A.N: As much as i would love to own Death Note, I do not. I do not own Near. I wouldn't have him as the new L if it were up to me, but it's not, that much is obvious since he IS the new L.
- - -
Getting into the mind frame of a criminal does not take skill or intelligence. Delving into this world of narcissism and hatred is not in the slightest bit complicated. It doesn't require any more training then the understanding that criminals are greedy and greed corrupts. Their mindset is simple; they yearn for the skies, and in a mauled, vindictive version of flight, they think that they can get there, get to the wide open blue where freedom will embrace their idiosyncrasies.
This is not rocket science. It should not be any more shocking then the revelation that the Earth is round, that ice floats. It is a simple observation. And it did not take years to glean this information, only in the simple matter of a few minutes with a true criminal can you see into their minds, can you feel their urge to spread their manufactured wings.
This is the mindset of a criminal.
This is not to be confused with the mind set of a psychopath.
These are the ones that take careful observation, that require a keen mind and a quick wit to understand. They are the exception to the rules. They are the dangerous ones, the bar-your-door ones, the duck-for-cover ones. They think smoothly at times, or they don't think at all, just act in the spur of the moment. They yearn for something they cannot name, cannot taste, cannot feel. Their wings have been ripped off and they have been blinded from seeing the open sky.
This is not rocket science either. In fact, you might have already made this observation yourself. And if this is your first realization of the above facts, it is easy to assume that you are willing to believe them.
And you should be willing to believe this, since these facts have appeared in more then one of L's notes.
This is not the old L's notes, and it is not the second L's notes, but the third L, the current L. The white-haired boy with his knees to his chest, piecing together puzzles as quickly as he pieces together parts of a crime, the one with dark circles under his eyes. His unruffled state is accompanied by frequent unruffled stares, facing people with his black eyes that pitch you into oblivion. He twists a lock of his rumpled hair as he stares, not afraid of observing whatever he can whenever he can.
He is aware of what he must live up to being, he is aware of the blatant stares from his colleagues, those that mock his being, those that laugh at the idea that he, this child, this immature brat, could possibly be L, could possibly be anything, other then an anti-social white blob in the middle of the rug.
He does not mind. He is aware that it is because he doesn't mind that they stare at him so, with poorly hidden expressions of disapproval, but that does not change his mental status. He does not mind, because if he did mind, he would not be able to observe so clearly. People, he has learned, shrivel up when you show that you care, they barricade their minds off to you, shut you out and condemn you for being nosy. They cannot, however, complain that you are indifferent. If they complain, then they would expect a change of some sort, but if you are indifferent, you don't care that they want you to change.
This is the way that Near views the world; in blank stares and decaying emotions.
And it is with his decomposing feelings that he solves cases, that he puts together two loose ends and somehow ties up the whole string, how he solved the Kira case, and how he is going to solve every case, for every criminal that comes along.
This is, however, how he views the world only when it comes to criminals. It is in his notes, in his scrawled cursive of abbreviated words, that you learn of his view on psychopaths, that you learn of his cynical approach to these exceptions in nature.
He enjoys just watching, waiting for those without wings to slip on they ground they themselves oiled.
- - -
Perhaps it is from the sheer level of indifference that Xander faced throughout his life that he came about his charming ability to slaughter in cold blood, perhaps from stress, perhaps from a buried trauma.
Regardless of origins, X was, nonetheless, a vicious killer. When gouging out the eyes of helpless children didn't suit his fancy, X maintained a stable job as a clerk in his local supermarket, where he was currently able to withhold title as Employee-of-the-Month.
It was his crime that brought L to be interested once more in the world around him. For this, many have to thank him. Without his horrid, gruesome murders, L might have never resurfaced.
In the year 2010, L officially released to the public information on the mass-murdering weapon, the Death Note. He was met with partial disbelief and partial panicked chaos. The idea he suggested was met with what must have been the same reaction to the invention of the atom bomb: the idea that such power existed was horrifying, terrifying, and completely hard to grasp.
After the chaos was calmed, and after the sceptics were hushed, L did not appear in public any further. He remained invisible, refusing to solve cases and refusing to be found.
This is because, at the time, Near was dealing with problems of his own, ones that had not surfaced before for him, not ever. It was these hints of doubt that lead him away from the peering eyes of other humans.
But this is not the time to explain what was happening in that odd little creature's fluffy white head, no, this is the time to explain what was going on in X's head, the slightly ruffled, mousy brown one. It is time to explain what was happening behind his chaotic brown eyes, however frightening that endeavour may be.
X had acute paranoia. He was one hundred percent positive, and it was from this self-taught paranoia that he learned to kill. He refused to see a psychiatrist, since he was sure that the doctor would attempt to turn him in to the police. He is still positive that ever flickering shadow and every leaf that crossed his path was looking to turn him in to the police.
He was certain of this before he had killed anyone, certain of this before he had let his morals be dragged away from him, certain of this before he had even thought to take a life.
What he had done, it is impossible to know. Near, even in his careful observations, could not decipher what it was exactly that X had accomplished, but that information was no more important then knowing the killer's birthday. X was paranoid, and with that sort of thing it is impossible to assume that something did happen. For all the rest of the world knew, X could have always been like that.
Killer X.
This was the phrase that passed through barely parted lips, was breathed quietly when the children were asleep, was said in a distraught tone over the victim's bodies.
Killer X.
It was an easy monster to imagine: a person with no fear of being caught, no particular pattern in killing, a person who was ruthless and who stole the breath of anyone that came too close.
This was nowhere near the truth, but X let the world believe what it wanted to. He was not in it for the fame. He wasn't sure what he was in it for. But he was in it, that was for sure, wedged in a cage of his own construction not too long after the first body was getting cold.
He signed it. His art, his demonstration of fury and hatred. In blood, too, there was that. He signed his name in someone else's blood. It was ironic in a sad, sadistic way. He was aware of what he was doing even as he took the person's arm, chopping it off at the base. She screamed, of course, letting her horror tear up her throat. She made a desperate grab at her bleeding wound, sobbing and begging mercy for something she had never done. He left her there as he considered what to do. She curled up, tears gushing down her face. It was breaking his concentration. He kicked her idly, and she shut up, silent tears pouring out of her eyes.
Now came the question of what to sign it as. He couldn't very well sign it as "From Xander, with love" (although the idea did tickle his fancy). It was rare enough for people to have his name, it wasn't like it would take the authorities long to track him down.
He regretted for a moment that he was doing this in the area he lived in, but small sacrifices had to be made.
He dragged the still bleeding detached limb across the woman's pink walls. He wondered what color they were. They had been pink before, he was sure of that. At least he was mostly sure. Unless they had been white until the blood stained them? He couldn't be bothered to remember. "Killer X." He wrote, careful to use his non-dominant hand. Then he couldn't be traced by handwriting alone.
She was still begging him, pleading with him as if she owed him something. He looked down at her. She was bleeding quite profusely, which was fine with him. Dipping his limb paint brush in her fresh arterial spray, he began coating the walls.
She wept.
Her tears mingled with the blood that surrounded her everywhere. It amazed him how much she had bled, actually. He began his project.
She wept.
Five hours, six hours? How much time had passed? He couldn't care. Had she bled to death? No, she was just unconscious, hanging onto the pitiful thread of her life, a thread that was becoming increasingly thinner with each passing minute. He watched her pant. At least she had stopped crying, that had been driving him mad.
She opened her eyes. Blinking as she realized where she was. Unable to escape this nightmare. He watched her, her remaining arm clutching desperately, hopelessly to her wound, as if mere pressure would ease the pain. She should know better, he thought. He paused in his artwork, admiring the color of the paint under the blood. The question of it's hue bit at him.
"What is the color of your walls?" He said to her, as if we wasn't holding her left arm, and if he was fiddling with the wedding ring that glistened there.
She panted and tried to sit up, contorting her stomach muscles in a desperate, last-ditch attempt at strength. She failed and fell back to the floor, closing her eyes as pain rushed through her skull. Blood was everywhere around her, and she panted and screamed, crying.
He watched her.
She wept.
After some time, she opened one teary eye. "Coral." She panted. "For the baby."
He wondered idly what child she could be speaking of. That, too had been pestering him. Here was the cradle, the toys, the little wardrobe filled with tiny pink socks and pink pyjamas and pink blankets. So where was the child? He would have heard it scream, right?
Oh, was that why the woman was misshapen like that? All distended and weird? Is that where the child was hiding? Had the mother swallowed it then?
He grinned. Yes, it was obvious she had, in a last attempt to save it. Possibly she would regurgitate the horrible ball of flesh later, in a safer area.
Well, he thought. I'm certainly not letting her get away with that.
He watched her even as her eyes widened in horror. It was understandable. She must of thought that he would never consider her eating her baby. She gasped in pain as the blade drove through her abdomen.
She wept.
It was this horrifying display that frightened the public, that drove them into their houses early, before the night had truly set in. They refused to speak of it for awhile, talking in hushed whispers away from the children.
"Did you hear?"
He loved that, loved the attention that he gleaned. They must love his work, love his display of flawless art. They must, they must.
It wasn't just what he had done to the woman, (what was her name? He thought, breaking his concentration for a bit. He was positive it began with a 'R'. Yes, yes, an 'R'. Or possibly an 'M'. Furrowing his brow momentarily, he returned to pondering his art) it was what he had done to the walls, he thought, that made the scene so much fun to look at. Yes, it was the walls. Or possibly the ceiling. Or possibly the floor. He was an artist after all, choosing his favorite part was like tearing up the rest. He smiled at that thought, and the old lady he was ringing up cat food for smiled back. He almost frowned at her, to tell her that he hated her when he saw her, but instead he returned to this thoughts. Yes, it was the room, not so much the victim that everyone was talking about. (And that victim, what was her name? It was a 'P'-something, he was sure of that. Unless it was a 'Q'.) Killer X had (they always shuttered here) taken a paintbrush and with her blood, (he loved how they said it like that; with her blood, like the idea was blasphemy. Well, he thought, it wasn't like he was very well going to use goat's blood when there is a body full of blood at his feet, now, was it?) covered all but one wall, completely, with blood. The detectives were dumbfounded by this. The killer would have had to work fast enough to cover the walls before the blood dried, or else another wound would have had to been severed. They shook their heads. Killer X could be an Olympic runner, if he wasn't a murderer. And that one wall? What a shock that was. It was that wall that really had everyone talking. The wall with the door in it. Oh, interesting, interesting. Because it was across this wall, across the door, that the words "Killer X" had been splattered in blood.
He laughed a bit as he bagged the woman's cat food. More people knew his name then they knew the victim's name. (And just what was it? He was positive that it was a 'G' at this point. G-a-something, he thought.) The old woman shot him a concerned look, but he just smiled as if he hadn't just laughed for no apparent reason.
And then there was the ceiling. It was a charcoal drawing of the victim, without her distended stomach, her body supported by wings, her dress colored in a magnificent dark red (charcoal and more blood, he knew, even though this wasn't released to the public. Actually nothing about the ceiling had been mentioned to the public.) And the thing that bothered the detectives was that the charcoal was untraceable. The substance might as well been picked up from a random fire at a random campsite as bought from the store.
X took this time to look down the line and smile at everyone. The old lady shot him one last concerned look and hoofed it, clutching her white plastic bag as she went. He returned to his thoughts.
Then there was the rest of the room. It looked as untouched as when he had first arrived, not a single drop of blood staining the light pink carpet. Even the victim had been cleaned up. It looked for all the world like he had painted over the walls with red paint (and, originally, the detectives assumed it was paint, until the husband got home, horrified). He had laid the woman out (What was her name?) in the mirror of the picture on the ceiling, except her arm was missing and her stomach was extended from eating her child. It was his way of pointing out that humans were not perfect, but they could be in drawings. (The police did not seem to understand this concept. And whose fault was that? Certainly not X's.) The cleaning supplies where never found, not a single fiber of clothing or a spare hair. The impossibility of it shocked the world.
She was his fist victim.
Now, if only he could remember her name.
- - -
A.N: Now you tell me 'go on' or 'drop it while my eyes are still in one piece'. (Please?!) Also, i know that Near's not like a jump-on-him favorite, and to be honest, he's not my favorite either, but i can't change that he ended up where he ended up. So it comes out like this.
Also everyone give Absh a hug. She is awesome.
Also if anyone has any ideas on where i should go with this, that would be SUPER. Since i like all of a sudden had to write this, but then i had NO idea what the heck i was supposed to do afterwards...