Power

There were two ways Mello could have played things. He'd learned quickly, all too quickly, that the Real World was 'eat or be eaten'; you were predator or you were prey. Humans are animals, running on basic instincts, fighting for their place in the pack.

Mello's position within Wammy's House had been unusual. He was number two; not one, oh no, he was the runner-up. Not quite good enough, must try harder. And that was exactly the problem. Mello was trying. He would stay up all night studying, but Near would always beat him, always get that extra mark, always stay at the top.

But Alpha Male he was not.

It wasn't that Mello was a bully, per se -- he was no coward; he just enjoyed the power. He was vindictive and spiteful, but he never kept it hidden. There were no threats when the teacher's back was turned; Mello would flaunt his misdemeanours in the face of authority. He'd always been that way. Manhandling an eight-year-old was one thing; there was no keeping a fourteen-year-old Mello in his room.

Truth be told, Roger was relieved to see the back of Mello. Let the rest of the world deal with him.

The rest of the world wasn't ready.

No fourteen-year-old, utterly alone in the world, should be able to come out of the other side on top. But Mello wasn't your average fourteen-year-old. He was clever, brilliantly clever and determined -- beat Near; beat Kira; Hell, even beat L. Mello slid effortlessly into the seedy underbellies of wherever his 'case' took him. He was fifteen, the first time he killed someone. He'd clung to his rosary afterwards but did not cry (no tears, never) -- 'I'm sorry', 'thank you for not taking me', 'tell me what to do', 'how could you let me do this?'... Mello couldn't make out the prayers in his own head.

But, despite it all, he stayed alive. Whether through God's Good Grace or his own doing, he didn't care. He was invincible.

The leather had been a whim. He'd seen it in a shop and tried it on. He looked as confident as he felt. Confidence is sexy.

Exposed skin that says 'I know you want me' and a glare that says 'you can't'. Look, but don't touch.

Many tried. ('Dress like that and what do you expect? Fucking slut.' 'Threaten a man and what do you expect?' Bang.) None succeeded. Maybe things would have been easier if he'd given in, even once, but Mello could not lower himself to such a level.

The Mafia would not let themselves be run by some common whore, after all, and Mello would enter as an equal: a man (you could no longer call him a boy; childhood was but a distant memory now) who was sucked into the Underworld of LA and had proved himself the most despicable.

'Power has to come out from the barrel of a gun' and Mello points and shoots, repeating his mantra of 'I have to be the best' over and over again in his mind.

Once upon a time, his motives had been pure (avenge L; catch Kira; Justice, Justice, Justice -- beating Near would come naturally); now, he was drunk on power.

A name, a face. Ultimate power with two small pieces of information. The power to bring the world to its knees, forcing it to kneel before him and revere him -- proclaim him Number One.

Kira had proclaimed himself God. False idol.

The Virgin's eyes fixed upon him. The air heavy with incense. Prayers recited to the count of rosary beads.

A crucifix hanging from his gun.

Mello's power was Divine.