Disclaimer: Death Note and all of its characters, story line, and properties belong to their respective owner and creator, Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. This fanfiction is purely written for fans' satisfaction without any intention of gaining any profit.

Warning: Before you progress with the story, I've to remind you of a few things. This fic will contain character death (yes, I've pretty much planned the outcome of this story). Also, I need to remind you that English isn't my native language, so expect some errors.

The picture which was framed by a screen of a video camera was shaking horribly. It was close to impossible for one to fully extract the information from the blurs and shakes which were the picture. The shaking screen and the blurry picture, nevertheless, were finally held together in a proper balance as a face of a man came to fill the tiny screen. "So, here we are again," as he was taking a hold of the camera, the man started and cleared the huskiness which had just tinted his greeting voice. In the background, the sound of 'pi pi pi' was constant yet slow and close yet distant. "This is Mihael Keehl." The man—Mihael Keehl—was a normal looking blond who was about in his mid twenties, except for the scar which blanketed the side of his face. He took a moment of silence as he stared at the screen with a neutral look in both of his blue eyes then spoke informatively, "This is day 4 and Nate still hasn't shown any sign of waking up."

The screen swooshed swiftly and it stopped and the focus of the image shifted instantly. The video camera was now filming another man who was laying unconscious in a hospital bed. By judging the close shoot of the new subject, Mihael was just positioned beside him. That another man, anyway, was seen supported by the hospital tools, one covered his nose and mouth, one was injected into his veins, a layer of white blanket slept on his apparently frail, lithe body. The man was young, a feature of childishness spread upon his pale, white face, though in fact, he was only two years younger than Mihael.

The screen shifted once more and went back to Mihael. The camera frame was immediately full by a halo of straight blonde strands and his face. The neutral look which he'd been keeping began to crumble. His brows wrinkled slightly, his lips tightened, drawing a thin—almost straight—line. "Today, I just met Doctor Tim and he said that the only reason Nate was still alive was because of the hospital tools." He paused in an attempt to regain more self composure. His lips slightly parted, his tongue came out a bit and wet those lips. He sighed. "But, I won't lose hope. God knows that I can't let you go." He directed the screen at the white-haired man once again. The man was still laying there, unconscious, and Mihael's words went into deaf ears. "So, wake up ..."

A.I.

Chapter I: Questions and Probabilities

"… Wake up soon, you big-headed twit."

A pair of eyes snapped open, swiftly revealing two bleak irises. A man, a white-haired man was on the ground, constantly laying there amongst the ground of ruins and destroyed pieces. His face pale yet, it painted a steady feature. There was a very familiar child-look which seemed to never want to leave his face.

The man wasted no more seconds to stand on his feet, to make out a clear view of the environment he was put in now. His person, however, had first stolen his attention. His steady gazes abruptly fell on his body. His right hand—which he realized immediately was wrapped in a black glove—arose, five fingers traced the hardness which form the black protection gears that were embracing his lithe form. He was constant for a moment before his views finally collapsed on the rest of his person—the same black glove was protecting his left hand and there were a pair of black boots for his feet. All of his equipments went under the same condition. They were worn out, with dirt and their ripped materials, looking at them would make one say that they were not appropriate anymore.

The man's mind went dynamic in a second. Judging silently, he thought that what he was wearing definitely served the purpose of protecting the wearer from something. The important question roused here: what had they protected him from?

His steady, unnerving stares descended on his surrounding. At a first glance, one would have judged that something catastrophic had hit the place, an earthquake—perhaps a typhoon even. The place was, without any doubt, in complete ruins—everything: buildings and structures were scattered in pieces, destroyed to patterns not recognized. This, unfortunately, created a new problem, he could not possibly make out a pattern of the direction with everything destroyed like this. However, he was certain that he was currently in a city. The concretes and steels which piled up on the ground, also the fissure on the grey, broken asphalt, proved that they had used to be ones as modern buildings or structures. Nevertheless, the area, as far as one's functional eyes could reach, was vacant of any living form. Questions began to swirl in an endless madness in his mind. What would the catastrophic disaster be? When had this taken time? Where were the people, was it perhaps they had been evacuated to a safer place? Then, what was he doing here? Where was he? What year was this?

The white-haired man's hand, which had been resting on his chest, moved to undo the suit—first, the one on his body then the one on his legs. A white fabric peeked at the surface as soon as he released himself from the suit. He then did the same for the gloves. And no, he decided for the best to keep the boots because he was certain that he was not in any appropriate footwear. He put them on the ground, amongst the other debris. Whatever had happened, the equipment had served their purpose, he decided. Then, he was thinking, perhaps he had been sleeping when this catastrophic thing had taken place, for he was revealed to be wearing a piece of white pajama.

The petite man's eyes, a pair of black orbs, darted to the sky. It was hues of mixed reds. It was as if the sun had got closer, and he could sense that the day had got hotter. Nevertheless, the emptiness of the sky itself was the one which captured his attention the most. The sky seemed dead—no, it was dead, he concluded. It was too silent, too empty—where was everyone, everything?

The man's right hand elevated, taking a strand of white hair around his fingers, he began twirling it. Among the questions which apparently bore no answers, these questions forced the gears in his mind to work harder. How could he possibly not remember what had happened? Perhaps, something had hit him on the head—after all, he had not been wearing any head gear. This possibility, unfortunately, begged more questions. How could he not get any injuries on his person? How could he wake up here, in this dystopia, feeling just fine? His hand, which was twirling his hair, moved around on his head. Then, it shifted position to his body, pressing the subtle skin, checking everything. But, no, unexpectedly, he did not feel any sting of pain.

A slight frown graced the man's feature. If something had indeed hit his head, would he still be capable of counting? Would he still remember the capital city of England or America? Would he still remember how to use his common sense? For the last question, he was precisely certain he would, for he could still initiate an act to check on suspected injuries on his person. His stares hardened, darting to an empty space in front of him. One plus one equals two, he began, and he tried a harder equation now, The integral of 2sinx is -2cosx + C. He remembered how to count. He tried again, The capital city of England is London, while America's is Washington D.C..

The pale man was precisely sure he recalled the basics. So, what about his personal life, his very own self? The only memory which had found the surface of his mind was the one where he had been in a hospital, laying unconscious. There had been a man who had gone by the name Mihael Keehl, talking to a video camera. He assumed that this man had actually held some kind of connection with himself. And … the man called him 'Nate'. So, that would make him Nate, would it not? As he was recalling more of this previous moment, he found his logic began to get distorted. If he had been unconscious, how could he have possibly seen Mihael Keehl talking to the camera? Was it perhaps he had seen the recording when he had gained consciousness? This question only created another question. The picture shown in his memory was not the one where he had been taking a hold of the video camera, looking at the recording, instead, it was actually from the video camera itself.

His frown deepened. His fingers found their ways to his hair, twirling as well as pulling at it tightly. This was a dissatisfaction—not knowing the facts, the truths. Perhaps, if he dug deeper into his very own mind, he would eventually find something. Yes, there should have been something ….

There was that screen of the same video camera again, now focusing solely on a pale face, two black eyes, and a mess of white strands. A hand came into the view, the thumb climbed up, pressing the pale skin, caressing it in a circling motion. It then shifted position to the pale forehead, sweeping away some bangs which rested on the forehead. "There," the familiar voice echoed. "You're Near."

The one called Near looked up. His expression held this steady curiosity. "But I remember you called me 'Nate'."

There was approximately three seconds of silence before the familiar voice countered, "You're not him. You're just …"

"… I'm just what?" The force in the pale man's finger increased, the pulling of his hair became stronger. It was useless, the continuation of the event in his memory just would not want to reach the surface no matter how hard he tried to urge it out.

Presumably, it was safe for him to consider that Near in his memory was indeed himself, for, first, Near was not Nate, second, he and Nate actually shared the same appearance—so was the man in his memory. It was a rarity for more than two people to share the same appearance. So, he would be Near, he concluded. And perhaps, Nate was his twin brother—it was just, of course, his logical assumption.

The familiar voice would have belonged to Mihael Keehl. Near was a hundred percent sure of it. He did not fathom or remember why or how, but Mihael's voice was crafted perfectly, so fine, in his mind that he would not have possibly mistaken the man's voice for anybody else's.

But, who was this Mihael Keehl? Who was Nate or Near, really? Why did he have it with him, the memory which did not belong to him?

The force in Near's fingers reduced as he tried to relax and gain more self composure. Eventually the movement of his fingers came to a sudden stop. A small exhale slipped out of his thin lips and his hand dropped to his side. He actually remembered, he knew and understood common sense, the basics. However, he seemed to have forgotten his personal life, of who he had been in the past. Too, the memory of the disaster which had befallen this place he was currently at seemed to be lost—he did not have it. The logical cause of this would be an amnesia must have hit him. He must have forgotten some of his previous life events. However, he breathed relief for the memories seemed to be returning at him slowly.

It was alright, he just needed to try harder to remember.

"It isn't a necessity to record this activity."

There was that pale face, filling the screen of the same video camera. Its porcelain skin tinted pink. Those thin lips parted ever so slightly, breathing in and out the ecstasy. And those bleak, black eyes were half closed, their vision clouded with pleasure.

The room was not dark, but it was not bright either. The light was a blurry orange and yellow, which presumably came from a lamp which was occupying the room. However, it was sufficient, the lightning was enough and just right.

"Of course it is. You're having an orgasm and that's a perfect moment to be recorded." And that all too familiar voice echoed, again and again. One of Mihael's hand came into the screen, grabbing the pale face. His thumb found its stop at the pale cheek, pressing the apparently soft skin as if it were a lump of dough. The thumb began to move in a circle, caressing the cheek with what one could comprehend as an affection. "C'mon, Nate, come for me." From on top of Nate, his voice trailed off, asking in that characteristically soft yet deep and rich tone which only belonged to him.

Nate's head—which was currently resting on a pillow—moved up and down in a constant motion. His parted lips let out a soft moan. "Stop it, Mihael." He meant to be clear, firm, and resolute. But, damn the pleasure, damn Mihael Keehl—he could not have possibly held back that moan. Thus, he brought a hand to cover the screen.

And the picture went black in an instant ….

At the newly found memory, a frown found its way to grace Near's face. That doesn't answer anything, he thought. That just created more questions—ones which were not resolved. Why did the memories actually have to come out through a screen of a video camera—the same video camera? Why did he remember moments which did not even belong to him? He was certain that he had not been in the same place when Nate and Mihael had made love together. Verily, it would have been inappropriate. Most importantly, why would Mihael Keehl be there, in every of his surfacing memory? It was obvious that Nate and Mihael had shared a special relationship. But, what about Near? What kind of relationship had he shared with Mihael? Who was a Mihael Keehl to him, was he perhaps someone important which actually became the reason behind his reoccurring appearance in Near's memories?

All of these memories were randomly coming out. However, Near could actually draw a pattern out of it. And the pattern was one—it was always one, one person. And it was Mihael Keehl.

But, why?

No, Near assured himself. It was only the third try. Perhaps, he should try to swim into the current of his memories once more. That way, he could rest assured. However, his fourth attempt eventually bore no result. The gears in his mind worked even harder and his eye lids rolled down. It was dark, no light to make out any significant picture which could give him any information. A sigh escaped the gap of his lips. It was no use. His memories did come out randomly. He could not urge one out, not even a single peek of it.

Waiting for the answers to magically grace his memory was like waiting for the snow to actually happen in the middle of a dessert. It was not a wise decision, of course. The worse scenario possible, if Near did not find something—or someone—soon, he would die of hunger or thirst. Above it all, the worst could be dying alone, among these ruins, without eventually knowing the answers to all the questions which had been driving his mind to the brink of insanity. Dying alone without the precise answers to the why or how was not a part of the plans in his agenda.

Near concluded, finally, that only time would tell, that it was near to impossible for him to actually solve all of these endless questions by relying solely on his random memories. Perhaps, just perhaps, if he walked far enough, there would be something—or someone. However, that sounded merely like a baseless hope, and he was not one to put his faith in hope. His mind wondered briefly whether Nate eventually shared this same pattern of thinking. And, for a fraction of seconds, his own mind echoed to him, telling him that he actually was not capable of having such privilege as faith. Silently, he wondered why. Nevertheless, he quickly dismissed the thought. It was not his focus at the moment, he decided.

Besides, when he had thought better about it, that was not a mere, baseless hope. No, he decided that it could not be called a hundred percent aimless walk, for he was actually looking for something. Perhaps, if he was lucky enough, he would find some kind of telecommunication devices. That way, he could contact the police and get some help. Possibly, he could contact Nate, or Mihael, seeing as of now, those two were the only ones who apparently held some kind of connection to him. However, that plan alone arose another problem. How could he possibly contact the police if he alone did not know where he was at the moment? How could he possibly contact Nate or Mihael if he himself did not remember their numbers? Perhaps, if he was lucky enough, he would find something along his walk, like a remarkable structure which defined the country he was currently in, like Big Ben, The White House, or the Eiffel Tower. Although judging by the condition he was currently put in right now, there was also a possibility of the structure being destroyed, he would make out some patterns—no, even a single remarkable pattern would be sufficient enough for the purpose of location recognition. Then again, if he was lucky enough, the memory of Nate's or Mihael's number would come to him at just the right time.

Well, that was, if he was indeed lucky enough. That seemed more like a gambling, the game of probability. But, in a condition like this, I have no other choice. I have to set the bet. And when he had made this decision, it was inevitable to walk towards the unknown.

To be Continued

A/N: This story is actually a dedication to the major which I failed to take due to my hesitation, and also a rewrite of the original first chapter that I wrote first because I felt dissatisfied of it. And well, I hope this one turns out alright. Tell me what you think about it though.