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          Light you look so tired.

               Why don’t you go home and get some rest?

          Yeah, we can finish up here.

               You guys are the best.

     He understood at last, the level of annoyance L had displayed with the Task Force, their whole hearted eagerness to take any and everything said to them at face value not simply classified as a boon, but a hindrance when it came to the lies of others. They couldn’t be trusted to see through his enemy’s ruse and, like a child first learning to walk, must always be guided. Thankfully, their trusting nature played in his favor, falling for the age old trick of feigning exhaustion. At least by the end of the night, he wouldn’t be faking it. That certain someone had that effect on just about anyone interacting with him for longer than a few minutes and Light… Well, he’d taken to gloating for hours over who had won their showdown.

     The matter of moving Misa out of the apartment hadn’t been easy but even with the addition of his living trophy, the relief he gained from her lack of presence brought him peace of mind he’d been missing since he met her. Just him. That’s the way he’d wanted it from the start.

     Which begged the question he posed to himself regularly on these mild walks between work and home, just why he’d chosen to spare the only man who had consistently kept in step with him each phase of the plan. Back then, it had been a matter of wanting to savor that moment of watching Ryuzaki’s expression plummet from his perch on his mountain of Justice. He had deserved what would have come to him, if not for Yagami’s intervention. Regrettably, the old man had to go, either way. He wasn’t particularly innocent, but the fact that he had funded a sanctuary for brilliant minds which produced his greatest enemy was something Light was too petty to forgive.

     But L. The bane of Kira’s existence and the sole obstruction of a perfect world still lived on, drugged to induce a minor heart attack. Seemed borderline suicidal to spare the man who wanted nothing more than your life as forfeit for your great and numerous crimes and yet here he stood, eager to return home to gloat yet again over his superiority.

     The satisfying click of the front door’s lock echoed far into the empty home, proving by lack of summoning an over-exuberant blond that he was well and truly alone again.

     Slender frame, gaunt from undernourishment yet not so dangerously close to being classified as such, rested against the sturdy wood of the abode’s only entrance, taking in the quiet for as long as he was allowed. No hum of computers, no idle chatter, no high pitched squealing calling his name and claiming it as ‘affection’. Just him. His thoughts. And his prisoner. A floor below, squirreled away in his most private of places, dressed in only the finest of bindings to force him to atone for the embarrassing restraints used on him during his own confinement.

     At long last that itch beneath his skin drove him forward, discarding briefcase and jacket in their proper placings by door and desk, soft padding of socked feet carrying him towards his bedroom, fingers tracing over the handle of his closet to pull the shuttered doors open and part the clothes hanging on the rack like the red sea. The center panel provided him a keypad when pressed, fingerprints, retinal scan, hair sample, and voice activated security a necessity to not only keep L himself in check, but any who might seek to uncover his deepest darkest secrets. Incidentally, where he kept anything in relation to Kira that was essential only.

     A small panel to his right released its air tight seal, providing a mildly musty gust of air through the small compartment, and a crack large enough for him to wiggle his fingers in and pry it open. The new joints still stiff from the factory resisted minutely as he swung the door ajar, pushed his way through the open walkway, and tapped the panel on the opposing side to close it. With how often he came down here, it was a matter of time before they became accustomed and wore down. 

     The spiral steps he traversed now were narrow but so spaced that they provided an easy slope downwards without consuming much room themselves and straining the legs. At the base of the stairs lay his trophy room. Occupant: 1. A man with eyes as vacant as a daydreamer’s, hair as rumbled as if he’d never brushed it a day in his life, and horrid bruises beneath his eyes that did nothing to reinforce the fact that he performed any sort of self-care.

     For the redemption of the world, would Light be willing to risk the same?

     There is little that can be accomplished while in a position that restricts movement to the point of near-atrophy; little besides working over long-discarded details, sifting through words, speech tones, mannerisms in an attempt to pinpoint the exact moment when Light Yagami had realized he would not win their game. Because this? This is desperation, something resorted to in lieu of an actual plan, which —      Is surprising, to say the least. There is no question that Kira planned for victory from the moment he lifted his pen. The question lies instead in how he intended to maintain that victory once obtained. Leaving his only worthy rival alive is not only an act of hubris, but recklessness. Indulgence. That Light has fallen far enough to take none of these things into account is testament to just how close L came and that, in itself, is a victory that cannot be taken from him.  Kira can bind him, silence him, tuck him away but in the end, the knowledge that L was a single call away from seeing Kira’s empire crumble is enough to sustain him in the absence of food and drink.      So he will gladly take the bindings over death, has chosen to stop struggling against them in an attempt to preserve his skin — a neglected infection may not kill him, but it would be highly unpleasant — and when he hears the tell-tale beginning of distant beeping and clicks, L closes his eyes behind the cloth, steels himself for the inevitable taunting that will give neither of them any sort of satisfaction.          This disadvantage is…  unacceptable.      “Kira,” he manages over the dry, scratching sensation that has made its way deep into the flesh of his throat. Nothing on earth, living or dead, will press L to ask for water, and so he will endure the prodding annoyance in favor of maintaining whatever pride he can manage to hold.

      When he frees himself of these bindings — and he will — Light Yagami is going to see what happens when a sheltered boy who has been fed the world moves against something as powerful as L. This is a temporary situation, at best. So when he speaks, his features are calm, words placid. There is no evidence of him having struggled in Kira’s absence and nothing to denote that he’s lost control of any of his facilities. If Light thinks L hasn’t redefined captive torture, he will quickly learn.      “You were gone a long time,” as he attempts to stretch his neck far enough to ease some of the tension near his shoulder. “I feared one of the Task Force members may have caught on to your scheme and decided removing you from the situation would be wise.”

      A beat of silence; it probably isn’t wise to provoke Kira, but that’s what L does, isn’t it?

Curious young eyes follow L to the kitchenette. When L turns around with another brownie, Mello remembers the one in his hand. He had completely forgotten that he was holding it; it’s a miracle the sweet didn’t fall out of his hand and to the floor. For a moment, he considers eating it. However, he’s not fully recovered from the shock of the revelation, so he doesn’t. 

Mello listens to L’s conditions with rapt attention. The first one is easy. Talking to Near is an activity Mello hasn’t suffered through in quite a while. He wasn’t about to go out of his way to contact Near and let him know about L’s status. The fact that Mello was chosen to know this secret, not Near, means a lot to him. Mello figures that Near doesn’t deserve to know the secret. After all, Near wasn’t chosen.

The second condition is a bit more concerning, although Mello had already been expecting something like this to come up. He’s sure he can figure something out. It will be extremely difficult to come up with excuses if he’s ordered to leave the hideout often, but not impossible. Following direct orders from L won’t be a problem either. 

The third condition comes as a surprise to Mello. He hadn’t even thought of that: L, pulling strings for him. A part of him, deep inside, is hurt by this condition. But he understands why it is necessary. 

Finally, the last condition is the only one Mello really has a problem with. As much as Mello admires and practically worships L, it is in his nature to be defiant. To rebel against authority. Mello knows there might be a time when he disagrees with L’s judgement. Just as with people who question God after a terrible storm, there will be disappointment and confusion after some of L’s orders, Mello is sure. If Mello agrees with this last condition, he won’t be able to express those sentiments. 

Very little could take away Mello’s faith in L, but there might be certain things they disagree on. Mello wants to make sure that his disagreement is heard and taken into account. After all, he’s the one who’s going to be carrying out the orders. Already, he disagrees with L’s tone. There’s no need to be so authoritative; L’s reputation is that of a successful and brilliant man, Mello knows this. He would listen to and respect L without such a commanding voice.

Mello shakes his head side to side, slowly. This is nerve-racking for him, but he does a good job of hiding it. He’s standing up to L. “I can’t do the last one,” he says, remaining composed. “If I don’t like something, I’ll say so.” Mello’s tone isn’t as extreme as L’s, although some of Mello’s usual bite creeps through.

All L initially offers in return is a nod of acceptance before he’s back in the kitchenette, rummaging around in one of the small bags for the second brownie. One is never enough and so he’s brought two, but if Mello is going to avoid the first one— Well. He’s already chewing when he turns back to the younger boy; an uncomfortable, moldy flat in the heart of Los Angeles is not where L prefers to conduct his business. Mello, too, should hold higher standards than the ones he exhibits within his chosen circle. Abandoned apartments and warehouses—the cliché of it, alone, is enough to deter the detective. Mello was groomed better than this. An institution of Wammy’s caliber should have instilled better tastes in someone within its ranks, honestly. “Good.” Because what else can he say? The possibility that Mello would decline was low, though L expected some retort in regards to the demand that he cease his most lucrative activities. That Mello shows obedience so easily speaks of either a willingness to succeed—which L will exploit endlessly—or deception. He understands that the latter is entirely possible. Likely, even. “Before we begin.” Which is now, considering the gravity of their situation. In a matter of days, there will be a move on Kira’s side which would have thrown their entire operation had L remained in the background and allowed his successors free reign.

Slowly, over the course of his conversation with the man, Mello is getting used to the way the stranger speaks to him. In many ways, the man is reminiscent of a schoolteacher. He informs Mello of basic, silly, unnecessary things. Like the difference between ‘interest’ and ‘caring’. It’s been quite a long time since anyone has spoken to Mello in such a way. 

Mello’s attention is completely on his companion. The brownie in his hand is forgotten. The promise of answers is very sweet, as sweet as a brownie. After all, Mello figures, he has a right to know who the man is and why the man reached out to him. 

Yet Mello hesitates to give out the location of L’s grave, even if it is the only thing standing between him and some answers. For some reason, it feels like the stranger is asking for something so private and intimate, like a social security number with sentimental value. Mello glances at the floor briefly, considering what the man could possibly want with that information. 

Once Mello realizes that there isn’t much the stranger could do with the knowledge, he looks back up at his companion. Mello has thought it over and he knows nothing the man could do with the information would be bad for Mello, unless the guy decided to locate the exact grave and deface it just for shits and giggles. Which is unlikely. Mello has reached a decision. 

Once Mello unwraps the brownie and tosses the wrappings on the floor, he knows exactly which bakery it’s from. He hadn’t recognized the wrappings, and hadn’t even realized they concealed a brownie. But now that he has grabbed the brownie and unwrapped it, he knows. He’s eaten food from the bakery before. 

In better circumstances, Mello would eat the brownie. He loves that bakery. But he can’t eat it now, not here. 

First of all, there’s no way of telling if the treat has been tampered with. Mello still doesn’t trust this man completely, although he’s given no indication that his intention is to harm Mello. There’s no problem in being a little paranoid, Mello figures. Just a healthy amount of paranoia, nothing too severe.

Second of all, the man’s words make him sick to his stomach. He’s in no mood to eat; his appetite is gone. Mello can’t meet the man’s eyes, instead choosing to stare at the uneaten brownie in his hand. An intense emotional pain envelops Mello and crushes him. His hand which isn’t holding the brownie clenches and unclenches. None of the man’s statements really get to him except for the last one - that one gets him.

If Kira alone had the power to remove him from the game, was he truly so great? It’s something Mello hasn’t considered before. It’s something he doesn’t want to think about, because he knows it would be nearly impossible for him to reconcile Kira’s success with L’s greatness in his mind. Nearly. Mello is sure he’ll be able to make some sense of these two seemingly contradicting facts if he’s given enough time. It will be tough, but he can manage it. 

Don’t worry, Mello. It’s only a treat, something to ease tensions. “Was he.” Considerate, rhetorical. While yes, L is aware he has inspired ideology in some of the children before his strategic retreat, to hear himself spoken of with such reverence is odd. L was painted as an ideal, an omnipotent being—perhaps N was the only one who truly properly perceived his humanity in the loss. Toying with Mello’s visible anxiety isn’t his aim, so he’ll give over the item. Just a brownie that he had one of his associates retrieve from a local bakery, nothing more. The bakery’s reputation preceded it before L had even touched down in Los Angeles.  If he knew it would inspire paranoia, L would have handed it to the boy moments ago.  “I have found through experience—” Crosses the distance between the counter and where Mello is seated, extends his arm to hold out the wrapped pastry to the other. “that idols tend to disappoint once the human factor comes to light.” Though he predicts Mello will react negatively to the vague jab at himself. So he continues, “For example,” Carefully. “I know a good deal where the man of whom you speak so highly is concerned.” Pause, watching. “Were you aware that he primarily took on cases that interested and challenged him, regardless of whether or not there were a thousand others that required his expertise?”

Mello pulls his hand out of his coat pocket, empty. He knows he doesn’t need the gun right now. That part of the conversation is over…for now. 

The tattered, old chair remains stationary although its most recent occupant is now standing by the kitchenette. Mello decides to accept the man’s suggestion and sit down, in the very chair which the man had been occupying just minutes before. He sits. The chair is uncomfortable, but Mello can handle a little discomfort. It feels good, sitting down. He doesn’t feel as tense as he did when he was standing.

Mello keeps a close eye on the man’s movements. He doesn’t think much of the man eating a pastry at a time like this. He has his own odd habits and food cravings. Still, Mello can’t help but wonder what else might be in that plastic bag. 

As for the man’s account of what went down at Wammy’s all those years ago, Mello supposes he had better clear up those things now. “I wasn’t a child, I was almost fifteen,” Mello corrects, his words as sharp and harsh as ever despite his fading annoyance. “And I never physically assaulted Roger.” 

Memories of Mello’s time at the institution rush up from somewhere deep in his brain and break the surface. He frowns, his eyes never leaving his companion. If this guy is here to drag Mello back to Wammy’s, it will take a miracle for the guy to succeed in his mission.

The bi-monthly reports L had received on behalf of the institution included—in detail—the second in line’s absolute disregard for authority in any form. To be expected, L supposes. He, himself, never much cared for Quillish’s rank over him when he was a young boy. These traits have carried over into Mello’s current state of being; the way he is sure to inform L of his discontent speaks worlds of his disgruntlement with the situation. The corner of his lips quirk in something akin to smug satisfaction. Yes, Mello is a force to be dealt with. Unfortunately for both of them, his demeanor is nothing more than bait that L will rise to. He will pull rank, because that is what he does. “You also aren’t very adept at following orders without indigence.” An amused tone touches the edges of his words. The underworld has shaped his potential into something fierce, something that Kira will be ill-equipped to stand against with L’s guidance. N—N is more reserved, operates within the parameters of the law, even if he will bend the rules to his preferences from time to time. But Mello. Mello is an unpredictable force. “All the same, I would prefer if you would address me in a more respectful manner from now on. I am aware that you do not deal with subordination well, but in this case, I believe an exception is due.”

Mello hates the way this man speaks to him, like he’s some sort of subordinate. Submission is something Mello despises; he’s worked very hard to build a reputation of dominance among the criminals he deals with. He knows he’s a leader, not a follower. A boss, not a servant. And yet this man treats him like someone to be ordered about. 

When the man rises from the chair, Mello knows what the man is trying to do. He’s seen it before. Some wannabe big shot thinks he can scare Mello just because he’s bigger and physically stronger. Mello always proves them wrong. They don’t stand a chance. Mello knows that success is about how smart you are, how much you know and how you apply that knowledge, not how tall you are. Sure, the man before him has about three inches on him, but Mello has dealt with much bigger guys and won. If the man thought that rising to his full height would impress Mello in some way, he was sadly mistaken. 

It’s not the man’s height which bothers Mello. It’s that the man is smart as well. If the guy was some lowlife criminal, Mello would have no problem wrapping him around his little finger. But this man wasn’t just another lowlife. 

Anger swells up inside of Mello, and he wrestles with it, but it is a losing battle. He reminds himself that the easiest and quickest way to get answers from this man is to just do as he says without objection. Unfortunately, his attempts to restrain his irritation fail. “I have no reason to respect you,” he says, lashing out with snarled words. “Do you know who I am?” His hands are clenched into tight fists. He manages to maintain enough control over his anger that he doesn’t reach for his weapon, although he is extremely tempted.

The bi-monthly reports L had received on behalf of the institution included—in detail—the second in line’s absolute disregard for authority in any form. To be expected, L supposes. He, himself, never much cared for Quillish’s rank over him when he was a young boy. These traits have carried over into Mello’s current state of being; the way he is sure to inform L of his discontent speaks worlds of his disgruntlement with the situation. The corner of his lips quirk in something akin to smug satisfaction. Yes, Mello is a force to be dealt with. Unfortunately for both of them, his demeanor is nothing more than bait that L will rise to. He will pull rank, because that is what he does. “You also aren’t very adept at following orders without indigence.” An amused tone touches the edges of his words. The underworld has shaped his potential into something fierce, something that Kira will be ill-equipped to stand against with L’s guidance. N—N is more reserved, operates within the parameters of the law, even if he will bend the rules to his preferences from time to time. But Mello. Mello is an unpredictable force. “All the same, I would prefer if you would address me in a more respectful manner from now on. I am aware that you do not deal with subordination well, but in this case, I believe an exception is due.”

                     ❛  Vengeance is one of life’s greatest motivators. ❜ 

 – K.S. Brooks

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♣ Indie RP+ Ask blog for Naomi Misora from Death Note ♣ Multiverse + Multiship ♣ Crossover + AU + OC friendly ♣ Mun over 18

L will never admit that he has been backed into a corner. There are only actions and consequences, strategies and results. There is a time to operate from the shadows—for his own safety, if nothing else—and a time for a boldness that would rival Kira’s own if he were to measure it on a scale greater than a cat and mouse game that has pushed him to this. It is exhilarating. Was exhilarating. Over the last few years, it has become daunting. A puppetmaster is one who gains no satisfaction from his work: the audience appreciates and revels the figures on stage. The man behind the curtain is to remain faceless, anonymous unless prompted to show himself. Then, he is viewed as a disturbance between reality and perception, a proxy as opposed to orchestrator. Normally, L would accept this. Find it preferable, even. But, well— He has been prompted. Kira threatens his legacy, seeks to dig out the seeds of his tactics and eradicate them while simultaneously tarnishing the L title with his very existence. N does not challenge this due to his arrogance; M wears the insult as a badge of honor used to rip apart the underworld, scrawling his name behind his footprints in blood.

 Both are reckless; both are correct in their approach. Optimally, L would prefer to see a clear winner between his two successors. Teamwork was never in the cards: when one half is removed, the structure crumbles and is rendered obsolete. But the time for competition between the two is long gone. This is no longer about which of them is more suited to take his place; this is war against an enemy who would see both of them annihilated in short order.

Mello’s arrogance, however, has led him down a path that L would rather he avoid. He has included low-level criminals in their game. Tarnished the L title beyond what is acceptable. Puts himself in harm’s way without regard. Kira closes in on him, and yet the boy continues to operate on the assumption that his guerilla tactics will see him through to victory. The time to intervene is now.  L cannot afford to have his weapons cut down in the name of folly.

There is no easy way to go about this. He rarely puts his trust in anything beyond his own actions, rarely puts stock in the silence of others. Human beings are innately fickle, easily led. Mello, in particular, is a boastful individual. L can only hope at this point that loyalty will purchase his reticence.

It takes all of four minutes to obtain the contact number of one Dwight Gordon, alias: Rod Ross. The exchanges between Rod and his men give L a general feel for his speech patterns, commonly used phrases. Abbreviations, shorthand. An additional two minutes to bypass the primary line and link it to the untethered mobile he has purchased for this occasion. Amusingly, Mello is listed in the man’s contacts as Mello—Mr. Ross clearly has no taste for secrecy.

Though operating beneath his Wammy’s moniker is nothing less than irresponsible on the boy’s part. Needless to say, L is less than pleased with the gravity of the  scope of this situation.

The message he sends is in the style of the one criminals throughout Los Angeles refer to as, ‘Boss.’ Simple. Alarming. The hideout has been compromised, local police have been tipped off that there are activities performed there which violate local and state statues. Relocation is necessary. All of this pruned down to a few, uninformative sentences:

We’ve gotta move 128 Encino 11. We meet there

The space is nothing spectacular, definitely below L’s standards as far as bases of operation are concerned. The chair in which he has settled himself is tattered, left over from previous tenants who appear to have moved in haste. Crimson, edges worn, cushion unsatisfactory. Any contact from Mello in an attempt to confirm or deny his arrival will go to this mobile; Rod’s has been blacked out for the time-being. One hand holds the device, screen visible, while the other rests comfortably on one of the chair’s arms.

Mello was a child of fourteen when Roger delivered the news.

When Mello receives the message, he isn’t doing anything spectacular. He’s sitting on the couch in the hideout, planning his next move. The couch is an ugly green thing, but Mello finds it comfortable. For seem reason, his thoughts are clearer and his ideas better when he sits on this couch. It’s his lucky piece of furniture. 

His phone buzzes, disturbing his thought process. He puts down his half-eaten chocolate bar on the table before him and pulls out his phone. It’s Ross. Mello glares at the phone, although he quickly realizes that this is a waste of energy. The phone is an inanimate object and couldn’t possibly react to his annoyance. 

Mello presses on the message so he can read it fully. Oh, shit. He had hoped the message was something small and unimportant, something he could ignore and quickly return to his thoughts. 

We’ve gotta move 128 Encino 11. We meet there

The detective in Mello is dying to know the details of the situation. How had the hideout been compromised? Is this the local police or the feds? The short, uninformative style used by Ross and many other criminals had really gotten on Mello’s nerves when he first began associating with them. He has gotten used to it by now, although there are still times such as this, when he is annoyed by the lack of information. He wants, no, needs to know more.

Whatever. Even if he texts Ross back, he doubts he can get any more out of the man at this point. There’s no point in texting Ross back, then. The man trusts him, and rightfully so. Ross knows Mello will be there. Mello hasn’t let him down yet.

As calmly as he can manage, Mello gets up and leaves the hideout. Just like that. The others in the hideout are expendable. There are plenty of other criminals in Los Angeles that can be easily hired if you offer them the right price. And besides, no one in the hideout knows anything important about him or the future of the operation. They’re the perfect offering to satisfy the law for a while and keep the law off his trail. 

Mello makes his way to 128 Encino Avenue. It’s certainly different than their last hideout. He checks his phone. There’s still half an hour until 11:00 p.m. Mello spends that time wandering around the neighborhood, getting a feel for the area and looking out for any suspicious activity. It’s cold in the dark of the night, so the young man shivers despite the heavy coat he took with him from the hideout. It doesn’t do much to protect his hands and face. He’s gotten so used to warm California days that the nights have become quite chilly. 

A few minutes before 11:00 p.m., Mello decides to enter the house. Either Ross is late or he’s already inside. Mello quickly walks up to the front door of the house. He pushes it open lightly, then slips inside and closes it quietly behind him. 

It’s dark inside the house, except for a soft light flickering in the living room. Mello approaches the light slowly, carefully. The light illuminates a figure sitting on an old chair. The first thing Mello’s mind registers is that it’s not Rod Ross. He doesn’t reach for his weapon immediately. After all, it might just be some poor homeless squatter. This house is obviously unoccupied, and likely attracts lots of squatters.