AN: Sorry for the delay...again... This one's a bit longer, and the plot thickens...! (Excuse the somewhat cliche-ness of it though.)
Oh... and I'm changing the rating to M for violence (and maybe even more foul language, despite our lame censorship...) beginning with this chapter and increasing in later ones. Angst, torture, dark themes... You have been warned.
The door swung open with the scrape of old metal against concrete and a blinding ray of light shot into the dank room, disappearing just as quickly when the door shut behind the small knot of men who entered through it.
Once again, only the weak light of a single bulb tried vainly to illuminate the large empty storage room which blocked out all outside daylight.
Paul Mercado strode forward confidently, smiling brightly, hands stuck nonchalantly in his coat pockets. He stood before the single chair in the room, peering down his nose at its occupant, and motioned the other two men who had come with him forward.
A minute passed, but he gave no more orders. He'd seen the boy shift when the light hit him. He would come around soon. Paul was not in any hurry.
"Matt…" he called softly, mockingly, in a repulsive sing-song tone. "Time to wake up now, Matt…"
Matt had awoken the moment he had heard footsteps approaching the door, but had feigned sleep in the unlikely chances that he might overhear something, anything of value.
And somewhere, a very small and wishful part of his mind hoped that maybe, just maybe if he was asleep, his captor would go away.
He knew the thought was foolish, and it was proven so when the sounds of that smooth, smooth voice reached his ears. Smooth and deceiving in its gentle tones, like the very coils of a snake. He knew the horrors of the hidden fangs laced with venom slinking just out of sight behind the serene façade.
Damn.
He felt like shit.
Even more so then yesterday. Every bruise and scrape on his body was aching, and he wasn't sure how long he'd slept, but it hadn't been restful. It'd been too full of blood and screams and failure to be anywhere near restful.
And so he allowed his eyes to open slowly, wincing at how even after only a few hours of sleep, (he guessed) the small amount of brightness filtering into the room from the single flickering bulb was too strong for his photosensitive eyes. God, he wanted his goggles.
He didn't squint though, nor did he blink. He wouldn't show any more weakness to this bastard, not if he could help it.
At the very least, the meager amount of sleep had reenergized him a bit, and he was now able to lift his head without feeling sick to his stomach.
Matt met the sadistic golden eyes with steel emerald.
It was going to take a lot more than physical pain to beat this gamer, and he was going to make that very clear. It wasn't as though he hadn't been through worse.
He remained silent, not acknowledging the man's false serenity, and kept their gazes locked.
Paul smiled pleasantly down at him. "Good morning... well, more like afternoon. I had some other business to attend to, so I'm afraid I couldn't drop by earlier." He shrugged, as if apologizing for being late to a business meeting.
There were two other men with him, one of them recognizable as the man who had led the group which had come for Matt in the apartment, what now seemed like centuries ago. They stood casually, but in a way as if at attention, and it was immediately very clear who the person in charge was.
Paul's smile spread a little. "I hope you got some rest, Matt. Today's a big day. We get to start our little game." There was a dangerously amused gleam in his eyes as he clasped his hands behind the small of his back, leaning forward slightly toward Matt to be a bit more at eye-level. "I was thinking we should invite the other player today... Let him know the rules... the stakes... Won't that be fun?"
The wolfish grin he shot Matt had the uncanny look of teeth bared to lunge at his throat.
The boy didn't flinch, despite every nerve in his body screaming danger danger danger! Instead he kept his eyes level, his expression set, and tried to decipher the threat behind those words, what little thought process was left of his warped mind focusing and narrowing in on two words.
Other player, other player, other player…
NO.
He grasped at endless impossible possibilities, and each time came up with the same answer.
There was only one person who those words could possibly refer to, try as he might to come up with some other plausible substitution.
He remained silent, but everything inside his body was working at the speed of light trying to do something, anything.
He drew a blank, and the only thoughts that came to mind were whispers of self-condemnation because he knew he was going to fail again.
God damn it, NO!
He unconsciously pulled at the ropes that bound his wrists, but had to wince when the cords began to cut into open flesh and he felt something warm trickle down his battered hands.
Mello…
He hated appearing weak, hated the desperateness that he knew was evident in his actions, but he didn't care anymore. There were now other, much more important things to worry about, and he found himself suddenly glad that his wrists were soaked in blood. The liquid would hopefully make it easier to slide his hands out. Hopefully.
He had to stop him, had to stop this lunatic from doing whatever it was he wanted to do to Mello.
Matt's head hurt again but he continued trying to think, continued ripping his hands open, because… because he was supposed to protect him! He was supposed to stop this kind of thing from happening! And he couldn't…
F-ck…Mello…I didn't mean…I'm…I'm sorry…
"Oh?" The soft sound from Paul's lips did not seem to reach the boy as he tuned out all else and jerked at his bonds. Paul noticed impassively that there was dried blood on his hands. From last night probably. Fool of a boy, really, but spirited.
Paul knew it was more fun that way. More fun to break the spirited ones. More fun to hear them scream and watch the gleam of loathing in their eyes deteriorate into something pathetic and pleading and dead.
"Ashworth," he called suddenly, straightening and motioning vaguely with a hand. "Why don't you help the boy out of his reverie? He may bleed to death if he cuts his wrists deep enough and that's no good."
The sugar-coated tone was gone, replaced by something harsh and cruel, a cold gleam in dark golden eyes, a mad twitch as his lips twisted into a half smile, an impatient shift of his weight, something dangerous and horribly gleeful and sickeningly sadistic.
The man who had led the break-in nodded, mumbling something to his comrade, who stepped behind the chair, strong many-ringed fingers gripping the back bracingly, as if expecting its occupant to try to topple it over. Paul inclined his head approvingly, watching with that same gleam in his eye, almost excitement, but much harsher, sharper, more vicious.
Ashworth reached into his coat, smiling a little as he noticed the boy's eyes flicker toward him, knowing exactly what he expected. But the man did not procure a gun. The small black object in his hand was long and slightly curved, just enough to fit in his palm comfortably.
As he stepped closer, moving in front of the chair, a tiny flicker of blue light crackled at the end of the instrument.
Paul grinned, leaning in closer. Slowly, he pulled something from his pocket, just letting it sit in his hand as he waited. It was red and glinted dully in the dim light, a soft glow letting Paul know when he glanced down that there was a missed call. Missed Calls. The number was not portrayed.
Ashworth shot his boss an expectant glance, waiting for the affirmative nod before taking another step, frowning as the bound young man leaned forward, head bowed, shoulders hunched protectively as far as he could make them, cringing away to shield his defenseless front.
Paul nodded again, whispering something that sounded faintly like, "Now, now, Matt, that won't do..." and the man behind the boy moved his hands up, pushing a knee on the back of the chair to brace it before grasping the sides of the boy's shoulders roughly, pulling him up, chest out as his back was forced to arc against the backrest, ignoring the choked gasp the movement ripped from the captive's throat.
And the other man's hand shot out, and Paul leaned in to watch, and there was a crackle of electricity and a rattle of wood as the chair shook, and the man was pressing the thin black object to Matt's skin, small sharp barbs hooking onto the fabric of his shirt, landing just beneath the middle of his ribs.
White teeth gleamed in the dimness, a rabid wolf watching his prey struggle futilely.
Matt recognized the small gleam of a familiar red cell phone, but before he could take the time to question its purpose, he felt something attach itself to the front of his shirt, and tear slightly into the skin of his chest.
For a moment, Matt wasn't aware of anything, and the world disappeared into a white hot flash. Then, what he guessed could have only been a fraction of a second later his world erupted into agony, a million tiny needles, digging into every inch of his body, their tips glowing hot, and cauterizing as they entered. Slowly, achingly, excruciatingly, digging deeper, beyond his skin, reaching into his veins and mixing oil with blood before throwing a match into the boiling liquid cells.
He must have been screaming, but he couldn't tell if the echo of torment came from his lips, or was merely a reverberation of his mind.
He was aware of nothing but the pain until suddenly, and without warning it ceased. His body slumped exhausted against the chair, and every ache that had been forgotten in the presence of such an overwhelming force came backten fold. He gasped heavily, every nerve in his body still on edge.
Matt was suddenly glad it wasn't information they were after because it hurt so much, and he just wanted it to stop, and he wasn't sure that he could have kept from telling him whatever it was this psycho wanted to hear.
He choked back the sob that came to his throat, but allowed his chin to sink into his heaving chest.
He couldn't form coherent thoughts, and he closed his eyes tightly, wishing for nothing more at the moment than for everything to just go away.
A sickly familiar voice floated over from above. "Matt..."
Paul smiled, not bothering to hide the sadistic glee in his voice. "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you..." The blatant lie was also not concealed, mocking him. Paul flipped the cell phone -- Matt's cell phone-- open with a soft snap, pressing Speed Dial 1.
Bingo. He hadn't even tried it before, knowing it didn't really matter since he'd checked the Contact List anyway, but he was pleased with his correct guess regardless.
"Your friend called earlier," Paul continued quietly, finger hovering over the send button. He didn't mention the number of times. He hadn't bothered to count.
"It's only polite that we call him back, don't you agree, Matt?"
The blood that moments ago had been boiling hot was suddenly frozen in his veins, as finally something clicked, green eyes widening in horror as Matt realized his captor's intentions.
His voice was raw and his throat hoarse, but it didn't stop him from screaming at the dark haired sadist.
"YOU F-CKING BASTARD!" He pulled against the cords again furiously, desperately trying to stall what he knew was going to take place. He ignored the burn of his wrists against the rope, ignored the throbbing of his shoulder every time he moved, and ignored every aching muscle that shouted at him in protest.
NO F-CKING WAY. NO F-CKING WAY COULD HE LET THIS HAPPEN.
He lot out a half choked sob when the men in the room held him to his place, but continued to uselessly struggle against his bonds.
The exhausted brunette didn't even notice that the streaks of water falling down his face were no longer caused by sweat or even blood, until the first drop hit his lip, leaving him with a salty bitter taste.
He had failed and Mello was going to pay for his mistakes once again.
Paul almost laughed out loud. Was the boy really crying? His only thought was a darkly amused, 'Already?'
"Ashworth," he called again, thumb pressing into the little green button slowly. He debated for a second whether to put Speaker on now. He decided to wait.
Holding up the phone to his ear casually, Paul leaned against the nearest wall, free hand in his pocket, and nodded toward his men. Just before the first ring, he remembered to remind them to keep a gag nearby just in case the boy tried to bite his tongue. Always had to watch out for the spirited ones, he knew. Sometimes they even did it on purpose.
Absentmindedly watching the hapless boy's shoulders trembling with silent tears, Paul listened eagerly. One ring. He waved a hand toward Ashworth, who positioned himself before the boy once more, the thin high-powered taser in hand.
Half a second in between.
Another ring... No, it didn't even finish ringing.
Paul smiled, wondering what to say first. There were so many things he'd like to tell the blonde monster, after all. So many things he'd like to show him in the most painful ways imaginable.
This was going to be fun.
"For you, Em..." he whispered in his mind as a half-choked near-panicked shriek came from the other end. "To avenge you..."
-
Mello paced. He covered the kitchen, the bedroom, the living room, every corner of the apartment in a matter of seconds, then did it again. The bubbling terrified energy in his stomach wouldn't let him sit back down, the goggles clutched tightly in one hand.
A discarded chocolate lay on the counter. He'd only managed to take one bite before glancing back down at the dried dark-red smatter on the lenses.
Now he paced, and cursed, and kicked things. It only lasted about five minutes though, because the wild raging debate in his head would not cease.
Had Matt really just hung up on him? What the f-ck was going on?
Of course Matt would never do that! And this thought had terrified him and sent him leaping from his seat and pacing the room. He couldn't leave, just in case. So he just ran circles in the tiny space and worried and created significant dents in the metal weapons cabinet and some of the walls.
And then once in a while, the other thought would spring up. Matt had hung up. On purpose. Because he didn't want to talk to Mello ever again.
And that thought terrified him as well and sent him slumping into his chair at the table with his head falling weakly into his arms and his back slumped and shoulders hunched, broken and pathetic like an old rag doll. Then he would try again and call and listen and... And he was really beginning to hate Matt's answering machine very, very much.
It was during one of these moods--these times when he was limp and useless and broken and halfway sprawled over the kitchen table with his head in his arms and his bangs splayed out in drastic golden contrast over the black fabric of his sleeves and he thought all hope was gone and he just didn't understand and wanted Matt back, goddamit--that it finally, FINALLY happened.
The phone rang, the Mario theme startling the dejected blonde as he jumped a foot in the air and leaped right out of his seat and into the other room with the feel of plastic vibrating madly in his hand.
His heart leaped as well, and banged against his ribs in a ridiculously upbeat cadence, and he almost laughed and almost punched something again, but for now he settled with diving into mad and fast pacing from one corner of the room to another.
His fingers fumbled on the first ring--God, he'd never been so f-cking happy to hear a stupid video game tune before in his life--but it only took another split second, and he nearly pulled the phone apart as he flipped it open aggressively, jamming it to his ear, and shouting at the top of his lungs without giving a damn if there were neighbors.
"HOLY F-CK, MATT, WHERE THE F-CK HAVE YOU BEEN??"
But then Mello froze in his steps and forgot to breathe and the angry and worried words which were set to come next mixed in a string of expletives simply died in his throat, just suddenly gone and replaced by the most numbing, incapacitating cold which spread through his lungs and filled his veins with icy fire and he almost couldn't even see anymore and all that floated before him was the image of those stained goggles and blood, and failure, and screams...
And screams...
He didn't know whose voice that was on the phone, darkly bidding him a phony casual 'good day.'
He didn't know what made the back of his neck bristle or his lips curl in a snarl to bare his sharp white incisors.
He didn't know if the faint cries he heard in the background were real or merely dredged up from his too-fresh memories...
But he did know... hedid know, that whoever this was, he was not Matt…he was not.. NOT...NOT MATT.
Not Matt.
Mello tried to keep his voice steady, but it came out in a shuddering hiss.
"...Who the f-ck...are you?"
The corners of Paul's already smirking lips rose up a little higher as a kind of exhilarating rush of glee filled him and he found himself struggling not to full-on grin.
It just wouldn't do to get so excited right from the start. He clicked his tongue rhythmically, chastising his guest on the phone for such obvious impatience.
"Well now, that wasn't a very polite greeting towards a stranger." He waved his finger around in the air despite the fact that there was no one there to see, but continued before the vicious growl could start up again, lest he lose his quickly vanishing self-restraint and ruin the surprise planned for later.
There was no fun in doing that just yet, not until he'd had a little time to… play.
"Then again, I guess we wouldn't quite be strangers now, would we, Mello? Though," and he did laugh out loud for a second, "I doubt you remember me quite as well as I remember you."
The voice on the phone was steadily rising in volume and pitch, and the second time was a muffled, barely-restrained shriek.
"I asked," Mello spoke again with the cell shaking slightly in his trembling hand, the plastic edges digging into his fingers until the device should have crumpled in his death-grip. "Who the f-ck are you?"
Every violent threat imaginable filled those words, and Mello only very vaguely wondered with a new small twinge of something close to panic how this bastard--whoever the f-ck he was--knew his name.
But the thought was hardly important enough to constitute much of anything over the other question echoing loudly and throbbing painfully in his head.
Who was this and why in hell did he have Matt's cell phone and where was Matt, f-ckdammit?!
"Drop the attitude, you motherf-cking shitbag, and answer me," he hissed, and stood absolutely still and his heart hammered on his ribs, and he wished desperately he could just grab his gun and shoot straight through the goddam phone line to the other side, and where the f-ck was Matt, goddammit!?
Paul grinned in absolute ecstasy. He could hear it. He could hear the terror and panic building in the infuriated voice beyond the receiver, just a breath away from hysteria. God, it was absolutely intoxicating. It was brilliant, and exhilarating, and…and…so goddamn delicious that he thought he might choke on it right there and then, and never be able to breathe right again.
He held his free hand out in front of himself, admiring the way the thrills of elation sent tremors through his body, his fingers shaking even as he pulled them into a loose fist.
He began to open and close his hand rhythmically, eyes intent on keeping watch on the quivering fingers as he took what was meant to be a calming breath, though it did nothing to quell the giddiness that was quickly overcoming him.
"My name is Paul." He started bluntly, fingers still moving systematically in the air.
"But you, Mello, you wouldn't remember me, wouldn't know me. The person you would know, her name was Emilia, and she was my sister."
At this point Paul's eyes ceased to follow the play of his wiggling fingers, eyes glazed over and seeing something else, something from a time long ago. The pause was brief, however, and too short for the boy on the other line to get in a word.
"She was my sister, and she was brilliant. She was brilliant, and beautiful, and strong. Though…I'm sure that's not much of a description to go by, true as it may be."
His hand finally stopped its twitching, and he found himself reaching into his pocket, and withdrawing a thin sheet of paper from his Armani wallet. His eyes found the photograph, and he began to narrate, taking in the details slowly.
"She was lovely, really, Emilia. Her eyes were this deep, deep hazel, and I remember, she always joked that I was adopted because I didn't have the same eye color as her… when she would get mad, she'd just point to my eyes and scream, 'you're not my brother!' right to my face too, didn't care if anyone else was around..."
Paul chuckled lightly at the memory, but continued on, serene smile masking the intense loathing that had begun to creep its way into his chest.
"She also had this thick long black hair that she was always complaining about getting in the way, and it was never curly, but always had this slight wave to it…as much as she complained about it though, she must have loved it, else she would have chopped it all off…I mean, in that line of work, it was better to get rid of anything that could be a hindrance like that… but then, I guess that brings me to my point…" He paused again, a dangerous edge beginning to make it into his voice when he started up again.
Paul allowed his fingers to dig into his palms, losing himself for a moment in the comforting background noise of muffled screams, relishing his soon-to-be victory.
"You see…Emilia didn't have a normal job like other girls because her family--my family--had a name to uphold… and being the over-achiever that she was, Emilia wanted to do her part to the best of her ability… so she went to Ross."
He stopped then, allowing a moment for his words to sink in before he went further. After a moment had passed, and he found the silence tearing at his insides, willing him to keep speaking… to make this monster hurt, he finished in a mockingly sweet voice.
"You starting to remember her yet, Mello?" he asked, eyes seeing nothing but the shuddering, weak intakes of breath by the boy sitting a few feet in front of him, ears hearing nothing but the pathetic whimpers that were almost inaudible at this point, head filled with nothing but wonderful, wonderful fulfillment.
Mello didn't realize he'd forgotten to breathe until his knees nearly gave out, and he swayed slightly, catching himself on the back of the couch. Finally drawing oxygen into his screaming lungs, his brain scrambled wildly and sifted madly through memories, ears straining to catch again those faint, faint cries he thought maybe were in the background that made every hair on his arms and neck stand on edge and the words of the man on the phone fade into a nearly incomprehensible buzz, though of course he'd heard, he'd had to...
Then finally he remembered.
Years ago. Some girl. A spy. Inconsequential, but any information could be used and so he'd used it to his advantage. In the Mob, it was always survival of the fittest. Mello was good at that. Easy to remember, simple to understand. You make a mistake, you fail, you die, end of story. He'd gotten pretty far with only that one thought in mind. Only the strongest made it through to see the light of the next day; the weak were simply eliminated. Erased.
Like...
Like that girl. Mello caught himself getting off track and pushed his thoughts back onto to correct path. Yes, she'd been a spy. Maybe her name was Emilia. He didn't know. He didn't care.
No, there was something else.
He was getting distracted. The cries had stopped and now he was certain they'd been there and the sick sensation crawling in his stomach was trying to convince him of something else which his mind simply refused to accept right now.
And then he realized what this was about. Vaguely, foggily, he thought he knew what this freak was upset about.
The spy. He'd turned her in to Ross. Right, that was it. He remembered now.
The information was small but it had given him the leverage he needed to team up with Rod Ross, the infamous LA mafia boss with an unprecedented amount of terror attached to his name--that is, until Mello had been deemed his equal, perhaps even surpassed him in that field.
So that was what this "Paul" was going on about... The girl. Mello had only seen her a few times. He didn't even really remember what she looked like, despite Paul's descriptions. It had never really mattered. She had been merely a means to an end, and he'd be damned if he felt sorry for her when it had been very clear she was in the business of her own volition and, if memory served him well, she'd also had quite a large mouth. He couldn't remember really interacting with her face-to-face, but he remembered he didn't like her attitude. Not that any of it mattered anyway.
It all led back to the moment, this moment, this second of silence with Mello gripping the couch backrest until his fingers hurt and the wood creaked and threatened to splinter in his grip.
What did this psycho want?
And where was Matt?
The urge to vomit grew stronger as his mind tried to bring up the faint cries which had suddenly stopped in the background, but Mello quelled it harshly.
The girl. She'd died. Right? That must be it. That must be what he was freaking out about, whoever this irritating insect was.
Mello forced his throat to loosen and his voice to work, casual, almost bored.
His eyes burned fiercely and there was a snap as the wood broke, leaving an odd slump in the backrest.
"Sure, I think I may recall someone by that name. A spying, annoying little broad, I think. Ross said he took care of her."
His ears strained to hear beyond the other's voice on the phone but there was nothing. Maybe he'd been imagining it.
The knot in his stomach told him that he hadn't.
It was only the knowledge of what was to come that kept Paul restrained, kept him from losing it over those comments. He reminded himself that there was no reason to be upset, he'd already won this game, and Mello had been backed into a corner before he'd even begun playing.
"Yes, I guess that's one way of putting it, be assured the situation was," and he emphasized, "taken care of."
What Paul said next was just above a whisper.
"You see, Mello, it's very hard to lose someone you care about…no…more than lose…to know that they were ripped away from you by the hand of someone else…and of course, when I found out, I was very upset and, naturally, wanted to take revenge."
The smile that had vanished from his face only moments ago began to return as he took one step, and then another towards the other occupant of the room.
"But, to my disappointment, would you believe, that there was no one left alive for me to have my vengeance on?"
He continued the steady stride to his goal, fingers tightening around the cellular in anticipation.
"I was devastated to say the least, made me absolutely miserable, for something like four years now."
He paused here, allowing the silence to sink in for a moment, only fathoming what would come soon.
"But then. Then you came along a whole four years later, and you changed everything." Paul didn't even bother to try to cover the giddiness anymore, a delighted laugh bubbling up from his throat.
"I never expected you…didn't even think I would get my chance. And there you were, like the very demons of hell were offering you up on a platter right in front of me." A strange kind of smile replaced the sadistic grin and his amber eyes glinted dangerously.
"You don't know how happy you've made me, Mello."
He resumed his path, stopping only when he stood above his prisoner, enjoying the way the boy's body flinched involuntarily when his shadow fell across him.
"I thought about killing you right then and there…you wouldn't have even noticed, and it would have been just too easy…but you se, then I realized…I don't just want you dead, Mello. No, I want so much more than that."
Paul dropped the phone for a second, motioning with a casual flick of his hands for Ashworth to hand over the device in his hand, and sending both suited men behind the chair.
"Death would have been too merciful. No. I want you to understand what you did. I want you to understand EXACTLY what it feels like to lose someone important to you, Mello…"
Paul eyed the squirming boy in front of him and saw that despite his drug induced state of mind, those green eyes swam with comprehension. Comprehension and fear. He watched for a moment as theybored into his own, such absolute loathing clouded only by terror. Paul reached a hand slowly up to the boy's cheek, fingering the gag there, and desperately wishing to remove it. It would be so much more fun that way. He laughed aloud when Matt jerked his head away, and sadly gave up on the idea. The boy would surely bite his own tongue off, and he couldn't allow him to die just yet. No, not so early on.
He looked down at the phone still in his hand, as though just remembering that it was there and brought it back up to his lips, but then on second thought brought it back down, changing the phone to 'speaker mode' and holding it up between himself and Matt.
"I want to teach you a lesson, Mello…"
He brought the small instrument that he'd received from Ashworth up to Matt's chest, hovered over his neck for a while, and then finally-- upon remembering one of his men mentioning that he thought they'd broken a rib on the left side-- settled on a spot in the middle of the left half of the boy's ribcage.
"So please, be a good student," He flicked the tiny silver switch resting against his palm, "And listen."
Gag be damned, that boy could scream.
There was a second in which Mello didn't know if his heart had stopped beating, so overwhelming and complete was the silence as the weight and implication of the stranger's words sank in. But before he could even attempt to dismiss this all as a very bad joke, he knew.
I want you to understand exactly what it feels like to lose someone important to you, Mello…
He didn't know who this bastard was, he'd never met a Paul in his goddam life, and he couldn't give a shit about his ridiculous revenge, but...
He did know that there was only one person he still considered important to him. Only one person, one person he kept dear, only one person who cared if he got home in one piece, only one person who tended his wounds if he got shot, and made him play video games and go drinking and dancing and bought him chocolate and always watched his back no matter what. Only one person.
The thought hardly took a second to process. A second to understand. To realize. Just a second of silence.
And then Mello's world disintegrated around him, the earth disappeared beneath his feet and the breath stopped in his lungs and his blood froze in his veins.
And that single sound crashed upon his ears, into his entire being, and tried to carve out his heart with a thousand daggers of ice that left him numb and frozen and unable to even drop upon his knees and reach for his cross and the thought that maybe it would go away if he just tried hard enough to wake up didn't even have the time to cross his frozen mind.
Those ear-shattering, piercing, agonized, ghastly, incapacitating, heart-stopping, blood-curdling, tormented screams.
The breath which was valiantly attempting to deliver much-needed oxygen into his lungs hitched in his throat and he released it in shallow, ragged gasps, chest aflame as his eyes widened involuntarily, the blood leaving his already pale face more pallid and lifeless than that of a corpse.
Holy mother of Jesus, sweet Christ and Savior of all living things, God above, and every saint and angel who had ever graced the earth or Heavens...
He knew that voice.
He'd recognize it anywhere.
It was the voice of the one person who had never abandoned him, the one person who had cared for him no matter what had happened, the one person who'd stayed by his side since childhood, the one person who made him laugh with genuine delight and smile with sincerity, the one person who had seen his tears, his flaws, his weaknesses, and still stood by his side regardless, the one person from whom he had ever gladly accepted a helping hand, the one person who could insult him and he would laugh it off, the one person who could tend his injuries and cover him with an old sweatshirt when he fell asleep, the one person who smelled of cheap cologne and cigarettes and home, the one person whom he could never, ever, ever fail again...
And that person was screaming into his ear now, shrieking in most unspeakable pain and torment and agony and torture.
And there was nothing, nothing, nothing he could do but stand here in the middle of the living room knowing nothing and understanding less and merely listen, listen as those blood-curdling cries grew in volume and intensity until he wanted to dig out his own heart if it would make them stop.
There was hardly room for hate within the feeling slowly creeping into his chest and gripping his lungs in an icy grasp which left him breathless and dizzy and with a sheet of blackness before his wide staring eyes. Mihael Kheel, Mello, the nameless, desperate youth who stood now frozen by the broken couch, had only felt such a sensation once before in his life. Once before, on a freezing winter night filled with gunshots and the screech of speeding tires and the rasping, fading breath of the bleeding best friend on his lap.
It was a feeling he had sworn would never freeze his blood again, because he would never let such a thing happen a second time.
Yet now it gripped him with double the force of pain and guilt and horror.
Helplessness. Terror. Devastation.
He could care less in that moment that he was probably walking right into the trap of the sick bastard on the other side of the phone line. Every other coherent thought left Mello's mind then and he heard and knew nothing else but his voice and his anguish and his pain.
He could barely force his lungs to work, barely draw enough breath to rasp out a single choked and trembling syllable.
"Matt...!!"
The pathetic, barely audible word reverberated in Paul's ears, sending a chill of pleasure shooting down his spine, and lacing his blood like an intoxicant. He was absolutely glowing. Feral amber eyes gleamed in utter satisfaction and for a moment when he closed them, his whole world consisted only of those stunningly beautiful screams, and that miserable, pathetic excuse for existence on the other side of the phone. It was absolutely and completely perfect. The total agony and misery that bled from that one single word had been more pain-filled even than he had imagined.
God, everything was so much better than what he had imagined.
But still…still it wasn't enough.
Images of Emilia's torn and battered body entered his vision, coloring his gaze red, and taunting the pointlessness of his futile attempts at vengeance.
His eyes fluttered open slowly, still lost in a euphoric haze, but satisfaction dimming as he began to come back to himself little by little.
Her normally caramel colored skin, pale and sickly and wrong, her delicate hazel eyes clear, milky, and unseeing, her perfect tiny hands, twisted and mangled, her lovely black tresses were tangled, and bits of skin and blood formed unsightly clumps of matted hair.
It wouldn't bring her back.
No matter how loud the boy screamed, Paul would never hear her musical laughter again.
No matter how many bones he broke, her body would never be put back together.
No matter how much he beat, bruised, and tortured the worthless lump of quivering flesh in front of him, he could never, NeverNeverNever, have her back.
It wasn't enough.
It would never be enough.
His sadistic glee from only moments ago had vanished into nothingness, leaving only swelling anger and bitter loathing behind. He was no longer in the mood to play.
Not now.
After some mental debate, he removed the Taser from its place on Matt's chest, eyeing the boy in something akin to disgust and pity. though even the pity didn't stretch too far. People made their own choices in life, and Matt had chosen wrongly.
Paul was pulled out of his silent reverie when he became suddenly aware of the weight of his arm still holding the cell phone up to the trembling boy.
He glared at the phone in repulsion before switching it back from speaker phone and bringing it up to his own lips.
Despite the pangs of unfulfilled revenge tearing away at his very core, he was by no means discouraged enough to simply end the call and let Mello off so easily.
He spoke slowly, in a deceivingly serene voice.
"We'll be in touch, Mello. And don't worry about Matt; I'll be taking good care of him."
And with an effortless tap of a button, he severed the connection with a meaningless click.
A quiet, deafening click.
And then nothingness.
And the echoes, repeating, reverberating silently, thunderously, not there, not going away.
Mello's cellular fell to the carpet with a muffled thump, dropped carelessly from nerveless fingers, still open and beeping feebly for a few seconds before it seemed to give up and the backlight flicked off, leaving only silence.
The carpet stifled the slow, trembling booted footsteps which carried their owner shakily toward the other room, but Mello didn't quite make it to the door. He didn't even know where he was going until he found himself in the corner behind the metal cabinet, tucked neatly in the crevice of connecting walls with his knees drawn up to his chest as if he were back in the comforting darkness of the attic and everything would go away if he curled up tightly enough and refused to let it in. It was a childish half-thought, a forgotten habit from years past, years he'd much rather forget and never think about again, but at the moment Mello's thin frame folded itself and tried to disappear into the corner with no thought even of how ridiculous and useless such a feat was.
His throat constricted painfully, breath rattling in his chest in quick shallow gasps, dry sobs, hysteria threatening to conquer his senses and blanket his vision in blood.
"I'll be taking good care of Matt..."
That dark, sickening, sadistic laugh filled his ears and mixed with piercing screams until he thought he should drown in the volley of nonexistent sound assailing his mind.
No... No... NoNoNoNo...
Nononononononononono...
It was the only thing he could think of.
Matt... Matt... no... no...
Pale, trembling blue eyes chanced to glance down at the blood-smeared orange goggles in his left hand, and Mello's world erupted in screams once more until he was sure his own throat would tear and bleed from their force and volume.
His mind was numb. Even thoughts of guilt and failure and self-loathing barely skittered across the emptiness and were gone. This was like...
No, this was worse. Far worse.
Because last time, he'd known what to do. Last time, he could do something, anything, and he could move with purpose and feel like he was at least helping in some way and that he was doing all in his power and even if it wasn't enough and he never forgave himself at least he had tried and at least he'd been there.
But this was far, far worse.
This time, he was useless, and pathetic, and sitting here like a quivering lump of helplessness embodied and Matt wasn't here and there was nothing he could do and he could never, ever, everevereverever forgive himself because he had failed and it was all his fault because he had left and he had abandoned Matt and he had...
Oh, God. He'd hurt him too, hadn't he?
He'd hurt him and left him defenseless and alone and just f-cking ABANDONED him and God damn him to eternal hellfire RIGHT NOW for doing something SO F-CKING HORRIBLE and heartless and unforgivable.
Unforgivable.
He could never forgive himself now, nevernevernever, not with those tormented screams in his head and those bloodstained lenses before his eyes and the guilt, the guilt, the GUILT eating his heart from the inside out and leaving nothing but a bleeding, throbbing emptiness that should have been filled by an existence called Matt. But Matt was simply not here and it was all Mello's fault.
Unforgivable. UNFORGIVABLE. UNFORGIVABLE.
Mello sensed himself panicking. From far away, from miles and oceans and worlds away, he realized it slowly even as he realized precisely that what had happened was so only because he had been stupid and overemotional and had left in a storm of blind fury and wretchedness. Because he hadn't been here to prevent it. Because he had abandoned the one person who had never ever ever ever abandoned him no matter how much he deserved it.
And now that person needed him.
And he was sitting here cowering pathetically and doing nothing.
Unforgivable.
Sucking in a long, quivering breath, Mello grabbed the wall with his free hand, black-polished fingernails digging into the paint and leaving deep grooves as he hauled himself up with trembling knees and he realized vaguely his palm was bleeding from four half-moon marks where his nails had apparently ripped open the skin. Funny, he didn't even remember when that had happened. The faint realization that the edge of the plastic lenses had also bitten into his skin to the point where his own blood mixed with the dried horror already there didn't even faze him in the slightest and it hurt much less than the horrible hole in the middle of his chest where every good feeling in the world had been ripped away in a bleeding clump of flesh and blood and left only a terrible, terrible rawness.
No. He couldn't, he wouldn't just sit here like the pathetic wretch he was. Even as the wave of nausea and horror and helplessness tried to steal his senses and send him back to the floor in a crumpled quivering heap, Mello quelled it roughly, harshly, mercilessly.
No, he wasn't denying anything. On the contrary, he knew very, very well how much he deserved every rending, tearing, bleeding throb which wracked his chest with every feeble trembling beat of his heart. But even if his very existence now was an abomination and an indelible sin, still…
Somewhere between the frozen fire in his veins and the screams in his head and wallowing in his own wretchedness, he came slowly to the realization: These were all useless.
Useless and unneeded.
He would not have it. Not now.
His mind tried to shiver and shatter and break under the weight of those horrible sweetly mocking words of the stranger on the phone, but he gradually decided he would not let it and with slow but firm steps, the distressed blonde forced his body to move.
He didn't know where the bastard had come from all of a sudden, or how he knew about Matt, and f-ck, f-ck, WHY had he dragged him into the conflict if it was just supposed to be between him and Mello?! but he did know what he wanted.
No.
He knew what this Paul character wanted, knew immediately. He'd seen it done enough times in his years in the mafia.
But he would not, could not break.
He would not be underestimated. He would not allow it. Not ever, and certainly not when Matt needed him.
Even if it was all his fault--and of course it was-- he could wallow pathetically in guilt later.
Matt came first. Matt.
And he would get Matt back no matter f-cking what and that bastard would pay because no one, no one, NO ONE had the right to take Matt away from him.
The only person in the world permitted to do such a thing was Matt himself. No one else.
And Mello knew, knew instinctively and surely with utmost confidence as his hand clenched around the precious goggles, how Matt had struggled and dropped and left behind his most prized possession and that he hadn't left of his own accord.
If Matt wanted him gone, if he wanted to leave, Mello would not stop him and would not force his presence on him. But NO ONE had the right to tear him away without his consent.
Slowly, allowing his brain to work furiously with such thoughts, Mello finally felt the familiar warmth of rage waking up within his chest, creeping forth and stealing over him until feeling returned to his numb fingers and a flicker of life crept back into his dead blue eyes and he compelled the desperation and hopelessness attempting to claim him to shrink and hide, pushing it as far away as possible though unable to completely dispel it before Matt was by his side once more.
He tried not to dwell on the fact he knew nothing, not where Matt was, not who held him now and how and why he had been dragged into such horrid ghosts of a past not even his own, and not what they were doing to him to make him scream like that…
It was the hardest thing in the world, pushing away the panic and trying to silence the shrieks in his head, but slowly, firmly, a fiery determined glint returned to Mello's eyes because he knew, had trained himself after years and years of grappling with his own mind and circumstances, to realize when he needed to act.
And now was one of those times.
Immediately.
He needed to do something, anything, because inaction was simply unforgivable and Mello had never been the type of person to sit still anyway.
And so--even though he had no idea of anything but the gripping tightness in his chest around the emptiness where he knew something belonged but had been ripped away forcefully--Mello grabbed his coat, stooped quickly to pick up his phone, seized his gloves and keys from the counter, and was out the door and down the street and on his bike with the roar of the engine finally drowning out the fading shrieks in his head.
And he did not dare stop because he was terrified that if he did, he'd find himself alone in the corner again.
No, he had to focus, not let hopelessness and desperation seize his mind again. And so he let the wind slapping his chest and arms and howling in his helmet drown out the world around until he could finally begin to grasp at coherent thought again.
Matt came first, but worry and panic were incapacitating. And he could not afford that.
So Mello settled instead on anger and loathing and familiar thoughts of challenge and victory and always coming out on top.
Although the stakes were higher this time… But that only fueled the iron-willed fire in his eyes.
This Paul, whoever the f-ck he was, would not win at whatever little game he was attempting. Mello knew the way men like him worked. He knew what he was planning. And he would not succeed.
No one could force him to crack, NO ONE could break Mihael Kheel, Mello, Wammy's best and brightest, not after all he'd been through and especially not when he knew he was still needed by at least one person on this Earth.
He had to assume Matt still needed him, in any case.
It was the only thought that kept him going, and he didn't care if it was a lie or if the truth was that it was actually just he who needed Matt back for reasons he couldn't quite comprehend but were frightfully important regardless.
But he wasn't about to sit back down to sort out his scrambled thoughts and emotions because he knew vaguely that he might never get back up and had never been good at such things anyway.
Right now, all he needed to know was that something was wrong.
And he was going to do something about it and fix it goddammit.
Mello had never been very apt at clearing his mind. In fact, he worked best if he wasn't lost in the vast numb emptiness that tried to consume him if he ever tried, so he merely jammed unnecessary thoughts away and crammed them toward the back of his head and pulled forth one thing alone to focus on.
He needed to find Matt.
The first step to getting him back from this sick bastard was finding him, and whatever the f-ck Paul wanted could wait or didn't matter because he just wanted Matt back goddammit!
He didn't know how many hours it took him to finally calm down enough to trust himself and let himself return to the empty apartment, but he knew he could not afford to waste any more time or risk his body failing him again, so finally Mello veered off the freeway and made his way back.
It was dark by now, but his appetite had fled him long ago along with any other awareness apart from that of what he had to do.
There was nothing else to do.
Step one: trace the call.
Figure out where the hell the bastard was because at least that was a start and Matt might still be there too.
He was sure he'd be told sooner or later; that was how the game was played. But he couldn't afford to wait that long. Couldn't afford to wait at all.
Shoving away--with some difficulty and the taste of bile in his throat--the images that floated up unbidden from past experiences witnessing similar occurrences in the Mob, he pulled up every computer in the house and arrayed them around him.
Matt may be the computer guru, but Mello was no pushover himself.
Cell phone. Trace the call. Find him.
It was possible; he'd done it before. It was very easy for Matt, of course, but Mello did not suffer from delusions of superiority in this one field and settled himself for hours of work.
He could do it. He had to. And he would. For Matt.
And then he'd f-cking slaughter the motherf-cking bastard who dared to try to screw with them like this.
Mello's fingers hurried across keyboard after keyboard, the electronic glow lighting his flushed cheeks.
But hour after hour, even the faint color left over from the bite of the cold wind began to fade and pale and his face was left even more pallid and drawn. And hour after hour after hour, he just couldn't do anything and every step he tried to take stuck and took him nowhere as various blocks and defenses barred his way and jammed his systems and, holy shit, for the very first time in his life he wished desperately that Matt had made some sort of mistake with the electronics…
But hour after hour it slowly, painfully dawned on him: he wasn't good enough.
Matt had done something, blocked things, put up safeguards.
Made himself untraceable.
And Mello won't good enough to break it. Mello just wasn't good enough because Matt was so damn brilliant when it came to anything with wires and Mello simply wasn't up to par and holyf-ckdammit he just couldn't get through.
A mocking, sarcastic voice in his head was laughing at him, reminding him bitterly of the fact he was the one who'd asked Matt to fix both of their phones. It had been meant to protect them, a safeguard.
Well, it sure as f-ck was working towards exactly the opposite end now.
As the hours slipped on toward morning, it became steadily more difficult to quell the twinge of panic which prodded against his chest and made it harder to breathe with every error message and failed attempt until finally, grudgingly, excruciatingly, with every fiber of his being screaming out in protest, Mello was forced to admit to himself that maybe he… really… couldn't… do it…
He wracked his brain for a different way, grasping frantically for other ideas, but the truth was he had nothing else to go by. No hints, no clues. Only a phone call. From an unreachable phone.
When one of the systems crashed, he cursed out loud, a sort of muffled wail of miserable expletives and pleas to Christ and Mary and anyone else who might care to step in and just give him some f-cking clue, goddammit!
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…
This wasn't going to work.
The realization was cold and numbing and final.
Dead cobalt eyes stared dismally at the blue screen flashing electronic gibberish at him from the dead computer.
He couldn't break through Matt's systems.
How goddam ironic.
The bitter, harsh laugh bubbling in his throat was released in a choked half-whimper.
He couldn't reach Matt--because Matt's own systems were in the way.
How f-cking brilliant.
Frustration and worry and something terribly close to hysteria rose up in his throat as black-polished nails dug into the sides of the dead laptop.
He couldn't do it.
An anguished cry escaped his lips in fury and frustration and utter self-loathing as Mello suddenly leaped to his feet, hurling the useless computer at the wall with a deafening crash.
He wasn't good enough.
Mello paced and threw things and attacked the furniture and the walls and raged about the room until it looked as if an earthquake and a hurricane had hit at once, leaving the walls cracked and the chairs splintered over the now chipped and peeling table.
Demolishing, destroying, decimating everything because he was just so f-cking powerless and helpless and useless and simply not good enough.
Until the room was in shambles.
Until the couch was but a heap of torn cushions and scrap wood.
Until the floor was littered with broken glass and ceramics.
Until his knuckles bled and streaks of sweat ran down his neck and his hair was matted and tangled in wild disarray about his wide-eyed ashen features.
Until finally Mello stood in the midst of the broken living room, chest heaving, breathless gasps the only sound pervading the deafening silence as the rage ebbed away and left him, and only a desolate emptiness remained.
He couldn't do it.
Matt…
He couldn't…
And then suddenly, unexpectedly, though it defied every aspect of his usual thoughts and methods, an idea slipped into his mind and Mello found himself staring once more at his cell phone in a last-chance, desperate inkling of hope.
He couldn't do it. Not alone.
But what if…
It hardly crossed his mind as he dialed that this was ridiculous, he shouldn't draw more people into his personal problems, that Mello always worked independently anyway, and for God's sake it was three-thirty in the morning and he hadn't even talked to her in months and she was very likely halfway across the world and besides, she had no real obligations to him and it wasn't right and…
Desperate half-thoughts skittered across his exhausted mind and were gone, every ring in his ear jarring his very being and he forgot about the shards of glass pushing into his legs as he suddenly found himself on his knees for some reason, tangled golden bangs falling over his eyes as he bowed his head in something painfully close to defeat and tried to calm his heavy breathing.
He had to sound normal, composed, casual. After all, he wasn't planning on telling her everything. He had to sound relaxed enough for her to believe this was just another odd job.
And then, finally, after the third ring, he heard the soft female voice on the other side bidding him a sleep-gruff but almost inquisitive hello.
The sound escaped his lips in a half-gasp he had not quite intended, but his voice did not shake and he was darkly proud of the fact he certainly sounded almost calm.
Mello's fingers clenched tightly around the cell phone and he closed his eyes as if in prayer.
He couldn't do it alone.
"…Hal?"