Nobody Cares About Criminals
T
No pairings
The repetitive thud, thud, thud of something hitting a wall echoed throughout the hall. Soichiro Yagami gingerly picked his way past broken rubble and pools of blood. The two bodyguards on wither side of him shifted their weapons of choice - an AK 47 and a police baton, respectively - menacingly.
He hid a grimace behind a carefully constructed blank mask. Someone should do something about this place, but he was in no position to nor would he be, for a while. The thuds - soft; mechanical, at first - were beginning to grow louder. Soon, far too soon for his liking, they passed the first cell in the corridor.
Cold, crimson eyes stared blankly at the wall across from the cell; dead. Blood dripped down their forehead from where the barbed wire in the window cut into the skin, tangling with matted coal black hair falling silently around their face. Their door, heavy and stainless steel as all the other doors were, was carved with two Old English 'B's.
Soichiro kept his eyes straight ahead; the next cell was only a few meters away. It was soon approached, but not entered. One of the guards grunted.
"He's been moved - end of the hall." It was true; the window which should have shown his son now revealed a younger boy, no older than fifteen at most, with fair skin, hair and eyes. They were dressed in white, a pale hand with slender, feminine fingers playing absently with a toy train. He stared at the wall in front of him, unblinking.
The room would have been pristine, if not for the blood stained into the carpet around his feet and dried onto the windowsill.
He sighed, allowing himself to move down the hall. He would not forget that boy, with the simple 'N' carved into the steel of his door. The next entrance was marked with an actual name, 'Matt'. This was new for Soichiro, as he had never been past the second door.
The person inside, a redhead, was focused solely on a hand-held video game system, muttering curses under their breath. They wore a red and black striped shirt and black pants, glaringly bright orange goggles hiding their eyes. Blood leaked from their fingers, falling gently onto the console every time they mashed the buttons.
He frowned thoughtfully, but continued past. A loud, sonorous banging began suddenly as he passed the next cell. The origin of the sound turned out to be a gun against the window, the rends in the steel of the door proving that it was once fully loaded. The person initiating the ringing was a blonde, dressed in inhumanely tight leather, the left side of their face horribly burnt. Blood trickled down their legs and arms, originating at their fingers and knees, respectively.
Soichiro kept his eyes straight ahead, ignoring the frantic screams form 'Mello', as it was written on their door.
There was one more door to pass from the door at the end of the hallway. The entrance was sloppily carved with an Old English 'L', and inside was an impossibly small, stick-thin figure with wild black hair and panda-like eyes. They were hunched into the corner opposite the door in a half-fetal position, rocking back and forth. Blood pooled on the tiled beneath him, bloody footprints leading to the door and back. His arms were also stained red, bdribbling down his wrists onto his figners and the floor. Bloody handprints stained the walls, destroying its pristine nature.
He continued past, his eyes locked on the door at the end of the hall. It was the only door with kanji, reading '月'. Light; Light Yagami, Soichiro's only son. The window view was clear, showing a pure white room. The guards looked at each other silently, before each pulling out a single key. The first fit with a small click, while the second made no sound. They pushed the door open, revealing the true damage done to the cell. His shoes crunched over broken glass and through pools of dried blood towards the person in the back. They looked up with unblinking, crimson eyes as he approached. Soichiro sighed.
Light had changed. A lot.
No longer were his eyes the sweet honey-brown of his mother, nor his hair the same perfect mess it had been when he was convicted. Instead, it was longer than he'd ever seen it, pooling over his thin shoulders. He could not move his arms from the cramped position they were in - thanks to the straitjacket encompassing his frail form - and his bare feet were torn up and stained red. His face, once effeminate and beautiful, was now gaunt and haggard. A large, knotted scar ran across his eyes.
"Light..." He had tried, only to receive the blank stare and accompanying phrase he received every visit.
"Soichiro Yagami, age 47. You will not die this week." He sighed again, running a hand through his graying hair. The other guard grunted, signaling that his visit was over. Soichiro stood, his back ram-rod straight, and walked out of the prison. He did not look anywhere but forward, passing the sobbing L, screaming Mello, cursing Matt, eerily silent N, and the madly grinning BB. He dod not speak; not until he'd left the horrifying building behind and climbed unsteadily into his car.
Tears threatened to spill as he gripped the wheel tightly. These people - these children - needed help, and fast. But, who would listen to him? He was a former police chief - fired because he was "harboring" Kira, his son - and his family wanted nothing to do with him.
Soichiro straightened, putting the vehicle into drive. He would never be able to save them.
After all, nobody cared about criminals.