(Written for dn-contest on LJ on the prompt 'Ms. Mikami'. Mikami plays havoc with my narrative voice, or maybe I'm just too used to writing Matt. Either way, thanks to SunMoonAndSpoon for the contest prompt. Whee! Fun! Mikami's tragic enough to be in an opera, really.)

I can't stop myself from falling,

falling back again

in the morning

baby, in the afternoon

(Norah Jones)

The morning after his mother died Teru Mikami woke tangled in sheets to the voice of the hardwood floor, creaking beneath him almost plaintively. He blinked. W...what? Why'm I…his elbow was sore where he must have fallen on it, but he…thought he'd have remembered falling, really. Oh well. Noticing would've hurt, he supposed, swallowing back a sense of unease. Something. In the pit of his stomach—

Mother.

…well. There was that.

He forgot his dreams. He got up. He made his bed so no one would think anything weird. He stood up and caught his reflection in the mirror. There would be a funeral today and he had to get dressed; he knew he couldn't look like this, all…morning or mourning or…his hair was a mess and his wide eyes were bloodshot and uncertain and his hands were shaking and his arm hurt but it would change; he would change. He'd be fine, alone. Two hours and forty-four minutes after they told him (how he'd hated their looks) he realized that.

--running through it in his head again, squinting into that blanket of light as the open window laid it out on the floor: this is God. This is God's action. I've done right. I know I have. All those years of struggle against…them, against bad people—no, not bad. Evil.—against them, they'd been worth it because now God, he'd struck down his one protector when she tried to say otherwise. As if to say at once: your path must be clear. And, too: it is alone that you must follow it.

So he would.

Rubbing his elbow, he winced a little and turned from the mirror, taking the few steps to the closet. His mother had always kept his nicest clothes tidy and hung. Always be prepared, she'd said. He'd worn them a few times, accepting awards at school and the like. Now he would for a funeral. And there was…something…sad about that; something near his heart that twisted sharp and skyward. But. No. Why? It wasn't sad at all. He'd wear them now as he wore them then: accepting recognition.

His shadow ate up the light. With an odd shudder he slipped his best shirt off the hanger. It still smelled of detergent.

(Mother.)

--he shut his eyes against something. Then he stared determinedly at the wall.

The morning after he got beaten up Teru Mikami was aching and disheveled, but strangely calm. He went to school as usual. There were some stares, for the bruises and cut above his left eyebrow which he had put a bandage on the night before. Few people said anything. Bold Miya from his math class (who'd thought he was cute for two years) asked him point-blank, though, concerned: "Mikami-kun? …Mikami-kun, are you all right?" her fingers hovering over the most obvious injury.

He brushed his hair out of his eyes.

It didn't sting as much as it had then—when Taro'd shoved him into the wall face-first; when his friend (what was his name?) had before that punched him squarely in the stomach. And the words before that—of course they hadn't stung either, not more than a mosquito might. He was sixteen and he hated being humiliated, but from people like this—they were hardly worth—

He barely knew who they were except that's Taro Yatsumi from English, who he'd…marked, before.

"Oh, look who it is—Mikami, how about that," an almost comical drawl; it'd sounded foolish.

"Hey, Mikami."

"Hello, Mikami-chan."

That again.

"Taro-kun," said Teru quietly. "Didn't you have detention this afternoon?"

Taro's friend snorted. "You sound like Ms. Shiosaki. Didn't you have detention this—"

"Sort of looks like her, too. That hair. D'you want to be the teacher, Ms. Mikami?"

"Nah, he just wants to be a woman."

He didn't want anything of the kind, but it was one of the tamer insults he'd gotten—he listened now without comment, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly.

"Wonder why, though."

--and a doglike bark of a laugh. "Probably wants to have breasts—he won't get to see anyone else's, will you, Mikami-chan?" Why would I want to? "Not since your mother's!" (--and his fists clenched but no, not yet, not--)

"Poor Ms. Mikami," Taro added, a glint in his eye. "'Cause those were nothing special."

You—

He bit back the fury (not on her account, not that!) (Hypocrite!) with little success but he didn't do what he usually did: instead of fighting back despite the odds he glanced upwards. Past the dirty ceiling to something else.

If her—then them, too. That makes sense.

"You shouldn't say that," was all he said, deceptive, brisk, even.

"Yeah?" Taro eyed him with something best described as a wary, jeering look. "Gonna do something about it?"

--and that's when Teru's eyes at last met his.

And that gleam, it—

"I don't have to."

--had an almost crimson aspect to it—some trick of the light.

Even warier, Taro's stance grew more unsteady. His friend hesitated. Teru could see him wondering why. "W-why not?"

Teru Mikami smirked.

"God will."

See, he thought later, with pride and the force of a pledge, I trust you, God. I trust you—

(show me something.)

He had always fought back before when under attack, physical or verbal. Risks were necessary to enforce justice. His mother had not understood that. That was why she…

(but still, when they'd--)

That morning, yes: he brushed off Miya and her concern with a few polite words and sat at his desk, listening dutifully to the civics lecture. A night's distance and more between he and that last fight; five years' distance between he and the last sight of his mother. It was late spring.

(he'd done as she said, just once--)

He was never bullied again.

The morning after Natsuko stayed over Teru Mikami barely saw. He slept late and when he woke up he just saw her. He saw her where she wasn't—where she'd been; a slight imprint in the bed next to him, all creases and disorder. Rising and putting on a robe, he saw her where she was. Through the doorway. Sitting on the couch perusing a magazine, oh, she was…he didn't have the words. He didn't use words like that. Pleasing? No. Lovely? Oh, what was he thinking—this—she—it had just been so right, that was all, every time he spoke with her. He was in his third year at university; she was in her second. The fervor with which she spoke in their two shared classes caught his attention. That had been all at first. That clear soprano pitched to carry. I want to help people. Yes. It's more than empty rhetoric, what we do. As lawyers, we do have a purpose.

He did feel so unsure. The discomfort he felt now was not unlike what he had felt last night, though, and that…had certainly passed. Today, too, it would pass. It could. For the first time maybe it could.

"Teru?"

Maybe, maybe it could. It wasn't as if he hadn't thought…sometimes. About—this. Women. Love. …family, even.

Natsuko Mikami, he thought absently.

--a blush lit on his face. How foolish! When did he ever think like—

"Hey, Teru--? Are you awake?"

Oh! He managed a stammered "Yes" before stepping into her view and making his rather sheepish way across the hallway to the living-room. …aah. This robe. He probably looked ridiculous; it was just that no one ever—"I apologize for my appearance, I shouldn't have—"

"Relax, Teru," and Natsuko was laughing. "You're so cute. Honestly. I used to think you just talked that way in front of Sawai-sensei. It's not a courtroom, you know? Look at me." She pointed to her hair. "Disaster zone. I'm Medusa!"

"I think you look lovely," Teru said, truthfully, then gulped. Had he just said—

She grinned.

"Thaaaank you." –and gave him a light kiss on the cheek before glancing back at her magazine. "You're such a gentleman, Teru. And so unexpected." What that meant, Teru was not sure. "But what's this?"

What was what?

He cleared his throat. "Sorry? What were you reading?"

"This article here, you've circled it." She pointed, puzzled. "About some criminals dying of heart attacks?"

…oh. "Yes." He spoke with more clarity, leftover morning sleepiness driven out by zeal. "This is the fifth one reported this month in this newspaper."

"Yes, so it said." Stretching, she peered again at the deceased prisoner's grainy photo before tossing the magazine back on the coffee table. "What about it?"

"It seems…fortuitous," he replied. "As if it were not an accident."

"Maybe not." She frowned. "Some kind of poison? I don't know about 'fortuitous', though."

"…oh?"

"Well, you know. Even if you kill someone in jail for murder, it's still murder to do it."

Teru grew very still.

"…Teru?" Natsuko sounded concerned. "Are—"

"No," Teru interrupted. "It isn't."

Natsuko was just looking at him, blinking. "Then…what is it?"

His voice was cold.

"Justice."

"Teru, I--?"

"I think you had better go." Yes, ice.

"—I—Teru, wait a minute, we—you—"

She was crying when he shut the door behind her. His own face was pale, but luckily, it always was. He was already reminding himself why he had acted rightly, if not the whole truth. She would be punished by God—God who had sent her as a reminder that the world was not yet right—and Teru thought that God would forgive him for, out of humanity, not really wanting to see it.

The morning after being chosen by God Teru Mikami had a splitting headache. He'd gone into work as usual, having gulped down a couple ibuprofens and a considerable amount of excitement. I will—I—I knew it! I knew it! Even he was unaccustomed to feeling this much at once. Relief, and fear, and fervor; righteousness and what weight came from knowledge: well. Anyone would have a headache, really. But—an aggravation. He had to think. Focus. Recall. Reassess.

God—

Someone (someone) had told him once that he was a very intense person, and he was perceptive enough to recognize that as true, but he generally suppressed it. He understood the danger in concentrated fury, desire, fervor. It had to be directed correctly. But now—

On the tip of his tongue, in the back of his throat, somewhere behind his eyes: joy, fear, righteousness. Gratitude and ardor shot through his veins like some fiery alcohol he would never taste. Yes! –Yes!

"Mikami-san?"

He was so lost in thought it took him a moment to realize his secretary was speaking to him.

"Yes, Nakajima-san?" he asked without looking up.

"I was wondering if I could not come into work this Friday."

The pen he twirled between his fingers felt so much like a weapon. Tonight. "For what reason?"

There was a smile in her voice, a shy one. "I'm getting married."

That was news. He finally glanced up at her, offering a mild "Congratulations. Yes, take the day off."

The smile widened (he didn't notice the slight strain). "Thanks, Mikami-san. I'll leave you a list of who's expected to call that day on my desk."

His focus was already back on his computer screen as he skimmed the brief e-mail he'd been writing to a client. Short, and to the point.

"What's his name?" he found himself asking.

What?

"Whose?"

"Your fiancé."

"Ah! His name's Yasuo." Positively beaming. "Yasuo Harada."

He wished the two of them all future happiness and returned to the e-mail, which he finished and sent. He had a few phone calls to make in preparation for a court appearance tomorrow.

Another day he might have almost—

…but, no. He did not feel any kind of envy, anymore, for people like her. He had lived his life in dedication to God and to justice and he did not need anything else; he felt no resentment towards some family, some wife he might have had. Why should he desire such things? Better to work towards justice that the world might be without resentment, and the Nakajima-soon-to-be-Harada-sans of the world could live and…love…in peace. He had learned that. His faith and action would be—had been!—rewarded. He understood it. He had understood it again, and again, and again. (aaah, his head--) It felt as if he would never stop understanding it.

The morning after he was imprisoned Teru Mikami couldn't stop shaking.

Was I…

No. …Yes.

God—

No!

Not--!

How could he have…

He was completely alone.

But he'd always been completely alone.

…but not like this.

The (oh God, oh God) emptiness of it.

I thought—

(some disgusting petulant child with delusions of)

What can I—

This place this place he'd sent dozens t—where you woke up and it was nothing but dark and there wasn't—

(those desperate eyes familiar and crazed and so young and he'd)

This knowing was a dull knife tracing his skin and it…

I should have—

I—

--she--

The morning after Teru Mikami died the sun crawled up to fold light over a few horizons, illumine clouds that hovered above others. It wasn't God. It didn't need to be. It glanced softly off a stone somewhere north of a shrine in Kyoto that was somewhat overgrown—the inscription was half-hidden by moss, so all it read was –kami, now. No one really remembered the woman who was buried there anymore.

He might have.

No one would have known that either. He had refused to go back there since he was twelve, walking with an even stride in his best clothes, the last to leave for the last time he ever would. He didn't speak of her. He rarely spoke when he didn't have to. And when he 

did it was almost always God in his heart, justice in his mind, and a quiet resolve in his throat.

He had been a good prosecutor. But people would forget that. Even he had. Forgetting was easy, except when it wasn't. No one knew what it was Teru Mikami had remembered the night before, whatever drove him into death with which he was so familiar. He'd scrawled no message on the walls in desperation. There was no one to ask if he had. If he'd thought anything there was no record of it: meticulous Mikami, maybe, chose to erase that particular detail by leaving no trace. He was always fond of clean breaks. He preferred order to chaos in a world that swallowed chaos and breathed it back out in human shapes, not unlike his. His mother always worried about that. Teru, she'd say kindly, remember this: Always…

…but that night he'd realized that he had forgotten a long time ago, and that even now (all anguish, looking for something, anything to--) he could not recall what it was.

He'd tried.

There would be many mornings after this one. And in them he, too, would be forgotten—the very last victim of Kira.