Scattering Ashes

Title: Scattering Ashes
Chapter Title: Remember
Summary: Three years after the fall of Kira, Near continues his role as the successor of L with dutiful indifference. Even so, he is haunted by ghosts of the past—indeed, one comes back from the dead hell-bent on teaching Near how to live.
Disclaimer: Death Note is the property of its creators. I do not own this franchise and no infringement is intended or profit gained by the writing of this fanfiction. I also do not own T.S. Eliot or his works; my quoting of his poems is to enrich the fanfiction but not to profit by it.
Pairing: MattxNear, past MelloxMatt
Spoiler Warning: There’s one brief moment, where Mello refers to a conversation he and Near have in the canon.
Alternate Warnings: Rating T is for violence, swearing and adult sexual situations (which will occur later in the fic, please be patient) which include, but are not limited to, homosexuality. Also contains characters dealing with serious subjects like death and grief, so standard angst warnings apply.

Author’s Note: Hi readers! Hmm, first things first, this is the last chapter that will be posted under the T rating, so mark the story if you haven’t yet and you like it enough to keep reading this on ff.net.

This chapter is very dear to me because I resided in Panama four two and a half years as a child. In fact, my younger sister was born there. There was so much I wanted to cover in this chapter, so much I wanted to describe about this country. Unfortunately, I had to restrict myself to ten thousand words, which was hard, but I thought that anything over that would be a little ridiculous. I posted some notes at the bottom, talking about some facts and things that I mention briefly that might need clarification.

Languages are a popular theme in this chapter, and so is color. It seemed especially important to me to have the very texture of Panama jump off the page. In any case, I hope you enjoy it. I had planned to talk about Matt’s character synopsis here, but I’m tired and think I’ll do it another time.

Yours,
Gloria



Scattering Ashes

Chapter Eleven

Remember

“Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
--But who is that on the other side of you?”

~From What the Thunder Said, “The Waste Land” by T.S. Eliot

July 15th, 2013

“You are not real.”

Mello stopped himself from rolling his eyes with visible effort, taking on instead a look of infinite patience. He appeared more relaxed today, wearing casual sweats and a black hoodie. The actual hood was interesting and stood out from the rest, as the interior was made of a brightly contrasting, vivid red color. Mello’s yellow-blond hair was pulled away from his face and tied loosely behind his head with a rubber-band. It was a look he’d seen before. Mello’s style at Wammy’s, before he’d left, was one of comfort instead of the later intimidating, tight-fitted leather. Mello wore no scars today.

“That depends,” Mello answered slowly, “on what you consider real.”

“There’s no way to reason this.”

Mello looked amused, wagging his finger once before returning his hand to the single pocket of his hoodie. “That is incorrect.”

“Fine. How do you reason what you are?”

Mello leaned against the tile wall. “How do you know what is fact?”

“By observing it to be true.”

Mello nodded once. “Precisely. Basic reasoning one-oh-one.”

“Then you could say an insane person who is convinced of their delusions isn’t really crazy at all.”

Mello laughed, his narrow, cat-shaped eyes sparkling. “That’s an interesting argument.”

“You see my dilemma.”

Mello grinned, a flash of sharp white teeth. “Alright. Let’s say you do have a chemical imbalance in your brain, brought on from your aptitude for panic and current stress--what would I be then?”

“A projection.”

“Or?”

He sighed. “I don’t know, Mello.”

“You have no idea how much it pleases me to hear you say that.”

“On the contrary, I think I do.”

Mello shifted, lifting his hand from his pocket once again to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “Okay. You’ve said ‘delusion’ and ‘projection’. Following this train of logic, is it so far-fetched that I could be an impression?”

“An impression?”

“Yes. Only not your impression, or his, but mine.”

“...I do not think we’re talking about psychology.”

“Not anymore, no.”

“You mean residual energy.”

“Precisely--Oh, don’t look so incredulous. You didn’t seem so put out by the idea of death gods. Why does the term ‘ghost’ freak you out?”

“I am not freaked out.”

“You’re in denial.”

“Maybe.”

Mello chewed on his lower lip, eyeing him carefully. “Would ‘tulpa’ be easier for you to contend with?”

“No. It’s still the same general concept.”

“True. But I’m trying to reason with you here, and you’re not making it very easy.”

“Of course.”

Mello smiled. “Of course.”

“You mentioned death gods. Is that what you are trying to be? Is that why you’re here?”

“No--and, ah, no.”

“Then why?”

“We’ve been through this already.”

I’ve left something for you. For safekeeping.

“That? You’re just following me around to make sure I get it done?”

“I’m not following you.”

“Is scattering your ashes so important that you would haunt me?”

A wave of hysteria washed over Mello, and he doubled over as he laughed.

“It’s not about ashes, is it?”

You will keep it safe, won’t you?

“No, stupid. It was never about ashes.”

Do you promise?

“Do you know who is trying to kill me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who is responsible for the murders in Japan?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Mello looked disappointed, straightening with a scowl. “Because it’s hardly relevant.”

“How can it not be relevant?”

“I exist in nothingness. Do you understand that?”

“No. Not really.”

“It means that the things that keep reality in a fixed point do not exist here. Like matter, like time and space. We do not see things here in one line. Here, it’s more like a cube, with multiple points rather than just the one.”

“What--like lunar mapping?”

Mello sighed. “If that helps you understand, then yes. It is a lot like mapping out geography in space. Where standard gravitational rules do not apply, you take--“

“A fixed point, like the moon, and use it as a point of origin for six other points--“

“In a space/time continuum. Exactly. Our point of origin is the physical world--but we see much, much more.”

“And the homicides in Japan, the ashes, the people trying to kill me--it’s all irrelevant compared to what?”

“Compared to what’s coming.”

“Which is?”

Mello looked off into the distance, his eyes unfocused for a moment as he gazed into the nothingness. When they focused again, he looked resigned. “I’m not allowed to tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“There are rules.”

“What rules?”

“I’m not allowed to tell you that either.”

“Like rules in the Death Note?”

Mello regarded him with uncharacteristic severity. “Very.” Mello paused, glancing away again. “The future is subjective, as is my impression on the physical realm where it plays out. I’m sorry, but concerning this matter, that is all I can say.”

The door swung open, and Matt walked distractedly into the bathroom, awkwardly juggling a bundle of clothing and a large paper bag. He glanced up and stiffened at Near’s startled expression, before his eyes flickered down the detective’s naked torso, to the towel wrapped around his slim waist, and then back up to his face. A dark flush crawled up the hacker’s neck as he turned quickly and dumped the contents of his arms onto a nearby stand, muttering an apology that contained more than one expletive.

“I knocked,” Matt mumbled defensively as he made to back out of the room. “I thought I heard you say--fuck it, never mind. Let me know when you’re decent.” Matt closed the door with a tad more force than necessary, and cursed again.

Near stared at the door for half a second and then quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and shrugged into a pale gray button down. He had only half the buttons done before he pulled the door open, catching Matt mid-pace.

“What’s this?” Near gestured to the pile on the stand with one hand, finishing the rest of the buttons with the other.

Matt stared at him for a moment, his eyes returning to that burning look Near was beginning to recognize as something like lust--if it weren’t mixed with the absolutely agonized look that usually accompanied it. Then he swiveled his cornflower blue eyes toward the ceiling. When he looked back, his face was calm and his eyes were darker, muted and carefully reserved. “It’s raining. Forgot about rain season in Panama.” He made a small movement with his hand, and Near looked again toward the pile. “It’s a coat and gloves. The hat and the sunglasses will cover most of your face, but I also got foundation to make the rest of your skin appear darker.”

“Raining.” It had been a clear night, but Near remembered seeing storm clouds on the horizon as he watched the sun come up with Matt earlier that morning. Near approached the stand and grasped the collar of the coat, pulling it out of the pile and holding it up for closer inspection. Surprisingly lightweight, the wool coat was long, lapelled and belted, and densely black. Near glanced at the designer label and frowned. This was a nine hundred dollar coat. He glanced up at Matt, who shrugged merely and watched as Near tried it on.

Near felt a little absurd, sorely missing, and not for the first time, the simple white garments he wore at Wammy’s. He pulled on the snug black gloves and allowed Matt to place a new similarly dark hat atop his head, feeling a little like a doll being dressed up by a child. His reservations vanished, however, when he saw the satisfied smile curve Matt’s lips as he backed up a step and appraised him.

“Very nice.”

Near sighed. “Will it suffice?”

Matt grunted a little and moved around him to rummage through the paper bag. Near shrugged out of the coat and placed it, and the gloves and hat, on the toilet seat for later. The cruise liner had docked an hour ago on the Pacific coast of the Isthmus of Panama, giving the tourists full access to Panama City for the duration of their twenty-four hour stay. The next day, they would re-embark and make their way up the coast. They had debated, a few hours ago, the necessity of actually leaving the ship.

Matt had been against it, claiming that all they really had to do was sprinkle a handful of ashes into the canal--which they could do safely aboard the ship. Near concurred, but disagreed that Mello would only want them to lean over a rail, that it seemed a waste to come all this way and not even bother to step out onto dry land. Well, figuratively dry land. Besides, now that they were here, Near was curious about the city and its inhabitants. He knew the country’s history and every possible statistic this international point of commerce had to offer...but it was one thing to memorize knowledge, and quite another to experience it--a lesson he’d learned in Israel, and then later in Abu Ghraib. But Near didn’t think all experiences should be negative. He was certain there had to be a few here and there that were pleasurable. Certainly, this leg of their journey was as good an opportunity to find out as any.

Near won out in the end, of course.

Matt retrieved a small, foamy wedge and a bottle of women’s foundation. Near glanced at it and blanched. “I’d really rather not, actually.”

Matt frowned at him, shaking the tiny bottle. “After what you told me this morning, I can’t believe that you’d fight me on this.” He meant the warning from Rester, the alarming inconsistency in hate crime statistics against albinos. The numbers were rising.

Near watched Matt unscrew the lid to the bottle with trepidation. “Really, Matt. I have my pride.” Wearing women’s make-up was one experience Near never wanted to have, he was certain.

Matt’s brows disappeared under his fringe of auburn hair, and when he looked over at Near, his eyes were laughing. “Your pride’s not going to mean shit to anybody, least of all you, if you get your head blown off because you have no pigment in your skin.”

Matt placed a dollop of the flesh-colored liquid onto the foamy wedge. Near watched the movement warily. His logic was sound, of course. It was a decent precaution. “Is it hypoallergenic?”

Matt snorted softly. “Of course. What the hell do you take me for?”

Near leaned back against the sink, resting his elbows against the rim, and sighed. “Fine.”

Matt leaned over him and lifted his white-blond hair away from his face. “Jesus, Near, you’d think it was the end of the world,” Matt murmured as he carefully smeared the liquid across Near’s pale brow.

It was icy cold, the foundation, but Matt’s fingers were warm on his skin as he tilted Near’s face this way and that. Near became abruptly aware of their proximities as Matt worked above him, burying his white skin beneath a layer of flesh-toned liquid. It didn’t feel as impersonal as maybe it should have been, Matt’s fingertips under his chin, his breath warm on his cheek. It felt a little bit like the day before, after Matt had woken him from his nightmare and Near had attempted to stop him from leaving again. Except this time Matt wasn’t shivering with some unfathomable emotion, his eyes weren’t bright with whatever privately tormented him. They were dark and focused, Matt’s cornflower blue eyes, trained on the places on Near’s face where he pressed the foamy wedge. Near wondered if he was the only one, this time, that was hyperaware of their closeness, of how their breaths commingled, of the unbearable heat that mounted between them.

He wasn’t.

Near knew it when the wedge paused against the side of his face, when Matt removed his fingertips a fraction from his chin, when Near turned his face a little and the hacker seemed to stop breathing altogether.

Near had had two full weeks to ponder Matt’s...advancement. To say that it had startled him was an understatement. Near had absolutely nonexistent experience in the realm of physical affection. He had never sought it out, nor had an opportunity ever before been presented to him. It was simultaneously strange and exhilarating that his first kiss would be with Matt--both feelings also quite new to him. Near had liked it. He knew that now, after having so much time to consider the moment. He also knew he had ultimately, quite utterly, handled it badly. Lately, and especially after yesterday, Near wondered if physical intimacy was something Matt needed. He understood now that Matt had been intimate with Mello, and it was impossible to ignore the insecurity Near felt when he considered that.

There were many considerations here, but ultimately Near’s hesitation boiled down to two in particular. First and most prominent was that Matt had made it explicitly clear that, in the hacker’s mind, Near did not compare to Mello. That knowledge created a weird ache in the center of the detective’s chest. He understood, in the logical part of his mind, that Matt’s preference for Mello was because they had been friends, as well as lovers, and the grief for his friend’s death was still heartbreakingly stitched into every fiber of Matt’s being. It was an obvious, tangible thing. Something Near had noted from the very beginning, the density of Matt’s nostalgia for Mello. But there was a venomous, hissing thing behind that logic that whispered to Near he was inadequate. That whenever Matt looked at him with that burning gaze, it was really Mello he wanted to see, and not him. That Near was, at best, a poor replacement.

The second consideration sprang directly from the first, and that was Near’s pride. There were moments where Near ached to bridge the gap between them, if only to offer some sort of solace for Matt, to mute out some of the pain that vibrated off of the hacker in thick, roiling waves. But Near had enough pride to blanch at allowing himself to be nothing more than second best, a faceless body Matt could use as a drug to take the edge off. Did that make Near horrible? To want to be seen as well as felt, to know that he was a person to Matt, and not just a mere tool? Near supposed it did, but he was resigned. After all, he was better known for his single-minded indifference than for his compassion.

Near wasn’t sure why Matt looked down, instead of away. Perhaps he sighed, and it distracted them both out of the frozen moment they had lapsed in to. But that tiny, fractional movement nearly did them in. It made their mouths touch.

Just barely, and Near wasn’t sure that it could qualify as kissing. Matt was like a stone in front of him, his blue eyes wide and...terrified? Near looked in to them, noticing for the first time the dark gold flecks of color that moved out from the pupil, like a sunburst hidden in the center of cobalt. Near could taste Matt’s breath. It tasted like cigarette smoke and cinnamon, and the mixture wasn’t altogether unpleasant. Near searched for that quiet, still place inside of his mind, but couldn’t submerge himself into indifference. The taste in his mouth was distracting, and he was losing himself in the hue of Matt’s darkening eyes, becoming afraid himself at the hungry look that crept into them.

“Is it done?” Near whispered, his mouth moving against Matt’s too-close lips.

“Yes,” Matt whispered back. His eyes were nearly black now, like the color of sapphires in shadow.

Near’s resolve was slipping. He wasn’t sure how long he could remain still. The heat was burning uncomfortably in his belly. His hands twitched, and he imagined burying them into Matt’s hair.

Matt’s eyes flickered, moving to stare over Near’s shoulder, towards their room. That tortured look flashed into his eyes again and when they swiveled back to Near’s face, anguish seared through them. He could taste the pain as well as he could the smoky cinnamon. “You’re killing me, Near,” Matt hissed, before shoving himself away and leaving Near in the bathroom.

Near waited for the sound of the door to their room open and shut before he breathed, and his knees buckled. Near grasped the sink tighter to keep from falling, and concentrated on his breathing, trying his hardest to tame the spattering of his heartbeat. He performed a mental exercise to smooth out his rapid thoughts, to calm the need racing through his bloodstream, until his face was once again carefully blank, his thoughts regular and methodical. Only then did he push away from the sink.

~*~

It was indeed raining.

Fat drops of rain hammered sideways at them as it poured from the heavens. Near stood beside Matt on the slippery dock, watching bemusedly as the hacker struggled with the umbrella. Gusts of wind beat the thing inside out and, eventually, Matt threw the offensive thing into a nearby trash bin, uttering a colorful string of profanities, in at least four different languages. Near kept his expression carefully neutral as Matt stormed back over to him.

Matt was not wearing a hat, so his auburn hair was soaked and plastered against his face. His leather jacket glistened in the waning light and jerked around his shoulders as the hacker shoved his hands into his pockets. Matt’s goggles had fogged up when they first came outside, the permeating moisture making it impossible to see with them on, so he had long since left them to dangle around his neck. Matt scowled at Near, his stare agitated and expectant.

“So, where to, boss?” Matt grated, sarcastic and scathing. “This was your fucking idea.”

Near ignored his provoking and turned in a slow circle. The water of the canal and the Pacific Ocean was a deep green. The clouds were an ominous slate grey. The city sky-line was impressive and glittering, even from the dock. The surrounding neighborhoods, from this vantage point, were surprisingly colorful.

Near shifted Mello’s urn from one arm to the other, pausing with his face tilted northward. “Where do you suggest?”

“The boat,” Matt snapped waspishly. “Naturally.”

“Hm.” Near glanced sidelong at his surly companion, a little satisfied, in spite of himself, that their almost-kiss seemed to have affected him too with a sense of lingering frustration.

...Or perhaps it was just the rain.

Near sighed. “North, I think. Through the city.”

“Fine.” Matt started forward without him, but then seemed to think better of it. He stopped and twisted a little, reaching behind him for Near’s hand.

There was a tour going north, coincidentally, through the nicer attractions of Panama City. It seemed to please Matt, because once on-board they were out of the rain. Near watched the scenery shift through the foggy window, drowning out the sounds of grumbling tourists. It seemed Matt was not the only traveler who forgot about Panama’s rainy season. Near had not, but it was barely a passing thought.

After all, Near had much more important things to muse, and he found he quite liked rain anyway.

The land was thick and green, large, glossy plants springing out of every mossy nook and cranny possible--much like weeds, only much more beautiful. There was a bank by the dock that caught Near’s attention. It was a large expanse of mud, a startling red-brown hue that matched Matt’s hair almost perfectly. The mud plain was only a few acres, but there was a stand-still in the traffic leading into the city and it felt like twenty minutes that Near stared at it. As the bus braked and inched forward, Near peered under the brim of his hat at Matt.

The hacker’s eyes were flickering around the bus, his gaze never lingering in one place for very long before moving on. The expression he wore was peculiar, and though he didn’t precisely seem tense, he certainly seemed...aware. He was paying attention to everything, and Near watched his mouth form words in English that a couple behind them was speaking in French. It seemed that he was listening to every conversation in bus too.

It was interesting, seeing the difference in Matt when he was being...

Well, when he was being W.

The grieving, tormented thing gave way to a severe young man who was coiled and ready for anything. The look of concentration and intensity that came over the hacker really did remind Near of Watari--the seldom times that he had made his acquaintance, that is. Near understood now why Matt always had Near positioned a hairsbreadth behind him, why he always seemed to know where the exit was, why he always seemed to know how to acquire a mode of transportation. Why he was armed when Near had been clueless to danger. Why he was courteous and attentive when Near was engaged in a panic attack. Why Matt’s mind seemed to always be five days into the future.

The peculiarities in Matt’s behavior, that Near had found so odd before--and reason enough to believe the man was an imposter and not the real Matt--seemed less mysterious and more engrained, more reflexive and effortless. He could see now that it was Matt’s training come to the forefront, stuffing the actual Matt from their childhood to the back of his being. The Matt that hated going outside. The Matt that would really rather be playing video games. The Matt that smiled easily and loved Mello.

Matt, having at some point felt Near’s eyes on him, met his gaze warily. “What?”

“Tell me about Mello,” Near said before he could think about it.

Matt blinked at him, his mouth going slack on one side.

Near hesitated, cursing himself silently. He wished he could develop a filter. This was what got him into trouble last time.

Matt recovered and cleared his throat, glancing furtively around them before relaxing into his seat. He switched to Icelandic, a language the hacker seemed to deem safe enough to speak in crowded places. “Alright,” Matt answered slowly. “What would you like to know?”

Near opened his mouth, but closed it as the bus lurched forward, pulling them in a part of the road that was overgrown with moss and foliage. The bus rocked back and forth as it dipped off the road. Matt narrowed his eyes and instinctively placed an arm across Near. It reminded the detective of that first ill-fortuned car ride he’d shared with the hacker--where Matt had to press him bodily into his seat as the Corvette jolted across tracks that had a speeding train barreling down them. Thinking back, Near smiled. Perhaps he should have just put on his seatbelt.

This was not nearly so life threatening. Near raised one brow as the surrounding tourists jumped up from their seats, juggling cameras as they chattered excitedly. It was a massive sloth in the middle of the road. The poor beast was too petrified to move, even as local Panamanians shouted at it and attempted to herd it off the road. The spectacle forced traffic off-road for a few meters, and the bus creaked and jostled its inhabitants until it went around, lurching finally back onto the paved cement.

Matt turned back to the detective, finding Near smiling widely.

“That’s not something you see everyday, I would imagine,” Near murmured, his eyes bluer than usual. “Even in your world.”

“No,” Matt agreed with a small laugh.

Near turned back to him, the ghost of that smile still hovering around the corners of his mouth. “The Mello I know, I think, is different than the Mello that you know. I’m interested in your Mello.”

“My Mello,” Matt echoed softly, leaning back. “Mello was...”

A hundred expressions flitted across Matt’s face. His mouth was a lopsided grin one second and fierce scowl the next. One moment he looked sorrowful, and then there was a brightness on his face that Near found inexplicably difficult to look at. Back and forth his face went as Matt struggled to find a decent enough adjective to express the sum of Mello. Frustration, incredulity, humor, anger....hate, and love.

Near understood. He turned his face away.

“Mello was generous.”

The statement made Near turn back, and he noticed right away the calm, peaceful look on Matt’s face. His eyes were thoughtful as they roamed Near’s face.

“Generous?”

“Yeah. He wanted so badly to be accepted, to be the best. He wanted to be adored; nurtured.” Matt met Near’s gaze before drifting on. “Sure, he was bitter with you. Hated you--for getting everything he wanted, and never seeming to care about any of it. Even me.”

Near jerked as if he’d been slapped, staring with wide, dark eyes at the hacker. His smile vanished altogether. “I have no claim on you.”

“Hm.” Matt’s eyes flickered to his and then away again. “Irrelevant.”

The bus bounced, moving into the city. They passed through the brightly colored neighborhoods, most of their inhabitants wisely staying indoors because of the weather. Near noticed two women scurrying down the sidewalk, using bits of newspaper to cover their heads. Their dark hair was wrapped in vivid red shawls, and their clothes were intricate, and more vibrantly colored than the wash of the surrounding buildings. Complex designs stitched colorful patterns and pictures on their shirts and long skirts. They looked familiar, but Near couldn’t possibly think he’d met them before. The rain pounded the roof of the bus, the hammering in Near’s ears a testament to the quiet that had fallen between him and his hacker companion.

“I never expected anything from him,” Matt said, as if he had never paused. “I suppose that’s why he tolerated me. There was no standard with me, he never had to prove anything to me...With me, he could relax.” Matt’s eyes were far away as he continued. “He helped me get over my fear of going outside. In fact, he was rather petulant about it--obsessive even.” He laughed, his mouth drawing up on one side as he thought of some amusing memory. “He shared everything with me. Gave everything he had.” A great sadness settled over the hacker, and his shoulders hunched a little. Matt glanced at the urn held between Near’s gloved hands. “He really did give everything.”

What could Near possibly say? Nothing that wasn’t either inane or disrespectful. Near opted to remain silent as Matt reached over and tried to lay his fingertips on the urn. His hand trembled as he neared it, but ultimately Matt snatched his hand away, a dark look making his face shadowy and unreadable. Near placed his own hand palm down on the urn, and reached for Matt’s. The hacker resisted at first, but finally relented and allowed Near to press his hand against his. Near’s gloved hand acted as a buffer between Matt’s skin and the polished mahogany of the urn. Matt’s eyes fluttered closed, and Near watched him carefully. When he opened them, Matt smiled appreciatively and withdrew.

As the bus traveled through downtown Matt lowered his head towards Near’s. “You’re generous too,” Matt whispered into Near’s ear. “I didn’t know that before.”

Near stared straight ahead. “It seems there is much we all do not know of one another.”

~*~

Near knew one hundred and twelve languages fluently--even though he’d only had to speak a handful of them aloud so far in his career as L. So it was interesting, and even calming, to practice translating the multiple languages spoken around him in Panama’s capitol city. He did it silently, working the words in his mind, sometimes deciphering multiple conversations simultaneously. Mostly, the people chattered in Spanish. There were conversations also held in Creole, Caribbean, and a few in French. Some were even held in English by the common folk, but mostly by the tourists. From what Near could gather, most of the city’s regular inhabitants were Mestizo--at least seventy percent. The rest consisted of a melting pot of Amerindian, West Indian, Caucasian, Afro-Antillean and even Chinese peoples. Near and Matt had strolled by a Rabbi and his family too, speaking Hebrew in low, hushed tones. Near had paused, watching them pass, and thought of Yisheth.

It was a relaxing exercise, and it made up for the rather dull, blatantly staged marvels of Panama City’s tourist attractions. Beside him, Matt often looked bored--but Near could tell he was watching everyone and everything, memorizing faces as well as ethnicities, debating possible threats and dangers in that private, quicksilver mind of his.

It was surprising, therefore, when a female voice trilled behind Near in a language he did not recognize at all.

“Nuedi! Deguite be nuedi?! Be iguinuga?! ”

Matt registered that she was speaking to Near directly before the detective did, and the hacker pulled him instantly behind him, standing between the girl and Near. He resisted Matt’s tug on his arm, but the hacker’s grip was abruptly like iron. Near angled his head sideways, peering around Matt’s shoulder as the girl spoke again, her tone excited as she spoke rapidly in her native tongue.

“Acu am betogue? Be iguinuga? ”

The girl could almost pass for a woman, but Near couldn’t believe she was older than seventeen or eighteen. Her face was round and dark, her black hair wrapped up in that red shawl he’d seen those two other women wearing earlier. Her black eyes were wide-set and bright, and she was pointedly ignoring Matt, staring straight at Near as she spoke.

She waved her hands animatedly and attempted to step around Matt. The hacker actually growled at her then, shifted to compensate for her closer proximity, and spoke hotly to her in Spanish.

“We’re not buying anything, thank you,” Matt grated. “Please leave us alone.”

She paused and glanced at him, her mouth turning down into a frown. She had a pleasant mouth, with the upper lip rounded like the bottom. She might have been pretty, Near thought, if it weren’t for the unnatural set of her eyes. Her nose was awkward on her face too, which didn’t help. Near hadn’t noticed it until she frowned, that was how small it was. Near knew she understood Matt the first time, even as Matt repeated the statement in Creole and again in Caribbean. Her black eyes flickered back to Near, and she smiled enigmatically at him.

“Niño de la luna,” she said in Spanish, her excitement bubbling over. Behind her, another elderly woman dressed similarly called to her in that native tongue. She turned to answer her, pointing at Near.

“Takke sunna mimmi, Muu! ”

“Moon child?” Matt translated in English, his tone incredulous.

Behind him, Near met his glance with a dark look of his own. “Child of the moon,” he corrected.

The girl fumbled with something inside a colorfully woven bag, and they watched her with perplexed expressions. Near was struck again by the familiarity of these women--they way they dressed, the way they spoke--and it began to frustrate him that he was pulling up a blank when he tried to remember. All his mind could offer was that he should know.

The girl’s blouse was bright and intricate, threaded with some convoluted design that made Near think of the images inside a Mayan temple. It was various shades of blue and white, and when she straightened, he could see that it actually made an image. It was a flower, simple yet complicated in its design. The paradox was intriguing.

She proffered two beaded things. When she adjusted them in her hands, allowing them to dangle from her fingertips, Near saw that they were something like vambraces. Strange, flimsy, beaded ones. The beads were small and red, except for the yellow and white ones that made twin designs in the center. He wasn’t sure, precisely, what image those designs made. The girl stepped forward, smiling widely--even when Matt bodily blocked her from coming any closer.

Strange that her attention didn’t unnerve Near. Strange that the only thing seeming to perturb him was the fact he couldn’t pinpoint what it was that he should remember about this odd, indigenous people.

“Matt,” Near said softly. Softly but firmly. “Really, she is barely more than a child.”

“I’ve seen child soldiers younger than her tote automatic weapons,” Matt hissed, speaking in Swahili for the added effect.

Near was unimpressed. He responded in Lingala. “Do those look like firearms to you?”

“Near, you’re being careless!” Matt retorted, spinning around to glare at him.

“And you’re being ridiculous,” Near admonished calmly, the usual bite in his tone missing, replaced by something much more...familiar.

Matt noticed the difference, and his posture shifted. He looked away for a moment, and then stepped to the side, pulling out his wallet as he did so. “How much?” he muttered to the girl in Spanish.

She laughed, a bright tinkling sound, but otherwise ignored him. The girl approached Near, placing the items into one hand, and reaching for Near with the other. Near tensed then, but allowed her to lift his arm despite the strong instinct to recoil.

They were under cover of a banana stand, and the rain fell heavily only a few feet from them. The man who ran the stand stared at them curiously, but was selling produce to an old woman and otherwise paid them little mind. The girl’s hands were cool and reverent as she pulled off Near’s glove and pushed up his coat sleeve. She seemed unbothered by the near-translucency of his skin--almost as if she’d expected it.

She glanced up at him and smiled after she had fastened the first bracelet, and then moved carefully to his other hand, waiting patiently for Near to shift Mello’s urn from one arm to the other. When she was done, she backed up several steps, murmured something he couldn’t translate, bobbed her head a little, and then took off in the rain. Near and Matt stared after her. The man attempted to sell them bananas. Matt shook his head at him as Near put his gloves back on.

“That was odd,” Near commented finally.

“Very. I didn’t recognize the language she spoke.”

“I didn’t either.”

“Can we go back to the boat now?”

Near shook his head at him. “North,” he said.

He wasn’t certain what was prodding him northwards. Near supposed it was a little like that strange sense of something coming Matt had experienced right before they were attacked in Garden Tomb.

Near wondered if it was an impression.

~*~

They meandered through a pedestrian mall, where Near noticed--and much to Matt’s chagrin--more women dressed like the girl who had given him the arm beads turning to stare in their direction. After much griping by Matt, Near agreed to venture away from the crowded places, and the interested gazes of indigenous women. They stayed due north, barely pausing to glance at the French Embassy, sharing knowing glances as they passed graffiti murals depicting political protest, and stopping momentarily to admire a great cathedral that was crumbling around its majestic edges. Then they moved on.

North eventually gave way to the places in the city that wasn’t meant for tourists. Slums and ghettos, entire neighborhoods where houses were made out of soaked cardboard boxes, dazed, bony Panamanians loitered this way and that through rain that fell in sheets...

They stayed close to the coast-line, and eventually found places on the water where abandon tugs lay half-sunken in the mud and downpour. Near speculated, as they moved on, what must have happened to force a sailor to abandon his ship in shallow water. A bus passed them, this one painted garishly in bright yellows, pinks and greens, Rastafarian music blasting through the windows. Matt chuckled.

Near was fascinated by the scent emanating from an orchard of citrus trees. Near watched bemusedly as a farmer shooed a family of monkeys that jumped nimbly from one bunch of branches to another. Banana fields were aplenty, too, and mango trees also. The smell was sharp, here, once they were more on the edge of the city--a deep, pungent scent that stung his nostrils. Matt stopped at a fruit stand and purchased some mangos. They ate them quietly under the plastic frame of a bus stop.

“I noticed you haven’t been panicking lately,” Matt commented, wiping mango juice from his chin with the back of one sleeve. “A month ago, you would’ve told me to fuck off if I even suggested going outside. Now you want to play tourist.”

“I would never say something so coarse,” Near disagreed in his usual monotone. “However, I probably would have found the notion disagreeable, a month ago.”

Matt tossed the pit of his mango and fished out a cigarette. “I told you they’d get better.”

“It seems you were correct.”

Matt lit his smoke. “You seem to like it here.”

“I prefer Wammy’s.”

“Why?”

Near shifted to look at him then. “Because its home,” he said simply.

Matt seemed caught in his gaze, and his blue eyes bored into Near’s. He looked away abruptly and cleared his throat. “It’s getting late. We should head back.”

Near stood, using the action to voice his agreement for him. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to see this--this underdeveloped part of the world with monkeys and mangos and cardboard boxes used as homes. However, he felt a grave sense of purpose. He knew these statistics, the notions of poverty and dissent, even while the city proper put on a bright, smiling face to attract the commerce of tourism. He knew the world, in his mind. Now, he felt he knew a little bit of it in his heart as well. He’d seen war in Israel, torture and death and heat and compassion...He’d observed a sense of family in Boston, been made aware of more dangerous politics by Danny-boy--who seemed to be playing a deeper game than all of them--and been exposed to the idea of purpose by Mello, the phantom that pursued him; though whether he was merely a phantom in his mind he wasn’t positive. Purpose...a notion so seemingly powerful that it would draw a dead man back from the void. What that purpose was for Mello, Near wasn’t sure of either. He only knew now that it had absolutely nothing to do with ashes--and that Mello wanted him to keep it safe.

He felt her before he saw her. It was very much like the sigh he’d felt move through him when he’d scattered Mello’s ashes over L’s grave in Japan, and then again in Israel, at Garden Tomb. The sensation like a soft breeze sweeping through his body instead of against it, the feathery caress that whispered along his skin. He turned in the middle of the road and saw her sprinting towards him, the girl that had given him the beaded arm bands. Behind her, half a dozen other women from her tribe ran after her, their colorful skirts sloshing in the mud.

Behind him, Matt cursed.

She was breathless when she skidded to a halt a few meters away, beckoning to them wildly with both hands, her red shawl askew around her soaked black hair. She was no longer smiling--and neither were the women behind her. A stream of foreign words fell rapidly from her round lips, her black eyes tight with panic and worry. She switched to Spanish mid-sentence.

“Moon Child, you must come! Come quickly, she is dying!”

Knowledge rammed into him like a blow to the gut. He remembered now.

“Kuna,” he breathed.

“What?” Matt had pulled him back and was trying to get him to look at him. Near dimly registered Matt’s cool fingertips at his throat, checking his pulse and worrying over the look on the detective’s face.

Kuna. Kuna, the Amerindian tribe that resided on a string of islands along the Atlantic, Panamanian coastline. Kuna, the matrilineal tribe that existed in private, vehemently protected autonomy. Kuna, the tribe that spoke the endangered language of Dulegaya. Kuna, the people that bred thirty percent of the world’s existing albinos.

A quirk in natural selection. Near dragged his eyes to Matt’s, the black pupil wider than usual. “Homozygosity for a mutation in the P locus mapped to the human chromosome fifteen-q-eleven-point-two-dash-twelve results in tyrosinase-positive albinism,” Near said in a dead voice, blinking slowly, a sense of dread pooling in his stomach. Matt shook him. The girl beckoned to them. “Albinism has a worldwide distribution, with a prevalence of about one in thirty-six thousand among European-Americans.”

“Near? What the fuck are you talking about? Dammit! Look at me!”

“Among the Kuna, the distribution of the oh-C-A-two gene maintains a higher prevalence of anywhere between one in twenty-eight and one in sixty-five hundred.” Near’s eyes focused abruptly and he inhaled sharply. “Depending on the island.”

Matt released Near suddenly, his gaze ripping away to stare at the cluster of women that waited for them. A look of horror crossed his face. “Fuck me, what islands?”

“Kuna Yala,” Near answered, his voice breaking. He felt ill. “Atlantic coast.”

Matt stared hard at Near, a muscle working in his jaw. “Of this country?”

“Yes,” Near answered hoarsely, and turned to follow the Kuna women.

“No!” Matt scrambled forward and gripped Near’s arm. “I’m getting you out of here now!”

High rates for hate crimes against albinos meant violence against the autonomous Kuna tribe.

My fault, Near thought miserably, and shrugged Matt off.

“I will not allow a repeat of Israel!” Matt hissed angrily.

But Near wasn’t listening. He was encircled by the women and led east. Matt followed, elbowing his way through the escort until he was once again by Near’s side. They were taken quickly back to the eastern edge of one of Panama City’s slums, and into what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

Inside, a group of Kuna men and women hovered over a body laid atop a blanket. There were several candles lit and two elderly women rubbed salve into the limbs of the native on the floor while a shaman sang in Dulegaya by the head. The Kuna made way for Near and Matt as they approached. Matt swore colorfully when he saw the body.

Near experienced a piercing pain in his chest that he was sure would split him in two.

It was another female, this one older than the girl who’d given him the bracelets. She was battered and bloody, her Mola stained and soaked with her gore. Her face was mauled, worse on one side than the other--as if it had been dragged against rough cement. Her eyes were swollen shut, and blood dribbled from the corners of her mouth.

Her right forearm was mangled, the bones poking through the skin and gleaming unnaturally in the candlelight. Her dress was soaked with her blood, darkest at the apex between her legs. Near saw that the men present were avoiding looking at it, and knew that she had been violently raped as well as brutally assaulted.

The girl’s hair was snowy white, where it wasn’t matted with blood. Her skin was pale, where it wasn’t darkened by bruises and sun-sores. She was albino.

Near knew in his gut that this had been meant for him.

Albinos among Kuna were revered as elite and fiercely protected. Often, they became shamans and doctors, and some even rose to higher political power. The Kuna called their albinos ‘Children of the Moon’ and believed them to have special, magical powers.

A local Panamanian wouldn’t dare attack a Kuna albino. The Panamanian government had once sought to suppress the Kuna way of life, but the tribe had risen up in revolt. It had been violent and swift, the Kuna rebellion in nineteen-twenty-five. They had been granted full autonomy since.

An outsider did this.

Near addressed the shaman, knowing that at least this one would speak Spanish. He knew, also, that ultimately this was why he was brought here. The Kuna would rise up if they thought this was done by a Panamanian. “I have reason to believe that this was not a local attack.”

The shaman paused in his song, looking up at Near with a hard expression. Finally, the venerable man nodded, and resumed.

Near knelt by the girl’s head, suspecting that even if her eyes weren’t swollen shut, she still would not be able to see him. Amerindian albinos were notoriously blind. He set Mello’s urn to the side, and pressed his fingertips to her cheek, careful not to harm her. She turned her face towards him, murmuring something in Dulegaya.

Near glanced up at the girl who had brought them here. “Does she speak Spanish?”

She shook her head, but knelt quickly beside Near, replacing the shaman’s position by the victim’s head. “I will translate for you.”

“Have they sent for a doctor?” Matt demanded somewhere to the left of him. His voice seemed far away.

“They know she will die,” Near murmured. “And they are far from home. It is not their way.”

“Her name is Hani,” the girl beside him whispered.

“Ask her if she remembers where she was when this happened.”

Hani listened carefully as her tribeswoman translated, and when she answered, her voice wheezed and gurgled. The blood was in her lungs.

“She says she was by the river, rinsing out her shoes,” the girl said. “I know the ones she means.”

Near nodded. “Ask her if she remembers their faces, and if she knows how many attacked her.”

More whispers in that language Near wished now he had bothered to learn, more gurgling and wheezing.

“She says there were four, that they had dark skin, like mine, but that they spoke in a language strange to her.”

Near ran a hand roughly through his hair. “That does not help.”

“Would you like me to say that to her?” The girl was frowning at him now.

“No,” Near answered. He touched Hani’s face again, noting the chill on the poor girl’s skin. “Tell her that I am sorry. Tell her that I will hunt down the men who did this, tell her that I swear I will find them.”

Near was not the only one surprised by the sudden, uncharacteristic vehemence in his voice. The whole room seemed to be staring at him. Near snapped at the girl. “Tell her!”

She did. Near rose, his limbs tense with his anger. He grasped Mello’s urn and unscrewed the lid with five jerky movements. Then he plunged his hand inside and grabbed a handful of ashes. His heart thudded steadily in his chest, his breathing was slightly ragged, but controlled...his hand did not tremble as he allowed ashes to slip through his fingers above Hani’s head. The ashes mingled with the blood in her snowy white hair.

Do you think your story is the only one to tell here? Akhish had demanded.

Near replaced the lid to the urn, turned on his heel, and left without looking back.

Outside, in the alley, Matt caught up with him.

“Near?! Where are you going?”

Near stormed on, ignoring him utterly.

Matt followed, exasperated. “What, exactly, do you think you’ll be able to do?”

Near whirled around, his feet kicking up mud-water and spraying it around him. His eyes were blazing. “I’m a detective,” he snarled. “I ought to be able to do something!”

“Near,” Matt sighed, closing the distance between them and grasping his shoulders.

Near instantly recoiled, struggling against him fiercely. “It’s my fault!”

“You’re fault? Oh, come on, Near; be reasonable.”

Near shoved at him one-handedly. “If I hadn’t exposed my albinism in Israel, if I hadn’t--“

“What happened to that girl is not your fault!” Matt shouted over him, shaking him roughly. “Near--look at me--Near, the men that attacked that girl could have been anybody. For all anybody knows, it was a couple of punks from bum-fuck, Wisconsin looking for a good time--“ Near’s eyes flashed angrily. “It’s true, Near. Some people are monstrous like that. And even if it was--“

“I have to make this right!”

The fact that Near actually yelled was more startling than his words, as far as Matt was concerned, and it took him a moment to recover. A split second later, he pulled Near into a fierce embrace.

“Alright,” Matt murmured, holding him closely, Mello’s urn trapped between them. “And we will. I promise you, Near, we’ll find the people who did this, and we’ll make them pay. But we’ll do it your way, the right way. We’ll do it from Wammy’s, when you’re safe, when all this is over.”

Near shuddered against him, a piercing heat pricking behind his closed eyelids. He was horrified when he realized he was weeping, and he buried his face into Matt’s jacket until it passed. Above his head, Matt met the eyes of the girl from the market. She stood in the doorway, watching them embrace in the rain. Silently, she nodded once and returned into the warehouse.

Hani was dead.

At long last, Near had recovered enough to pull away calmly. Matt adjusted Near’s hat atop the detective’s head, stuffing his white hair beneath it and pulling up the collar to hid the strands that curled against his neck. Satisfied, Matt stepped back.

“The second we get back on that ship, I want Rester on the phone.”

“Alright,” Matt said, nodding a little. “To have him make the statement?”

“Yes,” Near answered. “I fear I’ve waited too long.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“That’s somewhat callous, considering.”

“I’m just trying to make you feel better.”

“Don’t bother.”

Matt regarded Near thoughtfully for a moment. “You know what’s ironic about this whole thing?”

“What?” Near sighed, in a resigned sort of way.

“With the coat and the hat,” Matt said, gesturing. “You actually do kinda look like a detective.”

Near stared back at him miserably. “That’s not funny.”

Matt’s mouth quirked. Finally, he offered his hand. “You’re right. It’s not. Let’s go.”

To be continued...

A Few Notes:

Mello’s Hoodie: Inspiration for this came directly from the Jigsaw; the dude that mutilates people in the “Saw” saga. I’ve always thought the creepiest thing about that guy is that he always wore dark colors on comfortable clothes, and the hood for his jacket had that crazy red in-liner. Interesting note too, in “The Omen”, in almost every scene that was alluding to the devil, or the devil’s kid, there was something brilliant red. I’m pretty sure there’s a technical term for that in film, but I can’t remember what that is. I tried a similar idea here, because I didn’t have enough narrative space to describe Mello’s presence in every scene.

Residual Energy and Lunar Mapping: These are two ideas I’ve tossed around in other fics too. It has mostly to do with Astronomy and regular Physics, but some very interesting ideas have bled over into Quantum Physics. I won’t dig too deeply with these concepts, at least not yet. I just used the science to help explain what exactly the “nothingness” was that Ohba and Obata referred to in the canon, and what the possibilities therein could be.

Rain Season: Fact; Panama has two seasons--wet and dry. The dry season is incredibly hot and humid, and takes place during our winter months...beginning roughly around September and lasting until early spring. The wet season begins in spring, and gets rather nasty until late summer when it begins to let up. Because of the nature of Panama’s irrigation system, they build these massive ditches and weave them through even residential neighborhoods. On the plus side, it prevents flooding. On the down side, they’re exceptionally dangerous. I had one directly behind my house, and I remember one day when the storming was particularly nasty, my mom went flying out of the house and jumped in the ditch because she saw a little boy fall into it. Imagine white water rapids, and then you have a general idea of the kind of force the water rushing through these ditches could be like. Mom got the kid out just fine, and I’ll always remember that because, bless her, she’s not the generally heroic, generous type. She made me proud that day.

Languages: The African languages I referred to here are actually a sort of private joke. Initially, when I first began forming the outline for Scattering Ashes, I wanted to send them to Africa instead of Israel in Arch Two. However, I couldn’t formulated a decent enough link between Mello, Near and Africa. There was just no believable reason why Mello would send him there that I could think of at the time. Eventually, I switched the geography to the Middle East, and everything fell into place rather soundly. Swahili is a Benue-Congo language spoken by some thirty-five million Africans, and primarily in Tanzania. Lingala, the language Near retorted in, is a lesser known language spoken by about nine million people, primarily in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. I use this as a subtle battle of wits between the two Wammy’s prodigies.

Dulegaya is the language of the Kuna. It’s considered an endangered language because it is spoken only by the tribe, and therefore, by only about a couple thousand people. Dulegaya is the joining of two word: “people-speak”. With the help of my father, who speaks about four languages himself, and multiple dialects in Spanish, I was able to translate a handful of words and phrases in Dulegaya. That being said, the one word I searched for initially--for two days!--I could not find, and that was “moon”. It’s true that the Kuna refer to their albinos as “Moon Children”, so I wanted to be able to have that said, in their language. I was able to locate the transliteration for “child”, which is “mimmi”, but I couldn’t find “moon” anywhere. It was very frustrating. Anyway, my father was kind enough to give me “children of the moon” in Spanish (even though I had asked for “moon child”--which was why there was that funny little moment where Near corrects Matt’s translation).

“Nuedi! Deguite be nuedi?! Be iguinuga?!” : (Dulegaya) Means “Hello! How are you? What’s your name?”

“Acu am betogue? Be iguinuga?” : (Dulegaya) Means “Do you understand me? What’s your name?”

“Niño de la luna. ”: (Spanish) Means “Child (masculine) of the moon.”

“Takke sunna mimmi, Muu! ”: (Dulegaya) Translates roughly as “Look, I found a true child, Grandmother!” --Again, I am in no way a linguist, so I could have very well butchered these transliterations, but I have it on good authority...:-p

Kuna: Fact. Everything; fact. Fascinating, huh? I had a nana in Panama who was Kuna, and remember being thrilled at the way she pronounced my name. There are some records that claim Kuna women do not often leave their islands, but that’s not true. You are more likely to see, and recognize, a Kuna female than a Kuna male wandering around the mainland. Also, their culture is completely matrilineal--so aside for their reverence for their extraordinary high rate of albinos, the women pretty much run the show. Also fascinating is the short-lived rebellion of 1925. After Roosevelt showed up and began the Canal, the government tried to suppress all indigenous cultures because of the rapid popularity of Catholicism--that began when the Spanish invaded a few hundred years prior, but gained speed in the twentieth century. After the Kuna revolt, things changed rapidly and indigenous peoples were awarded full autonomy. It’s amazing to me how a small group of seemingly harmless people could change an entire country in a matter of days.

OCA2: This whole bit was just basically saying that the OCA2 gene is what gives some animals, and in this case, humans, pigment deficiencies. I wanted to express that Near was sort of going into a numbing shock, because he realized what he wasn’t remembering--that the largest population of albinos lived just off the eastern coast of Panama. And when he heard the girl saying to him that one of their tribe was injured, it all fell into place. He, himself, was the biggest clue. She had called him Moon Child, and sought him out after a fellow “moon child” was attacked. A friendly warning, you could say. The guilt he feels almost immediately following, I explained thoroughly in-narrative.

French Embassy and political dissent in Panama: I will only briefly make note of this, as its mention in the chapter was very subtle. The history of the Panama Canal is nearly a hundred years old. Summarizing, the original canal was planned for Nicaragua, utilizing a lake called Managua. However, a senator (and I forget his name, but I’m sure you can google it) passed around a mailing stamp to members of Congress at the time depicting the quite active, young volcano that towers over Lake Managua, Momotombo. They decided to find a different location for the canal, which was a good idea as the volcano erupted in 1905. Roosevelt’s administration decided on Panama, but ran into a little problem as the newly-independent Panamanian government balked at the idea of foreign influence on their export/import commerce. In 1903, a French citizen, who had absolutely no right to sign anything on Panama’s behalf, forged a treaty with the U.S. giving them full access and building rights to the area zoned for the Panama Canal. This embittered the Panamanian’s, but they allowed it grudgingly. When political corruption began threatening the U.S.’ hold on the Canal Zone, in the late eighties, George H. W. Bush invaded Panama, eradicating the ironically U.S.-financed dictator, Manuel Noriega, and dislodging the military-inclined dictatorship. Of course, they left within ten years--and it was during this time that I lived in this country--leaving Panamanians to pick up the pieces. Panamanians consider us imperialistic, and many are still even angry with the French, because of the citizen that let North Americans into their country. However, by the French Embassy, there is a monument standing, honoring the Frenchman Phillipe Banau-Varilla and his role in the construction of the Panama Canal. Surrounding it are angry murals and graffiti expressing citizen political dissent. I think, as a whole, that image speaks volumes for that country.

Inuyashaluv04: Thank you so much for your review! *grins* Yeah, Mello is confusing. He’s always struck me as the sort who would change moods rapidly without provocation, and went to extremes when he was provoked. I’m attempting to stay true to that here, making it clear that he knows something they don’t. Also, I did not think he would be the same sort of person with Matt as he would be with Near--and it was fun to throw a wrench into that too. One would think that as a ghost, he would be calmer with Matt and more emotional and contemptuous with Near, as he was in life. And that’s a clue, actually, to Mello’s purpose in this story, that it’s reversed. It’s all deliberate, if you can trust me *laughs*, I can understand if you’re wary though.

Ha! Near’s opening line was hilarious fun for me to write. I imagined what Near would be going through in his mind during that chapter, what he would be think and feeling, what he would be telling himself as he searched for Matt on the boat. It was amusing to me to have something marvelously inane come out of his mouth when he decided to let Matt know here was there. I’m glad you enjoyed it!

I have not decided if L will make another appearance in Scattering Ashes yet. I know he will have a few more cameos in the sequel Becoming Human, and a very interesting role in the final installment Humbling Nations, but for this, I’m still not sure. I could have him show up in the next arch, when they’re California, if you’d really like. I did promise you cookies. *winks* Thanks again for your review, and I hope you enjoyed the update!

Nebo: Oh, goodness, don’t stop breathing! Thanks for another review!

I am writing a few different novels. *coughs* Very different novels. One is somewhat like a modern-day Peter Pan story, written entirely in first-person--which, at times, makes me want to pull my hair out. Another is the first installment of a six-part saga, a fantasy/adventure where I full out attack Quantum Theory. Another is a biography project about my nuclear physicist hippie grandfather, and about what led to him working on the Manhattan Project, and what happened after--angsting it up a little with the sad tale of his late wife. And then there’s a handful of fanfictions I’m currently engaged in, this one being the most fun--and simultaneously the most difficult. I’ll let you know when I’ve got one or two finished. I go by “Gloria B.” for pretty much everything, so in a year or two, hopefully, you’ll see something by me in a bookstore. :-P

Ha ha. I’d been a little concerned about that too, redirecting the readers attention to melodrama while the technicalities of the main mystery hang back as an afterthought. But, like you said, I thought it was important after smashing so much together in “Soldier”. And I felt it was a nice change of pace, a chance to let the reader breathe for a moment, before we plunge back in.

*laughs* D is Douglas “Deliverance” Dane, a character I created for a fanfic I’m working on with Doumi, Thanks for the Memories. His tiny cameo was sort of a ‘wink-wink-nudge-nudge’ to Doumi--and, now that I think about it, I don’t think she even caught it. I do that periodically, in SA, because I don’t think I would have ever boned up to write a DN fanfic if she hadn’t turned me on to the idea with Thanks for the Memories--or, at least, made me feel like I was even remotely capable of churning out something for DN that didn’t make me look like a completely inept, bumbling fool. D’s character is a lot like K in the sense that he originates from A’s generation at Wammy’s. According to our timeline for TftM, D has already graduated and earned a career for himself in ‘the field’ by the time Mello, Matt and Near show up at the orphanage. I’m tossing ideas around in my head for his role in this story, and I think he might not actually show up until Becoming Human, the sequel.

“...if anything, doesn’t he need a successor more than L does?” I thought so. *grins secretively* I hesitate to expand on this account, but thank you for liking the idea. It’s...well, it’s one of the more important parts of the story, as well as a vital clue.

Concerning Mello, Inuyashaluv04 had similar questions, so I encourage you to read above. In further extension of what I wrote her (or him?), I will say that a great deal of Mello’s...presence in this story, as well as his behavior towards both of them, have a great deal to do with the first scene of this chapter. I look forward to reading your thoughts on this account.

“...It’s like a masterpiece of miscommunication.” I...thank you! Thank you very much. Massive miscommunication is certainly the essence of that scene. And the last scene, with the ending dialogue, was great fun for me to write. I’m glad you get the sense of Near still being Near, but sort of maturing too. Makes me very happy that is getting across. Oh gosh! And yes! I picture both of them as very insecure. Matt’s best friend is dead. Near’s never had a friend at all. Matt used to be so sure of himself, never caring about the world at all--until he lost his axis. Near is used to being in charge, listened to, the one sitting at the head of the table, so to speak--and no he has none of that and has to rely on someone he really doesn’t know. I can imagine both of them being ultra sensitive, extremely hesitant, and easily wounded. They’re both bizarrely intelligent, but even smart people have feelings.

And yes, Matt is obsessively protective of Near. Ha ha, the attack on “nice” was inspired by a commentary by Christopher Lee, where he tries to describe fellow actor John-Rhys Davies and becomes irritated with himself when the first thing out of his mouth was “he’s a nice man”, and then later declares “nice” to be a dreadful, mediocre word. I heard that commentary years ago, but it’s stuck with me ever since.

“...There’s just no apparent way for poor Matt to win.” You’re absolutely right. Let’s see...your musing in this segment was a tad bit confusing, but I think I got the gist of it. Going back to Matt’s protectiveness, and the seeming paradox at Matt’s notion of hoping Near would take off one day: It’s not so much that Matt wants Near to leave, but he does care about him enough to want him to know how strong he is. And if he is willing to let him go so that happens, then he will. That’s a lot like love, as far as I understand the notion of love. But don’t get ahead of me on this account, they won’t be professing undying affection or spouting sonnets any time soon. With love vs. integrity, yes, Matt’s in a similar predicament, and yes, Mello seems to be playing both sides of the field--but remember, Mello knows Matt better than we do. And when it comes to what Matt promised Danny-boy for Near’s safety...well, that’s something that will be touched on later. The future, as Mello points out in this chapter, is subjective. I have to say, you’re incredibly perceptive. I didn’t think anyone would make that correlation yet.

It’s exciting to have attracted such a thoughtful, interactive readership.

Thanks for the comment about lasagna and whiskey. I remember writing that and thinking it was one of the more organic moments in the story. These guys exist on such a high level of intelligence, that it’s nice to bring them down periodically, to remind us of what is normal. And that sometimes it’s gritty and ugly.

Thanks again for the fantastic review! I had a lot of fun responding to it!

Cu-kid: Hi! Thanks for your review and welcome to the story!

“...I find myself truly wanting to know about the motives behind each character instead of just wishing Matt and Near would get on with it.” I laughed so hard when I read that, pumping both fists into the air and shrieking “Victory is MINE!” Seriously, I feel like I finally broke through the ‘will they just fuck already’ barrier because of your statement, and that’s extremely satisfying--so thank you! It did feel like creating something from nothing, because the characters I chose to work with we know very little about--I mean, on a personal level. Aside, of course, from Mello; but even he is mysterious enough to me to be fascinating in his own right.

“...I find myself alternating between believing they really do see [Mello] and thinking he is just a by-product of stress/insanity/whatever.” Good. ;-)

I have to pause here to thank you profusely. I sort of went “Huh?” when I read the word ‘agoraphobia’ because I didn’t recognize it. I looked it up and shrieked again. I hope you don’t think less of me, after all those compliments, when I confess I hadn’t known that was an actual, termed personality disorder. The panic attacks were something I’d considered, and decided to work with on Near essentially on a whim. But it’s so...so perfect. In the next few days, I’m going to research everything I can about that. Gosh, I thought I was just bullshitting my way through that. Wow. Thank you!

I’m glad you enjoy the relationship building between the two, and the small gestures of intimacy that they share from time to time. I think of, a little, how children are. They can be brutally cruel, but if they see a single tear, they’re all consoling--hugging and patting and holding hands.

Thanks again for your review, and I hope you enjoyed the update!