[Oh, Mello's scowl is for the ages. He's learned long ago — before and after the world collapsed and rose anew around him — that prayer does nothing. He's prayed so hard that his forehead has gone red with abrasions from cheap carpeting; prayed hard enough that the rosary which still hangs around his neck has dug near-bloody indentations in his palms. He's prayed and raged hard enough to crumble kingdoms, and it never did him any good. A waste of time: L was taken down by their Enemy, and to see someone putting faith in something so futile is both painful and enraging to witness.]

[His teeth are digging into the inside of his bottom lip; his voice is hoarse from nothing short of desperation.]

There's so much magic here. [Within himself. Within the world. He hates that he's not strong enough to fix this.] It's bullshit that we can't do anything — there has to be a way.

[There's always a way. And he's eyeing Myr with an accusatory curiosity; what is he to L? Why does his pain run so deeply? He wasn't fourteen fucking years old sitting at the detective's feet, seeing all of the knowledge of the world contained behind those large eyes, confident that he would be his successor.]

[None of them were. No one here.]

Your mouth isn't doing him any favors.

[To be fair, neither is Mello's, but he's always been shit at containing his outrage when things don't go his way. He clenches his fists, exhales a hard breath in frustration.] I'm from the same place as him; nothing can just pull someone out of a coma.

[Bitter.]

But we're not there. There has to be someone powerful enough. Something. We need to find it.

[As he's moving to the other side of L where Myr resides. Mello can't fucking look at this. It tears at something that has never truly healed over. His swallow is audible as he takes stock of L's position, his expressionless face. Death in life; what if his mentor is doomed to remain this way forever? What if he doesn't wake up?]

We can't just give up.

[The idea is offensive.]