My Sparring Partner
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Tsugumi Ohba, Takeshi Obata, and Viz Media. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.
Author's Note: Written for the theme "Anniversary" at DN Contest at LiveJournal. I am taking quite a few liberties with Near's character, though I think he does deserve a change in perspective.
December 16, 2004
Winchester, England
11 p.m.
The bells on the clocktower have just chimed the hour as I walk down the now-deserted hallway.
Curfew began at 10 and being caught still in the hallway usually meant a reprimand from Roger with a few extra chores or loss of privileges for a few days, a week or more if one was caught out of bed after midnight.
This isn't so much a matter of following the rules as it is not getting caught; the heirs of L should know better, getting caught represented a deep failure.
I slipped through several corridors and am now entering the back stairwell as I do at least twice a week. No one ever sees me, even if there are others out after curfew trying to find their own hiding places to sneak liquor or engage in light intimacies.
That is the marked advantage of being small, even smaller than most of the boys my age; speed is in my favor. It also makes no one even suspect why I am walking down a little-used staircase at 11 p.m. and no one would even imagine my destination.
This is exactly what I was doing one year ago tonight and I have planned every movement out exactly.
It has only been in the past few weeks, the past eleven days to be exact that I have fully appreciated the significance of this day; recognizing it as an anniversary and not just a typical evening.
Everything ceased being typical the moment Roger called Mello and me into his office with three words that twist my stomach every time I think on them.
I take a breath and continue down the stairs, down one flight, then another. It is the third flight down at ground level that I produce a simple sewing needle from my shirt pocket and stick it into a certain gaping nail hole in the wall.
I think no one will now ever know how many hidden corridors, secret passages, false doors, and deceptive stairwells there are in Wammy's House. It was a secret I have certainly never been told.
The history of the building, however, is less a secret. It only took me one trip to the Winchester hall of records to find out the building was a Red Cross shelter during World War II with a bomb shelter. The location of a shelter had to be relatively accessible in an emergency, so finding the door two years ago was hardly a monumental task.
I slide the needle in the hole, feeling all the components of the lock click. The door may have been in an easy location, though that never prevented Mr. Wammy from making it more difficult to access. The fact I was able to not only find it but gently open it as I do now indicates he was looking for someone to uncover the secret and I know I am not the only one who has done so.
I close the door behind me, carefully feeling my way down the black stairwell until I feel the cold concrete floor under my bare feet. The smell of concrete and must is like coming home.
My eyes adjust to see the string of the single light bulb on the ceiling and the large punching bag hanging from a thick rope tied over the steel rafter.
It is probably around 11:05 at this point, to my recollection this was the exact same time last year that my hand found the light string and pulled it, causing the soft glow around me that illuminated the empty space. As usual, I do a cursory check around the room, seeing only the punching bag and a few old pieces of furniture piled up in a corner. The rest is complete emptiness, complete silence.
The silence will only remain tonight. At last I allow myself the beginning of my vigil.
I stand in one place on the floor, which is still clean from when I swept it before returning to my room last night. If anyone were to come down here, seeing a clean floor in a supposedly unused part of the building would be suspicious. Seeing footprints in the ancient dust would be even more suspicious, so the unusual cleanliness could be attributed to any number of factors having to do with Mr. Wammy's known affinity for tidiness.
Mr. Wammy
I take a deep breath on the thought of that name, my arms hanging to my sides. I push forward my focus, but finally allow myself to feel the sting of that name.
There is another name that pushes behind that, no less tragic in itself, though a name that has been eating at the fringes of my nerve for the past eleven days.
I take another deep breath; that one thought in my mind ushering me into my biweekly routine.
My hands grab the bottom of my baggy shirt and I pull it off my body, letting the cold of the basement hit my bare skin. It will just get in the way.
My legs are now shoulder-length apart, eyes closed, elbows out, hands coming together in a prayer pose. I am centered now.
Fists ball up, one punches out with my staggered breath, drawn back, then the other with the same motion. I do this a few more times. Now the undercut, right arm, then the left.
My instructor usually has us grunt; sometimes yell with each punch though I prefer to stay quiet. My body is accomplishing enough while my mind is staying focused; no additional words are needed.
No one at Wammy's House notices when Roger takes me to London for an hour a week. Mello made some comment about it once and I told him I was for doctor's visits, sometimes my regular physician and sometimes an orthopedic specialist.
In truth, I have been going to a plain karate dojo for weekly instruction. Originally I was in a class with boys my age, now I am in the same class with students in their late teens.
The marked advantage of being small; everyone else thinks you are weak. Sitting and playing with my toys for hours only adds to that, though I prefer to think of that time as quiet meditation with my thoughts. It is easier if they see me as some kind of cripple, in fact I think I would be horrified it this secret came out.
I earned by black belt a month ago…probably around the same time that…
I start my practice kicks, welcoming the physical release of my frustrations. I pride myself on keeping my emotions in check in every situation, though one does need some kind of outlet when the emotions build.
I believe it is now 11:30, though I am hardly concerned about the time. Even if Roger found me, quite frankly, there is little he can do about it under the circumstances.
I am leaving Wammy's House in the next few weeks. I would dare him to try and punish me, though I can't lose my focus; in fact it is even more critical that I maintain all fronts for what I am about to do next.
One leg kicks out, hold the position, spin around and land on that leg while kicking the other leg out. My muscles, which I would like to think have become more toned and honed in the past year, warming up more with every movement.
I am sure it is 11:30 now, the same time last year when I heard a slight shift on the stairs. I recall the sound was soft enough to be missed though my ears were still focused on all my surroundings over the slide of my feet on the floor and the break in air from my kicks.
The shifting continued, the sound clearly of a human weight carefully coming down the stairs. I had moved to back kicks at this point, my ears still on the sound though not indicating to whoever was there that I was paying any attention. Let them think they had the element of surprise.
I quite frankly couldn't have cared less who it was, whether Roger about to give one of his harsh, disappointed sighs or the start of Mello's taunting parroted by his eternal sycophant Matt. Even if Mr. Wammy himself was down here watching this I was in no mood to care.
My new visitor was now walking across the floor, though I heard no soles of shoes or slippers against the cement.
The visitor stopped. I gave one more kick and also paused, my back to whoever was there; a dangerous move, though I trusted my abilities enough to spin around and defend myself if needs be.
Both of us stood still, maybe each waiting for the other to make the first move.
Something flew out of the corner of my eye and landed on the floor in a pile; a white, long-sleeved shirt.
At last I did a spinning face-forward, feet shoulder-length apart and hands together; the same pose I was in before. It was the same pose the wiry, black-haired man in front of me was in.
I knew who this was.
He stood outside my doorway several months before as Roger asked if I wanted a more formal meeting with the "guest" outside. I looked up for a moment before returning my attention to my card house, politely refusing.
Mello wouldn't shut up to me about his own meeting with him, though he kept quiet to everyone else but me and Matt, obviously. I didn't think such a meeting was appropriate; he wasn't my friend and classifying him as a peer in any sense was out of the question.
But then L was famous for his persistence. The man in front of me was the same one who taunted Kira on Japanese television eleven days back...eleven months before his…
One meeting with his potential successor was the smallest thing he would have and he would have it whether I liked it or not.
We stood in position for a moment, eyes locked. He stood a full foot over me, though I faced him the same; not averting my gaze once.
His expression was even, though I would feel his eyes trailing over me, looking through me, analyzing me as if I were another piece of evidence in front of him. Perhaps I was, though I was hardly bothered by this; he was seeing what he was seeing, that was that in my mind. I could have cared less about his judgment, or at least that's what I told myself.
I counted about twenty seconds that we spent contemplating each other, or more appropriately sizing each other up, as silence lingered around us.
L bowed low and I returned the gesture. It was the only communication I needed of what his intentions were and I stiffened my muscles in anticipation.
We returned to a standing position and a fist flew out a nanosecond later. I blocked the punch to have his foot aiming for my chest. I tapped his foot with my knee before launching into a lower cut, spinning slightly out of the way to dodge any returning blows and have somewhat of an advantage.
He spun on the ball of one foot, gave a kick as a feint before the same foot lunged at me, forcing me to dodge aside in a different position. The side I shifted to had a fist flying in my direction.
Once again I dodged, my own leg spinning out toward his knee. He was putting me on the defensive, trying to wear out my energy. As much as I wanted to be angry about this, I simply focused on my breathing, giving a sideways punch with one hand and blocking with another.
I was well aware that L was twelve years older than me and likely outweighed me by fifty pounds give or take. Just by how he moved now showed he had trained in karate for a long time, though I saw some hints of other fighting styles as well. I had a feeling what he was showing me was a taste of his full capabilities.
One can reach a ranking in any martial art where their hands become a deadly weapon. I had to take this possibility into account with L, though I also had to analyze this match as a whole; take it seriously enough though be prepared for any other motivations behind it.
I managed to get a few inches out of his radius enough to do another spinning kick, though I reversed my direction and let the other leg fly out toward his hip. He slid out of the way and landed on one hand on the floor, both hands on the concrete for one second as he threw his legs and his bodyweight forward toward me.
I slid backwards on my feet, doing a spin to avoid the being landed on, though his opening was obvious. I did another spin, kicking sideways. He spun away from it and kicked towards my leg in an effort to tangle it. I drew my leg back, jumping backward as one fist flew forward, another going further toward him.
L blocked the punch, dodging the second but I continued to lay on; coming in aggressively and tightening the space he had to work with. He did a few lower cuts to avoid my fists and I thought I had him on the defensive…thought at least.
He matched my punches with his own, though I saw the leg coming at me just in time to slide back. The tip of his toe did catch my behind my knee and I could feel him sliding in place to take me off my feet.
I pivoted my leg around, doing a pirouette and kicking my leg at him. As expected he spun from my leg but my fist flew forward, barely rubbing across the flesh of his shoulder as he did a low dodge.
The dodge became a handstand, then a backward flip. He landed on one foot, spinning around, one hand coming to the floor.
The power of one hand and one leg sent him in the air, the tips of his feet aimed at whatever direction I could dodge in.
I dropped backwards, a complete freefall to the floor; concentrating enough to have my arm stretch backwards and open my hand.
L's feet came within millimeters of my chest, I would feel the air flow over my perspiration-coated flesh. I dropped to the floor seeing his whole body flying over me and prepared to plummet as I was.
My open palm hit the floor, I twisted my torso and threw my legs to another location just in time to see his hands come to the ground, followed by his feet in the very spot I was a moment ago.
I rolled on my side, though the act was a bit harder than I thought it would. I pushed the strain aside and gritted my teeth to leap to my feet, prepared for whatever else he had in mind.
He gradually peeled his hands off the cement floor, his legs stretching upward to a stand. His back was to me for a second, standing perfectly still. At last he pivoted on one foot, facing me with a wide smile.
I relaxed my stance, though did not let my guard down, my adrenaline was still rushing though I knew the moment it let go every muscle in my body would be on fire.
"Those dodges are not typical in karate," L said, the smile still on his face.
"No, they are not," I said, deciding honesty was best in this case. "Though I have studied a few scenes in The Matrix."
He blinked a few times before chuckling.
L's hands came together again and he bowed low, returning to a stand and grabbing his shirt off the floor as he started to walk off.
"What was the purpose of that," I asked, annoyance clear in my tone though I tried to sound as calm as I can with the strain starting to hit my body.
"I believe you know the answer to that," L said, putting his shirt back on. "Or you can come up with any conclusion you would like and it would still be the best explanation."
I stood for a moment; both of us giving what I knew would be our last exchanged glances.
I put my hands together and bowed low.
He smiled again, hands going in his pockets as he walked to the staircase, bare feet lightly padding up each step. Within a few seconds he was out of view forever.
That was one year ago tonight.
I am now doing spinning kicks against the punching bag, remembering how my muscles ached, how I lay in the bath for about an hour after returning to my room.
Life would continue on from that night; the days and months would pass.
I would tell myself repeatedly that nothing special happened that evening, it was my ordinary routine that had been rudely interrupted, or my practice intensified.
I tried to tell myself this over and over in the past year though those words have not sunk in.
The date itself was planted in my mind since returning to my room that exact night a year ago. I know now it was a feeling that a clock somewhere was counting down and that ticking had been as loud as the gears on the old tower in the main section of Wammy's House.
The knell officially sounded eleven days ago and its only now when the ringing has stopped.
I come to a stand, looking at the punching bag while catching my breath; the silence catching up with me.
I am alone down here. There will be no flying shirt in my peripheral vision, no mane of black hair whipping around with each spin and flip no matter how much I imagine it.
L will not be joining me tonight.
My sparring partner now resides six feet under the ground in a small cemetery in Alberta, Canada.
Roger told me the location, maybe hoping visiting that small headstone will bring me inspiration for what I face next. He even showed me a set of documents that had been locked away in a vault telling me who my predecessor was.
That is not my inspiration. This moment, however, is.
I am replaying the moment like a ghost who remembers nothing else but the same movements right down to the lean against the punching bag I take now; heart pounding, breath heavy.
I am alone, though I am facing a larger opponent; an opponent the great L died trying to defeat. I also cannot predict his movements or know the full capacity of his power. This is not a hindrance, it is a challenge…
Just like it was one year ago tonight.
I take a few breaths and return to a stand, the image of one individual in my mind as I bow.
It was an honor, Liam Lawliet.
I pick my shirt off the floor, and get into position to finish this fight.