Poisoned Rationality

The corridors of The Wammy House seemed smaller; the air tasted laden with something a little claustophobic. There was a sense of both belonging and not belonging all at the same time, which tugged at the emotions in unexpected ways. Both men realised that, deep down, they had always imagined the institution as home, somewhere to come back to if it all went too badly wrong, though neither ever would. Now that they were here, that option seemed taken out of their hands. A familiar place, which managed to throw them off balance with its strangeness. Subconsciously, they had stepped apart. Mello covering his unease with long strides and glaring. Matt trailing behind, turning occasionally to peer into rooms. He had been back more recently and had stayed for a week, but not really leaving his room and not with Mello. That was the difference.



They entered the dining room, surprising the sole occupant, a teenage boy reading alone at the end of a table. Behind them, the shutter was down on the kitchen, noises going on behind it. The boy watched them with his mouth open. Scruffy, with unkempt hair, the textbook in his hand was Advanced Physics. He gasped out suddenly, "You\'re Mello and Matt! You\'re the ones who caught Kira!"



Both froze and surveyed him. Mello took out chocolate and bit into it. Matt practically hid behind him. The blond recovered enough to speak. "You know us?"



"I\'ve had you described. I\'ve heard all about you." He pushed back from the table. "Wow! I can\'t believe you\'re here!"



Roger had caught up with them at the door and shuffled into the room to open the kitchen door. "Mrs Carnagie, I wonder if you would be so kind as to prepare a meal for two of our old boys?"



The cook came to the door and broke into a wide grin when she saw them. "Oh! My saints! How they\'ve grown!" She bustled past Roger and advanced like a ship in full sail. Then her hand flew to her face. "Oh! Mihael! What did they do to you?" Her fingers hovered over the scar on his face. "Oh my poor, little boy!" Arms engulfed him before he could work out how to react. "I\'ve said Aves for you every day since you left and here you are again. You\'re still very handsome. I bet you\'re fighting the ladies off, breaking hearts." Mrs Carnagie smiled across at Matt. "You don\'t change a bit, my darling. Fancy the pair of you meeting up again. Was it while fighting that Kira? I\'ve heard so much about your exploits!" She looked up as running feet responded to the text message of the boy with them. "Children! Don\'t go messing up my dining room! I\'ve only just set out for tea. Now, Mello, Matt, my beauties, you can have anything that you like. What would you like me to cook for you?" Six children of varying sizes were already surrounding the table. Matt slipped into a chair behind Mello and the lower part of his head disappeared under his collar. "Mello, stop eating chocolate. It will ruin your appetite. How about a nice Chicken Moskva? I still have that recipe that you found on your computer for me. Matt... you don\'t get a choice. You\'re having something healthy." She stood with her hand on Mello\'s shoulder, waving an arm at the increasing group of children staring from the other side of the table. "Now, you lot! Don\'t crowd them. You\'ve seen Matt before."



She made her way into the kitchen, leaving Mello looking a little shell-shocked. He searched for familiar faces amongst the youngsters, but saw only Roger watching him carefully behind them. "Hello everyone." Mello eventually managed, sitting very still. He had only seen something like this once before. That was the occasion when L had communicated with them via laptop and, to a lesser extent, when he spoke with him separately. Lesser only because there were fewer people around. One of the bolder children asked him to tell them about catching Kira. "I don\'t know what you\'ve heard. I thought that the official version was that Near caught Kira."



"No." Roger called over their heads. "Near has already linked up with them and he told them that you did it together. Not working together, but your individual strategies nontheless complementing each other\'s."



"Near said that?" Mello gulped. "Right." He peered sideways at Matt. "I\'m not sure that my version of things is all that suitable. But..." He raised a hand at their protests. "How about you ask us questions and we see how we go?" The questions came, thick and fast, intelligent ones which stretched his brain in answering them. Mello was just warming to his new role and fame, when Mrs Carnagie reappeared with two plates enclosed in teatowels in her hands and ordered the children out of her dining room. "Don\'t think I didn\'t notice that you didn\'t answer a single question." Mello hissed, but Matt just grinned, emerging from his collar again. "Ah! Moskva! I haven\'t had any in years. Thank you very much."



They were left alone to eat their meals in peace, occasionally exchanging glances and smirking. Eventually they carried their crockery to the trolley and made their way back out. The same scruffy teenager that they had first met was waiting for them in the corridor. He seemed to have been rehearsing his words, but they came out in a rush anyway. "What was it like in the Mafia?"



Mello sneered at him and carried on walking. Matt commented as he passed by, "He told me that it\'s not like \'The Godfather\'. It\'s probably best not to follow him in."



The blond wheeled around suddenly, danger flashing from his eyes. His Beretta was out and pointing. He growled, "Matt, there\'s a kid behind that door. Fetch her out." Matt frowned, trying to read the situation. The teenager ran to stand in the doorway. Mello yelled, "Get out of there, if you want your friend to..." A smaller child stepped into view, trembling, and Mello grabbed her. Behind them, Roger was hurrying to the scene. "What\'s your name?" Mello roared at the teenager. Matt slowly stepped in front of the gun and was shoved roughly back into the wall. The child in Mello\'s grip was crying. The teenager was trying not to. His whisper was barely audible, but Mello caught it. "Well then, Neuron, it\'s your choice. For asking me that question, you can decide which of this little runt\'s kneecaps I shoot off."



"What?" Neuron gasped and the child started sobbing.



Matt reached behind his collar and pulled out his own semi-automatic, pointing it at Mello. "Leave the kids the fuck alone."



Mello\'s smile was pure evil, his eyes dark. "To think I trusted you, Matt." He released the child and fired right at Matt\'s head. Nothing happened. The gun wasn\'t loaded. Mello turned to meet Neuron\'s eyes again. "And that\'s what it\'s like in the Mafia. As Matty said, do not follow me in there." His smile at Matt, over the barrel of the gun, was softer. "That had better not be loaded either. I\'ve warned you about that before."



Neuron was cuddling the little one, his face contorted with hatred. "Mello, I hate you." The girl struggled away screaming, backing into the room behind her. Neuron hesitated for just a moment before rushing after her.



Mello sneered after him, "Good. Then you won\'t try to be like me." He turned and strode past Roger back into the older man\'s office.



Matt followed him. "You are such a fucking arsehole, Mell." He sank into the settee and pulled out his game. Mello sat with his head in his hands and it was a few minutes before Roger returned. The old man looked ill. "If you want us to leave, then I\'ll get him out of your hair."



Roger sat unsteadily into an armchair. "Neuron has hero worshipped you for years, Mello. He also has a fixation on the Mafia. He has many tomes on the subject in his room." Mello didn\'t look up, Matt stared fixedly at his game. "The pale blue folder on the coffee table. It contains the Spanish documentation."



Something clattered onto the settee beside Matt. It was Mello\'s gun, being surrendered. Matt took it and slipped it into the deep pockets of his jacket, then removed his own and added it to the other pocket. He took the jacket off and draped it over a chair nearer to Roger than to either of them. There he paused again, fishing out a small bottle of pills and extracting two in full sight, before reaching to pick up the folder. En route to the kettle, he dropped it onto Mello\'s lap. "Right, who wants a cuppa?"



Mello slid out the loose papers. The top sheet referred to Miles Jeevas, before a note, added to the margin, confirmed that the child could read and write. He was spelling his first name as Mail, pronounced as \'Mile\'. He had not been registered and so officially did not exist. There was no record of innoculations or evidence of visits to a doctor throughout his three years. Mother unaccounted for; neighbours had never seen her. Father, deceased. Child malnourished and severely dehydrated. Date of discovery, February 1st. "Oh my God!"



Both Roger and Matt turned to look at him, though the redhead quickly focused upon his tea-making again. Roger folded his shaking hands into his lap. "Mello, you were warned that it would make disturbing reading. It will raise more questions than..."



"His birthday! It\'s not his birthday." Mello blinked. "Sorry. I was ready for the rest, but that just..."



Matt handed him a hot chocolate. "I covered the top in chocolate sprinkles. Roger, I meant to ask, may I visit the library while I\'m here and copy some discs?"



"Of course you may." Roger\'s gaze flicked from one to the other. He knew that Matt had never seen these files. He\'d claimed not to remember the events in them, yet his absolute lack of curiosity seemed suspicious. "It Matters, do you remember nothing of these events?"



"Why on earth would I want to?" Matt replied, returning to the kettle to finish the teas.



"Jaione, this is Mr Wammy. I understand that Daria called ahead?" The Director ushered the distinguished Englishman into the small reception area. "He was with us when details of the case came through and has an interest." Hands were shaken, though the matron looked harassed. "What is the situation now?"



"Paramedics managed to get a drip into him, so he was being hydrated, but..." For all her years as a professional, Jaione looked shaken. "He won\'t let us near him."



"I thought you said he was only about three years old?" The Director countered. "Surely he can be overpowered and sedated."



Jaione glared. "That is precisely what we are about to do." She indicated the syringe that she had been preparing when they had entered.



Mr Wammy stepped forward. "May I see him?" He had already spotted the child through the tiny window and entered the instant that the Director gave him the nod. He had been told that the boy was three, but the emaciated mite standing on the white tiled floor appeared to be no more than two years old. There was none of the expected baby fat, but instead a slightly distended stomach and limbs so skeletal, it was a wonder that he could stand. He was bare-foot with grubby blue-black trousers and a white t-shirt, heavily stained. Blood splashed in splodges onto the tiles. The green eyes which glared back, under long red hair, held a much older intelligence. He had ripped out the drip and started to back away. Mr Wammy crouched until he was as close to eye level as he could be with the infant. He spoke in Spanish, in a soothing, respectful tone. "You were a really clever boy, what you did back there."



The tiny boy looked past the Englishman, towards the nurse sitting across the room. As Mr Wammy turned to view her too, there was a sudden movement and the stand, containing the drip, crashed down onto his head. He caught it, but the tubing span around and thwarted his progress. He watched as the fragile toddler made it as far as the piping. But he was too small, too weak. He couldn\'t climb it, though he tried.



"Help me catch him!" The nurse shrieked, as the infant slid underneath the chair and made a bid for the door.



Mr Wammy raised his hand. "Patience and quiet please, ma\'am." He crouched again. "Miles, isn\'t it? What would you like to do?"



The boy had crawled underneath the trolley bed, glaring back. It was eerie how no tears were even in his eyes. When he spoke, his words were as pronounced as a five year old. "Get me out of here."



The nurse gasped, "We thought he was feral!" She opened the door. "He can speak!"



Mr Wammy held out his hand. "Come with me, Miles. Let me tell you why these people are doing what they are doing, then I promise to get you out of here." He uprighted the drip. "The human body needs water. You have very little water in your body. This is merely putting some back in to make you feel better." He held up a hand to those crowding at the door. "If you could leave us alone, please?" His voice held such command that they did as they were told, though their faces continued to peer in at the window. "Your arm has something called veins, which takes the water in. Like drinking it through your mouth, only quicker." There was a small scraping sound and the boy crawled out again. He left a trail of blood in his wake, but held out a painfully thin arm to the man. Mr Wammy smiled and reinserted the needle. "It will also work much better if you were to lie down. Should I help you up?"



The infant walked away to the very length of the drip\'s tubing and crawled under the bed again. His eyes were closing, but he dared not sleep. The gentleman pulled his chair right up to the side of the bed, the legs a barricade against anyone reaching in to get him. Then he sat down, keeping guard. Mail curled up and drifted off into a troubled sleep, the white tiles cold under his body.



Matt stepped away from the kettle, oblivious to the fact that Mello and Roger had been watching him for several minutes. He wandered to the shelving and picked up the photograph of Quillish Wammy. A gloved hand touched the frame, while he stared through orange-tinted lenses at those beloved features. A choking sob rose unbidden in his throat and he staggered back against the desk, swallowing wildly. Wammy was dead. There was the familiar creak of leather unfolding, as Mello rose from his armchair. Matt raised a hand to stop him coming over, then opened a window and lit a cigarette. He stood staring at the photograph, until Mello came anyway, bringing a cup of tea.



"He was a good man." Mello stood beside him, with his head bowed. Then added, needlessly, "Watari." Matt nodded, drawing heavily upon his cigarette. "Did you remember something?"



Matt sighed, "Mihael, I never forgot." Behind them, Roger gasped, turning in his seat; but Mello remained still. He nodded. Matt lifted the photograph. "Watari told me that I never had to say. Even if people asked. Mr Wammy said I never had to say anything that I didn\'t want to say."



Mello nodded again and returned back to the papers. He silently tidied them together and slid them back into the folder. "Thank you for your time, Roger. We\'re done here."



Matt\'s voice cut through. "They must have been bailiffs for something, but they had big guns. My papá shot them dead in our living room and left them there. There were three of them and after a while, they really started to smell." Matt stood, leaning against the window, another cigarette in his mouth and his Gameboy Advanced in his hands. On the desk, facing into the room, was the picture of Watari. "I watched them go stiff and turn green and the flies came." His fingers clicked at the controls. "In retrospect, my papá must have been insane, but I didn\'t know that then. He didn\'t have much to do with me." Mello started to walk across again, but Matt\'s head shot up and he glared. Mello raised his hands and sat back down. "I knew there was something wrong when he looked at me. Just sat there, looking at me." Matt\'s attention was back on the game. "I waited until he was out the back, then searched them and got their wallets and put them outside on the front doorstep. More men came and they saw the corpses. My papá built a barricade across the house and shot at them through it. It turned into a really big deal. Then one of them shot him in the shoulder. My papá started shouting at them that they weren\'t going to kill him. He was a hero and he would not die like a dog." A sudden increase in clicking, Matt peered into the screen. A minute passed before he spoke again. "He said he would kill himself and the kid before he would let them kill him. There were lots of guns being shot on both sides. My papá picked me up by my collar and held a gun at my middle. The men on the other side of the barricade stopped shooting. I was scared because... well..." His forward creased.



"It\'s ok that you were scared." Mello whispered. "I\'d have been scared."



Matt nodded. "I stuck my fingers in his eyes and he dropped me, so I ran like crazy and got out of the garden. There were some trees out back and a big... thing... Mr Wammy said it was an oil tanker. You know the ones on the back of lorries? But this was old. It was rusted. There was a ladder up the side and a hole in the top, where they get the oil out. I got in it and it was too small for an adult to get in. It was dark and smelt of stuff. I couldn\'t see a ladder to get back out again. My papá leaned his arm in and shot all around it, but he missed me. He did that twice, but he knew I was still alive. He banged on the outside telling me to come out, but I couldn\'t even if I wanted to, because there was no ladder. He just kept on banging until there was gunshots. I don\'t know if he killed himself or if the other men killed him. I just kept very quiet and even though I heard them, they didn\'t find me. Watari said it was nearly three days before they used sniffer dogs and they shone a torch in and found me."



Roger took up the folder and searched through the documents, until he found a photograph. It was handed to Mello, who took a moment to work out what he was seeing. It was the inside of the oil tanker. Scratched a quarter of the way up the rusted wall were the words \'Mail Ricardo Sebastan Jeevas\'. He had spelt Sebastian wrong. There were marks around it, which took some studying before they transpired to be flowers and, possibly, grass. A second photograph showed a whole world created in scratched rust. The artistry was childish and it never stretched higher than a couple of feet. Mello put them down, his hands covering his face.



Matt sauntered back from the window, clicking rapidly. "If I sign out some blank CDs, can I send you some more in the post please?"



"Pardon?" Roger blinked at him.



"To burn those discs from the library." Matt paused his game. "If I still can, please?"



"You may have any stationery that you require, with my compliments." Roger shifted his gaze to Mello, trying to determine if Matt even saw that the infallible blond appeared to be crying. "Are you alright, Matt?"



"Yes. I\'m going to learn Croatian." He smirked and left the room.



Alone in the room with their erstwhile guardian, Mello crumbled. Roger patted his shoulder, until the blond angrily wiped his eyes and sat up straight. A moment later, he was sucking chocolate. Roger coughed, walking behind him to refill his cup from the teapot. "Mello, all of this happened seventeen years ago. He got out alive. Wammy\'s fascination with the case was how he survived for the preceding three years. Even as genius as he undoubtedly is, he couldn\'t have fed himself as a baby in arms. Someone must have loved him once."



"No." Mello began stacking the folders and carrying them back to the storage room. "Someone kept him alive once. And your psychological prognosis?"



"You know it already. Low levels of oxytocin and vasopressin, probably caused by infant neglect. Nothing more than that and I can prescribe medication." Roger smiled suddenly. "Mello, sometimes I can still see you underneath that gruff exterior. You were such a sensitive, little boy; so much compassion. I guess it\'s no surprise that you had to compensate and," he gestured helplessly, "you never did anything by halves. Don\'t lose yourself in this charade, that\'s all I\'m trying to say." Mello nodded and sat with the tears openly dropping from his cheeks. He kept wiping them and they kept falling. Roger hadn\'t seen him this vunerable since he was about seven. He doubted that the rules of comfort had remained the same. The young man wasn\'t even touching his rosary. "Can I get you anything?"



Mello rose so suddenly that Roger flinched backwards in his seat. It was an interesting reaction, he mused, and one which he would analyse later. In a flash of leather, Mello was away from the chairs and charging to the desk. His movements energetic and full of harshness. He ripped tissues out of the box, until the cardboard tore, then swiped viciously at his own eyes. "We\'re out of control, Roger." Mello whispered, huskily, then blew his nose. "No-one taught us how to survive the aftermath."



Roger swallowed and turned properly. Mello was leaning over the desk, his fringe and scarring leant such a darkness down below to the bridge of his nose. Out of the shadows, his fiery blue eyes were dancing with precision menace, staring straight at him. The older man consciously acknowledged what his instinct had been insisting was true for ages. Ever since his former charge had first stepped foot back into his presense a few months ago, Roger had been scared of what Mihael had become. This was no childish tantrum to be squashed with psychological tricks, chocolate or scripture. This was the boy turned into a man whom Roger no longer recognised. "What do you want me to do?"



Mello stood up straight again, his features sliding into a more human visage of incredulity. He snorted and turned away. When he spoke again, it was with an icy control. "Write me a repeat prescription for the medication that Matt needs." When Roger didn\'t move, Mello\'s hand covered the prescription pad on the desk, though he hadn\'t looked down to do so. It was whisked up and thrown at the elderly man in the chair. A pen followed. As Roger wrote, the blond stood with his arms wrapped around himself. He gave a little shudder, then snapped back into focus. A few strides later, Mello had his own and then Matt\'s jackets over his arm, reaching into the latter\'s pockets to remove his Beretta and to push it back into his waistband. A gloved hand came out for the prescription and he thrust it into his pocket. "Roger, you are no Wammy."



He turned and marched out of the office, slamming the door behind him.