My Own Way

Mello rolled off his bed and landed on his feet on the floor. The way he saw it, there were now three options and the third wasn\'t an option at all. That one was to lie there for the rest of his life feeling sorry for himself, give up on Kira and hand the victory to Near on a plate. That\'s precisely what he had been doing for the last month and it was time for it to end.



He knelt down beside the packages that had been stacked unopened against the far wall. Mail order clothes from some of the top stores in Los Angeles, New York and San Francisco, because the British had no style. He tore at the packaging and shook out trousers, tops and proper boots. He had only had his slim-line, block-heeled ones on when he\'d fled the flames. They gave him a three inch height difference over Matt, but only if the redhead was in his bare feet. He checked the soles on these new boots. It was only about an inch, which added to the difference in their heights anyway, only gave him two inches. Those space age boots that he wore could place them on equal footing and Mello didn\'t like that. Towering three inches above him was much better. It reminded them who was in charge.



Mello inspected the cut and size of his new leather trousers. There were two identical pairs in this consignment, bought with a hacked account, and they looked like they would fit alright. It would at least get him out of jeans borrowed from Matt or the leather trousers he had been wearing on the night of the explosion. He squeezed into one pair, noting with alarm that he appeared to have put a tiny bit of weight on. He\'d been moping around a flat for weeks, what did he expect? Silently berating himself, Mello tied the laces at his flies and determined that he would live with the discomfort as penance, until he slimmed down again. The new boots were going to pinch as well, until he\'d worn them in. It couldn\'t be helped.



Now he sat there, on the edge of the bed, steeling himself for the part that he didn\'t want to do. The gauze was going to have to go. He didn\'t care if it was staving off infection and helping his wounds to heal. There was work to do. Mello knew that he could call Matt in and receive a lecture or he could do it himself. The latter involved a mirror. Mello sighed and stared at the dresser. He had covered the mirrors up with towels. He moved suddenly, before he could change his mind and ripped the towels down. A half-zombie mummy creature from the depths of Hell glared back at him. Mello looked away. He busied himself collecting up hairbrush and eye-liner, then sat back to ignore the monstrosity in the mirror. Disassociation. That was the only way that this was going to work. He slowly eased bandages and gauze away from his chest, cringing as the adhesive stuck, but sighing in relief as cool air reached his burns. Matt maintained that they were healing. They still looked like nothing on earth.



Mello continued on, pulling coverings from his shoulder and stopping to stare in shock at the damage. His resolve nearly caved, but he was truly damned if he was going to let Near win now. He yanked the gauze from his arm, more furiously than the rest, but he was giving no quarter to himself now. Pain was good. Pain meant that he was alive. He twisted slightly to attempt to reach the layers covering his left shoulder-blade and the muscle below, then whimpered as it caught. "Fuck." He carried on, until it was freed. Now for his face. He stalled. Wetting his lips, then brushing his hair. There were knots in it, which needed pulling through. The shape of his style was being lost under unruly growth. He had split ends. Mello bowed his head, biting his lip. Maybe it was good. He could cover his hideousness in hair. It wasn\'t like nice hair was going to help him anymore. Not with a face like his beneath it.



He took a deep breath and picked at the edges of the surgical tape there. The outer gauze came away in one piece, catching above his nose and causing his eyes to water. It didn\'t matter. Nothing mattered anymore but winning. The winning had just taken a different path. If he couldn\'t get through on looks, he would just have to do it in fear and violence. He still had his mind, his brilliant brain that had moved him from pet to Consigliere. He picked off the inner gauze and blinked at himself in the mirror. Eyes flickered away. Yes, it mattered. More than he was comfortable feeling. He reached and picked up the eye liner and forced his gaze back to the mirror. He just sat there, the liner redundant in his hand. What fucking good would make up do? Mello turned and threw the pencil across the room. It made a tiny mark on the wallpaper and fell onto the bed.



Mello turned and picked up a leather vest, quickly putting it on. It cut into his shoulder, agonisingly at the edges, but with no pain underneath. He tried not to think about that. The implications were too disturbing. As for the pain, he was good at feeling that now. It would be alright. He zipped it up and his back and chest joined in the screaming protest. He snapped up his chocolate and bit into it viciously. He was all good. He glanced down at the laptop, re-reading the address and name, then opened his bedroom door. "Matt, I\'m going out."



"What?" Came the gormless response from the front room.



"Going out." Mello opened the front door, but there was the sound of running feet in the passageway. Matt appeared at his side and, to Mello\'s glee, he was in fact two inches shorter than him.



"Where are you...? Why have you pulled your dressings off? You\'ll get infected and..."



Mello raised his hand. "Matty, as much as you\'d love to be, you aren\'t actually my wife. Stop nagging like one and get out my face." He smirked. "Thank you."



Matt reached around him and tried to close the front door. "Stop being a bitch and..." Mello unerringly found the pressure point in Matt\'s arm and dug a nail into it. The redhead yelped and released the door. Mello glared at him and pushed past, heading for the lift, but Matt hadn\'t finished with him. He ran after him all the way to the metal doors. Of course, the counter indicated that the lift was up on the fourteen floor, so would be a while descending to their level. "Please, Mell, where are you going? You need to have..."



"Matt." Mello growled a warning.



"You\'re not going to the shop, are you?"



"If I promise to bring you back some cigarettes, will you sod off back into the flat and stop bugging me?"



"Mell, don\'t go back to them. Please." He was actually pleading! The niave, elfin child was choosing now to show an emotion. "We\'ll find another way. Come on, I\'ll make you a hot chocolate."



Mello glanced at the entrance to the stairwell. It would be quicker than waiting for the lift and besides, he needed the exercise to lose those extra pounds. He was confident that he could outrun Matt. He didn\'t smoke. With a sudden grin, Mello ran for it, forcing the door shut behind him right in Matt\'s face, then taking the concrete stairs three at a time. The stairs were filthy and stunk of urine. Matt was in his bare feet, Mello laughed as he gained three floors on his pursuer. "See you later, Matty." It occurred to him that the redhead wasn\'t following. Well, damn him too.



Mello pulled his hood up over his head and walked. Despite the dreary English sky, it did feel good to be out in the fresh air. His lungs forgave him their torment, while the entire left side of his body joined in complaint at their chafed tenderness. He nearly did turn back, but a glance upwards saw Matt watching him from the kitchen window. Mello hunched his shoulders and quickened his pace, practically marching to the train station three streets away. He kept his head bowed, as he bought a ticket, then took the train into central London. It took nearly an hour to get there, the heat rising on his face and body. Mello felt sick before they had even reached the suburbs of the city, but he dared not disrobe.



It was hardly a relief to alight at a subway station in the East End. Mello had to admit to himself that his body was weaker than he thought. With that acknowledged, he let bloody-mindedness overtake him and carry him up into the streets above. He stopped at a vending machine for a bottle of water and knocked it back in two deep drafts. Somewhat revived, he leaned against a wall, nibbling chocolate, until his headache faded a little. His back spasmed with pain, so he had to keep moving.



Several streets on, Mello found the club. It was closed, being daytime, but if he was right about this, then it was Mafia owned. He tried the front door, though it was ostentaciously chained shut. He walked around the side and found a second door with a bell. It was opened on the third ring and a huge man loomed over him. Mello didn\'t say a word, he flashed a hand signal and the thug\'s eyes narrowed. The blond smiled dangerously, "I understood that I might find friends here."



Ten minutes later, he was being shown into an office. Mello\'s experienced gaze took in a lot of information about the men gathered there and about the room itself. He strode confidently towards the chair that had been set out for him and locked eye contact with the man in front of him. This one had to be the most senior Capo there, though Mello wondered if he, himself, actually outranked him. It didn\'t matter. This was a different gang and old rankings didn\'t necessarily mean shit. "My name is Mello. I was Consigliere to Rod Ross in LA, but Kira didn\'t know my name. I apologize that I have no-one to introduce me, but I understand myself to be amongst reasonable and honourable men, as I am myself."



"If you are Mello..." The Capo paused, attempting and failing to outstare him. Restlessness pattered through the men. "If you are Mello, then you need no introduction. Your work is known, but..." His hands widened, palms upwards in a gesture of openness. "Why are you here?"



"You know the state of operations in America. I\'ve come here because I needed to lie low." He smirked. "I bring with me a lot of information, contacts, networks," he paused to let the notion sink in, "knowledge. The European branches are in a position to take up America and rebuild. No doubt the Scilians are already moving; but who else has someone like me? Yes, they could start from scratch, but every name is dead. I escaped, nearly unscathed." Now he pulled down his hood, allowing them a full view of his injuries for the first time. As they reacted, Mello\'s eyes hardened, icy cold. "I bring you my mind and all I ask in return is one small favour."



The Capo stared back stonily, "Which is?"



"Resources to capture Kira."



"Impossible." The Capo flashed gold-capped teeth. "The Commission has decided that our thing does not involve moving against Kira."



Mello\'s eyes narrowed, "The Commission is dead. All the New York families are in ruins."



"The new Commission." The Capo stood and walked from behind his desk. "But Mello, I like you. You have balls. Stick around and I might change my mind." He held out his hand. "I am Rio, welcome home."



Two hours later, Mello sat in the closed bar of the club. A whisky had been sipped once but otherwise sat untouched on the table beside him. The young soldier had finished writing down all his immediate requirements and held out the list for Mello to review. It included money, weaponry, fake documents and a motorcycle. "Oh yeah, fifteen boxes of Bourneville Dark Chocolate please." Mello smirked at the soldier\'s frown, but noted that it was written down. He glanced up as one of the older men appeared at his side. "Yes?"



"Rio would like you to come with me. There is a problem." The man\'s expression was neutral, but Mello had been expecting something like this. He was amazed that it had taken so long to set up. "The boss thought you might like to be the one resolve it before he\'s chased."



Mello shrugged, as if it was of no concern to him either way. "You\'d better give me the details then." His request was granted. The soldier had been working off the record, that was to skim money off a business deal without the knowledge of the boss, undercutting both supplier and family alike. Mello was surprised that being hurt and chased out of the Mafia was all that was going to happen. The man must have made some good contacts over the years. If this had happened across Rod, the man would have been dead by now. "Where is the babbo?"



Mello was led through the club to the basement, noting, as he passed through the door, that it had been soundproofed down here. Many more men lounged around watching the blond teenager with interest. Some watched in open amusement. Mello clocked them all, knowing that this could easily be a trap for himself. He was walking amongst unknown people, with all the hidden signs and codes, but nothing else to identify him as being who he said he was. He crossed himself and strode into the midst of them, a couple of younger lads stepped back involuntarily and Mello smiled. Little betrayals of body language told him that he looked terrifying right now, which was good, because that was the effect he was aiming for. A knife was placed into his hand and Mello turned it, not holding it out like an amateur, but down as he had been taught back in LA.



A scuffle was taking place in the far corner of the room and Mello smirked, walking towards it. An heavily-set man was struggling in the grasp of four other soldiers. His eyes rolling like a frightened horse. Mello\'s head only came to his chest, so the blond kicked out at his knees. The soldiers around him forced the man to kneel and Mello stared down at him. The atmosphere could have been cut with the knife in his hand, everyone watching, their full attention on the slight teenager who claimed to be that notorious Consigliere. Mello tutted, his voice rising. "You are testimony to me that standards really have slipped in Britain. Where I\'m from, we\'d be getting a place ready for you by now. But what the boss wants, the boss gets." His gaze took in Rio, clamped eye contact with him again, fully aware that he had just criticised operations on this side of the Atlantic. "You are taking the piss." He languidly moved forward, slotting the knife between the man\'s gritted teeth. Terror blazed back from the eyes in front of him, but Mello just stared back, bemusement in his own gaze. "You were laughing at us." He touched a point on the man\'s neck and the jaw slackened just long enough for him to slam the knife width-ways all the way. It caught at the sides of the traitor\'s mouth. "That\'s just not nice." Mello pushed and the blade slid in, slicing through flesh, blood pulsating out all over him. The man screamed and the cuts pulled his face apart right up to the cheeks, skin flapping uselessly in two parts on either side of his mutilated face. Mello sniggered and stepped back. "Now we will always know who laughed at us." He turned away, dropping the knife onto the floor, and fixed his gaze on every man there in turn. "A permanent smile to remind him of oh, how he laughed." He lifted out a chocolate bar in bloody hands and snapped off a square. The sound of it bounced off the accoustics. "Chase him. Anyone associating with him will get the same or different, depending on my mood. Though, if I have my way, it will be much worse."



The man was being dragged out behind them. Rio nodded, his own Consigliere whispering into his ear. The Capo looked up. "I noticed you did something at the doorway. What was that?"



Mello wracked his brains. What had he done? "I came in, assessed the situation. I crossed myself."



Rio nodded. "Let it be known. I believe that this is Mello." He pointed. "Who else have we heard of walking into this thing of ours with a fucking rosary around his neck? The City of Angels definitely cast this one out."



Mello felt the words like a bullets, but stood stoically amongst them. He walked forward, bent and kissed the ring on the boss\'s hand. This was all about Kira and he would win.