A/N – This is one of several possibilities I envisioned to continue my story "Last Stop at the End of the World". You MUST read that one first to understand this, and DO NOT read this one if you liked the ambiguity of the ending. This is like a deleted scene: the story is part of a separate universe and in no way affects any possibilities that you can hypothesize about from the first.

I'm operating on serious sleep deprivation and I'm fighting those sleep aids I took in order to induce slumber so this might not make much sense. However, inspiration strikes at the most inopportune times so I shall write more even if the original story didn't need it.

End of the Line

"No matter what you do while you're alive, everybody goes to the same place once you die. Death is equal." – Ryuk

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It's cold, it's wet, and it's dreary, this land of eternal smoke and mist.

That's nothing new.

Has it been years since Matt left? He didn't even realize the knowledge that another person was here was welcome until it was gone. It figures. He didn't take advantage of it while it was here and now it's gone.

Like so many other things.

He leans to rest his head against the pillar behind him only to find that it, too, has vanished into the swirling vapors around him. His head connects with the nothingness and he falls, catching himself on his elbows. The bony protuberances grate harshly against the cement, ripping holes into his shirt, but pain is easy enough to ignore when he knows it's not real. The tears in his shirt vanish as he sits back up and brushes imaginary dirt from them.

It's not fair for him to wish Matt was back. He deserves his happiness after all this wasted time, just as Mello does. They were cogs in the same machine that he was once a part of, after all.

That's all any of them are, really. Near would have referred to them all as puzzle pieces, Mello would have called them disposable, and Matt would have seen them as side characters, the background cast of some role-playing game. They weren't real people, only tools created to accomplish specific tasks.

Pain and injury are only memories here and the oblivion makes it so much easier to see everything with emotionless, detached logic. There is no sadness or depression in seeing that the sum total of one's existence on earth was only to fulfill certain tasks, to solve certain puzzles…

To bring certain people to justice.

Justice - such a subjective yet global concept. Its very nature is at odds with itself. Justice demands decisive, unflinching results for actions committed for reasons that aren't always black and white. "Justice" is great in theory and in discussions, but it allows no room for mercy, for forgiveness.

Petty human concepts that they are.

Pity that he was, and still is, human after all.

He had tried for years when he was alive to convince himself that he was just a machine, operating at inhuman speeds and storing absurd amounts of information with little to no sleep for over 30 hours at a time. He had a remarkable lack of those trifling social qualities and tendencies that lesser beings required in order to cooperate, to work together. He didn't need to cooperate with anyone since they, being human, could not work on the same level as he could and were therefore unnecessary.

Well, almost all of them.

He was the only exception. It was only fitting that the person to whom he was sent to bring to "justice" would end up bringing about his own demise.

There is no more feeling and no more pain at the thought. Such a lengthy period in limbo, in this featureless purgatory, would allow anyone transcendence over such human emotions, if he ever had them in the first place.

One can only lie to oneself for so long.

Why would he still be waiting here if not for someone? He let the ferry depart so long ago; he watched the lantern bobbing across the dark water as the light faded. Before Matt, the last words he had spoken had been to the faceless ferryman, telling him to go. He had sat down here and resolved himself to waiting, waiting, forever if need be.

Every time he hears someone else arrive, he lets himself fade into the mists around him as they are replaced with whatever version of limbo the newest visitor creates. He does not want them to see him even if he wants to observe them. He can apparently only see those he knew in life. Yagami Soichiro came and went some time ago, followed by Matt and Mello.

He still lingers, but at least now he knows that it won't be much longer. Near is no fool even if he is young, and he has the determination to see this project through. He won't let emotion or hesitation stop him.

L curls in tighter on himself and draws nonsense on the featureless surface before him, fingers tracing circles and other random shapes. It is not distracting enough to make him forget his own failure.

Damn that boy.

Damn Yagami Light to every hell that ever existed in anyone's imagination.

Even as the thought crosses his mind, he laughs. It shouldn't be possible for two such dichotomous emotions to exist simultaneously, but this place offers nothing for emotion to cling to and the useless feeling slides away. He wraps the other arm around himself and puts his head down, preparing again for the endless wait when the sound comes, shattering his peace and driving away human and machine thoughts alike.

"L?"

It's not him.

It's not him, and the thought is so shocking that he doesn't even register who is standing before him. It takes far too long to recognize him.

"Near?" His voice asks even if he doesn't consciously form the word. It slips from his lips.

"L." Near repeats dispassionately, standing some distance away in the huge, empty room that he created. He is older, much older, but his face retains the youthful innocence that he feigned when younger. "What are you doing here?"

A door opens at the far end of the room and light spills out, a warm golden glow that promises something better than this emptiness. Near glances at it for a moment and looks back at L, his head tilting as he studies the older man. L shifts and stands for he does not enjoy being the one observed. At least now he has the height advantage.

"I'm waiting for something."

"It's over." Near speaks in a monotone, as if the information never meant anything to him. "It ended shortly after Matt and Mello died. You don't have to wait anymore."

"How did it happen?" L leans against the wall behind him. Near seems in no hurry to leave, after all.

"I used information that Mello provided to force Light to take action. His lackeys miscalculated and allowed me to seize his weapon, the Death Note. I confronted him in front of witnesses and he confessed to everything." Near shrugs very slightly.

L stares balefully for a few moments, the look rolling right off Near's impenetrable exterior. The younger man is quite possibly the worst storyteller that ever existed. A newspaper would give a more stirring account of such a pivotal event with global repercussions.

"What happened to Light? Life in prison?" It is the only reason Near can look so much older, although he had been certain Light would get the death sentence. Near looks at him with a mix of pity and puzzlement.

"Light died that day; his shinigami killed him."

L blinks slowly, so slowly, his eyes falling shut against the brief wash of emotions, useless things that they are. He knows that Light would have died; he is counting on it, in fact. Near is still talking and he looks back up.

"One of his lackeys committed suicide to kill Mello, and the other died in jail a year later."

"How long ago?" Why does he ask? It doesn't matter.

Near looks up as he does a brief calculation. "22 years ago."

22 years.

Where is Light?

The answer is obvious, so clear he should have seen it years ago before he wasted so much time.

Time? What is time in this place? He only delayed the inevitable, waiting so long in vain.

Light isn't coming. He won't come, he can't come.

"L?" Near's voice asks again, and L resists the urge to hurt him for sullying the air with his unwelcome voice.

"Go." He says. "Don't wait or you'll lose your chance."

"What will you do?" Even as he asks, Near moves to the door, where the light grows dimmer while they speak. "Why can't you leave?"

"I said go." L tries to bite his tongue, but it slips out anyway. "There is nothing for me there." Even Wammy left before he got to this place, after all.

No one was waiting for him.

And he is waiting for no one, it seems.

He looks away as Near vanishes, closing his eyes as the door dissolves. The room fades, the mist returns, and he stands there stupidly.

Hope, another one of those worthless human emotions. He should have cut them all out of him years ago, long before Light came along. Light was light, his namesake, and he shed radiance on those corners of L's life that he most wanted to ignore. It is fitting that even in death Light torments him.

His feet take him to the edge that he knows is there, even if he can't always see it. His toes curl around the edge as he stares blindly into the fog that reveals nothing.

Perhaps it is a trick of his imagination, but the clouds around him part to show the black, lightless depths that lie below him. The water's surface is so still that no ripple distorts its obsidian surface, his own reflection looking back at him pitilessly.

A tiny ripple forms below him, the resultant waves deforming his image. He blinks fiercely and leans over, balancing precariously.

All this time, it has been before him. He was blind not to see it before.

There has always been another way out of here. He reaches, overbalancing slowly and watching his mirror image shift as he draws closer. Another ripple distorts his face as his fingers touch the water's skin, breaking it so slowly that he can see the inky depths take hold of his fingers and guide him down.

As his face nears the softly rippling water, it is not the reflection of his own onyx eyes that stare back at him. Inches away, the irises have become caramel, honey, toffee, all those wonderful reminders of the sweet things he so loved.

His hair touches the water first, the surprisingly lukewarm currents sliding across his scalp like fingers. His eyes stare fixedly into the brown ones as he sinks, his eyes and his mouth meeting their counterparts painted across the black canvas. He lets himself be wrapped in that warm embrace as the water closes over him.

L smiles.