This has been gathering virtual dust in one of the crevices of my computer for about fifty years, but I've decided to finally publish it, in the process defiling the good names of both the creators of Death Note and of Discworld. In other words, this stuff is old. Hopefully, though, it ages more like a fine wine than a rack of half-eaten ribs.

Constructive criticism, please.

October 19: 35

October 20: 38

October 21: 34

October 22: 43

They are faceless now, names that blur and gather into numbers, one stacked on top of another, piled up like the bodies of the dead.

He does not recall the faces or the names, but - with uncanny precision - always remembers the numbers.

Scrt. Scrtch. Against the paper, a soft rasp of a sound, overriding the television's murmur. The clock on the wall, ticking its way past seven o'clock. Against the muted, sterile lamplight, the sounds are a litany, comforting, perfectly normal, so routine they fade away.

And that, Light knew, was the source of the problem. Routine and normality had defined his life up until seven days ago, and since those seven days, he decided he never wanted them to do so again.

It caused problems - the main one right now being that Light Yagami was bored.

This was not an unusual state of mind for Light - it'd been his default mood since second grade - but ever since he'd found the notebook, lying almost innocently against the clipped turf, things had started… happening - which wasn't strange in itself, but, this time he had… cared. And, for a few, blissful days, the monotony had been gone, an unwelcome houseguest finally deciding he had worn out his stay, and in its place there had been… something, a certain satisfaction in it, a heady joy in the mindless simplicity of pen scratching across paper… Power, Light mused. A purpose, perhaps.

It was still there, of course but… and here the pen paused, trembling - it had been a week now. They were disappearing in droves now, murderers and scum of the Earth falling to the sword of an unknown power - him, Light - and yet, despite that -

No one noticed.

Oh, there had been some - the saved, at the very least, did not forget him, but they were few in number, and they were apathetic - and even where there was interest, it was condensed to a sentence in passing, pushed to the margins of news reports, while gossip and fashion trends in took up the headlines. Seeing justice take a backseat to skeletal woman on catwalks had one of the most aggravating things Light had ever had to endure - he was been tempted, and look, how easy it would be - a few seconds, that's all it took…

Involuntarily, Light's eyes flickered to the television screen, where the names of criminals scrolled across the bottom of the screen, before traveling to the remote below.

But no, no, that would have been wrong. Light shook his head, trying to dispel the sudden, jarring pain in his head. Appealing, yes, but he couldn't lose focus… He was tired, that was all.

There. Thirty-six today. Letting the pen roll away from him, Light clicked the television off, kicked back his chair, and yawned. Not a particularly commendable number, but that covered all the names on television and he had cram classes in a few minutes… Funny, in a way, that, Light mused, eyes half-closed - even he, their Savior, had to put schoolwork before justice.

"Light? Ready for class?"

Light jolted upright. His mother's tone was gentle, but close… by the sound of it, she was probably just outside his door. Close enough to open the door - while the Death Note lay there, on the top of his desk, in plain view.

"Yeah… just a minute, mom!" Light was good at feigning nonchalance - he'd had to , everyday - but it was harder to sound that way when his hands were shaking and his heart seemed to be accelerating its way to cardiac arrest… and why couldn't he move, the notebook was only a few inches away…

"Light-kun?" He hadn't fooled her; now, she sounded nervous. "Are you all right, honey? Why didn't you turn on the lights, your room's all dark…"

The door handle clicked.

Fingers inches from the Death Note, Light froze.

On the wall, the clock stopped ticking and began to swing back and forth.

The lamp turned off, on, off, on, slid an inch forward -

"Light?"

Odd things happen to people in odd situations. So it was that, as the ground began to shake and the lights flicker, Light Yagami - at seventeen, the top-ranked student in Japan - strained from seven days of secrecy and paranoia, did not think about safety, his or his mother's, but rather, the notebook.

She couldn't find it.

The notebook was jumping across the desk - Light tried to grab it but the ground was writhing, twisting underneath him, and he fell, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the black cover. Plaster rained down in chunks from the ceiling; the table lamp send up a cloud of dust as it hit the ground, firefly flashes of light dancing across the carpet. The air was an odd, grayish color and Light covered his mouth, coughing, eyes closed against the dust, as he tried, holding onto the trembling chair for support, to stand up - the notebook, damn it, the notebook…

The Death Note flipped onto wood as the ground bucked violently - the chair crashed to the side, Light with it - and then was still.

Close by, the lamp flickered once, twice, before the bulb died.

Light lay sprawled on the carpet, eyes half open, dust gathering in the creases of a once-white shirt, breathing chalk and plaster in shallow breaths as the dust spun down in dizzying spirals. His head hurt, but it helped him think - not with his usual clarity, but enough for reason to override the frenzy for the Death Note. Ignoring an earthquake, when they'd had drills since first grade - and his mother, his mother -

"Mom?" he called. Dust rained down, catching in his mouth.

Silence. After a while, Light closed his eyes. Too much. Too tired…

And through the haze - indistinctly at first - came the sound of voices.

"Hmm… this is odd. Mind you, he could have been right. This does seem like something he would do." The Japanese was perfect, with no hint of an accent, but there was just something off about it.

"No, he wouldn't! He gets drunk or… joins the Watch, or something equally daft, but inter-dimensional travel! It's against the Rules!"

SQUEAK, came another voice. Light blinked. Funny, that voice - a sound like tombstones knocking over each other like dominos, yet some part of him told him it ought to be high pitched. Yet another voice told him that the voices did not exist, were nothing more than a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep and a head injury. Light liked that voice. It was calm, logical, the culmination of everything his life had used to he, and he would have liked it even more if he could believe it.

"Mmph, what was it? Something about pots and kettles?"

"He wouldn't do this - he has more imagination -"

The world was slowly becoming stationary again, and through the dust, Light could see figures - was that a horse? - but he didn't know, not anymore. They undoubtedly didn't exist - were an impossibility, just like the voices - but reality had become a flexible, malleable thing in the past few days.

Ever since the Death Note -

Reality bent. Light blinked. Ah. So that was it.

A chill ran through him, and then - because it was either that or scream - Light laughed, hoarse, half-terrified gasps echoing off the silence.

The voices were silent - but they're not voices, he knew that now. He wondered why - perhaps they hadn't known about him? - well, didn't matter now; just another wasted advantage, then.

"You're shinigami, aren't you?"

A pause.

"This is all your fault -"

"Well, we don't really exist, and besides, we're just looking for - "

"The notebook?"

"…besides, we're going to leave so - What?"

"The Death Note, right?" They'd said they wouldn't kill him, but they didn't know then. No denying the inevitable - in the end, he'd never really had any advantages to start with. Gingerly, Light picked himself up. The dust had settled, and he could see the notebook - it had fallen near his foot, and Light bent to pick it up, before straightening up as the dust cleared.

Ah. So there was a horse. A large, white one, currently nibbling on a corner of Contemporary Poets, with a raven on its back and what looked like a rat in cloak sitting on its head, a tiny scythe in one hand - for some reason, Light couldn't quite feel like laughing at the sight. They didn't look much like gods of death, but then again, neither did the girl.

Not a girl, of course. But, still -

This was a God of Death? But of course she was - it was something in the way she stood, head held a fraction higher than normal, the grip firm on the scythe - that was it was, wasn't it? Only she looked so - Normal. With her lacy dress and multi-toned hair, the girl could have passed for any of the cosplayers he saw on the streets.

The scythe, however - it was much more realistic than anything sold had a right to be, and much more nightmarish than anything human-made could be, and the look in the girl's eyes could melt steel. It wasn't directed at Light, - rather, she was glaring at the rat-thing, which shrugged its cowled shoulders. SQEAUK, it said, sulkily.

"Hmmm," said the raven, peering at Light. "Well, there goes space-time fabric. Nice eyes, by the way. They look a little dry, but still fresh."

"Wh-"

"Quoth. He thought it was incredibly original. And that's Death on my back. Of Rats. Long story, but rather boring -"

EEK, said Death of Rats politely, holding out a paw.

"What about a notebook?" The girl was looking at him now, and though her eyes were normal, blue eyes, Light couldn't help but feel a shiver run down his spine.

"…and that's Susan."

"You didn't have to introduce us - he might not have asked."

"Mmgh? They usually do."

Did she - perhaps she didn't, not really - could he…?

"Yes," Light said, eyes glassy as he took a staggering step backward. "they said you'd come."

"They?" The girl frowned. "You're avoiding the subject, aren't you?"

"But you can't have it! Or was it you?" he asked, waving the Death Note wildly - being careful to keep the cover facing him - "you were here yesterday, weren't you? You gave it to me - or some other lady, I can't remember, everything was so bright- told me to keep it safe…"

Susan considered, looked convinced for a moment, then sighed. "That was a half-way decent act, but you've never really met someone who was really a loon, have you? Crazy people simply don't act like that, though it was a good try. So. You seem sane. What's so special about this notebook?"

In the ensuing silence, there was a flap of wings and suddenly, beady eyes were peering in front of Light's face. Eyes connected to a long, curved beak.

Silence. Then -

"You know," Quoth remarked mournfully, "I hardly ever get fresh ones."

And, right then, all traces of Light Yagami's earlier concern for the Death Note, justice and the potential loss of his soul vanished. The Death Note became just another notebook, which in turn became just another object between the him and much more potential blindness.

"Hmm, so this - stop moving around, I can't read - D, T, H, T, E?"

It was hard to miss the details, really, when the entirety of your genius is concentrated on trying to retain all of your body parts. It took Light Yagami several seconds to notice that he was no longer being attacked by birds, several more that his eyes were still intact, and by the time he had realized that the Death Note was gone, Susan had already flipped to the front page.

"'The human whose name is written in this book will die?' Just another crazed psychopath… oh, no, no," she said, something lighting in her blue eyes as she traced the first names, "you're not, are you?"

"So," she said, shutting the book, "that's why we landed here? A notebook that kills people by writing their names in it. Interesting."

"But - I'm only killing people who deserve it!"

"Really? I suppose that makes you different from every other psychopath."

"You think the world misses them? Rapists, murderers - "

"Pot, kettle."

"But… don't you see?" - and she had to, she had to - "Everyday, thousands of innocents are killed for money or lust… and everyday, murderers, arsonists, and rapists go free. Every single day. The world isn't just… but it could be. I could change things. Please" - and he was pleading now - he, Light Yagami, who had held life and death in his hands mere minutes ago, reduced to begging - "I need the notebook. The just don't need to die. The unjust don't need to go unpunished. "

Light stepped forward, dust parting before him like the Red Sea, one hand extended forward, palm up.

Death of Rats whistled, a soprano-tenor note that vibrated on the air and lingered there for a minute afterwards.

For a moment, Susan didn't say anything. Then, slowly the scythe lowered. "I used to think that, too."

"But," she continued, gazing around the room, "my grandfather has a saying… there's no justice. Only me."

"Well, actually he was referring to himself, and the quote is supposed to go THERE'S NO JUSTICE, ONLY…"

Susan shot the raven a look.

"Ah, right. Dramatic tension."

Light didn't step back. Nodded, eyes bright and steady.

"But you could be both."

Susan shook her head, stray curls bouncing erratically across her face. Her voice was hollow when she answered, a sound like stone doors slamming, "BECAUSE SOMEONE HAS TO KEEP THE BALANCE." And for a moment, those eyes were pinpoints of blue flame, soulless, depthless holes sinking somewhere far, far away…

Susan took a step forward, inhuman blue fire burning in her eyes. The scythe moved silently through the air, shredding it to ribbons of blue gossamer as the blade pressed forward in a slow, lazy arc.

Light closed his eyes, but he did not move. In this strange, time-frozen pocket of reality, it would have been futile, a desperate ploy. Light was ready- in a way, he had been expecting this from the time he had accepted the Death Note and shinigami as real - had always expected a price for the blood on his hands - and, from the beginning, had been willing to pay it.

He had only done what had to be done; had been the only one to do it, the only one who was strong enough to do it. There could be regret in that.

The scythe blazed, a brilliant streak of blue imprinted against closed eyelids -

Then fingers were tugging at the notebook in his arms, and, Light, too startled to resist, could only gape as Susan - scythe held with the blade facing down, eyes perfectly normal - tucked the notebook under an arm, then walked to back to the horse.

"Wait - wha - why?"

Light stepped forward, mind still half in a terrified stupor, and only then did he notice that his hands were trembling.

"I'm not going to kill you because I don't want to. But - "

Susan turned around, her eyes blazing again.

"YOU'RE GOING TO FORGET ALL OF THIS. NOW. I DON'T EXIST. THIS NOTEBOOK DOESN'T, EITHER. IT NEVER DID."

Yes. He ought to. But -

Light met Susan's eyes, forcing himself to look into them, not through or around.

There was a long moment while the two of them stared into each other's eyes.

Susan let out an exasperated sigh, then sank onto Light's bed, eyes perfectly ordinary again but still terrifying.

"They ought to form their own theater, don't you think?"

Death of Rats nodded. SQEAUK.

Susan tilted her head, a few stray hairs falling across her face. "You really believe you're right, don't you?"

Light nodded, and when he spoke, there was no tremor in his voice. "Justice isn't always very easy, or appealing. But that doesn't make it wrong."

"Look, shouldn't we leave already? We know your granddad's not here, so what's the point in staying -"

"You're a crazy fanatic, probably a danger to society, and you won't listen to reason. Obviously you would say that."

"Maybe - but you said 'probably.' You can try deny it, but you agree with me."

Something, in those eyes. A flicker, but not of fire. And for a moment, despite the scythe and those uncanny eyes, Susan looks - not any less dangerous, but human again, a slight girl a few inches shorter than him trying to hide her growing frustration.

"Look, why are you even trying?"

"Why is she?" Quoth muttered, and this time both Susan and Light turned to glare at him. The glare was wasted, though, as the raven - anticipating that they wouldn't listen, or worse, would - had, with the help of Death of Rats, extricated Contemporary Poets from Binky and was now flipping through it, occasionally muttering things like "hmm, the meter's odd," "funny, how all these famous poets can't rhyme," and "well, it's no wonder he was eating it."

"Well," Light continued, turning back to the Susan, "you don't want to kill me, but you need me to forget about you and the notebook - probably to keep incognito, because it's against the rules or something - and I won't. Most of the time people listen to you when you tell them something, but I won't -"

"So you're trying to bargain with me?" Susan leaned forward on one elbow, trying to look unfazed but failing on account of the murderous lust seeping into her eyes. "And you're jumping to conclusions - I could always, you know, change my mind."

"No, you won't," Light replied, a little too quickly, "because, see, if you did, you'd only become more frustrated afterwards because you wouldn't like giving in to being provoked -"

"Well, actually, I wouldn't really mind right now." Despite the words, Susan looked more frustrated than homicidal - and possibly just a little impressed.

"But, since neither of us can get what we want -"

"Well, fine. But - " and here Susan smiled, not a smug smile but one that said that implied its owner would have the last word, quite possibly because you won't be able to saying afterward (and how did these long winded descriptions get lodged in his head?) - "on my terms. And I hate cheaters."

Normally, Light would have refused, resisted - but there was something, something in the way she said those words, and perhaps it was the fact that when he blinked he could still see - for the tiniest sliver of a second - a flash of blue -

Perhaps it was that. Or perhaps it that there was a small part of him - that weak, selfish part that had been awake for the last few days and even now lay somewhere within the pounding in his head - that did not care about justice and really needed a good night's sleep.

"So. WHAT IS IT YOU WANT - erm, ah - "

"I'm Light. Of course," he added, "you could have asked."

She glared at him, but it was half-hearted, and Light smiled.

"Justice, then."

"I can't - "

"Just try."

Their eyes met. Something, not quite electricity but also not combustion happened.

"I'll try."

It's not a promise, but it's not a lie, and either way, he knows it's the best answer he'll get.

Light nods. "I'll forget, then," he says, and then -

One moment, outlined by borders of silence. And the world turns. And everything changes.

Long after the others leave, Susan watches the boy. He doesn't see her now - and, as she watches him, slowly slinging the books in the bag over his shoulder, in spite of the deaths on his hands, he looks almost… innocent; without the notebook, he is chained to reality, nothing more than a powerless idealist.

Then again, those were the type of people were the most dangerous.

Susan was far too sensible to do something as melodramatic as sighing, so instead, she sat. And watched. Watched, sitting atop what looked like this world's version of clacks towers connected by wires, as the sun set and shadows began descending upon the streets. In her hands, the Death Note blurs into the coming blackness.

In the dusk, a sound comes, the faint flapping of wings as something alights near her. Susan does not turn, merely sits and stares ahead.

"Is this yours?" she asks, thrusting the Death Note forward.

The shinigami tilts its head, stares at Susan with pale red bulbous eyes for a moment before beginning to cackle. Susan resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Such a cliché.

"Yes," the shinigami said, still chortling, "yes, I lost it here, hyuk hyuk hyuk. And you found it, didn't you?"

"No."

"No? Then who wrote all these names in here."

"Someone else," Susan replied.

The shinigami stared at her again, sniffed the air experimentally as its claws wrapped themselves around the Death Note.

"You're not an ordinary human, are you?"

"No," Susan said, staring somewhere far, far away, "no I'm not."

She stood up then, tiles click-clacking beneath her teacher heels. She likes them: they make height out of her short frame, give her weight, gravity. But now they just hurt, and so she takes them off in the last rays of the dying sun.

She turns to the shinigami.

"If you lost it," she says, "I've returned it. So take it. And go."

There is silence for a moment, and then the flap-flap-flapping of dark wings.

Susan sits back down.

She sits, for a while, though, watches the dark, empty house even as the first stars began to alight.

Such an odd, boy - how to describe him…?

And then the word forms in her mind, and it fits him perfectly.

Interesting.