Miya's Note: I'M NOT DEAD!

You have no clue how sorry I am for the wait for this update. This story is killing me like no other before it. This part was going to be even longer, but I ended up hacking the chapter in HALF. (No worries, though, because it's a pretty damned good length. 24 pages, 10 font good for you?)

Trying to write out a good third of an entire manga series, with embellishment, in ONE chapter? WHILE working around one of the most stressful school quarters I've ever had?

Not a good idea.

My apologies, everyone.

I really love this chapter, though, and I also assure everyone that what I have of the next two (there are going to be a total of 11 chapters, now. Ch. 10 is currently already over 10 pages, Ch. 11 a little shorter, and they will both grow tremendously before I submit them) is extremely close to my heart as well, and I'm hoping the entire ending of this story will make up for the long updates. I have no clue when Part 10 will come, but it WILL come, so don't get discouraged. I'm just having to work TR into a schedule that also includes trying to have a social life and get small amounts of sleep on top of school (and, soon enough, hopefully, a job, though I'll be trading more time in for an income).

I'm going to stop ranting, now, and let you guys get onto reading. God knows you deserve it.

And lead us…

"Did you do that? Out there?" asked one of the mafia men, hours later, when the water had gone cold and painful, like acid on the blond's skin.

The boy nodded slightly as he curled in on himself protectively, looking up only slightly before his reddened eyes cast down again toward his knees.

The man turned the water off, and Mello twitched as a towel was tossed onto him.

"Then this is yours now," the man said, kneeling down and holding out the boss' Beretta. The blond took it, wordlessly, and then stood, wrapping the towel around his waist. He held the weapon limply by his side, his face blank and emotionless, and pushed past the man and walked dazedly into his room, past the body and to his pants, where he, before anything else, dug his own rosary out of his pocket and held it to his mother's on his chest.

"I'll leave, so you can get dressed," said the mafia man, and Mello scoffed at the show of feigned polite respect.

"You can watch all you want. I don't care," he snarled, turning quickly, his wet hair throwing water in drops around him, the gun waving manically through the air. "I'll even put on a little show, if you'd like. It isn't as if I have any pride left!" From the screaming, though, he got very quiet, and he smiled darkly, his teeth flashing as he did. He motioned his head toward the dead man against the wall. "Just don't enjoy it too much, hm?"

The man took that as a hint to leave, and he shut the door behind him. When the door clicked shut, the blond threw the gun on the bed, sighing. He ran his hands over his face a few times, groaning, and then undid the buttons on his sopping shirt, indifferently letting it fall to the carpet. He dried himself quickly, and then put on his pants and dug a shirt from his closet. His hair had gotten long and messy, and he tied it in a haphazard knot before he slumped onto his mattress.

His rosary was still in his hand, and he stared down at it, angry at God and his own sins and weakness; afraid of the consequences of his actions and his future--both during life and after.

He had killed twice now, with the rosary in his hand and the gun on the sheets beside him, and the thought of it made him delirious with pain and hate and dread…and power. The tiny cross shimmered dully in the light, the cheap silver plating wearing thin in places.

God had brought him here, to this place. It was God who had answered his prayer, saving him from death by giving him to the sinner who's soul was surely facing Hell, now that Mello had sent him to the fires. God no longer sent down plagues on man, himself; weakened, the blond presumed, as humanity grew more corrupt and tiring to its creator. No, God had sent Mello, this time, to judge the Sodomite whose blood streaked the wall of that sinful house.

He prayed for forgiveness for killing and for having let the man fuck him.

Still, he could feel within him the dirty blackness of his soul's transgressions, choking and petulant, and he knew that he was absolved, but still not clean. Enraged that God would lay such burdens upon him, he sought to repeat past sins in mockery, knowing he would face no divine retaliation this time, because he felt he had nobody left to receive the punishment for him.

He grasped the tiny rosary in both hands and pulled it apart at the axis, the beads flying in all directions.

He cradled the cross in his palm in a strange kind of careful contempt that would have looked almost like reverent adoration had his smile been more sincere. He fiddled with what was left of the chain carefully, chuckling inwardly as he picked up the gun and looked at it curiously. Its previous owner had obviously been very meticulous in its care, as the metal was shiny and bright in the overhead lights. He marveled at its construction--Man had created this tool of Judgment, not God--and ran the barrel down the side of his face like a caress, taunting.

"I could cock this gun back, and fire, and end it all, God," he whispered with a smile, waving the even more broken rosary in front of his face hypnotically. To demonstrate, he readied the weapon and then continued his mockery. "But you wouldn't want that, would you…Master? If you really want to stop me, then do it, or you get to watch your beautiful human pet put a bullet through his skull."

The blond had just started to put pressure on the trigger, but it was at that moment that the man who had given Mello the gun knocked on the door.

"Oh? Shame, and I almost thought you'd let me kill myself. Your bad."

The man opened the door and walked in apprehensively. "Sir, are you alright?"

Mello was not facing the man, but he could see him in the standing mirror in the corner. "Are you alone, or did you bring others?"

"There are three others in the foyer, Sir."

Mello smiled. "Good, I want someone to hear this."

He fired.

The man grasped at his chest; stumbled back and tripped. He fell to the ground, cringing, and Mello stood and towered over him, emptying the clip with a few more shots to make sure his cruelty was noticed by the other men and the Lord, and when the other mafia members ran to him, he was still pulling the trigger, again and again.

Click.

Click.

Click.

They tried to wrestle the weapon from his grip, but he wouldn't let go, his fingers locked around the handle as his other hand gripped so hard on the cross that the metal cut into his palm. Mello retaliated by racking the barrel across someone's face with a loud "Crack", staring down at the man on the floor the entire time.

It was at this moment that Mello learned the power of fear, and, more importantly, how to use it. He marveled at it, how fear was his this time to wield, not theirs. He took a last look at the man on the ground in front of him, and the man stared back, though his glasses had fallen off and he probably couldn't see him. The man cowered amidst the holes in the tile, his hand gripping his quickly beating heart, too frightened to be thankful that the blond had spared him.

Mello looked at the other men, gauging their reactions. The gun was empty, but he held the thing as if it were full; pointed it at their heads and their hearts and almost laughed at the way they still withered under his gaze and shifted uncomfortably in their spots. Mello's eyes flashed with some unknown fire, and he cocked the gun, although he knew as well as they did that he had rendered it harmless.

Was it pointless? He was taunting them. They had seen him fire until there was nothing left to fire, and yet he watched them like he knew some trick they didn't to form bullets out of air. He stepped forward. A few of them stepped back, as if believing that he had that power.

When Mello pulled the trigger, the grown men in front of him flinched. His cries of "BANG!" echoed in the palpable silence the boy had rendered in the air, and his laughs rang out like they had in the mafia hideout like the shrieking cackles of some madman or devil.

One of the men finally pulled his gun out and pointed it back at him.

Mello stepped forward again, locking eyes with that man, as if he not only had the ability to create bullets, but to repel them. Mello was not afraid. He knew he had no reason to be. Guns, he had discovered, could kill, but they were, above all else, weapons of terror. It was the finger on the trigger he was fighting. If the fear he brandished was stronger than the man's, then even his empty gun could beat a loaded one.

The man's hands were shaking, and Mello walked right up to him and moved those hands so that the gun was pointing away from him. He put his Beretta to the guy's skull, and watched and relished as a grown man shrunk away from what may as well have been a child's toy.

It was at that moment that someone started clapping.

"You have quite the audacity, for a plaything."

Mello turned around so quickly that his hair came untied, and the Beretta pointed at a tall, bald man with a goatee, who Mello had never seen before. "I'm no toy! Your boss found that out the hard way!" the blond screamed, his eyes wild and his hair disheveled. He looked rather deranged, especially next to the new intruder, who stood, calmly, in front of him.

With Mello's back turned, more of the Mafia members drew their weapons. The new man waved them off. "Don't kill him. He's probably the most capable man in the lot of you cowards. He deserves better than a dishonorable bullet to the back."

"I want in," the blond hissed, simply.

"As far as I'm concerned, you already are. You killed the old lecher that I'd been trying to off for years, and you made my men seem like babies. You even got Neylon back to crawling on the floor like one."

"You're not gonna cry like the rest of them?" Mello taunted, waving his gun in the air.

The man smiled. "No, not this time, I'm afraid. They call me Rod, here, and I was the second-in-command, which means that I'm the boss now."

"And what does that make me, since I killed the guy? Shouldn't I be the one in charge here?"

Rod laughed. "You're pretty sharp, but there would be just one problem with putting you in charge: You don't know shit about what it means to be in the mob. You may have killed a guy, and you may have scared my men, but I doubt you've ever blown the brains out of someone's Mommy because Daddy wouldn't pay up, or sent someone blindfolded off the edge of a yacht because he betrayed the group. That's some of the lighter shit I've done, and I'll be damned if some old lecher's living dildo is gonna boss me around, just because he gave the guy a fluke shot to the brain."

Mello scoffed back, undaunted. "Fine. You're the boss, and I'm your second-in-command. I've spent my entire life as Number 2, so this should be no different." The blond almost seemed to twitch at the idea, and his eyes went a little darker with carefully contained rage. "But you'd better watch your back. I never have liked authority."

"You are one determined little brat. You keep saying you want in. There's gotta be a reason. What is it? Fame? Money? Drugs?"

"Kira. I want his head."

Rod smiled at that, and it was a wicked, heartless smile. He didn't need to hear anything more. No need for a why or a how. "Then you and I have something in common."

He had gotten in with bloodshed, and it was the bloodshed he'd promised that gained him his position. From that moment, the young Mello from Wammy's House for the Gifted was dead, as if he really had pulled the trigger on himself in that stained room. Geniuses are good at lies--good at putting on acts--and it was at that moment that Mello first began to truly lie to himself.

The mask he wore was the gravestone on his past.

Mello was not a hardened criminal, but he had to act like one, look like one, speak like one…he had to, essentially, lose a life's worth of morality in an instant. This was a task, indeed, that would have driven any normal man mad.

Mello, however, was no man, he knew, but an Angel of Judgment sent by God himself to judge the biggest sinner and blasphemer of the century.

As an angel, it was only proper that he have a holy sword, that being a mix of the two things with which he had killed. He had taken some tools back at the Mafia hideout and attached what was left of the broken rosary to the handle of the Beretta. It was a significance that nobody but him understood, which held a secret that only he knew. If Mello was an actor, the gun was his prop. It was something holy that had been defiled, attached to something deadly rendered harmless--a balance of good and evil, black and white.

He never did refill the bullets, because he never intended to have to fire another shot.

Every good actor needs costumes as well; every angel, his robes and his wings. There was something so satisfying about leather, Mello realized. It was harsh and cold, as only the dead flesh of another creature could be; a mockery of God's holy creation of Life. He was given all of the finest clothing. His hair had been cut back to its normal length and immaculate style. His coat was decked with feathers of the blackest black, like raven's wings instead of the doves' wings on normal angels' backs.

Mello, being smart, knew where his power lay: In fear, and in sex. Whereas Rod got by with his years-long status and his brute force, Mello ruled beside him with shrewdness and cunning, using his conveniently feminine looks to break wills that would have normally been impossible to even bend. All of his leather fit tightly on his body, and he showed skin that he never would have dared to show before. His eyes were lined with makeup, and his fingernails were painted the same shiny black as his clothing.

It may sound ironic for a man of God to present himself this way, but it was in his looks that Mello hid the last traces of his frightened adolescent self and kept his purity intact. Even though Mello turned heads wherever he walked, even though he awakened the lusts of those around him, it was easy for them to overlook, in their fantasies, the way his belt buckle (the silver cross on it a ward from God in hopes of protecting him and cleansing him from past sins) was on so tightly, and the laces on his pants both held him uncomfortably restrained and held any others out.

Mello was the puppeteer, with strings of seduction and terror tying his painted fingers to his mafia marionettes, and it wasn't long before Rod had become just a puppet, too, wanting so badly to have him and admiring his body and his mind so much, but unable to reach him, as he hovered so high above his peons' heads.

By three years after he had left the House, Mello had broken all ten commandments and committed all of the cardinal sins. He had gone back to praying every day, hoping to salvage some of his blackened soul and trusting in the Lord that he would not be used and then cast away when he was done. God's hand had led him well, indeed, as the mafia had proven to be a vital asset to him. As he and Jack had anticipated, the men of high crime were almost as determined to find Kira as he, and he was making progress that he never would have been able to make on his own. Kira was in Japan, most likely connected to the police. He knew that. From then, the next step would be trying to bring the killer out of hiding, and already they were gathering resources, multiple hideouts, and plans.

Nonetheless, there was that vital piece of information that was missing. It was that elusive thing that they needed to move on: The knowledge of how Kira killed.

Mello figured that L had found the information out before he'd been murdered, which meant that Near, as L's successor, probably had exactly what he needed.

Near.

The thought of it haunted Mello for weeks. Already, he had given up so much in his investigations, and yet he would never be L's heir, while Near, who had surely never had to risk his very life for justice, had probably already acquired the missing link, without so much as lifting a finger. It was just like it had always been, with Mello working so hard and Near barely working at all, and yet the blond was always just that one step behind.

For a while, Mello settled on helping the mafia with other tasks, in an effort to keep his mind off of the situation. Though he hated the idea of furthering criminal activity, he had realized quickly that he took a kind of sick pleasure in his status, as he, a man who'd lost his true name and who knew never to show his face in public, was an untouchable force--an ever-present invisible criminal that Kira couldn't kill.

Rod liked to brag that the way things were done had changed when Mello had joined the ranks. He liked it, he said, that things had gotten so much more subtle. Drug trades no longer required ten men with semi-automatics standing on guard, because they were better informed and better prepared. More dangerous trades took place in secret underground locations of Mello's ingenious and infallible design.

Mello's methods were so effective that people soon stopped noticing that the blond never did any of the dirty work. Instead, Mello gained a reputation for being the most dangerous man the mafia had ever seen, not because of the number of people he had killed, but because he had his men trained so well and the techniques perfected to such an art that nobody in their right minds would have tried to kill him.

Mello liked his status quite a lot, because in that place, at that time, he was the best. He made sure that word of his actions got out; how the mafia had fallen under new rule, while papers and television completely overlooked Rod. Since he could not be L, he had become M to his enemies and the media, and he hoped that Near saw that, and knew, and feared.

Mello enjoyed inventing new tricks, and safeguards, and traps. He liked things flashy, but efficient. The creation of these things--specialized sensors, new chemicals to immobilize enemies, specially modified cameras for their hideouts, and more--let him use his intelligence productively and kept his mind off of his annoyances and his downfalls.

In the end, however, he was too fast at creating, and things were too effective, and he soon ran out of new things to invent.

The Kira investigation, for a time, had come to a standstill. Mafia affairs were going smoothly. Mello was restless. He put on large sunglasses to hide his eyes, he concealed his face behind the feathers on his coat, and he, quite simply, took a walk.

He needed space.

He needed fresh air (or as close to it as one could find on the Los Angeles streets).

Above all, Mello needed--yearned for--freedom.

Freedom, he had learned in those past months living on the street, living with a gang, living with the mob…just trying to live at all…Freedom--true freedom--was being able to live for himself.

All his life (and it's ironic to say "his", because it never had been) had been lived for other people. His early childhood had been for his parents and for God. When his parents had died, God's watch had not. Then, he had moved to Wammy's, where he lived his every breathing moment for L--to please L, to become L--and when Near took L from him, and then when L wasn't there anymore to get back, he had given his life away for vengeance, God still judging his every step as he, himself, played Judge.

He had been Mihael, son of the Keehls and of God; Mello, L's protégé and, later, avenger; but never had he been just Mihael--just Mello.

No, wait…No, that was wrong, Mello realized suddenly as he wandered aimlessly down the L.A. sidewalks.

It had been too long since he had last taken time for himself to think. Out of the corners of his vision, he caught the common people's eyes. He watched them as they stared and lusted and feared.

They were no different from the mafia men.

But he thought back to one time--one shining moment in his history--where, though he hadn't lived completely for himself (He could never, would never…wouldn't even know how to begin…), there had been somebody he had never felt he'd had to impress.

There was one man on the street who didn't seem to notice him, and that fact made the man stand out more than any person who had gasped or gawped or covered their children's eyes. The man was walking down the sidewalk toward him quite slowly, his gaze fixed on something in his hands. His face was also mostly covered, and he would occasionally bump into people as he moved, muttering half-aware apologies around the butt of a burnt-out cigarette as businessmen griped and continued quickly on their ways to work.

It was on that day, in that shining moment in Mello's history, that the only person who had ever lived for Mello walked, equally aimlessly, down the same L.A. sidewalk.

Mello stopped where he was and stared at this man like others stared at his leathers and his feathers, and he made sure to stand where he knew he was blocking the guy's path.

The man's shoulder bumped into him, and the guy apologized quietly. When Mello replied--as he bit off a chunk of the chocolate bar in his hand with a snap--with an "It's quite alright," in an accent that sounded like a mix of British and something more foreign, the burnt cigarette fell from the man's lips, and he stopped, finally looking up from the thing in his hands, which on closer inspection was some kind of portable game.

"It can't be. No way," the man said, and his voice was familiar, but more gruff from years gone by and smoke in lungs than remembered.

"Why are you here?" asked Mello, clearly stunned.

"I was looking for you."

"Really." It was a statement of near-emotionless disbelief, not a question.

The man took a deep breath, dropping the hand with the game to his side, its tinny music still playing in the background. "I thought I was on a wild goose chase, but I see that I was wrong."

"Apparently. It's been a long time, Matt."

The two simply stared at each other for a very long time, taking in every detail, each seeming as if he were expecting the other to disappear at any moment; just a figment of his wild imagination. Matt's hair was almost exactly as Mello remembered it: almost awkwardly (almost unnaturally) red, and messy. He still wore goggles (which Mello was glad for, with Kira around), and his shirt was decked with stripes, much like those on many of the redhead's childhood favorite garments. His face, thankfully, was further covered by a fur-lined vest that, zipped up, had a collar that came up over his mouth. It was strange seeing him there, and, Mello imagined, it was probably stranger for Matt, whose head was nodding slightly as he looked his friend over.

"You look…different." It was a clipped response, at best.

Mello tried to gauge the reaction, but failed, and figured that Matt was in shock from seeing his childhood friend dressed so provocatively. "I know. You look almost the same, but older."

"Yeah."

They stared at each other for another moment, but it didn't prove too effective with sunglasses and goggles and feathers and fur in the way. Mello was attempting to stay calm, and he wondered if Matt was having the same problem he was. He wanted to unzip the vest and throw off the goggles and make sure that it was really Matt. If it wasn't, he would kill whoever was playing such a trick on him. If it was, indeed, his friend, he didn't know what he would do.

Matt seemed to notice how Mello had been lost in thought, and chipped in with, "This is awkward, man. Let's go somewhere, so we can talk."

Mello shook off his thoughts. "Alright. We can't go to the hideout, and I don't want to go to your place and risk someone's following us there, so where do you want to go?"

"You've gotten yourself into some deep shit, you know that?" was Matt's somber reply. "I was heading to this little café when you caught me. 'S got some nice dark corners, and it's pretty low-key." He chuckled, and it sounded distinctly uncomfortable. "I hear they have great hot chocolate."

Mello laughed a little at that. "It sounds great."

They walked down the street without saying much, until Matt couldn't stand the silence anymore. "You know, it feels like we're goin' on some kind of weird blind date."

"It kind of does."

"And this isn't gonna make it sound much less awkward, but I missed you, man."

"Same here."

Matt turned his gaze toward Mello as they walked, and Mello turned back. The blond thought his friend may have smiled at him, but couldn't really tell, because of the vest. Mello smiled back, slightly, and knew Matt couldn't see it, either, but hoped he could still tell.

When they arrived at the café, they picked a table at the very back. The both of them laughed when they saw the candles on the table that highlighted the romantic, flowery centerpiece.

"Yeah, I kind of failed to mention that part," said Matt, scratching the back of his head.

Mello laughed a little harder, and then couldn't hold back what came across as almost utter hysteria when Matt pulled out a chair for him to sit down. He smacked the redhead lightly upside the head, but took the chair, and then glared when Matt pushed it in for him. The other man took his seat across the table, and it was almost as if they were back at Wammy's, during times when they would taunt Brad with his own jokes, not caring if they furthered rumors or not, and trusting in each other's friendship.

"You really haven't changed much, have you?" Mello said, knowing it was stupid with Kira an ever-present threat, but finally trusting enough that this was really Matt to slip out of his jacket and take off his sunglasses. He stared at the redhead in an unspoken urge for him to do likewise.

When they could actually see each others' faces, it was like it all suddenly became real.

A waitress came by, and they ordered drinks, which they waited for in silence, until they arrived.

"It really is you, isn't it?" Matt asked, quietly, feeling around in one of his vest pockets.

"I was about to say the same thing." Mello blew over the top of his cup of hot cocoa in an attempt to cool it down. Matt watched him swipe up a bit of whipped cream and lick it off of his finger.

"You really do look different." The redhead continued to dig in his pockets, getting a little flustered. "Could you, um, pass me the ashtray?"

Mello did, but hesitantly. "You sound nervous."

"I am." Matt finally pulled his cigarettes out of a pocket and lit one up, taking a long drag.

"When did you start smoking?"

"Right after I left Wammy's. The streets'll do that to you."

Mello grunted slightly. "You actually looked for me? All the way to L.A.?"

"The little gang I was in, we got hold of this old, broken-down computer. I fixed it, and hacked us net access, and started looking into Kira. It was the first thing that came to mind, you know?"

"I do."

"After a while, I started finding these Kira support sites. Basically, they were these places where people pointed out criminals and other people they wanted him to kill. It was fucking barbaric, people posting pictures and names of their enemies or people they just didn't like in hopes that Kira would off them. And for some reason--and I don't know why--I kept thinking that I'd find you in there."

Mello's brow furrowed. "As a target or a poster to the site?"

"Target, of course, because I knew you'd be trying to get revenge on Kira for what he did to L, and that you'd use any means necessary." Matt laughed. "Although I did have a thought that, if this weren't Kira we were talking about, you may have put Near on there."

Mello almost seemed to growl at that.

"I know! I know, but it was just one of those passing thoughts, and then I realized it was ridiculous. I know you hate the guy, but I also know you'd never stoop so low."

"Well, at least you have that much faith in me."

The two had a bit of a glare-off, which ended in Mello giving a bit of a cocky smirk as Matt looked away with a chuckle.

"And then," the redhead continued, undaunted, though he didn't reestablish eye-contact, "right when I was about to give up looking, there you were. 'Kill M,' they said. Over and over again, I saw it, for weeks. 'He's the worst of the worst. M, of the Catholic Mafia. The scum of the United States…no, of the Earth.' I was more than a little freaked out when I saw that, I'll tell you. I really didn't want to believe that you were Mafia, but I just knew it was you, somehow, like I could see you on that site, even though all they had was a single letter in place of a name. It was too reminiscent of L to not be you. Plus…you know…Catholic…" he pointed at the rosary on Mello's chest.

"Of course."

"From there, I started researching, and every little bit of information I found confirmed again that it was you. You'll at least be glad to know that nobody ever did put down a picture, or a real name, but that the way they talked about you…almost all the papers and stuff had these rumors that you were amazing. Terrifying, and amazing. It's…a little daunting to be sitting in front of you now."

"Well, at least if I'm scum, I'm the best motherfucking scum there is."

Matt slapped his forehead. "Well, at least you haven't completely changed. You're still a cocky fuck."

"Always. If I wasn't, I just wouldn't be myself."

"I'm glad I found you."

"So am I."

"Even if you are in the Mafia."

"Yes, even if." Mello leaned over the table, serious, pushing his then-empty cup to the side. "Speaking of which, I don't want you to try and contact me. It's too dangerous."

Matt stared at him like he had grown a second head. "Mello, I tracked you down across the ocean. I'm not going to just let you slip off, just because you've become this dark and mysterious Mafioso."

"I'm not saying I'm just gonna leave and never talk to you again. I'm just saying that regular means of contact would be too risky. I don't want you getting yourself killed when you've just found me again."

"Mello, I have a question."

"Yes?"

"Why? Why the Mafia?"

"Criminals are against Kira, just as much as Kira is against criminals."

"It's dangerous, though. Really dangerous. You just said so yourself."

"I know."

"I don't want to lose you again."

Mello sighed, flagging the waitress over and asking for drink refills for both himself and Matt, who was having coffee. "Why did you leave the House?"

Matt didn't answer until his coffee had arrived. "I was scared. L was dead, and I knew damn well I wasn't gonna be the one he picked to succeed him, with both you and Near ahead of me. Even worse, I knew how much you looked up to him, and how much you wanted it to be you that he picked…but I also knew that you probably weren't."

"He didn't pick anybody."

"Well, since you're here now, it's at least obvious that it wasn't you, either way." Matt put out the last of his cigarette and took a sip of coffee, before recoiling slightly and dumping a rather large amount of sugar into it. Mello noticed this, and smiled internally at the way even the Third had kept a piece of their role-model alive. Matt continued, between sips of the heavily-sweetened drink. "The thing I was so scared of, I think, was seeing you break down. I know how much L meant to you, and I know how much it hurt you every time Near seemed closer to him than you did. I knew that losing L would be like losing family to you…I didn't know what you were like after you lost your parents, and I didn't want to find out. It was stupid of me to leave without you, and don't think I didn't regret it from the moment I did it, because I did. That's why I came looking for you. I wanted…I needed to apologize."

Mello looked down at his refilled cocoa, running a finger over the brim of the cup absently. "Thank you, for finding me, and don't be sorry for leaving me behind. I would have just worried about you, anyway, if you had come with me for this. Some of the things I had to go through to get where I am…I wouldn't have wanted you involved. I mean, I worried about you anyway…but I know you're safe, now, and that's what matters."

"Thanks, Mello."

The blond looked up, his eyes alight with some spark as he smirked again. "Now, before we go getting all mushy and sentimental on each other, we need to think of a plan. Trading numbers and addresses won't work here, so we have to figure something out that's a bit more subtle."

"Ah, planning. Always fun. Feels like the old days." Matt smiled a little as he reminisced.

"You said you'd been hacking, correct? Do you think you could cook up anything with my cell phone?"

"Let me take a look at it," Matt said, holding out his hand. When Mello handed him the phone, he set it on the table and started looking through the pockets in his vest again. "Gotta find my supplies," Matt explained before Mello had the chance to ask.

The blond raised a brow inquisitively as the redhead pulled a small kit of tiny screwdrivers and other tools from one pocket.

"What?" Matt asked defensively against the amused look Mello was giving him. "It's always good to be prepared, right? What kind of crappy hacker would I be if I couldn't disassemble things on the spot? Beside, I need to check out the mechanics of this thing. It's not a model I've come across before."

"I trust that you, for the most part, know what you're doing?"

"Pretty much. I'd at least want to install a GPS device, so I don't lose track of you. And don't worry, it would be untraceable, unless of course your Mafia goons also carry around tools and make a habit of taking things apart."

"No, I don't believe they do." Mello's head tilted slightly to the side. "What do you keep in those pockets, anyway?"

"Well, you saw the cigarettes, the tools, and my games. I also carry emergency rations, basic first aid…"

"Preparing for the Apocalypse, are we?"

"Pretty much. Or if I ever need to set out on an epic quest."

"Geek," Mello chuckled. "Is there a way, possibly, that you could put yourself in my phone as some kind of speed dial that won't come up in the regular address book?"

"Sure, but that's gonna take bypassing the normal interface of your phone, and the GPS isn't something I can do without the supplies I have back at my apartment."

"Meaning that you need to take it with you."

"Exactly."

Mello grunted slightly, and his pale brow-line furrowed under his bangs. "Not today," he sighed with a shake of his head that rustled his hair. "I'll have to get back, soon, and I'm afraid I can't go without a phone, as I'm expected to do a lot of the communication for the group."

"Well, then what are we going to do? I'm sure as hell not letting you get away from me again, that's for sure."

"We'll meet. This Friday, Rod--one of the leaders…the one who helped me to get where I am, and a dangerous man--will be out with a number of the other men, making a trade with one of the Italian mob groups. I am not going to be involved, and I'll be free to slink around on my own without interference from Rod, who is one of the few who would have the balls to question me. We'll meet then."

"Here?"

"At 2PM, sharp. Sound reasonable?"

"As long as you don't go and get yourself killed before then."

"Haven't died yet, have I? Don't plan on doing so anytime soon."

"I hope you're right." Matt smiled; a kind of soft, sad smile that seemed very reminiscent of ones he and Mello had shared as boys. "It's nice to see you, Mello. You have no idea, man. I honestly never thought I would again, after I left. I almost keep thinking I'm gonna wake up from some kind of cruel dream…it's so unreal, you know? Especially how we met up…almost like it's too convenient…"

"Now, we wonder why you would dream about me all decked out in leather." The blond drawled out teasingly, absently waving a hand through the air.

Matt's smile broadened into a true smirk at that. "Shut up, you."

Something about the back of the café seemed to have gotten stifling; claustrophobic like old and awkward times, but when the waitress brought the check, Matt hurriedly started searching in his pockets again for cash in a successful attempt to break the tension. As quickly as the strange feeling had come, it had gone again, like it had never been there at all.

"Don't bother," Mello said offhandedly. "I'll cover it." He pulled out his wallet, flipping through an impressive stack of bills. "12.27, was it? I think a 20 will suffice. Keep the change."

As the waitress smiled and walked off, Matt stared at his friend. "That was…generous."

"That was nothing. I could have given her 50 just as easily and not broken a sweat. There are certain…perks to being where I am, and trust me when I say it's money that I feel no guilt about getting off of my hands as quickly as possible."

Thinking of the undertones and implications of what Mello had said, Matt could only reply with a slightly uncomfortable "…Oh."

"Don't give me that," Mello hissed. "Your hands aren't perfectly clean, either, I'm sure. Beside, you know why I did what I did. I don't feel I should have to justify myself."

"And yet, you sound so defensive."

Whereas the air had grown stifling with heat before, it was a sudden chill that had taken over this time, as if a cold front had hit them, hard and unforgiving. "I'll see you on Friday," Mello replied darkly.

"Harsh," was all Matt said to that.

The blond set his elbows on the table's edge, and his head in his hands. He spoke into his own chest, again breaking the tension. Both men suddenly got the strange impression that time was moving at twice normal speed, every emotion possible racing through their minds at once, to make up for all of the time and feelings that they had lost in their years apart. "It's not only that…I actually do need to get going." He sighed, and Matt noticed that he sounded tired.

"Are you okay, man?" the redhead chanced, his voice barely above a whisper.

"No, not since L died, but I get by."

Matt stood and walked around the table, holding a hand out for Mello to take. "We'll find and catch Kira, and then it'll be better, right?"

Mello looked up, and then stood, grasping his companion's offering of comfort and swinging his other arm around the redhead's neck in a kind of hug, setting his chin on a striped shoulder. "I suppose."

Matt mirrored the other man's actions almost subconsciously. He didn't have to talk loudly at all for Mello to hear him. "I'm sorry I keep getting on your ass. It's just…it's not everybody who can say someone they've known since they were seven grew up to be in the Mafia."

Matt could feel the sly smile that formed by his neck. "Hey, I thought you, of all people, would be impressed by that. It's like one of your gory action games, with a sexy Mafia protagonist with great style and a sparkling personality."

Matt raised one brow, and one corner of his mouth curled up to match. "Right, Mello."

Mello broke the hug, putting his jacket and sunglasses back on and recomposing himself with a slight cough. "We'll talk on Friday. Two-o-clock, and not a minute later, right?"

"I'll be early."

Neither man said a goodbye. Mello smiled, barely visible and lightening-quick under his feathers, and Matt nodded back with a bit of a smirk. Mello turned and walked away, his hair and coat swishing around him in a subtly graceful manner as he did.

Matt watched him go, unsure of which of the countless emotions he was feeling was the cause of the knot that formed in his stomach; unsure whether any of it was really there at all, just as he couldn't help but to doubt, still, that his meeting with his friend had been real.

Mello, too, felt strangely fazed by the encounter. He couldn't help but to be still caught in disbelief as well; both elated and, in a strange way, angered that someone he had spent what had seemed like far too long convincing himself was left behind in his life, never to be seen again, had suddenly reappeared with no warning and no going back.

For a cruel moment, Mello considered standing Matt up that Friday, unsure whether he'd be able to take meeting up with the man again. Hearing Matt chide him for his actions…being judged so harshly by his best friend when he'd already judged himself a thousand times before…hurt. But while a part of him wanted to shut Matt off completely--save himself from scolding glances that seemed so much worse, somehow, than his own glares in the mirror…and more, to save Matt from falling into sin like he had--seeing Matt again made Mello realize, more than ever, that he needed the friendship that the redhead had given him, and knew that, Friday, come 2PM, he would be in the café again, drinking hot cocoa across from the only man who had ever lived for him.

It was Thursday when the implications of the day to come set in. When Mello had left the Wammy's House, he had set out to live his life alone. When Jack had died and he had left Lee behind, he had made a vow to never again take and hurt a friend. Yet, the next day, he would go back to Matt, his very first friend, and he would, he knew, live to return the favor that the redhead had given him so many times before.

It was this, perhaps, that led Mello to search the CIA records for his only other living friend, realizing, more than ever, that he was still a lonely, lanky teenager caught up in something so much bigger than himself, and that he couldn't leave behind his past forever.

When he found the number, and he called it, he had almost-hoped that Lee would not pick up, but her voice rang clear and painfully familiar over the line, "Hello? Who is this?"

"Do not react to this call," replied Mello, his voice scrambled and strange, "and calmly go somewhere private."

He heard Lee excuse herself politely in the background, and then she came back over the line clearly, curiosity and fear lacing her voice. "What is this? Who are you, and what do you want with me?"

"Are you alone?"

"Yes. I know better than to test the orders of a person I know nothing about. For all I know, you could be watching me right now, and if I were to lie to you…"

"Good. It's been a long time, Lee."

The voice of the woman was strained. "Nobody has called me that in a very long time. I ask again, who are you?"

The scrambler went off with a click. "My apologies for calling you under such strange circumstances, but I can't afford to take any risks..

"Mel…"

"Shhh," Mello hissed calmly and comfortingly. "As I said, I am not in a position where I can risk exposure, so please don't call me by name, or if you must, act like you are talking to your brother. I just want to speak to you."

"I haven't heard from you in ages…You ran away! You betrayed me, and you left me behind! To go where? This…position you're in…I send people like you to prison, where you become nothing but targets for Kira!"

"Lee, calm down. I'm calling you to make amends…to ask for your mutual help in finding Kira."

"That's not my name anymore!" the woman snarled. "The real Adrian called me that, and so did a boy, once, who reminded me of him, but, as far as I'm concerned, the both of them are dead."

"Fine," Mello snapped back over the line. "Forget all of that, forget the boy you knew--God knows I've been trying to forget you--but I ask for the favor that you at least try and forgive me long enough that we can work together. I know it's a lot to ask, and I know, even more, that I don't deserve the trust it would take for you to be able to do this, but you can't deny that Kira needs to be stopped, and it may take working on both sides of the law to do it; you on one side, and me on the other."

"Hal," was all that Lee said to that.

"What?"

"They call me Hal, now. I had to take an alias, and I couldn't go as Lee…not when there were people in the world, like you, who knew me by that name, so I took the last name of Lidner, and used the other half of my real first name. Halle. Hal, and Lee." Mello could hear the almost aloof, musing tone of the next statement. "So simple."

"Thank you." Mello was reassured by the admission, too, knowing that the woman's new name was most likely classified information and, because of that fact, that she wouldn't be able to tell him so easily if the call had been tapped.

Hal's voice was very quiet, but she went on, slowly and carefully. "I'm working for a special forces group, now, after having done work in both the CIA and Secret Service. They call it the SPK, or Special Provision for Kira. They picked me because I had the type of world experience they needed."

"You've come a long way. Congratulations."

The woman simply hummed at that, slight and barely noticeable.

"Listen…Hal, we need to make this quick, to avoid raising too much suspicion. Where are you right now?"

"I'm in the restroom. It is a single restroom with a lock and thick walls. I excused myself from the dinner I was having with some coworkers, and came here."

"Very good. What I need from you is any information you have on Kira. You said that you are working for a specialized group set on capturing him, so it is likely that you have information that I do not. Especially important is any information you may have regarding how he kills his victims."

"You said that we are going to trade. What do you have in return?"

"I doubtless have no knowledge that you lack. The men I've been working with and I have been caught in a kind of hold, and cannot move on further until we have something new. I, however, have no regulations preventing me from taking action with that information. You give me what I need, and I will acquire the murder weapon."

"You sound very certain of yourself."

"I am."

Hal's end of the line went almost-silent for a while after that, with heavy breathing as the only sound coming over the phone. When she continued, she sounded unsure, and a little afraid. "If I give you this information, it will compromise my job and more if somebody finds out. On the other hand, though, we have information that we, so far, have been able to do absolutely nothing with, and you have the strength to do something, but have no clue what it is that needs to be done."

"Exactly."

"If we work together, there's a chance that we could catch Kira."

"Yes."

"There's still one problem, though."

"And that is?"

"I joined the government to fight against the evils in our world, and you are now a part of those evils."

"I am perfectly aware of that, thank you, Hal," Mello sneered, darkly. "But sometimes it takes picking sides with the lesser evil to take the even greater one down. I learned that from somebody I admired very much, who had contacts with a lot of shady people, including con artists and thieves. Even the government that you work for, often times, has to dirty their hands to accomplish their goals." Mello's voice grew deadly serious. "Hal, you have to give me the information. If you do that, I will make sure that absolutely no one finds out that you were involved."

"What if I don't?"

The voice of the blond was unwavering, cold, and merciless. "Then I will have to take action to acquire what you have, without your consent."

"Would you really be able to do that?"

"If you are asking about my abilities, I assure you that it would be no problem getting what I need. If you are asking about what I am willing to do, even if that means taking drastic measures against a friend…Yes, I would be willing to hurt or even kill you if it meant getting closer to stopping Kira, as much as I would prefer to not have to go that far."

On Hal's end of the line, though Mello couldn't hear any of it, she leaned against the wall, her hand gripping her cell phone to her face, shaking in the realization that Mello--someone so much younger than herself, and someone she had trusted, once--had grown so brutally committed to vengeance. She wondered, then, what it was that was driving him. He had mentioned, once, about someone that Kira had killed, and she suddenly regretted not having asked him more about it. She realized, too, how vulnerable she was. She had opened herself up completely to the boy, and told him about everything in her life that she felt had truly mattered, and yet she knew so little about him. Now, if she didn't tell him more, and compromise everything she had worked so hard to attain, he wouldn't hesitate to kill her, and she'd be forced to fight back, or die.

Mello had lived far too much for his age.

"It's a notebook."

"What?" Mello quipped back, genuinely puzzled.

"Kira. It sounds crazy, and I didn't believe it at first, but he kills with a notebook. The leader of my group has all of the records from the detective who worked on the Kira case in the beginning. That detective, L, was killed by Kira, even though that fact was kept from the eye of the public. The leader of my group is the true heir to L."

It was Mello's turn to clutch at his phone, and his eyes went wide in shock. He remained quiet, though. It would do no good to reveal that he had known L. It would do even less good, as much as it pained him not to be able to scream at the realization, to reveal that he now knew who headed the SPK...at who now had Hal under his wing, and who was living under a title that he, himself would have shared had he have not given it up. It would only raise suspicion. "Go on," he said, trying to keep all emotion out of his voice.

"L found that there were at least two, and more likely, three Kiras over the course of the investigation, and that Kira's power could be passed on to whoever had possession of the notebook. The man L thought to be the third Kira was captured, and the notebook taken by the Japanese police. L suspected that there was still at least one more notebook in the world, and by the fact that he died not long after, in a manner that matched Kira's other killings, we can assume that he was right. To kill, one only has to write a person's name in the notebook, while picturing his or her face."

Mello was, by this time, pacing around his room at the hideout, clutching his cell phone in one hand with almost force enough to break it, running the other hand through his hair fitfully, and worrying a chocolate bar between his teeth. All Hal heard of any of this was the grinding sound coming across the line that she assumed was static, mixed with slightly muffled spats of, "Ridiculous. Absolutely fucking ridiculous." When the last of the chocolate bar had disappeared too fast for Mello's liking, he found that he was grinding his teeth instead, and chose to try and calm down enough to put together a proper response. "I'm finding it very hard to comprehend the idea of a notebook being able to kill people, but I am going to assume, for your sake, that you're not lying to me. If you were going to lie, I'd at least hope you'd do a better job of it."

"I'm not lying. I told you, I couldn't believe it at first, either, but if you want, I'm sure there's a way I could arrange to send you part of L's records as proof."

"It'd be very hard to assure the validity of the records, but, yes, I would appreciate that. You say that the Japanese police have possession of one of the notebooks?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Hal. That's exactly what I needed."

Mello hung up before Hal even had the chance to respond.

Before Mello's mind even had the time to process what he was doing, he was looking up any information he could find on the SPK.

It was too easy.

By the next day, the plan was already set.

At exactly 1:48 on Friday afternoon, Matt was sitting expectantly at the very back table of the café where he and Mello had agreed to meet. He noticed himself chewing absently on another burnt-out filter, and threw the thing in the ashtray with the others before lighting up his fourth since he'd arrived. He wasn't quite sure why he was so nervous, or why the usually calming act of smoking wasn't helping like it should have been.

He tried ordering his coffee early, instead, and figured that getting Mello's hot chocolate for him wouldn't hurt, either.

That just made everything worse, and he wasn't quite sure why.

Matt settled, instead, on staring languidly after the bum of one of the passing waitresses. The skirt of her uniform wasn't the most flattering he'd seen, but she was well-built enough that she could pull it off alright. The next that passed, one of a customer this time, wasn't nearly as nice, though her pants were fairly snug and it was easier to discern a form. When Matt noticed the stroller being pushed along in front of her, it was a little more obvious why, and he moved on.

Waiter. No.

The next was a barely covered thing on a skinny young girl that probably shouldn't have been wearing a miniskirt and a thong, and whose hand kept trying to pull the fabric down. After that came a pair of thin, swishing hips covered by fairly baggy jeans and bordered on the top by a stripe of exposed chocolate (Matt had to shake off thoughts of Mello with the internal mention of "chocolate") skin. Next to the hips were a pair of interlaced hands and what seemed to be the girl's boyfriend. They were extremely close together, like new lovers.

It may have seemed base and chauvinistic, but Matt had realized a while back that asses said a lot about the people who wore them. His goggles took away any peripheral vision he had, so he never looked at faces when he practiced his strange brand of people-watching. It wasn't just butts he did it with, though. One time, he tried feet, and found all sorts of interesting shoes and shuffling and strange gaits. Once, he tried to concentrate on hands alone, but found that it was hard with other body parts in the way. Shoulders tended to be interesting, and often had the added benefit of having breasts in their range of sight.

The next ass that walked into the door was far enough away to show that there were no breasts to accompany it, even though its movements were distinctly feminine, and the leather hugged the skin just closely enough to show off what was admittedly the hottest bum in the room, when the man who owned it turned toward the hostess.

Oh, God.

Matt put his head in his hands and groaned, in disbelief that he had just allowed himself a moment to ogle his best friend. It wasn't as if it meant anything, though. He and Mello had always been close, and it wasn't unheard of for close friends to allow themselves indulgences they wouldn't normally even think to allow with others.

Beside, it wasn't his fault that Mello happened to have started dressing in a way that invited stares. Matt peeked out between his fingers at others in the room. It made him feel a bit better that even that girl and her boyfriend seemed to be staring.

He hid his face as the blond walked over.

Matt could feel Mello leaning over him.

"What are you hiding from, Matt? It isn't as if covering your eyes so you can't see me makes you invisible. Most children learn that at about the age of five. I'm very disappointed in you. Some genius you are."

"Mello, may I ask you a serious question?"

"Hm?"

"Why…that? The get-up?" The redhead flailed a little, running his finger up and down in a frantic line through the air.

When Matt looked up, he was extremely glad that he was the one Mello was talking to, since the other man had leaned over the table toward him, giving everyone behind him a pointedly admirable view. Mello was giving him one of those smarmy smiles of his, waiting for a reaction.

Matt just kind of pouted at him.

"You're cute, Matt," Mello said jokingly, poking at the redhead's forehead with one gloved finger. "I apologize if my appearance startled you. I know it's not something you're used to seeing from me, but I assure you that it's rather beneficial in my line of work. Shock is a great tool for getting things out of people. Information, loyalty…"

"I see."

Mello leaned in closer, and drawled out, "So, are you loyal yet?"

Matt backed into his vest, a little like a turtle receding into its shell. "Sit down, Mello, and stop hassling me. You're kind of freaking me out."

"There's no time to sit, I'm afraid. In fact, I need you to get up, and follow me."

"But…but, I got you cocoa," Matt murmured, gesturing to the cup a little pathetically.

The blond slammed one hand on the surface--which caused Matt to flinch a little--and picked up the mug and downed its contents in one gulp.

"Up," Mello commanded. "I need to talk to you without interference. I have a room lined up down the street."

"At the hotel?"

"Yes. Now, up."

Matt thought to make a witty quip, but decided better of it when he saw the impatient and deadpan stare he was receiving. Instead, he finished his coffee, dropped the filter of his cigarette in the ashtray, and watched Mello throw a twenty haphazardly onto the table and start to walk off, before he chanced to try following.

"You're awfully tetchy today," the redhead dared to say.

"I'll explain in a moment."

"Mmm-hmm," was all Matt said back.

They checked in with barely a word, and none between them, and when they found their room, Mello let Matt in, and then closed the auto-locking door behind them, leaning against it.

The redhead was about to open his mouth to say something, but didn't get the chance.

"I fucking hate Near," Mello spat.

"Oh," Matt said, knowingly, "So that's what's got your panties in a bunch." He sat down on the bed and peered around the entry corner to where Mello was sulking. "We're out of Wammy's, so why are you so worried about the guy anyway? It's not like you're still fighting him to take L's place, right? Didn't that already get taken care of?"

"Only because I gave it to him."

"Right, because he really couldn't have done it on his own?" The redhead sighed.

Mello pushed off of the door and stormed farther into the room, stopping dangerously close to where Matt was sitting, hovering over the redhead like he was about to strike him.

"Go ahead, Mello. Hit me. I was just hoping that your little rivalry would have ended by now."

Mello shoved Matt back on the bed, leaning down as far as he could in a position of utter dominance. The younger found his face heating up, though he didn't want to try and figure out why. Mello almost growled. "I thought it was, too. For a little while, there, I had hoped I could be rid of him, but no. He had to go and get her involved."

"Who? Near steal your girlfriend or something?"

The blond scoffed. "Halle Bullook. She was in the gang I joined after I left Wammy's. I used her to get over here, because she wanted to work for the government. And now, she's in Near's group."

"So," Matt drawled up, almost tauntingly, "basically, you let go of an ally, and Near snatched her up?"

Mello leaned down even farther, pressing his nose against Matt's, his glare deadly, as if a warning for the redhead to stop talking.

"Did he do it on purpose, even, or is it just your paranoia thinking the world's against you again?" Matt growled back, pushing his nose back up against the pointed one above him, crushing them both almost painfully.

"Fuck you," Mello growled, and then it seemed for a moment that it was over, because the blond had pushed himself up with an angry snarl.

He didn't get far.

Mello had gone from dangerously enraged, to something almost, but not quite akin to fear. His eyes had gone wide, his body stiffened. He stared down at Matt, frozen and afraid to move, the anger not quite faded from his eyes, but somewhat hidden under his tense surprise.

Matt sat up slowly, but his grip on the rosary tightened. He tugged lightly, and Mello followed the lead, unwilling to let extra pressure be put on the beaded strand. "You wouldn't," was all the blond said.

Matt tugged again, drawing Mello farther toward him. The blond stumbled, his body arched forward, one hand on Matt's shoulder to steady himself. Mello was hovering again, but it was Matt who had the control, although the redhead found a shiver escaping down his spine, in looking at his friend's stance.

Mello didn't move.

The redhead found his mind reeling, and then going suddenly blank, as a computer on automatic shutdown to protect him from some invisible virus. His hand unfurled of its own accord, and Mello backed up quickly, his hand clutching his rosary, his breath heavy as the gloved fingers ran up and down from his throat to his chest, like a man feeling for finger imprints after being choked.

"You're right. I wouldn't," Matt said, his voice and his expression empty, and it took a moment before he realized his arm was still hanging in midair, and he let it drop to the bed.

Mello internally cursed his rosary for presenting him with such an obvious and accessible weakness, and then decided better of it, and cursed himself with a sigh instead. Realizing that Matt was the only one who knew the rosary's importance to Mello well enough to think of that attack was strangely humbling, and he walked to the bed and sat down with a huff next to the other man. The two glanced at each other, and a bit of a silent apology could be read between them to anyone keen enough to look for it, and then they both stared down at their knees.

"I don't see how he could have possibly known," said the older, still running his hands over the rosary beads. "That's what's really getting me."

"How do you figure? Couldn't she have let it slip that she knows you? Could Near have sought that out in her?" Matt almost set a hand on Mello's shoulder, but wasn't sure how the blond would react, and let the hand hover inches above the man, instead. "Hey, listen. I'm sorry I was being an ass about the whole Near thing. That's some shit, him showing up like that again."

"Yeah." Mello, feeling Matt's hand close to him, chuckled. "You can touch me, you know. I'm not going to kill you if you do. Just because I'm in the Mafia now doesn't mean I've turned into a completely different person."

Feeling Matt's hand rest on his shoulder-blade, Mello relaxed.

He continued. "If Hal had let slip that she knew me, somebody would have asked how. Hal's relationship with me could have gotten her into a lot of trouble."

"Why's it so bad? She an older lady? Statutory or something like that?"

Mello went quite silent, closed his eyes for a second, and then leaned his head over to glare at Matt incredulously. "Not that kind of relationship, Matt."

Matt laughed. "You sound almost offended. She ugly?"

"No…she's…" Mello groaned, putting his head in his hands with a chuckle. "You're getting me off-subject."

Matt's laughter got harder. "Okay, okay, I'll stop! Go on."

"Hal got into America by plane and some old money she'd been saving up. She got me in, too, by smuggling me in as her little brother."

"Whoa, didn't you say she was working for the government, now?"

"Exactly. Her record isn't exactly clean, and if anybody were to find out about me, she would doubtless face strong repercussions. I know she tried to keep it a secret, because she didn't go very deeply into the law enforcement to find me when I ran away. I left while she was at work one day, and as I knew she would go looking for me, I tracked her search progress, deleting any trace of my information in the system. She had no pictures of me, however, since I took my passport with me and destroyed it when I left. She never went above the local level, because any more was too much of a risk and, even then, she hid the progress under aliases and false claims. Halle Bullook is not a stupid woman."

"So I see," Matt said, seeming rather impressed. "She's pretty ballsy, too, doing something so illegal and then applying for a government position. I can see why you took a liking to her." The redhead mused to himself. "Her brother, huh? Well, if she looks anything like you, she can't be ugly. In fact, she's doubtless pretty hot…"

Mello stared, pulling a chocolate bar out of one pocket and taking a bite. Matt noticed the silence, and stared back. Mello cocked a brow at him.

The blond kept staring, but he pulled his phone from his pocket and held it out for Matt to take. The redhead took it with a nervous chuckle. "Uhm, what did I say I was gonna do to this, again? GPS and a speed-dial to me, yes?"

Mello nodded, taking another bite of his chocolate, and Matt suddenly wondered if he was holding it in his slightly-pursed lips and then twirling it around his mouth just so on purpose. 'He does this for a living,' Matt reminded himself. 'And what Mello does, he does well.'

Said lips decided to speak again, and Matt looked from them to the eyes above, which seemed to be following his gaze. "Do you still need to take the phone home? If so, I will simply wait here in the room until you return."

"No…no, I'm good. Equipment. Pockets. Since I knew I'd need it this time, you know."

"I was hoping you would say that." The blond's tone shifted into delegation. "Matt, I'm going to ask you a few favors, if that's alright?"

"Shoot." The younger started to pull things from his pocket, many of them nearly-microscopic pieces of equipment in small boxes that Mello realized had to have cost good money--most likely not honest money--to get a hold on, though he didn't say anything about it. Who was he to judge his friend? Matt took off his gloves and began work immediately.

"I found from Hal that a Kira taskforce within the Japanese police has one of the weapons that Kira uses to kill. Would you be able to hack them and keep a track of their information for me, and send me anything you find? Be sure to stay anonymous, though. I'll know it's you."

"Yeah. Can-do. Do you need me to get into Near's group for you?"

"No, I already have that taken care of. I've gone behind Near's back, and Hal's, and acquired a different spy within the ranks. I cross-checked the information that Hal gave me, and it all cleared. To keep Hal safe, I have been using this spy, instead of her, to get what I need."

Matt nodded, but was otherwise concentrating on his work. "Good deal. I'll get you the first thing on the Japanese police ASAP. What am I looking for?"

"A notebook."

"…" Matt paused in his work for just the slightest moment, and then went back to it, trying not to be phased.

"I'm serious."

"I believe you. It's just hard to get my head around."

"I know."

"But at least it's not so hard to see why they didn't think of it earlier."

Mello chuckled, and that was that.

"How's it used? The notebook."

"You write a person's name in it, while imagining his or her face."

"A bit too simple for comfort. That's some creepy shit. Wonder how Kira managed to get a hold of that one."

"I don't think I want to know where he got it." Mello shook his head. "Especially not considering there are supposed to be more than one. I don't want to think that these things could be mass-produced. Too easy to get into the wrong hands."

"No kidding."

Mello watched Matt finish putting in the tiny GPS with an equally tiny soldering iron and tweezers, and then put the pieces of the phone back together, though he didn't fully reassemble the casing. He then pulled out what looked to be a PDA with a small keyboard attached to it, and hooked it directly into the phone's circuitry as he turned both electronics on. He began to type rapidly into the PDA.

"You don't mind my watching you over your shoulder, do you? It's interesting to see you work."

Matt chuckled. "You're interested in what I'm doing? What is it? The Two wants to take notes from the Number Three?"

Mello smacked the redhead's shoulder lightly. "It isn't that. I just like to see your style."

The younger smirked at that, and continued to work. His body almost locked up, but he stopped himself from reacting too much when Mello climbed up fully behind him and set his chin on his shoulder.

"Getting nostalgic, are we?" Matt asked playfully.

Mello wrapped his arms around Matt's midsection, and nodded into his shoulder. "I can almost imagine we're back home, like this."

"You still think of it as home, too, huh? I'm glad I'm not the only one."

It almost felt wrong to be there, Mello thought to himself, feeling the hard leather in between his body and Matt's back; feeling the weight of the still-unloaded Beretta in the lining of his jacket. There was something wonderful about it, in the warmth and the childlike comfort of it all, but it was wrong of him--he wasn't sure if it was because he was enjoying, too much, the feeling of Matt against him, or because he had started, suddenly, to truly hate his task and to want to leave it all behind for this simplicity--and when Matt stopped typing on the PDA, and he closed the casing of the phone and handed it back to the blond's hands on his stomach, the touch of the electronic was a reminder of everything he had to lose if he gave up, and his body stiffened into Matt's, erasing the comfort and the feeling of Home.

He stood without a word, and Matt, who had shivered at the touch, did so doubly at its absence.

"The number's 6288," the redhead said quietly, pointing to the phone.

"That's just your name. M.A.T.T."

"Hey, I'm going for simple, but effective. It's not as if it's anywhere but in your head, and not like they know who I am. I have it programmed to not show up in your dialed calls list if you lose it, anyway, so it's completely untraceable…" Matt smirked, "and really easy to remember."

The blond simply nodded, and then everything changed.

Mello's face had gone expressionless, his body taking a purposely domineering pose that looked foreign to the green eyes watching it, and he replied in a cold voice, his natural accent almost hidden under a layer of cold, careful control, "I should go now."

There wasn't a "goodbye". Not a single trace of friendship left in the blond's eyes, and it frightened Matt a little to know that this was doubtless the look Mello gave to the men in the Mafia.

The look was terrifying. Suddenly, his Mello from Wammy's that didn't look right in the leathers and the feathers was gone, replaced with a man with such confidence and such a frightening amount of power in his eyes that Matt had to look away to not shy away from him. Mello looked like a man who could kill. Mello looked like a man who could manipulate without blinking. Mello looked like a man who could bring you to your knees and make you beg for mercy.

Mello fit into everything on his body, now, with such ease…everything but the rosary he'd worn since he was six and that was more a part of him than any of it.

It was that rosary which gave Matt the courage to look at him again. The knowledge that the beads and the crucifix and everything that they stood for were still there, and still just as important as they'd always been--important enough to stop the blond dead in his tracks when they were threatened--was what let Matt stop him from just leaving.

At the light touch on his arm, it was all gone again, and Mello couldn't help but to soften.

"One more thing, before you go," said Matt, very quietly. "I don't know when I'm gonna get to see you again. A part of me that I wish would go away keeps reminding me that you could die anytime, and that I may never get to, and this is something I think needs to be said."

"Alright," was Mello's short reply, but the harshness really had slipped away.

"I know this is dangerous, but if you're Kira, I'd rather you kill me, because I wouldn't want to take it. It's dangerous, but it needs to be said."

"What is it, Matt?"

"It's always kind of upset me, Mello, that Wammy…No, Watari--I don't think he has the right to have what he denied us--never let us use our real names. It's as if our real names died when our parents did."

"You want to know my name."

"You don't have to tell me, if you're afraid, or if you just don't want to…but I…I wanna tell you mine."

Mello's shoulders relaxed, and he allowed himself a smile.

Matt sighed. "It's Mail. My real name's Mail Jeevas." He seemed to sink into himself a little. "I know it's a funny name, but…"

"Thank you."

Matt smiled back at the shy one Mello was giving him, and seemed to expect the older man to leave, but he didn't.

"My real name is Mello," said the blond. "As far as I'm concerned, Wammy was right. My original name practically did die with my parents. L gave me that name. You called me that name all through our childhood. It's as much my name as the one that was on the birth certificate they burned when I came to the House."

Matt's eyes went a little sad at that, but he nodded, understanding.

"My parents, however, named me Mihael, and though the little boy with that name hurts to think about sometimes…he's really never left me. Mihael Keehl…that was his name."

"Mihael…" The name came out almost breathless on the redhead's tongue. "Mihael Keehl," as if he were testing it; feeling it.

Mello leaned in, grasping the redhead's shoulders and whispering into his ear. It was actually more intimidating than it was friendly, and Matt got a glimpse of a mental image of Mello shooting him in the foot.

"I will call you as soon as I am next able," Mello said, his breath ghosting over Matt's ear. "Always keep your phone on. Assume that I could call at any time."

"Right. What about when you do call?" the hacker whispered back, the position putting him right in Mello's hearing, too.

"When I do, you will give me a cut-and-dry report on your progress, and nothing more. When we are done speaking, you may save my number into your phone so that it registers as me when I call, but does not show up otherwise in the phone. You will never use this number to call me back. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"When I have the information I need from you, it will no longer be safe to call you, until our plans are followed through."

Matt didn't reply to that.

"I'm sorry, Matt. Thank you for doing this."

"Yeah." The younger gulped a little. "I am gonna see you again, right?"

"Once we catch Kira, I'm going to get out of all of this, and I'll come find you."

Matt's head dropped, and his face buried itself in the crook of Mello's neck. "You had better," was what the redhead murmured back to that, and he could feel Mello squeeze his shoulders lightly before pulling away.

"I'll see you soon, Mail Jeevas."

And he was gone.