Mello's trainers squeaked on the stairs as he descended into the gloom of a suburban basement in East Hollywood.

He had arrived in L.A. in a dazzling heatwave, his presence something of a spectacle for the limping, desperately understaffed Mafia. Here was this broomstick-looking kid with a snooty, nose-turned-up attitude, blathering on about his intention to take down the seemingly unbeatable supernatural force that had crippled and nearly destroyed them... the gang was needful of his fresh blood, but amused by the innocence of his lofty expectations and bloated sense of self worth. The longsuffering old guard looked forward to seeing Mello's optimism smashed against the rocks of the same black reality that had jaded them, cured their stupid youth.

Behind Mello on the basement stairs were Lorenzo, the under boss Dmitri had insisted would be good to the son of Hynek, an old friend of Enzo's who had dropped out of highschool in Prague and relocated to America the year before called Patya, and Rod Ross, who was the Don. They were carrying handguns with long silencers and wearing leather gloves. Mello wore latex, given to him by Lorenzo on the drive over.

Mello's understanding was that he was in this middle class house on the edges of L.A. to have the strength of his character tested, to have his loyalty cinched. Mello could guess what it would all involve. He'd read the Mafia's Wikipedia page.

Mello squinted in the low light of a swinging bare bulb when they stopped at the bottom of the creaking stairwell. In the bowels of the basement, he could make out two washing machines shoved in a corner, a drying rack with shirts hanging from its unfolded arms pushed against a water-stained wall, and a man shackled by the wrists from the ceiling. The man appeared unconscious. He was naked except for a sheet of caked blood.

'Alright, Mello.' Rob Ross said, slapping a 9mm into Mello's palm. 'Put him down.'

One human life, Mello thought, squeezing the trigger without hesitation, was a small price to pay to grind the change Kira was enacting in the world to a halt. A small price to pay to prove to these fucking assholes how badass and unflinching he, a graduate of the most grueling detective training programme in the fucking world, was.

They had trained on the range in Wammy's. Mello had been exceptional. He always kept his groupings tight. They'd simulated duress - added challenge - by doing the 100m dash before picking up their guns, but Mello's aim was always true. He would level his gun without a moment's pause, settle his puffing breath, and aim the sights with steady hands. Pop, pop, pop – right in the chest of the flesh-painted practise dummy. Heartbeat up, he could still keep his body calm. That was what Roger and Watari and L never fucking saw - Mello under pressure boiling like a frog in rising temperature, keeping his goddamn cool, staying in the water.

They had practised shutting down their empathy, too, in the classroom. Really, they had learnt everything they needed to become great servants of the human race or great enemies of it, and then their teachers had crossed their fingers: please don't use this skill against us. Please just be L.

And Mello would not be a failure of Wammy's, no matter what deeds, no matter what sins he committed in service of its goal. That muggy grey area – succeed L at all costs – would serve his conscious, now.

The man was tied like a bear for a trophy hunter, an easy target swinging slightly. He was not even real with his eyes closed, could have been dead already, could have been a mannequin sprayed with chocolate syrup and corn starch. When the bullet hit his chest, he grunted and woke up.

'Better shoot him again.' Patya said.

Mello shot him again. It was much harder to kill a person than he had realised. He'd read so many crime scene reports which summarised the process in 5 sentences or less, and so hadn't been prepared to watch someone cling to life and gurgle blood and beg uselessly. He had to shoot him a third time, and by then the act of squeezing finger on trigger was getting a little routine.

Rod Ross nodded in Mello's peripheral and brushed by to inspect the slumping corpse. There was a drain below them which sucked the blood away, leaving streaks along the uneven rocky floor.

An unfinished basement will bring down the value of the house, Mello thought insanely. He was looking not at the death, but at everything else. He was stirring himself into anger about anything else. Why hang clothes to dry in a sunless, dank basement? Invest in a fuckin' dryer.

Mello hadn't known that the Mafia operated torture rooms in regular looking, rather nice homes with mowed lawns. He had been expecting... something else. Something with less contrast, something less challenging to his sense of normalcy.

But it was undeniably good to be among people with power. Evzen, Zdravko... petty car thieves with cigarette smoke in their hair and dumb assault charges... those were the sort of small fry nobodies Mello couldn't afford to run with forever, if he was going to achieve the same level of political sway as Near would be given as L's successor.

Patya packed some ugly, brutal looking tools that were sitting on a piece of particle board by the stairs into a book bag. There were knives, there were prongs, there were brands and hooks and worse, more imaginative things. 'All done.' he smirked at Mello, heaving it over his shoulder.

They left the body in the basement. Lorenzo turned the lights off after hosing down the floor and everyone's shoes.

Mello had the unpleasant experience of riding in the back of Lorenzo's car with wet socks and cold feet for over an hour on the way back to Patya's apartment, where he was staying. He never made the mistake of wearing cloth trainers to work again.

Mello's first night in L.A. had been spent uncomfortably jet-lagged on Patya's couch. Patya had met him at the airport gate when he flew in from Prague with a sign that read "Evzen Friend". He had been accommodating, but not familiar in the way Dmitri and Darling were. Mello was very aware that he was a temporary guest taking up too much of the minimal space in Patya's cramped apartment.

The morning after his arrival, Lorenzo had swung by in his car, since Patya didn't have one, to bring Mello to base so they could discuss his gang membership over gin and tonics. A date was set for the induction ceremony, and then Mello was told to wait.

For several muggy days, he'd drifted through the city with a bus pass, familiarising himself with the public transit, the neighbourhoods, the special loneliness that accompanies all young runaways when the world is free for the tasting but not very appetising. He passed an uneventful and non-celebratory Christmas at a house party Patya dragged him to down the street, hiding behind his hair on a threadbare couch while music videos played over his head on a projector screen and boys smoked and drank around him.

It wasn't until the tail end of December that Mello was officially folded into the American Mafia, at a formal dinner party in the Hills. By that time he was desperate for it.

Lorenzo encouraged him to purchase a suit for the ceremony, so Mello went out with Patya to buy slacks and a white shirt. He wore them under a hand me down leather jacket that Evzen had grown out of and gifted to him before they'd parted in Prague. When he'd left the bathroom after changing and primping in the tiny round mirror over the sink in Patya's apartment, Patya had shrugged and allowed the small rebellion, but when Lorenzo came to pick them up in his white BMW, he told Mello he looked like a little prick in his worn leather getup. 'Though you probably can't help it.' he'd said.

It was at this event Mello first met Rod Ross, the Don. Mello followed his minders through the doors of the least spectacular beige mansion on the driest street in Hollywood to see Ross seated at the head of an enormous table in the dining room, dressed all in white and drinking tequila with lime. Ross had massive hands and slow, viscous eyes.

'We're all here because we've decided to make Mello part of the Family.' Ross had announced, when all the guests had found their places. 'Dmitri, Ipati, and Lorenzo... these guys want to call Mello brother. Do you intend to live a new life in the Family, Mello?'

'Yes.' Mello answered.

Lorenzo, who was sitting at Mello's left elbow, put a knife and a handgun in front of him, pushing the plate that had been set there roughly away.

'Do you acknowledge that you are swearing today to live and die for this Family?' Ross asked.

'Yeah.' Mello said. 'I get it.'

'Prick this finger.' Lorenzo told him, tapping his right hand and giving him a sewing needle.

Mello did as he was told. A spot of blood bloomed and coursed into the tiny valleys of his fingerprint.

'You were baptised to serve God by your parents. You are baptised now to serve the Family, by the Family.' Patya, who was on his right, told him in a whisper, patting his hand.

Mello was given a photo of St. Anthony, and instructed to wipe his blood across the saint's glossy face. It was cloying in the room; all the men watched him with religious fervour.

'If you betray us,' Rod Ross said, as Lorenzo took the photo and suddenly and violently crumpled it in his fist, 'You will burn as the Saint burns now.'

Lorenzo snatched Mello's wrist, placed the bloodied picture in his palm, and lit it with one of the candles from the table setting. The paper curled and smouldered. Little flames tickled Mello's fingers. He resisted the impulse to shake it off, let it kiss him hotly.

Mello nodded his agreement, raptured.

'Alright, let's fucking eat.' Rod Ross said.

Despite brutish appearance, Rod Ross was at least cunning enough to use a fake name, and to encourage his gang to do the same – whoever the men who were sitting at the table with him had been before Kira, was dead. They had all been reborn by the grace of the same oath Mello had now taken. Mello's desire that his real name be forgotten now that his relevant Mafia relation was known by the bosses was instantly respected. He was now able to move forward in the blood obsessed Mafia as a prodigal bastard.

Two days of rest after the ceremony allowed Mello to settle the disturbed dust of his new identity before Lorenzo pulled up in front of Patya's apartment block again. He always drove right by if Patya didn't come out quickly enough, and then they would have to walk down the street to the out of service gas station at the end of the block to jump in the car and speed off. Lorenzo was mean and paranoid, like a nervous little dog. He always drove a minute or two in the wrong direction before he would get on the highway, or he would park at a grocery store and sit there for a while before they could be on their way.

As they drove through L.A. traffic to his hazing, his first murder, Mello had rolled his eyes when Lorenzo pulled into a coffee shop parking lot and idled, pretending to read the folded paper map he kept in the glove box.

'We being followed?' Lorenzo had snapped, slapping the map against the steering wheel and swiveling around in his seat to stare flatly at Mello.

Mello glared back, corners of his mouth ticking. 'Sittin' in the back makes me fuckin' nauseous.' he finally said.

'You don't know. So shut the fuck up, little prick.' Lorenzo said evenly.

Mello hated Lorenzo. But Lorenzo was above him, for now; an old guard asshole with grey roots and scars on his jowls. Patya answered to him, and Mello lived on Patya's couch in Patya's shit apartment, so Mello answered to everyone - including the woman downstairs who complained when he paced around the kitchen early in the morning and woke up her cat, apparently. Until he'd established himself as someone to be treated with deference, he had to tread a little softly.

Then after the killing of the hanging man in the basement, Lorenzo asked if Mello was feeling nauseous, still, while they were parked at a gas station waiting for Lorenzo's anxiety to abate.

'No.' Mello said. He was sitting sideways across the backseat so he could lounge against one the doors. 'The car's not moving.'

Mello had the distinct impression that Lorenzo didn't like him right back, and not just because Lorenzo was the type to humble a new guy. Lorenzo watched him in the rear view with a suspicious, uneasy look. There had been an eye dropper's worth of that look in Evzen's eyes when they'd left Josif bleeding in the kitchen. Mello was starting to associate that look with having done something exceptional. It was fear.

'You did good.' Patya said over the classical music station when Lorenzo turned back around to start the car and they pulled away from the pump.

'He doesn't give a shit.' Lorenzo said. 'He's a psychopath.'

Mello sucked his teeth.

'Nah.' Patya said. 'He's a good kid.'

'Buy him a fucking ice cream.' Lorenzo mumbled. 'You want to know what that man did to deserve what he got, you crazy prick?'

'Sure.' Mello answered.

'See?' Lorenzo snapped, flicking Patya beside him with the back of his hand. 'He'd do it whether it was retribution or not. See? Cold blooded.'

'We told him to.' Patya said. 'He's our soldier.'

'Are you obedient?' Lorenzo asked, leveling his eyes in the mirror again.

'No.' Mello shrugged.

'He was an informant. A lot of people had heart attacks thanks to that man.' Lorenzo was starting to sound like a kettle steaming.

Some misunderstandings about his character could be useful. Mello could live with crazy, remorseless. 'You might remember that my intention is to put a bullet in Kira.'

Lorenzo scoffed.

'And anyone who gets in my way.' Mello continued, tasting the way that felt. Yeah, good. Dedicated, single-minded. All things he wanted to be, wanted to have associated with his name.

Every time he tweaked his presentation of himself, he thought about Matt and wondered what Matt would think of him. It had been weeks since he'd called Matt, and he had yet to connect to that Polish file sharing website. It was precarious to be making progress that he wasn't confident about sharing with Matt, for fear of judgment or horror. Maybe Matt wouldn't like Mello now, wouldn't approve of what he was working on becoming. And then what would they talk about? The weather in Hollywood? Mello felt like he'd walked into a funhouse and come out distorted, left his real self behind in the reflections.

'L couldn't even do it.' Patya said. 'I think this is just what the world has become.'

Mello hunched into his jacket. It smelt like smoke and sweat. So many people were quitters; defeatist losers. 'How do you get promoted around here?' he asked before getting out of the car in front of Patya's apartment block.

'You put your time in.' Lorenzo answered gruffly.

'And if you don't have time?' he asked Patya, after closing the door. Lorenzo didn't believe in him. No one believed in him until he showed them.

Patya shook his head. 'Lorenzo's got the only answer. Work until Rod Ross is impressed.'

Wrong. That was a different answer. That was something Mello, in all his creativity, could pull off. 'What does he like?'

'He likes things to get done...' Patya yawned. They took the clunky elevator up from the red carpeted lobby to the 5th floor.

Everyone fuckin' likes getting things done, Mello thought harshly. 'What does he want done?'

'Whatever he tells you to do.'

Mello sighed. There was a reason, then, why Patya and he were now of a rank despite Patya's seniority of at least 3 years. Patya was unobservant and obtuse. He had no ambition.

They ate a lunch of grilled cheese at Patya's little metal table. Patya had to sit in the armchair, which he dragged from the living room, while Mello sat in a folding chair that had L.A. SCHOOL DISTRICT stenciled on the back. The place was only furnished for one.

'You'll get paid on Friday.' Patya said, coating his food in ketchup. 'That'll make you happy.'

'Is there extra credit?' Mello asked.

'Huh? Like school?' Patya grinned at him, 'You want to be the Don's teacher's pet sorta thing?'

'I wanna get promoted.' Mello felt his face getting hot. 'I wanna know what gets a guy promoted in this trash heap. What does Ross consider exemplary?'

'Worry about yourself before you worry about what Rod Ross wants. I only have one chair, y'know. You can't live here forever. Wow, this stuff's spicy.' He was reading the ketchup label, trying to keep his insinuation that Mello was a pest he wanted to be rid of casual.

Mello scrunched the paper towel he was using as a napkin and dropped it in the centre of his plate. 'Sure.' he said. 'I've started looking for apartments.'

'This is an organisation, so... going off on your own doing whatever because you think it'll make the Don think you're cool is totally unnecessary. Don't get picked up for something we didn't tell you to do. Just chill, let the Family take care of you. You'll get by good, there's lots of work.'

When he was 7 years old Mello had been assigned to a room in Wammy's and been given a binder full of instructions. 'Should you have any questions', Roger had told him, with a hand on his shoulder, 'you only have to ask.'

In the print-out, outlined in detail, were the things which impressed L: supplementary work, independent investigation, outstanding curiosity – everything a child could do to make himself a better successor and a better student was encouraged. Quirky behaviour, too. It said in the print-out that L was willing to accommodate a healthy sweet tooth, or a reasonable hobby.

When Mello had asked questions constantly in those early days of Wammy's, he had always gotten an answer that made sense and a shot of encouragement.

For two months following his initiation into the Mafia, Mello was deeply and furiously frustrated by the lack of structure in his life. It was so jarring to be just a face in the crowd. He was given jobs that involved driving around, picking things up, putting things down again. He learnt the false names of a dozen other soldiers but made no friends. The apartment he started renting stayed stark save the bare necessities and a white shag rug which quickly turned grey under the boots he stomped on it in. At every opportunity, he needled information out of the idiots around him, searching for ways to stand out and show them all up. It was difficult to be inspired by kids with no passion outside drink, drug, and party.

The death throes of his old identity and the squalling of his new were strangled and silenced by the anxiety of standing still. In this cacophonous bad mood, Mello was no longer too guilty to check on Matt. He had pushed a lot of his self deprecating feelings down to make room for his mounting impatience, his burgeoning existential fury.

He sat down on a cool night off and logged into Matt's Polish file sharing website. There was one file there, unnamed. He downloaded it, thinking that the whole thing really was silly, over the top precaution: just the sort of thing Matt would take pride in.

Mello could have called him, really. How had Matt so perfectly predicted the shameful difficulty Mello would come to have in such a simple thing as letting Matt hear the crack of his depressive, deepening voice?

In the file: What up Mello? And nothing else.

Mello deleted Matt's message and wrote Not much. - M, re-uploaded the file, and stared a while at the white light off the laptop screen.

Not much.

Well, yeah, it was easier to lie over text. Maybe Matt had known Mello would need to. But that was giving him too much credit; Matt wasn't telepathic. Fuck, Matt couldn't even tell if someone was pissed at him or saying a neutral hello half the time. Matt didn't know shit. It was ridiculous to be scared of his insight.

Mello tapped his fingertips lightly on the keys. His leg was bouncing a little. Did Matt have notifications set up? Would he know Mello had replied? Would he answer or would he be in class? Had he already decided to forget about the negligent asshole friend who had left him to pursue pipe dreams in the criminal underground?

Updated 01:31, it had said when Mello posted. He refreshed the page for what he decided would be the last time before he would go to bed and saw that the time had changed – 01:48. His throat clenched.

Wow FINALLY! Hey if not much is up wtf was stopping u from sending me 1 (one) fucking message? plz respond

Mello snickered.This is a stupid way to talk. - M

Stupider not to talk. Can i get an exposetory essay on wtf bc like are you gagged or under duress? Has your once great vocab been reduced to a word and a half?

I've been busy. - M

Holy shit really wow thats so interesting! Anyway i think i have some japanese homework to do so im gonna go bc if i wanted to get stonewalled id go bash my head against the brick outside

And with that, Mello was already in a corner. Small talk, polite conversation, subtlety: all concepts lost on Matt. Evading him was like trying to duck around the the Pacific Ocean – it just became the Atlantic and then the Indian as you skirted around. Do you want help with it?, he wrote and then deleted. What was the point of pretending they'd held onto their old relationship when Mello wasn't there in that sunlight library, elbow touching Matt's elbow, sucking up the fumes off Matt's smelly markers? He had mostly left behind a lot of shit that he would never miss when he left Wammy's, but then there was this mirage of simple joys abandoned there in England, too, ripe and rose-tinted, all these impressions of Matt and Matt's dimples and Matt's knobby knees. I'm in the States. I found sympathisers. I got my own place. - M. he sent, instead. It was one-sided that he could so perfectly imagine Matt's rounded back leaning close to his laptop, Matt penned in by books and overwhelmed by papers on their usual table, when Matt didn't know what sort of shape Mello was making in the world at all.

You just get further away huh

Near's people are based in the US. - M

There was a longer pause between the sending of this message and Matt's reply than there had been before. Well if near's there than thats where you have to be – m

Mello's chest went cold. My people are here, too, coincidentally. - M

What does people mean? How did you get a task force when you cant even drive or make phone calls or message people back. lol

I have Family. Mello flexed his fingers a couple times, hovering above the keys. Like I said. I talked to my Dad. Hynek. - M

With a lead like that, Mello was certain Matt's googling would stir up the parts of the story Mello didn't feel comfortable putting into words.

Ten and a half minutes later, Matt sent Are you ok?

When Mello didn't reply, Matt uploaded another file. In it, a photo of a stoic naked man with his hair on fire. So they were both uncomfortable.

I'm about to be. -M

hahahahaha WHAT does that mean?

Idiot. It meant no. How's being number 1? - M

Who cares? How is being a gangster

Fine. I should sleep. - M

K. :( Send me a pic of the skyline before you go

Why? - M

I want to see what capitalist america looks like duh xx

Google it. - M

No man come on. it's weird that we aren't seeing the same like.. sun or whatever. It's lonely. It just keeps getting lonlier here and i hate it

Mello sighed, stood, and moved to the window. He snapped a picture of the city lights. He could give Matt this much.

After sending the photo along with a goodnight, he closed the lid of his laptop and walked away.

It was lonely. It did keep getting lonelier.