A/N Hi guys! Another quickie (update, I mean). Generally I wait for xinde to review so I can see what's good and what's not (feel flattered, feel very, very flattered – haha!) but the chapter was demanding to be written. (Dear lord I sound like… well let's just say I don't normally consider my chapters animate objects.) Besides, I'd already written the end of this chapter, which I'm quite proud of, if I do say so myself!
And now, it's Mello's turn! Chapter time.
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There's a rectangular patch on the floorboards that's still warm. It feels like a laptop was on it.
Trust Matt to leave right before I get here. It didn't take me too long to pack and leave Whammy's, and the letter from L had a couple hundred pounds in change so getting to London wasn't that hard. (Fine, I'll admit. I was lost for two hours. Can you blame me? I've never been out of Whammy's since I got there!) I'd read the letter while on the Underground, read it until I'd memorized its contents. Matt's rosary bounced on my chest, jiggled by the movement of the train.
Mello.
My fingers idly trace the wood, finding the indents and scratches. I can't believe it's taken me so long to notice. Despite all the times I'd clutched at the religious relic, fallen asleep with it cradled in my palms, it was only now that I'd realized the markings on the back weren't just random scratches. They spelled out, in very rough letters, a word.
Jeevas.
I still don't know how this is going to help me find him. It could even be a horrendously misspelled "Jesus" and mean nothing, for all I know. Fuck Matt for being cryptic even up to now.
If you are reading this, then you must already be aware of what has happened. However impulsive you may be, I know and trust you enough to be sure that you will not read this for any other reason.
I was thankful for the obnoxious music and the loud chatter of the people on the subway. At least then, there had been something to drown out the awful sound of Roger's voice. Now, in the silence of the apartment, Roger's voice is everywhere. It physically hurts to think about what he'd said, what he'd broken to me. To us, because the news had been for Near as well.
Near.
My hands clench around the rosary in anger at the thought.
You are aware, of course, that both Near and Matt have received their own letters as well. Each contains different instructions. These are yours.
The address in the letter led to an apartment in Central London, under the name of a John Matter. Matter – Matt.
But when I'd gotten here, there was no Matt.
I am unable to leave you much due to my inability to predict the circumstances under which you will be opening this. There are many plausible scenarios, but which the more likely is, I cannot say. Likely Watari and I have been killed by Kira. You have your research; you may, if you so wish, take up the case.
The circumstances: L and Watari dead, Kira stronger than ever, Matt gone, no successor chosen. After Matt left, Roger nearly shit himself because Matt was supposedly L's preferred choice. He'd sent word of Matt's disappearance and we'd waited and waited, needing the closure.
And then he'd had the gall to ask me to work with Near.
Matt will be gone by now, of that I have no doubt. Despite the lack of apparent closeness he is loyal to you. Find him. However you choose to move on with your life from now, he will be necessary.
Find him. Find me. Why does everyone think I'd be spending my time after L's – death – chasing Matt? Kira is out there – Kira, who killed L and Watari and crushed my every hope and purpose – and if I'm going to chase anyone, if I'm going to dedicate my life to finding someone, it'll be him. Not Matt.
The fucker was the one who left, anyway.
Do not forget all I have told you. Do not let yourself be wrapped up in the little things, Mello. Always look at the bigger picture. A little creativity is wise, but always have a reason. Keep your emotions in check.
I chuck my bag at the bed, then kick the bedpost for good measure.
Best of luck, Mihael.
Even in his letter, L never said who he'd picked.
Did he really want Matt that much? Couldn't have, if he'd know Matt would leave.
"Gottverdammt, scheisskopf." I kick my bag off my bed, forgetting for the moment that it has a laptop inside. What's so great about that arschloch anyway? The fucking coward ran away.
My hands tighten around the rosary but I can't bring myself to yank it off.
For lack of anything better to do, I turn on the television. For some reason it's tuned to Sakura Television. More news about Kira and the hope he gives us, the salvation he brings to our lives. Bullshit. Kira's nothing but a coward and a nutjob who thinks he can play god in the crazy world. L wasn't even a criminal.
L.
The thought of him makes me want to scream, makes me want to break something – lots of things. I lash out at the television, sending it crashing down to the floor. There isn't much else nearby I can maim (stupid Spartan apartment) so my fist connects with the wall behind it harshly. I continue punching the wall until my knuckles turn bloody, kicking around until my shins and feet bruise, because there's no quiet gamer now to hold me back, take my blows like gifts. The pain distracts from the clench of my heart, but not by much.
All those years, all that work, all my hopes…and just when I finally take first…
I finally scream, until I think I might tear my throat. The floor is hard beneath my knees.
L died. L is dead.
L died and I'm still not the better one.
I think I might be going crazy because I can swear I hear Benedikt laughing.
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I must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing I know, I'm lying amidst the mess I made, opening my eyes to the morning light. I raise my hands to rub the sleep on my eyes and – fuck, there's dried blood all over my knuckles. There's something crusty on the left side of my face, too, and when I check in the bathroom I find I nicked my forehead. Good thing I didn't bleed to death all over the apartment.
I splash my face with water, scrub the dried blood off my skin. I survey my face in the mirror. Long angel's hair, sky blue eyes, medium tan. Boy on fire, Matt called me before. Well right now the boy on fire looks like a wimp.
I dry my face roughly on a towel as I pad back into the room. Plan. I need a plan. I left Near at Whammy's so he'll probably be using the resources there for help. I have my laptop with the Kira research I've managed to store, but it won't be enough to get me by. I couldn't even hack my way into the files of the Japanese Police Force.
I bet Matt could if he – no. Matt is not the issue here.
Need to be rational. Cannot let emotions get the better of me.
Thank god I brought a chocolate bar with me. Now Mello, think.
Assets. I will need assets. Capital, influence, and manpower. Some industry that stands to gain if Kira is taken down.
I look outside the apartment window, at the bustling city beneath me. If there's anything I ever learned from all the criminal cases I solved, it's that someone always stands to gain.It's the heart of every case, the final motive. Look for the one not cutting their losses.
Politics is definitely out of the question. One government after the other is surrendering to Kira. Criminals are dying – what's not to love? That and their identities are highly public so they'll be killed if they go against – hang on.
Criminals. Kira kills criminals who are caught, whose identities are made known. His personal brand of "justice," reluctant though I may be to use the word in his context. It's the underworld that stands the most to lose the longer Kira is out there, and stands the most to gain from his defeat. The underworld with its capital, influence, and manpower.
And the best hiding spot in the underworld is in organized crime.
My smile widens as I snap off another piece of my chocolate. Near will probably be taking a more legitimate route; he's never been one to get his hands dirty. What better way to go against both him and Kira by hacking my own niche into organized crime?
Yeah, I think I'll start with the Mafia.
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Living as the son of one of Berlin's most respected police guards, and then living as an orphan at Whammy's House, definitely did not prepare me for the "outside world." (God, that sounds like something out of Matt's cheesy games.) I duck into a computer shop to look up flight schedules, because from the cases I've solved, I know I'd have the best chances with Mafias in Russia, Italy, and North and South America. Europe is convenient, but Kira's in Japan. I could give the Yakuza a shot but I don't know how kindly they take to foreigners. I could always go back home…
No. Not there.
That leaves me with the Americas. My hands fist in my hair. What the fuck am I thinking? I'm only fourteen with barely anything on me. The only contents of L's envelope were cash, his letter, and a passport under the name "Mello Kaen." To get anywhere I'm going to need fake IDs, more money, protection… I catch my reflection on the computer screen. I also need to look less like a wimp.
Snarling in frustration, I get up, tossing a handful of change at the bored-looking girl at the counter. This isn't going to work. I may be a genius but I've got no assets. Being a Whammy's House kid counts for shits out here, where people don't even know my former orphanage exists. My false passport lists me as being legal but I'm not very qualified to take on important jobs. I've got no leverage, nothing that could make people want me.
Some old guy in a side street beside the shop eyes me lecherously and I suppress a shudder. No fucking way in the dark bloody depths of hell am I sinking to that.
Is this why L said Matt was necessary? Does he have something I need? Something that could help me? If he did then why the bloody flying fucking hell did he leave?
The guy outside the shop wolf-whistles at me and I resist the urge to wallop him. The self-restraint flies out the window, however, when he calls, "hey blondie!" My bag's the first thing to hit him, followed by my fist. I may have longish hair and I may be skinny but I sure as hell don't look like a fucking girl anymore.
A gun clatters out of his pants as I shove him to the ground.
I look at it as he whimpers.
I can almost feel the metal weighing heavy and promising in my hands. The shiny chrome calls to me. The man on the pavement realizes what I'm about to do a second too late. The gun's in my palm, the tip digging into his temple.
"What was it you were calling me?"
He stutters wildly, barely coherent as I turn his weapon against him and then it hits me like one of the bullets. What I hold in my hand is leverage. It's an asset. It's not money or an army of underlings, but it's something.
Between it and my body I can make people want.
"Please – please don't kill me!"
The street is deserted. No one inside the shop seems to be paying attention. The windows around us are closed. I can take this guy's life if I want. Whether he goes home to his beer and his porn or not is all up to me.
Scheiss, that's a head trip.
The guy's shut up – I think I've been standing still far too long. I cock the gun nice and easy, just like I learned at Whammy's. The only difference is that the gun's loaded with real shots now, not pellets or paintballs. I'm not aiming to splatter someone's chest guard; I'm aiming to take a life.
Mihael Keehl, age nine. Father dead in a – no. No. Forget Viktor Keehl. Forget paintball with Matt. Forget the fact that the most sentient thing you've ever shot through with a gun is a that half-dead bush under Near's bedroom window.
I am not scared of guns.
The shot rings out loud and clear in the side street.
The pavement is red and for a delirious moment, I'm reminded of the last time I'd played paintball with Matt. My pellets had been filled with red.
But this isn't paintball, this isn't a game – I just fucking killed someone. I took a live gun and put a bullet through his head. I ended a life, took one, all because he'd eyed me up the wrong way and the gun had promised secrets for my soul. I'm a killer.
"Shit – hey! Hey Leo! Some punk kid over here just shot Remy!"
I'm a killer and I have been caught.
A kick catches me in my ribs and I'm sent flying into the wall. Acting on pure instinct and desperation I catch the next blow, retaliate, counter. Every self-defense and attack I've learned over the years gets pulled out. Kick, punch, block, duck, trip, until finally, two of my three assailants are unconscious and the last one's breathing heavy, glaring murder at me. I feel the patches where the bruises will undoubtedly form tomorrow and lick the blood away from my split lip. There's a big guy in the corner – Leo, probably – who's eyeing me impassively.
"This the kid, Matt?"
Well what do you know. The guy in front of me – red hair, skinny figure, elephant pants riding so low he ought to be arrested for indecent exposure – his name is Matt.
I lift the gun that's still in my left hand (I'd pistol whipped one of the guys – not my intention, I swear) and cock it, pointing it in Leo's direction. "What's it to you?" I ask, trying to sound as cocky as the gangsters in the movies we used to have back at Whammy's.
Leo blinks, probably unused to taking flak from anyone, particularly a skinny teenage runaway. He calmly reaches into his pants and draws his own gun. "What it is, kid, is that you just shot my dealer."
"So get a new one." I try to act blasé, as if I couldn't give two shits about the gun now pointed at me. But shit, shit, shit, I can't die. Not now.
"Heh." A slow grin spreads over Leo's face. Matt is watching this exchange in utter confusion. I just try to keep my gun up. "You know what, kid? I think I will."
"Bloody fucking great. Now if you'll excuse me-" I'm cut off by a shot ringing out. The bullet whistles past my ear so close the shriek almost deafens me. It cracks the wall behind me and pings down on the concrete at my feet. The sound is ridiculously innocent and, for some strange reason, reminds me of the bells back at Whammy's.
"I will get a replacement for Remy." Leo is positively beaming now. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "I'll get you."
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A week later and I'm back at that side street, seven small bags of coke tucked into various places under my new leather clothes. My angel hair is cut to the chin and I'm sporting a black eye from my latest spat with one of the other runners. The pay is crap, the lodgings would make your toes curl, and we're lucky if there's enough food at all. But it's a drug cartel – it's a door into the criminal underworld – and there's always booze and leftover smack if you need it. Not that I ever tried the drugs. Seeing the states of my customers pretty much shot that idea in the butt.
Months go by and I man the street corner. I pick up regulars. Leo lets me wear a gun now, ever since the night one very high customer nearly got his hands on me. I'm a teenager and I have hormones but I damn well don't want to be raped.
I also damn well don't want to be stuck here much longer.
Kira is fucking out there. Kira is killing people as I palm the cash from the hobo from three blocks down, passing over a small Ziploc of crack. Kira killed one of the higher ups a few days ago – he'd had a heart attack right in the warehouse. Kira is who I should be dealing with, not the old man down from Manchester who keeps looking at me like I'm a particularly well-done steak.
What finally tips it for me is when I pick up a stray paper on the way back to the base. I pause to browse it (I've learned quickly enough that if you "act smart" or "think you're better than them" the rest of the boys turn you into a punching bag), and there, resplendent on page fifteen, is an article about this genius kid breaking into the feds. Nathaniel Lawliet.
Funnily enough, he's an albino.
I'm running full tilt for the base before the shreds of the newspaper even hit the ground.
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Using the money I stole from the drug profits and a fake ID I got from the business I get myself to Los Angeles. It was a snap decision at the airport, but it's rife with illegal activity, it's on the coast nearest Japan, and their Mafias are pretty strong. I bring nothing but my new clothes, some smack, and a book with the chocolate wrapper, the photograph, and L's letter tucked inside. The guards at Heathrow eyed me weirdly but let me through. They've probably seen bigger freaks than me.
When I get to LA my first thought is it's bloody fucking hot. I don't even know if the pavements have ever heard of rain, let alone experience it. I have a few hundred dollars on me, but that's the extent of my resources. I am essentially back at square one.
"You okay, kid?"
And now there's a weirdo talking to me.
I size him up. He's actually a lot like me (heaven forbid I repeat that thought to myself). Blonde, leather, skinny. But he's smoking a cigarette. I've worn a gun enough times to know what the contour looks like underneath clothing. Safety pins glint at his ears.
"Fine," I answer shortly. This guy just might be involved in some illegal activity – he's carrying a gun, after all – but he doesn't seem to be the type I need.
"Alone?"
"Why do you care?"
An easy grin plays on his lips. "Nothing much." He inhales, expertly blows the smoke out without removing the cigarette. "Looking for a job?"
"Do you make a habit of offering work to children you see on the street?" I'm already pissed from the heat; this guy is not making things better. But I'm a fifteen-year-old genius-orphanage-runaway with nothing on him, in a foreign city, looking for criminal work – talking to this stranger a few blocks from the airport can't make things much worse.
"Just the ones I think are interesting." He offers me a cigarette and I wrinkle my nose. "It's the leather."
"I figured."
"You good at anything?"
I weigh my options carefully. On the one hand, this guy could get me somewhere. A Mafia, a drug cartel, illegal shipments – something in the line of work I'm looking at. On the other hand, he could sell me to a brothel where I'll have to work as a manwhore.
I think I'll take my chances.
"Guns. Drugs." I shrug as if these things are totally normal hobbies for a scrawny teenage boy. Swallowing emotions has never been my strong point but L said, L said. Keep your emotions in check.
"Guns and drugs, huh?" There's a glint in this guy's eyes that I simultaneously do not like and am curious about. He flicks away his cigarette and holds out his hand. "The name's Connor. Ever think of working in the Mafia?"
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Two months later and I'm a Mafia soldier.
Ten months later and the boss – Rod Ross – decides he likes me so much, he gives me a promotion. I've done drug runs, I've shot people, I've been beaten up and bitched over. I've lost both my virginities – not pleasant experiences, both of them – and my sense of morality. I'm one step closer to where I want to be.
It's been two years since I left Whammy's House. I'm skinnier than a ghost, bruised in places I didn't even know existed, and well on my way to earning a reputation as a crazy, genius kid.
Life is good.
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Three weeks after my promotion to Capo, there's an uproar in the tech room. We've changed hackers recently – the last one was worth shit; some two-bit noob jumped one of our drug transactions and rerouted half the stash – and the new one's supposed to be covering the tracks of the latest gun shipment.
"I thought this piece of shit is supposed to be one of the best hackers money can buy?" Rod's losing it. I hear a few shots go off. Most of the underlings in the room look scared, some even leave. Me? I pick up my Glock and saunter into the tech room.
"I am the bloody best money can buy!" The hacker's halfway out of his chair, hands held up in a defensive position across his chest. "But you can't buy that guy off – he doesn't work for anybody!"
The gun cracks across his cheek as Rod pistol whips him. He does it again for good measure, then jerks it toward the rest of the members around the room.
"Someone get me Mello! He's the one the fucker's after."
Who, me?
"I'm right here, Rod." I do my best to keep my voice neutral, because inside is chaos. Someone's after me? Jesus fuck, is it Near? Roger? Did they somehow catch hold of my less-than-desirable activities and are now coming to get my ass back to England? "Who's after me?"
"The world's most wanted hacker." He jerks his head in the direction of the screen. "Bloody fucking PlayAGame."
Shit. I spare the computer screens a glance before turning back to Rod. "I don't bloody fucking know why the world's most wanted hacker is after me."
The words on the screen blink at me. Mello –PlayAGame?–. An invitation, a challenge. The underworld by now has learned to never say yes to –PlayAGame?–, because no one ever wins.
"Well you've obviously done something because he's goddamn asking for yo-"
The text suddenly changes. We watch, perplexed, as letter by letter my name disappears. For a moment the alias and the blank are all that's left, then a word gets typed in. I find my lips mouthing each letter as it appears, tongue instinctively forming syllables as the word is formed.
M…I…H…A…E…L
…Mihael.
Wait a minute.
Wait. A. Fucking. Minute.
However counterproductive to my reputation, my mouth drops open.
That name. That bloody fucking… PlayAGame.
"Hey Mello, do you want to play a game with me?"
On the screen: Mihael –PlayAGame?–.
The blank underneath, the bar flashing. Waiting for a response.
One of the movie nights in the common room, Mello more scared than he let on. Matt jumping him as he came out of the shower, aluminum ruler to his throat like a knife, lips to his ear. "Play a game with me."
The world's most wanted hacker.
"Mello, play a game with me."
Usernames in online gaming sites, a signature in every website. An invitation and a challenge. Play a game with me. Play a game.
"Play a game." My eyes widen, fingers reaching down to the cross on my chest. –PlayAGame?– the screen says. Play a game?
"Hey Mello, wanna play a game?"
"Mello, play a game with me."
How the bloody fuck did I never realize?
The one thing Matt wanted most from me, the one thing I could do to make Matt incredibly happy.
Matt booting up his Xbox, controller in hand, thin scratch beneath torn shirt. The goofy smile that spread over his face when Mello asked him to toss the other controller over.
Play a game with me.
"A game." It's barely a whisper. Some genius I am. All these months and I never got it.
When the time comes, you'll know how to find me.
Without a word I shove the hacker aside. One of my hands reaches for the keys, the other turning over the rosary to check that one word carved on its back, a word long committed to memory.
You'll know how to find me.
With trembling fingers, I type in letters I know by heart.
J-E-E-V-A-S
The clack of the enter button echoes throughout the completely silent room.
You'll know.
The screen blacks out and for a heartbeat and a breath I'm scared I've done wrong.
"Mello, play a game with me."
You'll know how to find me.
The screen turns white, a Gothic J smack in the center.
J. Jeevas.
Three envelopes on a desk. One with an N, one an M, and strangely, one a J.
Matt.
"Found me," comes a familiar voice from the computer speakers, and I can almost see Matt's smile.
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A/N Long chapter is long – 9 pages, 4000+ words! But unlike Matt's long paragraphs and pained monologues, Mello has choppy bits of anger. I hope it wasn't too boring?
I debated putting the ending in another chapter, but then I didn't really know what would happen. I thought about Matt helping Mello rise to Consigliere (the Mafia boss's right-hand man) in secret – hacking things for him, causing distractions during espionage missions, that sort of stuff – but I also wanted to bring them together as soon as possible. And then separate them again (this is not a spoiler – you guys read the prologue!). I might rewrite if I tend toward the former – but let me know what you think, first! R&R, please?