eradicate them from existence.
The club bombing had been a little more than a month ago, but it wasn't until last week that things had really started falling apart. He was shadowed everywhere he went, things and people around him had the tendency to combust sooner or later, and the minister had only just been added to the already extensive death toll.
He'd gotten a call from the minister's office around 2AM that morning, claiming that he'd just confirmed L's last known location through Interpol as Madrid, Spain. He'd aided in the conviction and arrest of a serial child molester. There was more, but either Denuve or his errand boy would have to pick it up in person. Mello should have known it was a trap, but he was so desperate to find Near and make sure he was safe that he buried that particular instinct, got dressed and hailed the first taxi to go by the hostel. The minister's aid was waiting to let him in, which wasn't at all out of the ordinary; that was the arrangement from day one, but the moment he stepped inside, all the warning bells went off at once. First there was the smell, faint but so imprinted on Mello's senses that he'd recognize it in the middle of a rain storm: gas. Next there was the closed windows and lack of air conditioning, no doubt an effort to not let the smell escape into the street, and lastly, there was absence of any security whatsoever.
The aid darted out the front door and slammed it shut, locking it from the outside. The action triggered some kind of system that set the drapes and tapestries aflame, preventing exit by the windows. Mello coughed, backed into the center of the lobby, when someone grabbed his arm. A figure garbed in black held him fast and swung a sickle at his face with their other hand, the blade of which Mello barely dodged. He launched a kick, throwing the cloaked figure square into a burgundy-hued coffee table. The fire was racing all over the room, using every avenue it could and rending air out of the vaulted but rapidly shrinking space. Mello made for the nearest door that wasn't locked, which led into a sprawling meeting room of some kind populated with similarly dressed figures: these wore gas masks and wielded all manner of improvised weaponry, mauls, picks, cleavers were the only ones that Mello's panicking mind bothered to identify. He drew the gun tucked in his pants and got off two good shots before a thick waft of dark, acrid smoke obscured his vision. The rush of fire obliterated all other sound as he struggled to find a way out while the heat nipped and bit at his clothes, memories of the church outside of Nagano, bright against a demon's night filling his mind. It was a one man holocaust.
He forged his way back across the lobby, hand in front of his face and narrowly avoiding catching his hair alight, looking for the cellar entrance. He'd seen the butler use it during one of his previous meetings with the minister. A few of the figures followed, fearless of the flames. Mello guessed their clothes were fire-proof to some extent.
The cellar door was locked, but a shot from the glock remedied that particular problem. He flew down the stairs, knocked into something that made a familiar heavy, clanking sound and grinned. Fire began to inch its way down the stairs as the first of his pursuers mounted them, and Mello grabbed the wine bottle at his feet, smashed the neck open and tossed it. The effect was brilliant as the tiny flames flickering at the figure's feet suddenly grew to engulf the clothing underneath the cloak, which wasn't as fire proof as Mello had guessed. The figure struggled to remove the rapidly combusting garments, lost his footing and toppled down the stairs, hitting the dirt floor with his neck at an altogether unnatural angle. Mello scanned the darkened corners of the cellar, spotted the exit and made a mad dash for it, stopping only to take pot-shots at his remaining pursuers. He shouldered the cellar doors open, stumbling out into a breezy cool summer night, his ears still full of the sound of the flames. It took all of ten seconds for him to regain his bearings, get into the classic shooter's position and take down the last of the figures as they emerged, one bullet ripping through an eye, the other drilling neatly into a forehead.
For a minute, Mello just stood there, a few feet from the crumbling mansion as his assailants toppled soundlessly to the ground, solidifying what he was about to tell himself was a very bad dream; until five more emerged from the shadow of the house, masked faces and gleaming weapons silhouetting ghastly forms against the shockingly bright night: each one a miniature god of death.
Mello ran, mapping out the surrounding blocks and piazzas as he went, skidding on the worn tread of his boots whenever a turn or a chance to elude his hunters presented itself.
Blam!
A single running shot went wide, blowing out a street lamp. And all the while, a single thought hounded Mello worse than any other: where were the police? Since the minister's mansion went up he hadn't heard a single siren, let alone caught sight of a single concerned citizen. It was as if the whole city were turning a blind eye. Or maybe his pursuers planned it this way, had populated ten city blocks with their number, the black clad Kira supporters.
It wasn't possible, Mello told himself as he ran. No, it just wasn't possible. There was no way that many people supported Kira. Not here. Here was safe, here was free of fire and death. This was a bad dream. You are going to wake up. Wake up! Mello's lungs began to burn as he rasped for breath, forcing his body to move faster, quieter, smoother. He was falling well into the roll of prey now, using every shadow and shaded alley to his advantage until the church came into view. He made the final dash across the street at a full-on sprint, leapt up the low stone steps and muscled the door open then closed just in time.
His hunters were eager, apparently, but not desperate, because after a while of prowling by the doors and slit stone windows, they gave up. A prayer slipped past his dry lips. Mello pulled himself to the foot of the altar and collapsed, gasping as his pained lungs brought in air and slowly, slowly expelled his exhaustion. He had enough sense to put the glock away, but was ready to pull it again at the nearest hint of continued danger. His vision blurred in and out, and it occurred to Mello just how long it had been since he'd exerted himself this much, and just maybe his body wasn't ready for it. Mosh pits he could handle, escaping deranged cultists was a slightly different usage and expenditure of energy.
Standing up proved more of an endeavor than he would have liked to admit, as every time he tried, a dangerous wave of nausea swept over him; forcing Mello back to his knees.
Creeaakkk…
Mello panicked, taking the glock out and aiming it in the direction of the sound, and the sliver of light coming from the front doors of the church. A strangely bright figure walked towards him, but other than that, Mello couldn't discern much more through his tired, blurring eyes. He forced himself to his feet, trying to ignore the mad ringing in his skull, his whole body protesting the action, trying to keep him down. Down was safe, down was rest. But Mello brought his arms up, both needed to keep the gun steady in his trembling hands. The figure was directly in front of him now, and with a simple but firm movement pushed the gun aside. Succumbing to the exhaustion he hadn't known would hit him so hard, Mello slumped again, and the bright figure caught him, held him a moment, then lowered him gently to the carpeted floor.
