Chapter Text
Tribute
To the entire Meronia fandom and community
Past, present and future.
For over 14 years you have kept me,
And given me a space I can always return to; a home.
For you, I hope to always do the same.
Chapter 1: Yellow Budgies
Beyond stark white cinderblock walls, cool morning rain pelted the exterior glass and stone confinement. In the distance, a gentle rumble of thunder permeated the quiet office space enclosing the two individuals: a broken child genius turned failed Mafia member… and his assigned psychologist. The two sat silent, separated not only by the thick, dark wood desk between them, but by a lifetime’s worth of differing experiences.
On one side, dull blue eyes were transfixed upon the outside world, a silent plea to the overcast heavens that he may perhaps spot just a shimmer of cerulean peeking through… Anything to give even the barest of hopes that he may be permitted the chance to temporarily escape his cement cage today; to feel the warmth of the sun upon his skin and let life itself seep back into his cold, blue veins.
The steady taps of rain against glass was its only response.
Mello’s gaze and any harbored, lingering hopes fell away from the window, his attention shifting back to the office space lit only by the diffuse outside light. Across from the window, hung a framed painting depicting various birds taking flight out from a grassy marsh into a pale beige sky. ‘Strange…’ He considered to himself. From his position, the artwork seemed to represent the flight of prisoners, including himself, out of the shackles of mud up into freedom.
Yet, what awaited them there was the polluted air of a society which no longer wanted, nor valued their very existence.
“Mello?” The calm, careful voice of his designated psychologist, Dr. Thompson, tugged his thoughts away from the painting and back to the front of the room. She sat on the opposite side of the desk from him, her umber hands folded neatly together, long box braids pulled tight into a bun on the top of her head.
Sharp, hazel eyes threw a concerned expression his way. “Do you know why I asked to meet today?” She asked, pointed, but choosing each word in a deliberate, calculated manner.
He reached up to push back a loose strand of hair from his face, the cold, unrelenting metal of handcuffs clasped around his wrists clanging together as he did so. “It’s a check-in.” He stated curtly. “Every four to six months you have me come here and ask how I’m doing. I tell you everything is fine; that I’m no closer to killing myself than I was the last time we spoke. You write that down in my ever-growing file so that, in the event I ever do kill myself, the prison system is adequately insured they can cover their own asses. After that, we go our separate ways once more.” He inhaled a heavy breath, muddy blue eyes temporarily closing. “Rinse and repeat, ad nauseum, into infinity.”
The doctor’s hands readjusted together on the top of the desk, her gaze momentarily falling to them before they reaffixed back onto the blonde. The two lapse back into silence and for just a half second Mello allows himself the freedom to hope his brazen disposition will deter her from continuing their trite performance.
“So,” when she speaks, he rolls his eyes, hope dashed, “how are you doing, Mello?” Her tone was just as even and deliberate as before. “How are you really?” She picked up a pen lying beside the open file as she posed the question. Mello watched it scrape thin black lines against the paper. Within that file lay his entire existence inside this penitentiary… boiled down to simple progress notes that would eventually be filed away into the back of some closet, forgotten about by the ever-turning world. Much like the rest of his existence.
“I don’t have trust issues.” Her writing stopped, hazel eyes flicking up to him. “That’s what you wrote.”
“Yet you read my writing upside down.” She placed the pen down and folded her hands together, this time flat over the file.
“I’m fine.” Mello spat in response, entirely unbothered by the fact that his response was in no way convincing now that he had shown his hand –that he knew the game being played between them. “Everything is perfectly fine. Same as it was four months ago, and same as it will be four months from now.”
Dr. Thompson exhaled a weary sigh, her shoulders dropping just a touch. But when her pointed gaze returned from the partially blocked file back up to Mello, he knew he was still caught beneath her microscope. “It’s been eight years since you arrived here, Mello.”
“Since I was locked up in prison, you mean.” He grumbled.
“In that span of time,” her cadence never broke, her approach with him this time indifferent to his assertions. “What sort of things would you say you’ve accomplished? What have you done?”
‘Is that where we’re going with this?’ Mello momentarily considered, his look melding into confusion before the façade of his brash disposition was reaffixed back into place. “What sort of question is that? I was sentenced to fifty years in prison. That might as well be a life sentence. When you eventually retire from this career, I’ll still be trapped, rotting away within these walls. What ‘accomplishments’ could there possibly be for someone like me?” Any suggestions or ideas she had would exist merely as a means of passing the time… a contrived form of enrichment for the prison’s captive birds.
“What’s the highest level of education you've received?”
Mello’s muscles tensed beneath the weight of such a question. ‘I could just walk out…’ He considered. A week, even two weeks, locked away in the SHU for insubordination may actually be preferable to answering these kinds of questions. Then again… if he gave the doctor the information she wanted, played into the game just a bit, perhaps these matters could be settled once and for all. His stare slid over to the rain hitting the glass window. “My formal education stopped when I was 15…”
Dr. Thompson leaned forward, “You know, this institution has a wonderful GED program. Getting a high school diploma could really-”
“Could what? What exactly would you like me to do with a GED?” Mello interrupted, frustrated by the mere assertion, “Does having that degree make it somehow more likely that I receive parole when I’m eligible in another ten years?” Her silence was the only answer he needed. He shook his head, “I speak three languages fluently, and I’m conversational in at least four others. If you give me a math book and fifteen minutes to review, I’m fairly sure I could still do integral calculus. I don’t need a GED.”
The psychologist sat back, her shoulders readjusted into a firmer stance that said she could not be placated so easily. “Mello…” This time when she spoke, it was softer, a gentle urge for him to listen to what she was trying to tell him. “What I'm trying to get you to see is that although you may have been involved in things which led to your placement here, that’s not the entirety of your story. That doesn’t have to be where it ends. There are still avenues available to you; ways for you to leave a more positive impact than what you have before.”
‘Ah…’ So, that’s what this was. The doctor wanted him to get involved… not because it actually stood to benefit him in any measurable way, but because the sheer action would make him better. ‘Rehabilitation…’ He thought with a roll of his eyes.
Each prisoner locked within this institution were nothing more than budgies with clipped wings stuck within the pet store window. Dr. Thompson’s job, then, was to convince each of them to play with the limited, lackluster enrichment devices the owners had so generously provided.
But even that was nothing more than a farce.
The true intent behind it all was to make each of the little birds look appealing to the grander audience: the watchful eye of the industrial prison system, and to a lesser extent even the gaze of the general public.
After all, who didn’t like a nice, feel-good story on the 7 o’clock news about a prisoner attaining some meager life goal, or making something of themselves while locked safely behind bars, away from the masses?
No doubt Dr. Thompson would continue to tap the glass until he performed.
With another begrudging, frustrated sigh, he indulged her, “So, then… What exactly would you have me do?” He paused for only a moment before adding, “And don’t say getting a GED.”
Mello’s willingness to at least humor the idea of becoming involved in something the prison had to offer seemed to ease her disposition just a touch. She took up her pen once more, sliding the folder closer to her body and sending him a quick, warning glance before jotting down a new note. Afterwards, she leaned back in her chair. “You’re a former member of the Mafia.” It wasn’t a question, but then the glare he sent to her didn’t leave much room for doubt, either way. “Surely there are some transferrable skills that come along with that.”
He nodded, “I’m incredibly good at tracking people down, getting information, and doing away with them afterwards. Not sure those are skills worthy of the resumé.”
The corner of her lips turned up in a humored smirk, “You’re good with people.” She interpreted. “You can use that to your advantage. What’s more, you said you speak three languages. How about starting some kind of language club for the other people?” The other inmates, Mello knew she meant. Though, he supposed calling them ‘people’ in such a conversational manner was a conscious attempt at retaining their dignity, and humanity, in much the same way that referring to budgies as ‘birds’ technically put them in the same category as doves or hawks.
Yet, such verbiage didn’t seem do anything to acknowledge their present state, or what their purpose had mutated into.
“Why bother?” He posed with a shrug, the chain of his handcuffs clinking together as he attempted to cross his arms, only to find that they prevented him from properly doing so. “The prison guards would have it shut down before the flyers were even taped to the wall. They’d probably claim it’s some means of challenging their dominion.” He had to admit, it certainly would be an interesting means of usurping their contrived power.
Dr. Thompson’s lips set into a thin line as a wave of silence washed over them both. When she started again, her tone was far more somber than it had been before, speaking as only a grown adult who has seen far too much from the world could. “You’re almost thirty years old, Mello, and of that you’ve spent almost a decade within these walls. One third of your life.” His gaze fell away, back over to the painting of birds as the heavy, familiar weight of shame sat upon his heart. Whose decision had it been that he remain here? It wasn’t his own, and certainly hadn’t been the impartial scales of the blind eye of justice, either.
“Who is it you want to be?” She asked, “What sort of legacy do you want to leave behind?”
Legacy?
“What sort of question is that?” He replied, an ounce of shattered dreams and old wounds bubbling to the surface. “What legacy could there possibly be for the old world’s runner up; for those of us cast aside, abandoned, and neglected, by the rest of the world?" She temporarily looked down, scribbling a quick note into his file. Yet another dagger plunged into his being. His look soured, "There’s no legacy to be had for a person whose entire life, the very proof that they ever existed in the first place, can be snuffed out simply be clearing the contents of a cinderblock cell. Write that down in the file, too.”
Each word was punctuated by red, hot embers as they escaped his lips, but Dr. Thompson’s demeanor was a cool balm pressed against them, “A person’s legacy doesn’t have to be something wholly physical, Mello. It’s malleable… Ultimately, we can’t fully control what of ourselves will remain, nor how people will choose to remember us… but what we can do is work to assure that what is carried forward into the future is the best that we can do. Someone with your talents has a very unique ability to leave an incredibly powerful legacy, should you choose to. Right now, you’re young and it may seem fruitless. But what'll be left to others to carry forward has already begun to form. What is it you want people to carry on? What part of yourself can you give to others, that will leave some kind of imprint upon the world? Even in a small way.”
Mello remained looking away from her, a bitter taste flooding his mouth. She never fully answered the question… What legacy could there be for someone stuck behind these walls? What could be carried forward when anyone he impacted was likewise stuck within them? Pressing the semantics of the point wasn’t going to appease her, though, “I understand…” He lied.
Her form eased, like pulling off an indifferent mask she’d fastened into place right before engaging him. She carefully closed the file in front of her, “Give the language club some thought.” She suggested, her tone lighter, “After everything you’ve been through and come from, I think being the leader of something would really be a good thing for you.”
His gaze moved back out the side window. From the overcast sky a gentle rain fell, bathing the window as though attempting to wash the inhabitants of their sins. A fruitless endeavor by merciless, cruel deities, to be sure. He exhaled a heavy, disgruntled sigh. “If I tell you I’ll think about it, can we record this meeting as a success and be done for the next four months?”
-:-
Exiting out of the psychologist’s office into just the halls of the institution was like an extrication; like being cut away from the metal stage clips holding him beneath her microscope. Of course, he remained stuck within the maze of cement and steel, perpetually bound beneath the watchful eyes of his owners. But, at least outside of Dr. Thompson’s office he could allow his wings to minimally stretch a bit more.
Entering into the rec room shared by many of the low security prisoners, he rubbed at his wrists, sore from the metal cuffs that had carelessly been fastened far too tight. He made his way over to a table by the window currently free of anyone playing Spades or slamming dominos. The only other occupants of the room were three other inmates crowded around a television that had been tuned to the news.
After taking a seat, cerulean eyes passed over each of the people crowded around the television. For just a moment, he contemplated: Would any of these people actually want to learn Russian from him, or Japanese? There weren’t other inmates at this facility that spoke those languages, nor were there books in the library that they could practice the language with. So, then what benefit could they hope to receive from it beyond merely the the acquisition of a new skill?
He pushed the chair up on its back legs, ruminating on the thought, ‘In any case, it wouldn’t do any of us well to even put the hint of thought into the corrections officers’ minds that we’re using a different language to plot something.’ His eyes rolled. Imbeciles…
“Oh, that’s right…” The gruff voice from one of the inmates watching the news broke into Mello’s ruminations, “I heard about this.”
Mello’s eyes slid away from the window, landing upon the three men huddled around the television just in time to watch one person grab the worn, taped-up remote and turn the volume up a few notches. “Late last night,” the news anchor, a woman in a deep red, sleeveless dress, started, “the body of renowned daytime talk show host Val Taylor’s husband was found dead in their shared home.” As she spoke, a muted clip was played of a woman in her late thirties on a television set stage, speaking towards the crowded audience. “Val and her assistant, Jacob Barron, met police at the home when they arrived, but although resuscitation attempts were made, he was pronounced dead at the scene. At this time, police are investigating and an autopsy will be completed to determine the cause of his death. Her assistant has so far told Press that although Val Taylor is currently undergoing police questioning, at this time she is not being held as a suspect. Her husband-”
“I bet she killed him.” One of the men, a large individual with tattoos adorning both of his exposed arms, spoke up. “Maybe he wanted to divorce her, be with a younger woman or something, and she didn’t want to pay him half of whatever she’s got in the bank.”
As he listened to the speculation, Mello huffed, irritated. He crossed his arms tighter over his chest and slipped a bit lower in his chair, letting it sway further backwards.
“Man, come on… A woman like that?” The second man chimed in from beside the first, the corner of his lips pulling down in a disgruntled scowl. “You know her show is all about fashion and make up, right? How’s a woman like that gonna kill someone just to keep her own money?”
“Fashion’s expensive, man…” The first tried to justify quieter.
The second sucked his teeth, “Nah, it’s never anything interesting like that… I bet the dude just up and had a heart attack or something.” The suggestion sent a momentary wave of silence through the three, the man who had just spoke wincing just slightly. In a post-Kira world, where his existence in the collective consciousness of mankind was not only a possibility, but to many a hopeful inevitability, every heart attack was suspect.
“Idiots…” Mello muttered with a shake of his head, though, in the otherwise silent space, it was a foolish move to make for one who wanted to remain on the outskirts of others’ attention.
“You say somethin’?” The first man, with tattooed arms and brash disposition spoke up, a defensive hitch in his words.
“What I said,” Mello started, never one to back down from a challenge, and even less likely while behind prison walls, “is you’re idiots if you think any of that is what really happened to her husband.”
The men looked at each other, each with a differing expression of frustration with the blonde’s assertion, but also curiosity. “Fine.” The third man, younger and thinner than the others, finally spoke up, “What do you think happened, then?” He posed in a crass demand of the blonde. Come on, his tone challenged, what do you think you know? If only they had any idea… Never was any of this about knowing anything with absolute certainty… At this stage, it was all a matter of reading the evidence as it had been provided to him.
“She didn’t kill her husband.” He replied, disinterested. “Her assistant, Jacob Barron is the one who murdered him.”
The briefest pause of stunned silence washed over the men standing around the television. They looked at each other for just a moment before all of their attention moved back to Mello, “The assistant?” The younger inmate who had originally issued Mello the challenge spoke up, leaning forward a bit with his elbows pressed against his knees. “Where did you get that from?”
Crisp blue eyes slid back to the television, watching as various clips of the accused Val Taylor played. Some were shots from her television show, some were moments she’d shared with her husband, while others were her with her assistant and famous individuals. It was obvious… screaming out to him like blaring, angry red sirens. “Trust me, it’s the assistant.” He muttered, his gaze remaining fixated on the different images moving across the news broadcast.
Once more the men looked at each other, “Pssh, should have known…” The second man, who had suggested it was all merely a heart attack, folded his arms over his chest. “No evidence for such a strong claim.”
Maybe these people would be willing to listen, maybe they wouldn’t… Conversely, perhaps all they were really interested in was professing their own speculative theories for the mere excitement of spreading a rumor. The sheer possibility that some dramatic situation was at play could very well be all they were seeking from this venture; a simple means of countering the monotony of their day-to-day lives.
Was that really so different from the gossiping nature of regular people –those who lived outside of prison?
With all of that in mind, Mello decided to indulge them: “The news anchor stated that the death occurred late last night. They didn’t specify a time, but they did go on to state that both Val and her assistant met police at the home when they arrived. So, then, why would her assistant be at the family home so late at night?” A momentary pause hung between them, though Mello was unwilling to give the others time to interject. “Sure, they could all be close friends. But late at night, and he’s already dead by the time emergency services arrived?” He shook his head, “There’s certainly something suspicious going on, and missing information I'd like to see more evidence about. But, at the heart of it, I don’t think a successful TV personality would be willing to risk putting her career on the line. Therefore… it must be the assistant.”
Just as he finished, the entrance door to the rec room was pulled open. A corrections officer in a deep blue, neatly pressed uniform, short blonde hair and the questioning stare of a new hire entered the doorway. “Mello?” He looked around at each of the men.
‘Definitely new…’ Mello determined, but held his perplexed silence as the other three occupants of the room answered by gesturing in his general direction.
As his gaze came to rest upon the blonde former Mafia member, his look hardened, “You have a visitor.”
“A visitor?” He questioned a bit lower as his head pulled back, brow knitting together in obvious confusion. Who could possibly be here to visit him? Eight years he’d been captive within these walls, and in that time he’d never received so much as a letter, much less a visitor. Who on the outside even remained who remembered his existence, or would bother to come to a place like this to lay eyes on him?
“I don’t get visitors…” He muttered in response without making a move to get up. A spider’s thread of a thought whispered the suggestion that perhaps this was just a joke; a means for someone on the outside to rattle the bars of his cage and rile him up. Either way, he wasn’t willing to give them the satisfaction of receiving any kind of response from him.
“Well, you’ve got one now.” The officer stated, “Get up. I’m to take you there now.” The quiet clink sound of metal against itself brought his attention to the handcuffs fastened on his side. The allusion being made was clear: he’d bring him by force if necessary. ‘Interesting…’ Mello’s gaze flicked from the cuffs back to the officer, surveying for any kind of clue as to who may have shown up. But there was nothing to be seen… no shred of information to gather except his own ruminating wonders.
“Alright, fine.” He pushed himself up, throwing a quick look to the other men around the television while his hands remained flat upon the table. “The assistant is the one responsible.” He told them. “Trust me. Keep watching. If there really is such a thing as justice in this world… the truth will come out. You just have to give it enough time.” The irony of suggesting to a room full of convicted criminals that they ought to trust in the justice system was not lost on him.
From there, he pushed away from the table to follow the officer out of the room and down to yet another indiscriminate fate awaiting him.
-:-
‘Perhaps a lawyer…’ Mello mulled over as he was led down another hallway within the familiar prison complex. ‘Someone who thinks they can get me a better deal, or renegotiate my sentence even this long after the trial was finalized.’ The entire premise seemed unlikely, no matter how he spun or oriented the problem in his head. Besides, lawyers didn’t just seek out convicted and sentenced criminals trying to get them an easier deal; especially without some kind of appeals already filed, or new evidence being found. And they most certainly didn’t do all of that work without an ulterior motive behind it all.
So, that option was scratched off the list.
The second option he momentarily considered was some anti-Kira ‘fan’ who had found his location somehow. But that, too, though, seemed unlikely… So much of his case, trial, and sentencing, had been kept secret from the general public… Still, that didn’t make it wholly impossible. Just… statistically unlikely.
Though, that thought led him to another, in which the opposite scenario was on some level just as possible: If his visitor could be a rabid anti-Kira fan, then it could just as easily be a rabid foe, as well… Someone vengeful, even after all these years, that Mello’s actions had brought about the death of Kira’s spokesperson.
No matter how many years ticked by without Kira, the wounds carved by his existence continued to be carried by those still living, permeating the world like a candle’s aroma after being blown out. Perhaps the waves he created would forever be the ripples bathing far off shorelines.
Yet, nothing truly revealed the harbored feelings about Kira quite like the dichotomous environment of the prison system. On one side, there were the prisoners he lived among, who existed with a perpetual fear in the back of their minds that every cough, ever chest pain was Kira reemerging to punish them… They sat like fish in a barrel waiting for a shotgun to the heart. Then, there were those on the other side, the police and other officers, who appeared to exist with such a deep-seated reverence in their hearts towards Kira that they looked upon the prisoners they worked with in disdain; as though disappointed that they hadn’t yet been punished by Kira.
Those sorts of people instilled a fear that he was being led to his doom.
“So, who’s the visitor?” Mello finally asked the corrections officer escorting him in the direction of, what he could only assume, would be a common visiting area, where other inmates met with their family and spoke while officers eavesdropped from the sidelines.
He received a scoffed reply, “How should I know?”
This earned a roll of his eyes, “Your job is to protect me.” At least as far as was laid out in the position’s job description. However, what occurred between those lines, the day-to-day circumstances on the job, was an entirely different reality. “The least you can do is give me some information, some idea of whether you’re leading me into a potentially dangerous situation.”
The man exhaled an annoyed sigh, as though recalling even the most basic of memories from just earlier that day was somehow asking too much. “I don’t know, the order to have you brought here came from my superior… But it was some mysterious guy. Didn’t say much. Long hair.”
That bit of information made the long-haired blonde turn just a touch more to the officer, confusion evident across his every feature. ‘Interesting…’ Suddenly, just that bit of provided information drastically cut down the list of potential options. But, of those that remained, he didn’t at all like the prospects of seeing them here.
When they came to a stop, it was outside of a solid pale orange door. ‘Odd…’ Mello considered to himself as he sized the door up once. What lay on the other side was a secluded off room where inmates were taken so they could speak with their lawyers in private. The list of options in Mello’s head began to reshuffle themselves based on shifting likelihoods.
“They told you to bring me here?” Mello’s gaze moved away from the door over to the officer standing beside him. The line of questioning earned him a glare, to which the former Mafia member’s only response back was a shrug. So far, all their exchanges had proven was that the officer knew absolutely nothing with any real certainty. Who, then, could blame Mello for having his doubts?
The officer didn’t bother to give him any verbal response, nor even insult him or castigate his mild defiance. Neither, too, did he bother with placing handcuffs on him beforehand, as had been done earlier. ‘Interesting, indeed.’ Instead, he merely pulled open the metal door and gestured with his head for Mello to go in. Of course that was how this was going to be, he supposed…
Mello inhaled a deep breath down into his lungs, accepting whatever awaited him within, then stepped inside.
The cement room he stepped into was dimly lit by the static yellow of a single bulb hung from the ceiling, but also the soft, diffuse light pouring in from the large window on his right. A metal grate fastened over it obscured his view, the light, and served as a silent reminder that although freedom lay just beyond that glass, it was unattainable for any of those locked within this cage. In the center of the room sat a metal table bolted to the floor, as well as two plastic chairs between the occupants.
A loud bang reverberated off the walls as the door was closed behind him, locking him inside. “When they couldn’t tell me who the visitor was, I should have fucking known.” The words fell from his lips in a low, dangerous manner as crystalline blue orbs fixed upon the sole other being sharing the same space as him.
Seated on the other side of the table, his presence existing like a visage of the former image Mello had seared in his mind, was his greatest rival.
His enemy.
Near.
Eight years…
Eight long, onerous years the two childhood geniuses had been in every capacity separated from one another. Never had their entire beings been so divided as had come to be now, but never too had either of them chosen silence from the other for such an extended amount of time.
For almost an entire decade Near had existed as a phantom within Mello’s mind, frozen in the last form he remembered seeing: When the Kira case was still raging… It was that image which had come to exist within Mello’s mind as a target for his lambasting and endless vitriol. Near was both the source and the target for every ounce of pain Mello wasn’t free to express to Dr. Thompson nor any other inmate in this facility. If the younger successor had any idea at all how many nights Mello had mentally screamed at him, choked him, bashed his head open… all to vent just a drop of the betrayal pooled in his heart… surely Near would never dare show his face here.
But here he was… older than the last time they’d seen each other, weariness darkening his already smoky gray orbs, and long, disheveled white hair cascading down past his shoulders towards the floor. Caught in this moment, Mello was at a loss for words. This… wasn’t at all the Near of his mental formations.
Steely, endless orbs slid up from the bare tabletop coming to rest upon him. His stare was fixated, evaluating him in a manner that was so agonizingly familiar… somewhere in the expanse of time between them, Mello had forgotten what it felt like to be involuntarily locked beneath Near’s microscope.
“Mello.” Near greeted him with a gentle nod of his head. The ease with which his mononym was uttered would be enough to convince any spectators that they had only just seen each other just a few short weeks prior to this moment. “It’s good to see you. You look well.”
A low, frustrated rumble was emitted from Mello’s throat. “What the hell do you think you’re doing showing up here?” After all this time; and not even one single word sent. “I ought to strangle you with my own damn hands.”
A momentary pause passed between them where Near’s eyes slipped closed, most likely a concerted effort to conceal the circular motion they made in his head. When they reopened upon the blonde, he muttered in a dry, disinterested tone. “Take a moment to look around. You know very well where we’re at right now.” His punctuated words echoed off the stone walls. “Consider that committing assault, much less murder, may not be the most advantageous of situations to place yourself in, all things considered.”
Mello’s teeth ground together, fighting back every scathing affront he could ever conjure as he took a few steps closer to the table where his childhood rival sat, “What are they going to do,” he forced out, “give me another fifty years on top of what I'm already serving?” Though, such an action would certainly revoke his future eligibility he may have for parole. But, as he stared across the space at the younger genius, watching him reach up to fiddle with a long strand of hair, he still found himself weighing out whether such consequences would be worth it.
“Sit down, Mello. We have quite a lot to discuss.”
Oh yeah, definitely worth the added murder charge.
“Eight years.” Mello’s voice dripped with malignant venom as each syllable left his lips. He grabbed the back of the chair and pulled it from beneath the table with an agonizing slowness, the legs exhaling a painful wail as they scraped against the floor. “Eight years I’ve been trapped in this place without so much as one single, fucking word from you. Do you have any idea what prison does to a person? As far as I’m concerned, there is nothing for us to discuss.” Contrary to his words, he took a seat across from the detective, his arms folding over his chest.
This time, Near didn’t conceal the rolling of his eyes, though they remained diverted from the blonde. He toyed with a long strand of hair, spinning it around his index finger, “There’s no need to be dramatic. You’re in a minimal security prison. It’s not as though I had you sent to Alcatraz.”
The younger’s phrasing made Mello’s burning stare narrow upon him. “You?” He repeated, some small part of himself hoping he’d misheard him.
Near’s movements paused momentarily, bewildered gray hues sliding back over to the disgruntled blonde. “Of course.” He nodded, “It’s my efforts that brought you to be here.” Mello blinked in a moment’s shock and confusion, but Near continued before he could verbalize any of it, “Mello, you are the person solely responsible for Kira’s spokesperson’s death. What’s more, it was carried out within a country that had decided to favor his actions. How exactly did you think you ended up being extradited out of Japan, and that your sentencing was to a minimum security facility in America of all places?”
The other shrugged in a petty sort of defiance, “No clue.” He admitted, “I figured it was all a show so America’s government could say they actually helped with the Kira case.” Some amalgamated, draconian sense of justice on their part wouldn’t exactly be too far off base, anyway.
Of course, the fact that Near could have some involvement in any of the different areas surrounding his case had always been a real possibility that played through his mind. But, hearing it from the detective now, and that so much had been somehow his decision, left Mello feeling like nothing more than a toy. He was a toy or instrument to be locked away deep in one of Near’s toy chests, only to be pulled out and used for some grander purpose before being locked away once more.
Childhood behind them and almost a decade of separation between them, yet still Near was not above playing childish games, nor seeing him as anything but a tool.
“So,” Mello continued, shifting down just a bit more in his chair, “What is it, then? Why now?”
Mentally, Mello readied himself for the obvious response that was coming. Near would ask for his assistance, of some kind. But, that fact was curious, indeed… At his fingertips Near possessed all of the power, money, and control that could ever come along with the L title. With all of that at his disposal… What could he possibly need from Mello? What did he have that was so unique that no one else on the planet could offer it?
“Roger’s dead.” The words were shards of ice cast from Near’s lips and embedding themselves deep in Mello’s flesh, indifferent, and lacking the true weight they deserved.
His grip on his biceps tightened, his throat constricting until it was difficult to breathe. His tone was hoarse as he muttered an immediate reply, “You say that like it should be a surprise.” He hated that his words were expelled with far more force than Near’s had. “When I left Wammy’s at 15 he was already old. I’m surprised he was able to hold on this long…” He muttered each word far lower than before as his thoughts drifted back to his childhood memories; to the only person he could truly call a caretaker… The fact that the two of them no longer shared the same plane of existence, that he was no longer accessible in any capacity, sent an icy chill down his spine. Few times before had Mello ever felt as utterly alone within a cruel, unfeeling world as that singular moment.
He knew well the pain of losing a parent. That particular wound had long since scarred over years ago. But this…
This was different.
Roger wasn’t his father, nor could he really be considered his parent. Roger didn't even like children. He never offered wise, sage advice during his formative years. He didn’t bring him soup when he was sick, nor pat his back with pride when he did well in classes. He didn’t offer any comfort or reprieve when the festering wounds left by his deceased parents became too much for the child’s shoulders to bear.
But what Roger did do was extend to him an opportunity… To Mello and others, he had offered the gift of hope.
Upon the scorched earth of their former lives, Roger had planted the seeds of a far greater possibility: that even a young orphan, traumatized by the bitter realities of the world, could still grow up to become something glorious. Within their soot and ash covered grasp was the opportunity to become L… the leader of justice. If they could only attain that, it was promised, then they could work to make sure people in the future experienced far less pain than what they had gone through.
Yet, for all of Mello’s fierce striving in the direction of that goal… it had only amounted to his ultimate placement here… His wings clipped, tagged, and sealed away from the skies.
“After the conclusion of the Kira case,” Near spoke once more, “Roger assumed the appellation ‘Watari’. He served well in that role for a few years, until his health began to take a turn.” There was a momentary pause, though Mello made no move to comment, so he continued, “After that, I relieved him of the position. I arranged for him to be set up at a residence back in England where he could rest, and that provided the best care when he needed it. I made sure that he had all the means to live out the remainder of his life in ease, being taken care of rather than being the one providing care to others.” Near’s delicately chosen words and explanation made the blonde’s gaze narrow upon him. The two of them, Mello realized, certainly had a drastically different perception of the care they had received during their time at Wammy’s House.
“So, what now?” Mello asked as a long silence filled their space. His arms, wrapped tight around themselves over his chest, finally eased. He could feel it deep in the marrow of his bones, there still remained something Near wasn’t tell him… Certainly someone as detached as Near wouldn’t break their silent impasse merely to appear, like a crow, carrying the morbid caw of their caretaker’s passing.
“Now…” Near’s gaze fell away from him as he reached up to once more twirl a long strand of hair around his finger. “That’s… a complicated line of questioning.” His words trailed off, dipping into his own internal ruminations. “There are a lot of components that are yet to be decided. Principle among them is the matter of Wammy’s House. When Roger took over the role of Watari, in his absence, I felt that the best course of action was to dissolve the institution.”
The blonde’s head ticked back in clear surprise. “Dissolve?” He repeated, a growing ounce of shock making its way into the single utterance.
“Yes, dissolve.” Near said just a bit quieter, his gaze remaining diverted away from the older successor. “When he initially left, there existed no one who was fitting to carry on his role in its full capacity. Later, once his health began to decline, it wouldn’t have been right to ask him to leave the service of L only to return to that kind of position, even just to oversee the training of someone to take over.”
Logistically, Near’s words made sense. At least on a surface level. But Mello was left wondering… what had actually occurred? Had the doors just been shut? What of the children who had been in residence there? Had they just been turned away and sent back out into the cold world? Had the gift of hope been viciously ripped away from their grasp?
Could Near truly be that cruel? Intricate, sensitive fibers wound tight in his core seemed to say no… that even Near was above such actions. Yet, the icy wind of Near’s indifference whispered another tale.
“So, what then? Wammy’s House is just… finished, then?” He muttered, feeling the finality of the situation, the closing of such an integral chapter of his life, as a new brick placed upon his shoulders already overburdened by the news of their caretaker’s passing.
The gentle twirling of Near’s hair halted, slate eyes gliding over to land on him, “Hm… Now, I didn’t necessarily say that.” The meticulous phrasing of his sentence revived the feeling of being beneath Near’s analytical microscope. “There is, of course, still the matter of L’s succession.”
Mello’s lips pulled into a thin line, “If you were really all that concerned with who is going to take on the title of L after you, then you shouldn’t have closed Wammy’s doors to begin with.” The decision appeared to be incredibly short-sighted for someone like Near. Yet, placed within the greater context of just who Near was as an individual… another part of Mello was hardly surprised by it.
“You’re right, there is some truth to that statement.” That struck the blonde, keeping any further comments to himself. He could count on one hand the number of times Near had ever admitted that something he’d said was right, but even fewer instances when it was regarding his mistaken actions. “I admit that earlier in my succession, I wasn’t concerned with a replacement for L. L as an entity came about entirely on his own. What’s to say another couldn’t do the same without my intervention? Or, the entire venture could ultimately live and die with me.” As his speech paused, he released the tight twirl of his hair, leaving it free to unravel. “However, recently I’ve begun to think quite the opposite… that perhaps we’ve been charged with the responsibility to keep the tradition alive.”
Mello’s body moved forward, closer to the table as he spat, “Bullshit.” With the pad of his index finger, he tapped the cold table, “tradition is just the repeated information, events, customs passed from one generation to another. You could hardly classify something contained within just a single generation of protégées as a ‘tradition’.”
“On the contrary,” Near twirled up another strand of hair into a tight curl around his finger. This time, as he did so, he finally pulled up one leg onto the chair, closer to the trunk of his being. “There were two generations of protégées.”
Mello huffed in annoyance, “That’s just semantics…” He murmured. Of course… there were two generations brought up by Wammy’s House… The first were A and BB. Himself, Near, and Matt constituted the second. “We’re the first successful generation.” He clarified. Though, he wondered, although the institution had finally attained their ‘worthy’ successor to L… had the collateral damage been worth it? Was a pyrrhic victory really one to be celebrated?
If all the wealth, resources, and power behind the L title had not been enough to curtail the fate of A, B, or even himself… then how could Near imagine that a Wammy’s House under his control would ever fair any better?
Perhaps, he considered, Near’s initial thought had been truer to what was truly needed: Why should such an immoral machination of justice be allowed to continue?
“Be that as it may,” The white-haired detective said in a low exhale, “After giving it quite a lot of consideration, I’d like for Wammy’s House to see a third generation. What will ultimately come from it, I’m unsure… But I think it’s prudent that at least the necessary framework be set up to allow the tradition to be passed onwards.” He finally concluded with a nod of his head.
Another huff passed Mello’s lips as he shrugged and leaned further back in his chair, “Sure. Good luck with that. You’ll be hard pressed to find someone who can take over and do what Roger once did.” All of the minutia that went along with not only running the institution, but the background details of its true purpose… all of the secrecy held in those walls and instilling the weight of all that was at stake onto such tiny shoulders.
A pause passed between the two former successors, but Mello watched as the corner of Near’s lips contoured up into just the hint of a smirk. “I agree, there are few people in this world who are truly fitting for the role, or who understand the work that will be needed if we’re to see a new generation of Wammy’s be a success.”
Mello's stare hardens on his rival, “You keep using that word… ‘we’.”
“Indeed, Mello,” Near allows the strand of hair to unravel once more from around his fingertip. “I can think of no one better suited for taking over the role of Roger than you.”
“W-what?” Near’s words were the final brick on his shoulders that became too much. They were a wrecking ball slammed into his chest, stealing every ounce of air from his lungs. “Excuse me?” They were the sole occupants of the room, yet somehow still Mello considered that he must have misheard or misunderstood the younger. Surely, he wasn’t…
“You, Mello.” Near repeated as the newly twirled strand of hair was let free. “It should be you who takes over Wammy’s House; who starts a new generation of successors. As a matter of fact, there’s actually no one more qualified for the position.”
Near’s casual explanation didn’t seem to process within the blonde. “No.” That much, at least, he could momentarily vocalize. Of course, he had known that Near had come to him seeking some kind of assistance from him. But never would he have guessed it was something like this… Still, curiosity held him in a vice grip. Where was the logic in Near's decision? “But,” He gestured Near onwards, “Go on, then. Make your case. In what world could I ever possibly be the best suited for that kind of job?”
“There couldn’t be anyone else, Mello.” The sincerity within Near’s uttered words agitated an old unidentifiable ache within Mello’s heart. “You’re the only other person left who really knew L. If we’re honest, I’ll admit you probably knew him better than I did. You truly know the importance of L’s place in the world, and understand better than anyone ever could the feeling of chasing after that title. Personally, I succeed at being L because it comes naturally to me. But, Mello, you know and understand the fight of someone striving for such a prize. Why try to teach someone from the outside world any of these things when it’s your lived experience?”
Blue eyes narrowed into threatening slits. “You really want me to catch that second charge for strangling you, don’t you?”
Near sighed, a sort of defeated action while his shoulders slumped just a touch. Their shared gaze momentarily broke as Near gazed out the grated window; the falling rain reflected like a mirror in his gray orbs. “The only way Wammy’s House can ever hope to be successful is if it has you at its helm. You’re the only one skilled enough, the only one who will know how to find the right children for the task. I trust, too, in your ability to figure out how to prevent any of the children from experiencing the same level of mental hardships that we endured.”
We?
What a curious assertion, Mello considered. What was it that Near believed he had endured? If being L had all come so naturally to him, even from the beginning, then what scars could he possibly hold from his treacherous climb to the top of the ranks?
“There’s no one on the planet who could ever be taught the sort of things you know, Mello.” This time, he spoke closer to a whisper, as only one successor could speak to another, “There’s no one else fitting to teach others how to exist in this kind of reality than someone who’s done it for as long as you.”
Mello’s body was a tense statue carved upon his chair, feeling as though if he shifted even an inch, Near’s words would corrode through the fine cracks in his exterior. ‘For spending a lifetime making my existence hell, he sure knows how to say the right things when he wants something… Manipulative bastard.’ Mello thought to himself, a prolonged exhale venting the suppressed emotions welled in his center. ‘But… He certainly must be desperate.’ “Even if I were to consider the idea, which I’m not, you don’t think there’s just the slightest issue with a known, convicted Mafia member raising and educating children?”
Near hummed in a quiet contemplation of his next move before retorting, “Actually, I think your extensive history in various other avenues of life experiences only serves to help your case, more than it would hinder it.”
“Pray tell.” Mello pressed him.
Near had uttered the assertion with such confidence. But, Mello expected nothing less from the younger successor. It was entirely within Near’s nature to have already anticipated every single one of Mello’s questions and objections long before he’d ever set foot within the compound. That was exactly the type of game Near always played. He laid the chess board, situated every piece to suit his own agenda and goals. Last, would be Mello’s placement upon the board, deposited with the silent question, request to find the flaw in his logic. An old, tried and true game that Mello abhorred with every fiber of his being.
Faced with it once again after so many years made him wonder… Did knowing how to push Near’s pieces over, or maneuver through a board constructed with such little wiggle room somehow make him a better tactician? Sure, Near knew well how to lay a trap to ensnare some amorphous evil. But Mello was the only person skilled enough to avoid his tricks.
“You’ve gone through so much, Mello. All of that striving and fighting has ultimately concluded into your present state. In prison. A criminal.”
“Near,” he warned, “that added murder charge is starting to look appealing.”
“But even before any of that,” Near continued without acknowledgment of the previous statement, “You really were a bit of a hellion as a child, wouldn't you say?” The corner of his lips pulled upward into an easier going smile. “My point is… you’ve had quite a lot of experiences, done quite a number of things. Much more than I. I think that background will be useful for children to know and learn that… there’s a real world out there that they’ll need to live in, and be a part of.” Mello bit back his own comments that Near neither lived in, nor had ever been a part of the real world. “But, I likewise think it may be advantageous in curtailing incoming children who may share your…”
A low grumble escaped Mello’s throat as he sent a heated glare towards the other. Near, however, appeared not to notice or was entirely unfazed by it.
“… Disposition.”
Despite Near’s prepared justification, Mello couldn’t say he was all that convinced.
A moment’s pause in their exchange allowed for a tense silence to fill the air shared between them. Separating them was a gulf of time and experiences. It was hard to imagine, now, that their lives had formerly been so enmeshed together. At one time they had shared the same existence… like sitting across from each other while riding on the same subway line, both ultimately headed towards a similar destination. But, Mello had exited the car, changed courses and left it to continue on a way he’d felt was better suited…
Now, in this moment, they stood once more at the same station, Near posing the silent question: would you like to share the next car together?
“All these years yet still you never change.” Mello accused him with a shake of his head, glancing for only a moment to the rain-soaked window before affixing back onto the younger. “After eight years the first thing you do when you show back up isn’t try to make amends or even acknowledge anything that's happened. Instead, you try to conscript me for your own benefit. Fucking typical.”
Near’s brow creased in obvious confusion, caught off guard by the accusation. “Amends? Mello, what could I possibly have to make amends with you about?”
The harsh sound of hard plastic scraping against the concrete floor flooded the space as Mello shoved himself back from the table, a hand pointing accusatorily at the detective, “See? That right there.” His inflammatory tone was a touch louder, yet consciously aware that the blonde officer was no doubt still waiting just on the other side of the wall, “That is why your idea would never work. You and I working together didn’t work when we were children, and it sure as fuck won’t work if you’re not even willing to admit to the shit you’ve put me through.” He pressed away from the table, practically shoving himself away from it to turn towards the door he’d come in from.
He made it halfway through the space, anger swarming his entire being like bees when Near’s voice cut through. “Mello, I need you.”
He froze.
“I understand that what we have together is an incredibly long and unresolved history. I also understand that… there will be much that we will need to talk about, wounds that need healing. I don’t know if I can put to rest any of the demons you harbor. Ultimately, that is your work to do, not mine. But Wammy’s House cannot survive without you, Mello. Somewhere beneath all the animosity you feel towards me you must understand that this role truly belongs to nobody else but you.”
Near was right… he did know that.
But there was so much history clouding that objective reality that, were he to take up the helm of Wammy’s House, he wondered if those very clouds would obfuscate his view until they ran aground.
Mello’s gaze remained fixated out at the exit door, but his attention remained upon the former successor behind him. He listened as Near sighed, far more defeated than before. “So no, I am not here to make amends. Instead, I sit before you today and offer out your well-deserved freedom. In exchange I’m asking for your help in making sure that no other child brought up in that institution ends up the way any of us did.”
Mello held his silence. He turned a fraction of an inch to gaze upon the other successor from the corner of his eyes.
Near inhaled a deep breath, giving Mello any opportunity to rebuttal before he finally continued, “Mello, you are by far one of the best products that Wammy’s has offered upon the world. The circumstances which led to your current position are… complicated… muddled by subjectivity, time, history, and unresolved pain. But it doesn’t have to keep being that way… I’m offering you the chance to rewrite your story, to rewrite the narrative that the future will come to judge you by. There’s no need for you to be the old world’s runner up when the reality is that you are one of the best this world has.”
Mello’s fists clenched tight at his sides, dull nails biting into his palms. Near spoke with such certainty about matters he truly had no clue about. But a sliver of Mello’s being wanted to believe him… wanted to trust that perhaps the detective knew something he didn’t.
Near’s words and the promise of freedom beyond these walls called to Mello’s soul, igniting just the faintest flame of his life that had been snuffed out long ago through the clipping of his wings.
“You’re not really offering me freedom.” Mello stated in a whisper, the upper half of his body turning back to face Near, in doing so he was able to spot a spark hidden within those dark hues. Could that spark be enough to ignite the wildfire necessary to fuel him? Was a wildfire what his existence needed to burn away his contrived history and rebuild from the ashes something entirely new?
“No, not fully.” Near affirmed with a nod. “Should you agree, you’ll be on a leash, metaphysically speaking. A short one. Should you flee, or otherwise leave the country without designated approval… I’ll make sure you’re put right back in this cage.”
Mello scoffed, shooting him a doubtful stare, “You say that as though you’d ever be able to catch me.” He’d evaded Near’s gaze for years before, surely he could do it again. However, he chastised himself almost immediately after saying it. Fleeing, evading, hiding within the darkened alleyways and streets he'd called home for numerous years would only be playing right back into his past rather than building into something new. It ached an old wound; an old belief that he’d never fully escape that part of himself.
“Would you like to try?” Near’s lips pulled into a devious smirk.
“Don’t be stupid.” He rolled his eyes, “I’d hate to make you look so foolish for letting a criminal go free, then immediately losing them.” Of course, they both knew well that Mello wouldn’t run… Just as they both knew that there were few situations in which Mello would unequivocally say no to the entire proposition now on the table. Not when the taste of freedom and the keys to the cage hung right before his eyes.
However, that didn’t mean he needed to be completely subjected to Near’s restrictive control, either. He turned more fully to Near. “If I agree to do this, then we’re going to do it my way.” He stated firmly. “What I say, and my decisions go.” Would Near be willing to give up that level of control for the sake of his ultimate goals?
“Within reason.” Near agreed with a nod and subtle shrug of his shoulders.
Mello’s heated stare tightened on him, though he held his silence, deciding that that was a fight the two of them could have once the wounds from his metal shackles had healed and scarred over a bit more.
He held up his hand between them, only his index finger extended upwards. “One year.” He declared. “I will give you one year of my time. I’ll get Wammy’s up and running, but in that time you will find a permanent replacement, because it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.”
Mello’s bold statement made Near’s calm disposition falter. “Mello…” his tone was a gentle chiding, imploring the older successor to see reason, “placing into perspective of all that must be done, a single year isn’t a terribly long amount of time…” The slightest hint of doubt could be heard in his voice, “If I may offer a counter… Two years, or even a year and a half would be slightly more reasonable to realistically find and properly train the right person.”
Mello shook his head. “You may not.” After everything Near had done, or contributed to throughout his life, granting him even a year of his life was generous. “One year. That’s it. I will do this, and then afterwards, you will give me my freedom. No strings attached. Those are my terms.” He was in no position to be bartering with Near, but then he knew Near wasn't in a position to say no, either. With this, Mello could successfully topple over just one piece upon his rival's chessboard.
“Alright, I understand.” This time, when Near exhaled a heavy breath it felt far more acceptive –like the weight of their unspoken competition was lifted like a veil from off his being. “One year it is, then.” Near’s shoulders slumped, his hand falling from his hair. Only then did Mello really seem to take notice… he seemed so weary. Like engaging in this volleying battle back and forth had sapped more energy than he'd anticipated.
A fresh wave of hesitance washed over the blonde’s being as he watched Near practically melt. What exactly was he getting himself into? What was Near not telling him? “For now,” Near continued, “I’ll make the necessary arrangements for your release.”
For the briefest of moments Mello wondered… did Near really possess so much power… To be able to waive a prisoner’s sentence with just a simple command? Of course, he had to remind himself… Near sat upon the throne of justice, and all actions happened because he allowed and willed them to be so. It was not a role he could envision Near in, though he’d held the position for nearly a decade. What must that feel like, he considered. How does one get up every day and function knowing that the gentle, spider-like threads dictating the impartiality of justice are tied to your actions, and your very fingertips?
What’s more… How could he be expected to translate any of that into the hearts and minds of children? How could he justify, or convince anyone that such a fate was worth striving and fighting for?
“In any case, now that we’ve settled all of that…” Near reached to his side, just off the table. “I suppose now it’s only fair to say… It’s good to have you back, Mello. I have missed your presence so.”
From his pocket, Near laid upon the table an unopened chocolate bar, which he slid across as an offering to Mello. As he did so, a ray of sunlight from the outside shone into their shared room, fragmented blue peeking through overcast skies.