He's always done what he's told.

A character flaw, perhaps, but to him it made him who he is—being taken advantage of was just part of the job he'd subconsciously signed up for when he first arrived at Wammy's. It was if he had known, after first laying eyes on the pissy blond, that he finally had a master, a friend. A twisted friendship from the start, but not much has really changed since then, aside from a gun or two, a few scars, and five hundred dollars worth of leather clothing.

He definitely doesn't get paid enough, he muses half-heartedly as he races through the oddly empty streets of nighttime Japan, lighting a cigarette as he goes. Well, it would be nice if he got paid at all, but he knows that he'd do anything for Mello for no money or general expense; if anything, the moody ex-Mafioso is the freeloading son of a bitch.

Just the thought of Mello being nice enough to pay him makes him laugh as he weaves in and out of cars still on the freeway, trying his fucking hardest to lose the tail that Takada's bodyguards tossed on his ass back at the NHN studio. He's only got two following him, but even one is enough to make him tighten his grip on the steering wheel and set a path to get the hell out of dodge.

That said, it now makes complete sense to him as his body reacts on instinct, not waiting for his brain to rationalize his actions before his foot is slamming on the brake and his car is spinning to a halt. Once he's done spinning out, he takes a fraction of a moment to ensure he isn't going to retch violently and leans his elbows on the steering wheel, puffing away on his cig.

Jesus Christ, that bitch has a helluva lot of bodyguards.

Fuck.

Muttering swear words in every language he knows (Gaelic, French, Japanese, English, Spanish, Italian, Slovenian and Portuguese), he steps out of the car with a cocky smile gracing his lips and his hands behind his head. Drawing their guns, the bodyguards tell him to get the fuck down on the ground before they shoot the piss out of him.

There's that character flaw again.

All too willingly, he kneels just as the police show up and rush over to handcuff him, chattering amongst themselves about sending him to the SPK and letting them do what they want with him. It's totally fine with him, because hey, at least he can plead his and Mello's case to Near without rebuttal—or so he hopes. He's not much of an optimist these days.

One agonizing ride in the cramped backseat of a cop car later, he's being pushed into the SPK building harshly by some strapping young gentleman with dark hair and an overall "side-kick" air to him. He rubs his wrists after the S.Y.G. removes the handcuffs and tosses them onto the nearest desk, leaving just him and Near and a couple others in the room.

"Nate," he says conversationally, nodding in greeting to the expressionless albino with a finger twined in his hair.

Blinking, Near replies, "Mail."

"So. How the fuck are ya?"

Halle shifts uneasily at Mail's ease, his devil-may-care attitude striking a dissonant chord with her. Near notices this but does nothing about it, choosing instead to answer Mail's question with, "It is not of importance, Mail. Where is Mihael? I was under the impression that you two were inseparable."

He shrugs. "If I knew, do you really think I'd be peddling precious moments away talking to you? Let's see… abnormal albino kid, or love of my life…" He holds his hands out, pantomiming a scale that tips in Mello's direction. "Looks like Pissy 'n Prideful wins, eh?"

"You are rather chipper for one that will be held accountable for his actions. It seems as though you care not that I am forced to hold you here on counts of espionage and being an accessory to kidnapping."

"It could be worse," Mail responds, pulling a box of cigarettes out of his back pocket and sticking one in his mouth, swapping out the carton for a lighter. "I could be dead. Just countin' my blessings, Natey-poo."

He doesn't object when Near orders the S.Y.G. from earlier (apparently, his name is Gevanni. Mail would have to remember that for later) to throw him into the singular, solitary cell they have at the headquarters, nor does he fight when Gevanni slides the bars closed. From the get-go, he's nothing more than extremely and indescribably bored.

Should've remembered to take his PSP with him.

Not even an hour later, he hears a familiar voice on the speakerphone bitching about how Near should let him go before he rushes over there and kicks his little puffball ass into next week. He can't help but laugh, because it's just so damn Mello that it's difficult to believe that anyone other than the moody blond could pull it off.

After Mello's bitch-fit (which resulted in Halle threatening to shoot the poor bastard if he comes within one hundred feet of the building), Rester comes by and announces that, much to Mail's surprise, he has a visitor.

The only real "friend" he has is Mello, but he's not allowed near the building.

Interesting.

To hell with it. Mail waves his guest in, dark blue eyes widening as he takes in the lithe female body, deep brown eyes, and shiny, wavy brunette hair. It's not possible it can't be possible it doesn't make sense what the fuck is going on he can't even form a complete thought holy shit

Sayu Yagami smiles, kneels down to Mail's level, and unfolds the blanket in her arms before wrapping it around the dumbfounded brunet. "Osorenaide kowagaranaide."