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There were quite a few people in the church that afternoon; that was the first thing Mello noticed.
It was the strangest Mass he had ever attended; that is, it was the only Mass he’d seen where the celebrant tried to leave the church and had to be stopped by the churchgoers. An hour and a half had passed already, with another hour and a half until it ended, but the minutes seemed to fly by. At the end of it all, Mello would be leaving the church with his forehead covered in oil.
He had been told everything that would happen, of course. Hearing it was one thing. Living it was another. Sitting in the pew, he wasn’t sure if he was more nervous or excited; whether he was lightheaded from the anxiety or just filled with the Holy Spirit.
He folded his hands in his lap, waiting.
He had chosen his confirmation name almost immediately; he had always had something of an affinity for Michael the Archangel. Who else would guide L’s successor but an archangel, one prayed to for defense against evil?
Not to mention the fact that he was Mello’s namesake, although the English variant of the name felt clunky and restless in his mouth. It was a sort of catharsis for him; a way to acknowledge his past when no one was allowed to know his real name.
The last few people left the row in front of him.
He stood up and began walking, Mrs. Barrett next to him.
All things considered, it was quite hard to find a confirmation sponsor when he had no way of contacting any family members. But Mrs. Barrett had always seemed to like him as a person rather than tolerate him; it was just good luck that she was Catholic and eligible for sponsorship.
An eerie sense of premonition washed over him, the eyes of the crowd burning deeper into his skin.
Something was going to happen soon. Something big.
Something was starting, and something was over.
All the questions had been asked.
Somewhere, far away, things were happening that could not be undone—that would have grave consequences for Mello.
He could feel his own confidence waning, and he glanced briefly at the crowd—some Wammy’s kids, some not. Those who were not didn’t matter to him. He wasn’t competing with them, and he didn’t know them.
As for those with whom he was competing, he felt their eyes on him. In the back of his mind, he knew that they were just looking in his direction, but he was nothing if not mistrusting of most people.
In general, Wammy’s kids did not go easy on each other; those who did may as well have been dooming themselves. Those who were serious about it, who genuinely wanted to become the successor to L, had to claw their way to the top, balancing on a tightrope and pushing others off—or at least, that was what Mello did.
They would gladly see him go down.
But he couldn’t lose—not after all he had put himself through.
He felt his hands shaking, his breaths becoming shallower and more rapid.
God had set the course of Mello’s life long ago; he had to become L.
All the hoops he had to jump through to get where he was, all the sleepless nights, the pounding of his head, the venom in Near’s vacant stare—they were all tests.
And he had passed every one, burnt-out and caffeine-riddled as he was.
He could almost see his father congratulating him, and he had to swallow down his tears.
If not him, then who?
Who else could become L and not give up? Who else could do it and keep going?
Near was smart, but he was unfeeling, not to mention unbelieving.
It wasn’t God’s will.
It had to be Mello.
If it wasn’t him, then everything he had been through, everything he had put himself through, would be for nothing at all.
He would be a failure; he would be no one.
He thought again of his father, not wanting to, and heard nothing but his own name being yelled at him, felt phantom blows to his shoulders.
God had a reason for everything.
Mello could see Near crouching somewhere, his face blank and empty. He didn’t care if he lost. He didn’t care if he won. He had been coasting on his freakish amount of talent his whole life. What did it matter to him?
If there was a reason for everything, and God wanted Mello to win, why had Near come so far? Was it God’s will that they compete, or that Near became L?
Was Mello supposed to see him go down? To bring him down himself?
He felt sweat on his forehead.
What right did he have to question God?
What right did he have to question anything?
He stepped onto the sanctuary stairs and approached the bishop.
Mrs. Barett put her hand on his shoulder.
For a single moment, standing there for everyone to see, surrounded by stone and stained glass, the eyes of carved angels looking down at him, Mello felt as though he was standing at the edge of two worlds, about to walk from one into the other.
The bishop looked at him, waiting.
“Michael,” he said, his own voice echoing in his head.
The bishop dipped his thumb into the perfumed oil and brought it to Mello’s forehead. It clung to his bangs slightly, smooth and slippery.
“Michael, be sealed with the gifts of the Holy Spirit.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “Amen.”
“Peace be with you.”
“And with your spirit.”
He turned back to the crowd to return to his seat.
Somewhere in the world, something was starting, and something was over.
Somewhere, Kira was blindly killing in the name of justice.
Somewhere, Near was staring at his dominoes.
Somewhere, bells had begun to ring.
And the children at the House were trying to claw their way to the top, desperate to gain what was meant for Mello.
He laughed.
He would never let them.
He would die trying.