A/N: standard disclaimer applied.

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Adrenaline Rush

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I'm looking at a face, a pointed chin,
Towards the sky in arrogance.
It easily betrays the closest friend.
A moment lost, no consequence.
- Pale, The Birthday Massacre

Chapter Seventeen

11th March 2009

"So, this 'Buddy' fellow just so happened to own a free jet to fly us here?" Matt asks, trailing after Hex with interest.

Hex rolls her eyes with a tired sigh, stalking through the aisle at a faster pace. She and Matt arrived at Washington barely a day ago. What with their limited time, no thanks to Mello, they are rushing to have all arrangements settled. Mello may have said he would take care of the White House's security, but she isn't about to take any chances.

What is surprising, considering his allegiance to that backstabbing blond, is that Matt is allowing her to do so. He's made little to no protests about her muttering about needing extra precautions and safety measures 'just in case', not even calling her out for it. Hex doesn't doubt Matt's intelligence; he definitely would've noticed her not trusting Mello's words. She wonders if he will report this to Mello when he thinks she has her back turned long enough.

She looks at him over her shoulder. Matt is looking as innocent as ever, hands in pockets, eyeing a pair of pliers on the racks. They are in a hardware store, their final stop for the day.

"Yeah, he's an old dude. Retired army guy that likes to help us brats out when we need it. I told him we'd be needing him again tomorrow. Tomorrow, we do the job, and skedaddle right out of here."

Matt blinks. "And Buddy's not asking any questions?"

"Nope. He knows not to ask about things that aren't his business. I mean, he knows what I do," she replies finally, picking up a few fuses for future bomb-making. "He was the one who taught Y and Weddy to fly. I was supposed to learn from Weddy, but… yeah, you know the rest."

"How come I've never heard of him?" Matt asks, relieving her from the items she carries. She nods at him in thanks and leads him. They walk down further down the aisle and head into the next one.

After carefully looping wires around Matt's arm, she answers, "Usually, the graduates from Wammy's get access to a select number of contacts, depending on their field of expertise. You're a hacker. What would you ever need a jet for?"

"True," Matt allows, adjusting his grip on a few things. "I mean, I've got a whole other set of contacts I bet you don't know."

She looks up at him with a smirk and shrugs, not particularly caring, but willing to keep the conversation going. "I got my own contacts, plus Weddy's and Aiber's. It kind of sucks having to remember who's contacting who, who's doing what for who— it's all shit, but it keeps me busy, huh? I've got criminals, double-agents, army guys and jet-driving grandpas, among others. Who do you have?"

"Tech-geeks, forensic specialists, double-agents and a few eyes in several governments worldwide. Some of 'em are total strangers, the others are our friends," Matt lists automatically, wearing an amiable smile. "So it's not always awkward or about business. We talk sometimes, just to talk."

Hex blinks, and spins to face him with an excited glint in her eyes. "Wait, wait, wait— did you say… eyes in the government? Care to give me a few names? It's pretty handy if you ask me; you could do all sorts of shit and make stuff up, and no one would think to question you."

"Because that's how I spend my free time, really," Matt drawls sarcastically, quirking an eyebrow upwards at her.

She snickers, tucking a strand of her hair away from her eyes. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you never thought to plant some fake story in a government and see how far they'd take it? If they'd believe it?"

Matt laughs at her and her cheeks puff red. He shakes his head with a smile and says, "What kind of story?"

"We aren't alone in this world," Hex says in her best ominous voice, her eyes darting left and right. "Who the hell knows? I could be right."

The redhead plays along, cracking a grin. "Okay, so somewhere out there, there's a whole other world that's weird looking. And the people there have windows to watch us, like we're the entertainment 'cause they don't have TV."

Hex looks at him in approval, green orbs twinkling merrily. "And maybe they don't look like people. Maybe they're like monsters."

"With wings."

"Why the fuck not, Mattie-boy? Who's to say you're wrong?" Hex says, giggling after him. "Still not tempted to plant a story in the government?"

Matt shrugs, picking up a few thin metal wires. "I doubt they'd tell the public either way. Uh, L told me there's a whole bunch of stuff the government never tells the public. Some sort of conspiracy, I guess."

The girl in front of him scowls the moment she hears him mention L, but chooses not to make a snide comment. "Conspiracy's only fun when you're not the one everyone's conspiring against. If Rodd ever finds out what Mello's up to, Mello's so dead."

Matt nods quietly. Mello is gaining more and more support from the mafia members, and as of now, there is no one that holds more power over them all, apart from Rodd. Matt knows that soon, Mello will 'take care' of that minor setback to his plans. Rodd may be the mafia boss, but Mello is now the one, more or less telling him what to do.

"Well, he's got no other way to do it. But he'll be fine," Matt says calmly, his grin fading into an unsure smile, hesitant to grace his lips. "It's not like mafia members would go into some box to vote for next boss now, would they?"

"Now there's an idea," Hex teases good-naturedly, snapping her fingers. "Only I'd probably cheat so I'd win."

Matt sighs, averting his gaze. "Why is it always about winning with you and Mello? Don't you ever get tired eating up victory?"

"I don't call it victory if I play dirty, Mattie. I just call it a win," Hex tells him thoughtfully, her eyes dropping to her boots. She takes a few steps ahead of him just to place some distance between them. "I thought I told you, I learned the hard way. You can't always win."

Her green eyes are flashing with unwanted memories. She is recalling the Detective Wars. There were plenty of bitter lessons learned, violence at every turn, and no satisfaction in the aftermath. Nothing but remorse and stupidity. It may have been over a decade since it happened, but everything is still ingrained freshly in her mind. She never likes to think of it.

"Hey," Matt says comfortingly, his free hand finding hers and squeezing softly. "Life's too short to be spent being miserable."

She looks at him, agreeing bitterly, "Yeah, life's too short. I guess that's why we all just grew up too quickly. I mean, look at us, Matt, and I mean all of us… A killed himself when he was just eleven. B? A serial killer at sixteen. C? Institutionalized at thirteen. Y? Killed on a suicide mission at six years old. Others get PhD's at twelve, and the rest hit below rock bottom. If they're not shot or killed, then they're the ones at it… We're all too power-hungry."

Matt swallows with difficulty, hating that he is hearing what he has been trying to ignore for the past few months now. He manages to say, "It's just survival one-oh-one. Life's a competition, and no one settles for second best." At his words, both he and Hex think of a certain blond man, suddenly understanding the reasons for his actions, but neither one say a thing about it.

"We always resort to violence," Hex murmurs softly, still averting her gaze. "And nothing ever ended pretty, did it? I wonder... What does that mean for us?"

"… I don't know, Hex."

Her eyes lock with his wildly, green with green. She asks him, her tone even quieter, "What has L done to us, Matt?"

He fights the urge to look away, the instinct to defend the man he's worshipped nearly all his childhood warring with the feeling to agree with everything she has said so far. Matt replies, "He's— he's just trying to make us who we are supposed to want to be."

Hex looks at him curiously, asking the question that still haunts him.

"But who do you really want to be, Matt?"

He answers softly, ashamed. "I don't know. Just somebody else."

How to Use XX: When a human dies, a Death Note owner with the eye's of a God Of Death can no longer see the deceased human's life span and name in photos and videos.

Six Miles Away…

Near was born in Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington.

All around him are vendors, streets and buildings that are all as familiar as they are foreign. He can recall certain trees and even the general direction of the apartment house of his old piano teacher. The sights are all able to jog certain unwanted memories, and it has him a little overwhelmed. His birthplace does not feel a bit like home.

He doesn't expect it to.

There is a strange feeling that is settling in him, something he likens to being an immigrant returning to his own country. He feels bare and downright uncomfortable, as if he is being watched, never mind the fact that he is in a car with tinted windows. Roger is driving the rented vehicle with an understanding sort of silence. Near scorns it, inwardly wishing that his guardian would speak so as to take his mind away from reminiscing.

The quiet is kept until Roger parks the vehicle in an empty lot. The elderly caretaker exits the vehicle, rounds it, and then holds the door open for Near. The teen boy picks his favorite toys out of the seat beside him at a deliberately slow pace; contrary to what other Wammy students may think, it was hardly ever Mello who drove Roger up the wall.

"Hurry up, boy!" Roger says impatiently, his face contorting with a deep scowl. "We don't have all day!"

Near ignores him and says instead, "Please bring my bags along with you."

"Our appointment with Ray won't last for more than an hour at most," he argues. "I will not carry your bags."

The albino isn't impressed. Monotonously, he says, "Roger, you're fired."

"I'm working with you, not for you, you brat," comes the expectedly agitated reply. Roger runs his palm down his face and sighs heavily. Near hides his amusement by lowering his head, stepping onto the pavement out of the car. He notes his own reflection from a large glass window across the street, and finds that he looks barely recognizable under his disguise. He wears a heavy covering, consisting of a jacket, gloves, hat, wig, sunglasses and an unhealthy dose of sunscreen— for protection against direct exposure to sunlight as well as to not stand out.

As if any sane person would wear a jacket in springtime. It is bad enough he isn't anymore used to the warm climate, he doesn't need the added layers of clothing. For the first time in years, he experiences the strange sensation of sweating, and decides he doesn't like it. He tells Roger so, and threatens to fire him again if there isn't any air-conditioning where they are going.

The older man simply rolls his eyes. "Bear with it for a moment, boy. It isn't too far away."

And so they begin their walk, Near shuffling behind Roger closely.

Roger glances at him every few minutes or so, wanting to be reassured that Near is in otherwise perfect condition and isn't about to stumble or melt like a witch in bright light. The guardian is well aware that Near doesn't ever walk if he can help it, and worries that the boy may already be exhausted. Near is, really, but he will never admit it so bluntly.

Instead he asks, "Are we there yet?"

The taller man shakes his head and places a firm hand on Near's shoulder, steering him left and right, away from being shoved about by pedestrians and pets alike. Near doesn't mind too much, more thankful that he wasn't put in a wheelchair like the last time he went out.

Roger replies, "Just a bit longer."

The grey eyed boy twirls an errant lock from the blond wig. "I should hope that everything has already been arranged, for today as well as tomorrow."

There is an affirmative nod in response. "Ray is the best choice for the job. The L before you had hardly ever needed his field of expertise, but considering the circumstances, it's understandable…" Roger checks his watch. "I've sent him the documents via e-mail two days before. He knows L is coming, so you should expect that everything is in order later."

Roger pauses for a moment before continuing. "As for tomorrow, the President has agreed for a conference in his office. The conversation, as you requested, will not be recorded, but monitored by two of his most trusted security guards. We will be escorted in the White House in such a way that no one will see us."

"What did Hoope ask you?"

They cross the road, Roger gripping his wrist firmly. "He was suspicious, but I told him not yet to make an alliance, and that the L in Japan is fake. He wants us to explain the situation to him, but we've prepared for that already. Is there anything else you will say tomorrow?"

Nodding an affirmative, Near murmurs, "I will request a team of specialists to assist me, those of the highest caliber, and perhaps a Headquarters, if it isn't too much to ask. The President needn't know everything unless there is a good reason to divulge the details. Therefore, you may speak with him about my position and convince him, but I will handle making any requests. If I choose to opt out anything, do not question me."

Roger frowns. "I know, boy. Must you treat me like an amateur?"

"If you must treat me like a child, then yes," Near replies smoothly. Roger's grip tightens on his wrist, but Near pretends his blood circulation did not just get cut off. Instead, he says, "You're fired."

"Near," the older man sighs, exasperated.

"Yes?"

"Be quiet."

"I will not be silenced," Near replies calmly. "Where are we going? Is it a place air-conditioned?"

The man pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Yes it's air-conditioned."

Near allows himself a smile. "You are re-hired, Roger."

Roger shakes his head, deciding that Near isn't worth losing his temper. "Look alive. We're here, boy."

The disguised Near looks up from his feet with piqued curiosity, and eyes the modest looking flower shop. From the large window beside the door, he sees a colorful jungle of flowers, all in colorful pots, vases, and hanging baskets. There is a silver sign that reads 'open' on the quaint entrance. Near follows in after Roger, overhead wind-chimes tinkling merrily after them.

Roger leaves his side and heads on over to the cashier, stabbing the calling bell once. Near is pleased to have the rare opportunity to be alone. Since his ascension to L's title, he has been hoarded by contacts, students, and the like. He doesn't mind having himself kept busy, but there are times where he misses going to classes, homework and nine o'clock curfews.

He twirls a lock of his blond wig again, and considers the thought of removing his restricting disguise. It would be a lot more comfortable, but highly inappropriate, considering his identity. He decides to entertain himself by surveying the vast space, filled with colorful flora. There are a few species of flowers which hold his interest. With a contemplative look in his grey eyes, he is impressed to see that all the species offered on display are alive and well, even those that have been taken out of their natural habitat.

Those which stand out to him are Lotus corniculatus which are neatly arranged on a high shelf, Hollyhocks, Marigolds, and Yellow Roses. Having read about floriography on a whim, and having memorized the meanings behind many of the flowers, he wonders if the fact that these particular flowers capture his interest the most is a coincidence or a warning.

A foreign voice breaks his train of thought. "Like flowers, do you?"

"Not particularly. They are tedious to keep healthy," he replies honestly, acknowledging the newcomer with a sidelong glance.

It is a man walking toward him, a slight bounce in his confident gait, and a serene smile on his face. He appears to be in his early or mid-twenties, tall and lightly muscled, with tousled sandy hair and tawny eyes. The nametag on his shirt reads 'Oliver', but Near already knows this is untrue.

With an action that seems to be a cross between a salute and a wave, the man greets him with a jovial, "Yo, Near. I barely recognize you under all that, but Roger said it was you, so yeah." He grins. "This is way overdue, but congrats on being the new L. I'm glad you made it; it's been ages, and last I saw you, you were a little tyke."

He says all of this very quickly.

Near raises an eyebrow, but the shift is so negligible it slips unnoticed. "Have we met?"

The man chuckles, pockets one of his hands, and extends for Near to shake. "Nope, not officially, at least, but I was in Wammy's around the same time you were. I'm not surprised you don't remember me— I graduated three years after you came, but it's not like we've ever talked until now. Anyway, I'm Ray, and it's a real pleasure to be working for you, Mister L. Uh, I have to call you L now, right?"

"No," the younger boy says, though rather uncomfortable with how talkative Ray is. "I would prefer it if you would call me Near."

Ray furrows his brow in confusion, but accepts it with a shrug. "Okay. Your call, little man… But if you ain't L right now, who's the dude in Japan?" Near deems it unnecessary to reply, for the older man hums in understanding just three seconds later. "Ah, I get it. Is the fake L one of Wammy's or—?"

"Anonymous," he replies quietly, frowning slightly in extreme distaste.

"Whoa, didn't expect that," Ray says, his eyebrows shooting up. "Lucky he hasn't tried to locate me or any more of the other contacts, eh? We would've been totally murdered, and that's just not cool, you know? There's been a lot of talk among us, and I heard about what happened to Aiber and Weddy…" He shakes his head and allows a moment of silence in respect for them. Then he says, more softly this time, "Roger said you've been protecting all our names and records –for all of us, even the criminals— ever since. If it weren't for you, Kira would've…"

Near frowns the moment Ray smiles and says, "Thanks, by the way."

the albino averts his gaze, unsure how to respond with Ray's extreme forwardness and friendliness. He switches the subject almost immediately. "Formalities aside, if you would show me what you've prepared—? Although I am quite pleased to be in such a finely air-conditioned establishment, Roger and I have another appointment in two hours." That last part is a white lie, but Ray needn't know it.

The dirty blond man nods understandingly. "Of course, of course. I'll lead you to the back of the shop, little man. I've got some pretty sweet stuff I think you'd like to look at. Took me almost five years to perfect— would've taken longer too, if Matt hadn't lent me a hand. I mean, I'm alright at—"

He really isn't fond of interrupting when someone is speaking, but Near realizes this may be a lead. "Matt was here?"

"Oh yeah, about two-three years ago," Ray says. "Was a real mess, he was; didn't look like he packed much, looked real tired, and said he didn't have any money. I told him he could steal some, of course, but he said it wasn't right. I always liked him. I mean, he was always on the soft side, but he has his heart in the right place."

"Why was he here?"

Ray pauses in his tracks and bites his thumbnail in deep thought. "Well, he was always the quiet type, so I didn't ask him too many questions. He only helped around the shop a little, and even done some good to my computers and tech. I appreciated it. I'm a Forensic artist, sure, but I ain't a tech-geek like him… Speaking of which, he was tinkering around with my stuff a bit more than necessary. He made something like… I don't know, but you know us contacts and Wammy kids are can be traced by L's system, right?"

Near nods impatiently, but already knows what Ray will say next.

"Matt did something. He couldn't be traced anymore, straight after he was done. There were two other people that disappeared off my computer radar with him, one was X, but I don't know who the other one was. And then, Matt just left." Ray looks at him. "You're looking for X, aren't you? That's why you're here."

"Partly," he replies vaguely. "Where is Roger?"

"I told him there was a back entrance to the shop he could use, so he's taking your car and bringing it over. Said he'll be with you in a mo', but that's okay, right? I mean, you don't want him here with you twenty-four seven or anything—?"

Near almost smiles. Anyone who can send Roger away for even a few minutes is a friend in his book. "No, that would be fine. Is the back room air-conditioned?"

"Uh… yeah," Ray says, looking at him oddly. "Anyway, it's an honor to be assisting you."

Near isn't sure how to reply, so he doesn't. He walks behind Ray while noting a few more species of flowers, and they both stop in front of a door, hidden by a massive shelf. Ray explains that it is a need for privacy; apparently, it doesn't only lead to his equipment room, but also to his pseudo-home. Ray opens the door and ushers him in.

He is hit with an artificial breeze so strong it brings a small smile to his face. He sheds his jacket, drapes it over a table, and shuffles after Ray, to a dimly lit area. Near sits himself on the floor, in front of a large machine, already content. Ray looks confused but amused all the same, and begins tinkering with said piece of metal.

Ray chatters happily and Near replies when necessary, their voices accompanied by sounds of beeps, whirrs and clanking. The florist and artist wears an excited grin when he is done setting up, and says, "I'm not as great as Yo-yo or Matt at technology, but I'm high enough above average that I can design pretty spiffy software. You are looking at the latest version of my facial re-constructor. I've hooked it up to my aging matrix."

Near studies the machine again, considers it, and asks, "How does it work?"

Ray looks thrilled by the question. "Well, firstly I need something to work with; it could be a skull, photograph or sketch, like you've sent me. I upload it on my facial reconstruction software, like so." He presses a few buttons, and Linda's drawing of Hex is projected, two-dimensional and in black and white, from a bright light above the machine.

"I'll spare you from the details. Basically, I try to replicate the sketch in a simulation to make it three dimensional. Then, I give the sketch the color details you've provided…" Slowly, the six year old Hex's features are given color and definition. There is flaxen hair, vivid green eyes, fair skin. Ray clears his throat. "If I may ask, why are you looking for X?"

"I require her assistance," is Near's smooth answer.

Ray rolls his eyes, as if expecting the answer all along. He doesn't press the issue, fortunately continuing his explanation. "I play around a bit with how I want her face to look when I age her. I could add or remove certain details and stuff. Here, I've removed her kiddy chubbiness, given her a heart-shaped face, more definition on her cheeks, eyes, cheeks and stuff… There you go. An Adult X."

The albino is very impressed with Ray's work. Hex looks very life-like, but he can't help but feel there are a few more touches missing. On a whim, he tells Ray, "If I were to say that X is now a criminal, working in a crime syndicate, how would you make her look?"

The older man drums his fingers against the machine thoughtfully, and then reaches for his laptop and does some alterations for the simulation. Near watches patiently, and notices that slowly, the simulation-Hex is given a wilder, more ragged look. She is given bruises under her now alert-looking eyes, and messier and longer hair.

Near's eyes flash with satisfaction. "Please print that, with copies, if you will."

(break)

A/N: Introducing Ray, a florist slash part-time forensic artist. He's a minor character, but he will appear in a future chapter or two. Dost thou lik-eth him? Because I am so far undecided what I think about him. I also mentioned specific species of flowers... maybe, you'd want to check the meanings behind them.

Anyway, this is another crucial chapter, especially the conversation between Matt and Hex. I'm getting excited now I'm reaching the post-timeskip time zone. :D It took me long enough.

Reviews make my world go round. :D