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But the LORD said to him, “Not so; anyone who kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over.”
Then the LORD put a mark on Cain so that no one who found him would kill him.
It is the verse with which the priest ends his sermon. The parish bells at Wammy's House ring as the nine o'clock Mass ends.
Near attends because it is part of the program. Looking up at the carved wooden crucifix above the altar, he can't help but think how ironic it is to force someone to sit in the pews under the watchful eyes of the saints. A futile attempt to instill in L's future successor the moral principles needed to do what is right. At just nine years old, he knows perfectly well that goodness of heart and the faith one professes do not necessarily go hand in hand. People are more complex than that.
Before leaving with the rest of his classmates, he notices that Mello has lingered in one of the back pews. He was one of the few who received Communion, which meant he had to confess his sins: beating up a couple of boys, stealing chocolates from others—he took Near's too, but it isn't stealing if he wanted to give it to him—and swearing more than is acceptable for someone his age.
Now he is doing his penance, muttering Hail Marys, so focused that he barely notices his rival is, as always, watching him.
"Go to hell, runt."
Some people are more complex than others.
⋆༺♱༻⋆
Given how audacious Mello is, even at twelve, Near believes he is capable of anything.
He enters his room and sits on the floor next to the bed. He is just starting to put together the corners of an all-white puzzle when he hears voices in the hallway. He gets up and cracks the door open just enough to see what is happening.
"The test questions are right there, Mello! They're not even the answers, so you wouldn't feel like you're cheating," Matt protests. "Or do you doubt my ability to hack that dinosaur of a computer?"
His friend doesn't even glance his way to answer.
"I know you could. I trust that you could hack the police right now if you wanted to," he replies, shoving his hands into his pockets. "So trust me, too. I'll beat him without any tricks."
Mello disappears down the hallway, and Matt sighs but follows him anyway. He'd follow him to the ends of the earth. Near can't blame him; he finds himself following Mello too, if only with his eyes.
It’s an unusually clear day in London, but Near is still indoors. He is playing solitaire for the umpteenth time, seated at a low table by the window overlooking the playground. The glass barely separates the calm of the room from the bustling noise outside. He places the cards down one by one and already knows the rules by heart. This time he manages to complete the game in fewer moves than the previous one.
"Again!" Linda exclaims, wandering closer. "How do you do that?"
The boy looks down at the neat rows of red and black cards on the table.
"It's simple."
Linda watches him and claps in amazement.
"Do it again, Near!"
He gathers the cards, squares them against the edge of the table, and shuffles them again. He can start over as many times as he wants, and sooner or later, the cards always end up exactly where they belong.
He looks up at the window behind Linda. Mello is playing soccer with some of the other students. He has just stolen the ball less than a meter from the goal and is now sprinting toward the opposing net, shoving other players aside to force his way through.
The white-haired boy looks at the deck on the table.
"I think I'd rather play something else," he answers, preparing to pull out the box for his new puzzle.
Outside, cheers for Mello can be heard. Near begins to take out the pieces and lets them fall one after another, blending with the applause arriving from the courtyard.
⋆༺♱༻⋆
Mello is social by nature. He can be laughing with a friend from the orphanage one moment, beating him up the next, and then going right back to talking to him as if nothing happened.
Near also has a knack for getting into fights, but on the receiving end. He is a frequent target for bullies. Being small for his age and the undisputed successor to L in everyone's eyes has earned him more than a few beatings from the older students in the less-monitored corners of the building.
He tries to back away toward the wall, but the boy reaches him first. The impact against the plaster sends pain through his small body. He is left dangling by his shirt collar, hoisted up by a boy about three years older than him. Linda had screamed when the fight started and ran for help. A futile effort; he knows she won't make it back in time to spare him a bruise.
He feels another blow, but it doesn't land on his face, and the older boy's grip suddenly vanishes. Now Near is lying on the floor. Mello has knocked them both down after launching himself at the bully from the side.
"You can't stand him either! Whose side are you on?" the older boy yells, trying to shake the kid off.
“I hate him! But he has to be fine for tomorrow's exam,” he shoots back. The crucifix around his neck keeps catching in his blonde hair as he moves.
Mello is tenacious enough that the older kids already know it's not worth messing with him. No matter how many times they knock him down, he will just get right back up. So the bully backs off before more witnesses can arrive. He crosses paths with Linda, who has seen everything from the door and has already sent for Roger.
"Oh, Mello! That was so kind of you," the girl tells him.
"Don't be stupid. He has to be fine for my sake," the blonde boy replies, getting up and dusting off his black clothes. "He's the goal."
"Thank you," the smaller boy says, having already picked himself up off the floor, "even if it was for your own sake. Thank you."
Mello turns his head away and stalks off, grumbling something under his breath.
"He's not such a bad guy, is he?" Linda says with a smile.
Only Near notices that Mello is limping slightly as he walks away, trying to hide the toll the fight took on him.
⋆༺♱༻⋆
"Checkmate," Near says as his black bishop leaves the king cornered.
Even victory fails to change the serene, monotonous tone of his voice.
"Incredible, how do you do it? There's a reason you're number one in the class!"
"They're just numbers."
Near has won again. There is hardly a child left who hasn't tried to defeat him in this playroom. A few meters from there, next to the unlit fireplace, Mello plays a game of checkers against Matt; it is his fourth game of the afternoon. The redhead laughs whenever his best friend slams a piece onto the board after hearing them praise his rival.
"You should play a game with Near," Roger suggests with a good-natured smile, the kind that almost always manages to win the blonde boy over. "It would be interesting."
Before waiting for an answer, Near is already resetting the pieces; this time he places the black ones on the far side of the board.
Mello scowls and looks away from the old man. He's fallen for that trick far too many times to get caught by it now.
"...No," he says, standing up and heading for the exit. "There's an exam tomorrow. I'd rather beat him there."
Near twirls his white queen between his fingers as he watches Mello leave, Matt rushing after him.
The next day, Mello scores a 99 and Near, a 100. Those are just numbers, too.
⋆༺♱༻⋆
"I am not just a piece for you to use to solve your puzzles," Mello said the day he pointed a gun at him.
How many prayers would he have been given as penance for doing that?
Although he can anticipate his outbursts, he has never been able to predict his next move. So that day, Near accepted whatever fate awaited him in dear Mello's hands. At least that way it would be interesting.
That memory comes back to him in the monitor-lit room. Near tastes the bitter flavor of the chocolate and plays with the finger puppet he made in the likeness of his own Cain.
“They should have marked you, too,” he murmurs, twirling the puppet between his fingers.
He is certain Mello would have used his dying breath to hurl one last insult at him if he'd ever found out that object existed.
He would never call him a piece; he prefers to call him a puzzle. An all-white puzzle that scrambles itself and shifts just as he is about to finish it. One that hides the final piece only to press it right into his hand. One that has been lost and left incomplete.
The best one he never had. The only one that, even now, nine years later, he still dreams of solving.