Authors Note: It's been at least a year since I wrote any fanfiction, and only once in a while did I read any. This is my first try in a while and I'm starting off with a bit of a tough series to write about. But I'm going to put a lot of effort in...please enjoy my said effort.

Full Summary: L has lived in isolation; no friends, no family, limited only to contact with Watari and authorities around the world through a voice scrambler and a computer screen. The Kira case has not only become the greatest mystery of the world, but it has forced him to expose himself; regular human interaction is something he had always wanted to minimalize. Being with people means personal change, exposure, vulnerability...it would put him at risk.

Chapter 1: The Crouching Man

In a darkened room, lit only by the dull, unearthly illumination by a series of computer screens, large and small, at various angles suspended by a network of metal bars, a young man sat crouched in the center of it all. The skeletal outline of steel fingers was arranged carefully, in a round dome overhead, the only puncture in the hemisphere directly overhead, in the center. An impression was given that a pillar might have belonged there, since the space stood out; the void could have been filled by the crouching man.

Slightly gaunt, a pale face turned loyally to the screen directly in front of him. Empty, perfectly round dark pupils correlated eerily with the round shape of his eyes. The symmetry was kept complete with dark half-circles formed long ago under his eyes, and yet not the balance, as instead of dark skin, his eyelids were was white as the rest of his complexion. Eyebrows hidden by randomly spiked sections of hair and kept cautiously out of his eyes, his eyes remained fixated on the screen.

The entire structure was painstakingly constructed in the exact middle of the room. The round being that he had placed himself in was equally distanced from all walls, all corners of the room. An length of at least ten feet of barren space surrounded him, and it was here he would stay, for as long as necessary.

Knees to his chest, he keenly observed the texture of the floor under him with his feet; no socks, no shoes to hinder his senses as to the surface beneath him. Cold, hardwoods floors, bare as his own eyes, polished and shined to mildly mirror back his reflection, smooth under his toes, only broken by the parallel lines running throughout the surface.

The weather was not important. The time was a hindrance. The construction project that may or may not have been proceeding a few buildings away was not a concern to him. The number of seconds, minutes, hours he had spent in that exact spot was of no importance. The sleep or the nutrition he might have needed at this point was also not an issue; he felt no needs of urgency.

What did intrigue him was the screen in front of him, and the remote control placed beside the outside of his right foot. His fingers were kept at appropriate buttons; his index was on the channel button, his middle on the volume, his ring finger on the mute, and his thumb and pinky stayed firmly on either side of the device to keep it firmly in place.

All he watched was the news channel; the weather, the time, construction projects around the city, like clockwork, was on the channel 4 news, and his ring finger pressed MUTE. Something in his mind clicked, and he changed the channel, up, up, up, up, up, to, making sure with his index finger to press the button every three fourths of a second, exactly. It took about that long to mentally process what he was watching, so it only took that long to know if he was watching a cartoon, a talk show, a game show, a sitcom, finally another news channel at 32.

The MUTE was pressed again, and sound filled the room, echoed slightly off the television screens and then off the walls and back to his reliable ears, hidden by unruly black hair. Deciding it was too soft, his reliable finger, so detached and automatic from his own mind, pressed the volume up to an acceptable level.

The second disturbance was the opening of the door. A wave of light blasted in from the entrance before instantaneously settling on the floor. Footsteps clacked on the hard wood floor, properly shined black shoes reflected in the equally-as-attended-to floor and they walked with a constant pace over to his technological jungle gym.

Familiar, reliable footsteps, and he knew his safety was not in any peril. The young man needed not even look up.

What did startle him slightly was the halt, then retreat of the footsteps, followed by the light, located directly overhead, flicking on with a strong, sudden surge of power.

He didn't blink, but instead his index finger, almost independently, felt its way to the POWER button and turned off the screen.

Watari ducked his head and entered the cage his master had made for himself, and set a plate of a slice of a three-layered strawberry cake, cookies, and a fork on the floor directly in front of him, in front of the exposed toes and under the shadow of protruding knees.

"L," his kindly, demure voice resonated softly in the empty room, "Finish this soon; it's almost 10 in the evening. We should be at the hotel in less than an hour so we are present before the members of the NPA."

Almost 10? So he had been there for almost 3 hours.

Already his fingers were sticky with sugar and cake, as he pulled a corner off the top layer on the three-layer cake, and licked the sweet strawberry cream from the bottom. His eyes rolled up towards the ceiling, and it took him a moment to reply, as he dropped the leftover vanilla cake between his waiting lips. He hadn't yet swallowed it when he replied, "Very well. I'll be ready soon."

Satisfied, Watari nodded, turned, bowed his head again to exit the contraption surrounding L, and walked out of the room as properly as he had entered.

Meanwhile, L sat as he continued his 'meal', only now slowly becoming aware of the hunger accumulated during his time watching TV. Kira had killed thirteen people today, not counting twelve FBI members. A particular news channel had been kind enough to run through the entire, complete(or so it claimed) list of all the criminals to die today by heart attack.

Vaguely he had wondered if it was time wasted. He already received lists of dead criminals from the police. As important as the facts he knew to be true were, through experience and observation did he notice how much influence the media had on the opinion of the people. Interestingly enough, they had accurately reported the names, times of death, and the photos of the criminals. What plagued him was immediately after the report there was a story about a deranged, middle-aged man who had abused young son to the point of mental damage before he was arrested. The young man half-expected to see that name of the list of criminals dead by heart attack within a few days.

14 minutes went by as he finished his food, he calculated. They would have to leave in 7 minutes in order to be safely get to the hotel before the number of whittled-down NPA members whom he was to meet.

On the front of his feet, he walked himself out of a small opening in his man-made aluminum and steel bubble, and stood up; or at least, stood in the comfortable posture he was accustomed to, at which most mothers would 'tsk' at.

Not that he was afraid of people. He simply, for his own safety, had to keep his face, his identity, location, everything, as secret as possible. From the average person he was under little threat in a casual meeting, he understood occasional contact with people was considered healthy for the mind, and yet he felt that need heavily satisfied with the voices that came through his monitor speakers. If there was no need for his face to be shown, he would not.

And yet, Kira had stripped him of this privilege. Having caught the world's attention, Kira dumbfounded every halfway respectable authority and organization in the world. This mysterious, formidable foe was as unseen as he was, and had pried him out of his own sanctuary, and forced him to reveal himself to the five impressive officers who were determined, each for their own reasons, to stay on the Kira case, even if that meant cooperating under him. Of course, there had been hesitance to work with someone whose face they didn't know, and in this respect it was as much their fault as it was Kira's.

Logically, though, he understood their position, and it was only after this train of thought did he decide he would have to give himself up to at least these select few if he were to continue the investigation into Kira. Had logic not won a heavy affirmative, it would not have sufficed.

L was a man of logic, and he abided by it above all else. If not logic, what was there?

Shuffling silently to the doorway, his back still curved and his hands in his pockets, he continued to project the image of a crouching man, even while walking. The sullied, sticky dishes were left on the floor, right where he had been. The fork, licked clean afterwards, rested upside down on the edge of the plate, the four slender, silver limbs balanced so the utensil wouldn't fall.

It only took him 8 seconds to reach the door, and he flicked the switch behind him as he exited. The room was enveloped in black, the only light the rods of reflection beaming from the round, semi-shiny metal arms of his cocoon of the past 2 hours and 43 minutes. And as he closed the door behind him, they too, became dark.

The Crouching Man End

Ending Note: A chapter of nothing... Probably it's been figured out when this chapter took place; Volume 2, directly after the Raye Penber/Naomi Misora/FBI incident. I'll try and somewhat look to the manga for guidance concerning time line and plot. That being said, please make sure you've read or watched the series at least a fair way, because that'll make for spoilers for you later on...

Being that this is the first chapter, some points need clarification:

I do a bad job at summarizing. Basically the readers are to sit back and watch L deal with being around other people. After all, 'human interaction' changes a person...which is really what I'm getting at.

The title is from a line of Alumina, the first ending song to the DN anime. I have never given a good name or title to anything, so instead I borrowed the line. If I think of something later I'll change the title, because I really don't like quoting a song(no matter how great it is...) to title my story.

The end of this fanfic? When the story corresponds to volume 7? I suppose so. Although, depending on where my imagination takes me, the story could very well veer off into another direction. I keep telling myself it's a fanfic and doesn't have to follow the story but...who knows...

I'll try and update as regularly as possible. Not as frequently as possible. But as regularly. That's a lot to ask for from me; my muse, my imagination, and my creativity are all very fickle beings.

I promise I won't talk this much every chapter...