Title: Dog of the Industry
Summary: It's almost funny how the need to do laundry can lead to so much excitement. Poor, Mail Jeevas never thought he'd be involuntarily pulled into a world of underground criminal activity. "Welcome to the Industry."
Disclaimer: I don't own DN.
Author's Note: Words... I've got none.
…
"Good job, Matt. Let's rest. In the morning, we'll check the obituaries. I think her name was Misa-Something." Mello's mouth remained against Mail's flesh, even when he finished speaking; he kissed a tender spot and pulled the redhead close, hands roaming freely and stopping only once they held a handful ass.
...
Mail laid on his nice new expensive sofa, nude, an equally naked blonde on top of him. Their limbs entangled, all the redhead could do was focus on breathing; his tongue had swelled uncomfortably, a lump of tissue and coagulates organizing a benign tumor of clotting... so the bleeding was under control.
Mello contentedly blanketed the redhead, chest to chest, dick to dick, there was nothing poetic about their current lay together. This wasn't the kind of intimacy someone would want to read or write about. This wasn't some bullshit Harlequin 'take me, I'm yours' shenanigan.
This was the Industry at work.
This was a bonus for a lowly factory worker with a meek payroll.
This was heaven for an atheist.
Mello stretched out on top of a confused and needy redhead, fingers threading scarlet locks and poisonous lips whispering words of encouragement and praise and sacrifice all in one breath.
And all Mail wanted was that lump in his tongue to go away. His mouth ached dully, and he twitched the severed muscles in his tongue, playing with the sensation of split and pulled and irritated nerves that were slowly dying off. "Tired," he finally managed to say, not sure if the blonde would allow him rest; not even caring but still wanting to voice his desire.
Mello buried his face against the redhead's neck and spoke almost mechanically: "Until a person finds something to fight for, he'll settle for something to fight against. We fight the System."
Closing his eyes, mind not ready to process more than it already had, Mail repeated the word "tired."
"Then sleep, Matt," Mello said simply, bringing both hands to Mail's face, using them to cover his eyes. "Sleep all you need. You did your part."
...
Mail awoke hours later, but he hardly felt rested. His eyes burned upon opening, and he was unnervingly cold. For a moment, he shut his eyes and curled up, wishing for a disembodied figure to cover him with warmth, but none came; and when he realized this he finally forced himself up. Looking around, he almost forgot where he was. This place hardly seemed familiar, too posh and pristine and luxurious for something he ever imagined for himself.
But then he recalled where he was, where he'd gotten the material possessions that had mesmerized him only hours ago. But something felt... different, wrong, and terribly off-putting.
It dawned on him too quickly... that the blonde wasn't in sight.
"Mells?" He tried, grimacing at the soreness in his mouth that ached more than it had the previous night. "Mello!" he tried again, louder. Getting up, he began to search. "Hello? Anybody there?"
He looked for blonde hair and blue eyes. He looked for nudity and uniform and everything in between. But he found nothing.
His home, fuller than ever, it felt so empty.
But, wasn't it always better to be alone? Wasn't it always safer?
Conflict churned in his mind like the hips of a gyrating stripper, and he felt nauseous. Heading to the bathroom, he dug through a cabinet and found it loaded with pharmaceutical remedies. He glanced over the small bottles one by one, looking for a cure to whatever might be wrong.
In the end, he shut the cabinet without taking any medicine; then he took a piss and wandered to his room. To the closet, he ventured, finding his clothes neatly hung up... and Mello's clothes completely gone.
Frowning, he dressed himself in his IND uniform, pulling his boots on last. Then he walked around aimlessly, unsure of what to do.
He didn't have to go to work -someone else was covering for him.
He didn't know of any assignments he might have to do for the Industry.
He didn't have Mello around to tell him anything enlightening.
He felt helpless -No. He didn't quite know what he was feeling anymore. He just vaguely acknowledged that his tongue was sore and his home was filled with things he didn't really want or need.
He soon found himself in the kitchen, grasping the phone he'd been given for purposes of convenience in dealing with the Suicide Hotline, and he paced in circles around the marble table that had been cleared and wiped clean by unseen hands during his restless slumber.
"Where are you, Mello?" he found himself asking, fingers twitching and twiddling around the phone.
Still pacing, fingers impulsively moving, rubbing and tapping anxiously at the phone, Mail's vision strayed to the clock above the counter.
10:31 AM
He paced more, then stole another look at the clock.
10:41 AM
More pacing and flooding anxiety.
10:45 AM
Time was just moving too slow for this redhead's preference, and he nearly jumped out of his skin with the phone rang, chirping, demanding him to answer. And answer, he did. Putting that phone to his ear, a small bubble of hope formed: hope that Mello's voice might be on the other end; hope that he'd know what he was supposed to do now; hope that he'd find himself feeling a little less hollow on the inside.
"Hello, Matt."
But that voice... It was not one that he'd ever heard before. It was low and monotonous, yet it commanded an air of authority... but this voice was not that of the blonde he so strangely missed.
"Who's this?" Mail asked, palm sweaty against the spine of the phone.
"Don't worry about that right now. At exactly 11 AM, you will leave, head to the nearest laundromat, blind yourself, and be seated. Then I'll take it from there."
"Who is this? Do you know where Mello is? Does this have something to do with the Industry?"
"... Matt, there is no Industry. It does not exist."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'll do as you say -meet you at the laundromat- but I want answers. No more riddles. What the fuck is going on? Why me? What am I expected to do? Tell me everything, and I'll be compliant."
"Fair enough." Dead air followed this simple sentence; the line had gone dead, disconnected.
Mail looked at the clock once more.
10:50 AM
He'd be leaving in ten minutes. He ran a hand through his hair and started pacing again. Some part of his mind reasoned that if he kept busy and active, he'd be less stressed. -This part of his mind was wrong, but he remained oblivious to that fact.
His pacing did halt, however, when his phone rang yet again. "Hello?" he greeted eagerly, deciding that this curious caller might be the same as his previous one.
He was wrong. Unfortunately. Much to his dismay, the voice at the other end was another sniveling bitch with a sob story... Only, this one was a man, unlike Misa-Something had been.
This man...
"H-Hello? This is the Suicide Hotline, right? I-I've never called something like this before, but... I found the number printed in the newspaper. And I found it tacked to the wall at work. And I saw it on the side of a bus. And... after seeing it so many times, I finally decided to call."
Mail sighed, eyes darting back to the clock. "Alright, but I've got things to do in a few minutes. So, just give me your name, tell me your story -briefly, and then do what you gotta do. Can you do it all in, like, eight minutes?"
"Wait, you want me to die in eight minutes?!"
"Or sooner," Mail said offhandedly, pressing his sore tongue against the back of his teeth, testing the feeling and deciding he liked it... even though it hurt -like a child who won't stop poking a bruise or picking a scab.
"I... don't think I want to die, really. I mean, I just joined up with this underground group called the Industry. My life's not great, but I don't think I want to die..."
"Then, why are you calling me?"
"Because, I- I don't know. I thought... I thought- I'm so sorry! This isn't costing you money or wasting your time, is it?"
"Look, I'm not going to tell you what to do. Honestly, I want you to have a reason to fucking live, but sometimes, life's not worth it. It's not my job to decide this shit for you. It's not. Quite the opposite, really. And I have to go, or I'm going to be late for a... meeting."
"Oh... Okay. But can I just tell you why I was considering suicide? Please. I need to tell someone."
Mail sighed and his lungs inflated almost painfully, burning; he suddenly recalled his craving for nicotine and smoke. He wanted a damn cigarette and he was getting agitated. "Fuck, whatever," he murmured.
"Just recently, I became an employee to this thing -this group- called the Industry. It made sense at first, and I kinda liked it. I felt like I was doing something important with my life. After years of wasting time and doing nothing, I was finally doing something, you know? And... last night, I... I killed a man. Afterwards, I headed to the basement of a church. Everyone acted like it was fine, but I don't think it was. Do you think I can get out of the Industry? Do you think it's safe? What should I do?"
Mail gritted his teeth together, concentrating hard on the voice and wondering if this sorry sack of human waste might be one of the blood-strewn individuals he'd seen the night before at White Chape. Regardless, his eyes once again wandered over to the clock.
10:59 AM
"Wha'd you say your name is?"
"I didn't say my name. Because, the Industry gave me new one, and I don't know if I'm supposed to use that one or my birth name."
Mail sighed heavily.
11:00 AM
"I can't help you. But I can tell you this much... There is... no Industry. Do what you've gotta do, and don't be a pussy, but above all else, don't be anyone's bitch."
And Mail hung up, tossed the phone carelessly onto the counter, straightened his jacket, and headed out the door. He vaguely wondered if he'd done the right thing, but he didn't have time to dwell on the matter for long, too busy running outside to his car... only to find the windows all busted and the tires slashed.
"Oh, fucking shit. Fuck me," he groaned, biting his tongue and causing it to bleed. Tasting the blood, he swore again and wondered how quickly he needed to get to the damn laundromat...
Running an exasperated hand through his hair and looking around nervously, something shiny caught his eye- something shiny and new.
Midnight blue and chrome, a gorgeous motorcycle called his name. The keys in the ignition, he couldn't help wondering if it was another gift from the Industry.
Deciding not to think and to just act instead, he jogged a short distance, approaching the bike.
He'd never ridden one before, but he imagined that it couldn't be too hard. Balance and motor skills.
Slipping one leg over and using the other to flick up the kickstand, he held the handle grips and balanced the bike between his thighs, surprised at just how heavy it was. Regardless, he turned the key and kicked it in gear; he heard and felt the rumble of the bike revving to life and his heart fluttered.
He'd never rode a regular bicycle in his entire life, and now he was about to drive a fucking motorcycle.
He wondered if he had some sort of death wish, what with his behavior for the past couple days.
Pushing that thought aside, he accelerated. The wind was strong, whipping his hair and burning his eyes, but he felt more alive than he ever had as he pulled out of the lot and raced down a lane, turning a corner and reaching a straight stretch.
If he had to describe the bike in one word, he'd use the word 'fluent.'
He arrived and parked after a fair drive, flicking the kickstand down and getting off.
"That went well," he said proudly, looking at the bike with unbridled affection before heading into the laundromat.
According the hours printed on the front window glass, it should be locked up, but putting one hand on the door and pushing it open, it clearly wasn't.
"Hey?" He greeted, entering and looking around. He walked to the center of the room and seated himself on a hard plastic chair. Next to the chair, atop a small stack of outdated Reader's Digest, was a blindfold not unlike the one he'd used before under Mello's command.
"Put the blindfold on," came that strange monotonous voice from before: the one that had instructed him to come.
Mail couldn't help looking first; he wanted to know what and who he was dealing with. Scanning the room and looking the general direction of the voice, he saw a figure hunched over, wearing baggy jeans and a white shirt beneath a jacket; the jacket's IND logo was embossed and glossy, almost too fancy for this strange man who wore no shoes or boots -barefoot, like Mello. Nothing about this man seemed normal, and Mail was wary. Especially at noticing how a wild black mane flared out from a rather cartoonish mask that veiled this man's face.
Mail put the blind on warily, knotting it behind his head. "You said you've give me answers."
"Don't speak unless I tell you too, Matt. Things will progress more efficiently if you behave and do as you're told."
This time, Mail responded with nothing more than a nod.
"You want to know what's going on. I can answer that easily. -Generations of protagonists are working hard, washing cars, running cash registers, coaching children to run at length and catch balls; people are mining coal, fixing cars, hauling trash -you get the point. These people do what the System tells them to do; these people do what they're told because they're told that it is right. These people die every day without a purpose."
"Sir," Mail interjected, trying to use the same respect he recalled that Mello had given Watari. "Sir, how is that any different than what the Industry is doing to people?"
And the stranger answered, tone unchanging. "The Industry at least provides a valid purpose. The things we do, it's always for a greater good, and someone is always benefiting. By preventing excess consumption, we create an altercation in supply and demand. By demanding less, supply increases. Prices go down. Poor people live more efficiently. By removing those who hinder progress and waste space, we are preserving those that truly matter: those who will stop wars or cure cancer. By doing these small trivial tasks, everyone is contributing the the greater good."
"I... -But, what does this have to do with anything? And, why me?"
The man released a heavy breath; the sound echoed from the confines of his mask. "To be honest, I did not want you; I wanted a young man named Nate. I see no value or potential in anything you have to offer. Even now, you are speaking without permission, and I do not like that. But, Mello wanted you, and he has given credence to the Industry his entire life. He knows what he is doing. I do not believe he would act ill toward our goals."
"Why do you fight the System?"
"The System is everything we stand against, Matt. They give people hope and then tell them that there is nothing to be hopeful for. They teach people to waste and ruin. We do the exact opposite."
"But... what about my excess rewards? My home was robbed, and then it was filled, and-"
"And now you understand that the things you own do not determine the value of life. Correct? You acknowledge how useless and empty those possessions are. In other words, for the first time in your life, you own things that do not own or identify you."
And Mail was speechless. Because, this strange man, in some twisted way, was correct.
"Matt, you can turn away from the Industry at any time. But remember, working for us, even a little work could mean saving a life. Don't you want to save lives, Matt?"
Unable to form words, Mail lowered his head.
"Matt... I know what you did to your brother all those years ago. And while I know it bothers you, it shouldn't."
Mail tensed at the words, suddenly feeling too many emotions at once; he was beginning to feel ill. "Who are you?" he finally managed to ask.
There was a pause. A very long pause. So long that Mail wondered if the strange masked man had left him. Then: "I am L..."
...
/There we go./