a/n: I do not own death note. I am not smart enough to have any part in such things...
Anyway, welcome to the second (and long, by my standards) chapter of The Brilliance of What If. Reviews at this point will be very much appreciated, since I'm really unsure about myself at this point.
So if you have a question, comment, or concern, please let me know!
"So, the auditorium is just down that hallway and to the right?"
"Yes sir—and might I add, it's a pleasure to meet you. While back you were always on the television and whatnought--- my wife's a big fan of yours."
Light smiled at the principal before striding down the hallway with distaste. The lockers loomed to either side like silent sentinels, and the dreary floor tiles reminded him of a prison.
In stark contrast the bright white fluorescent lights obliterated all shadows, and made him see spots.
What a lovely combination, he thought to himself. Let's depress the students and then blind them for good measure. That will make them less surly in the classroom. It's a wonderful innova—
"Oompf---!"
Light didn't get a good look at the kid's face before he walked right into him, and indeed, the boy kept his eyes lowered, picking up his binder and paper and books which had hit the tiles with a sharp crack.
Light peered down in curiousity at the tousled head. He should have noticed Light was right in front of him, even if Light hadn't seen him coming…the author's eyes fell upon the open book in his hand and lit up in recognition.
He'd been reading while walking in the hallway---it was something Light had done in school as well, though it did pose certain obvious dangers if one got too wrapped up.
"Here, let me help you. What are you reading that's so interesting you're not watching where you're going?"
Light looked at the title and smiled. It was none other than a copy of At Midnight. The boy had his finger on the third to last page---that meant he had just found out who the killer had been. No wonder he was wrapped up. At his age, he would have been too shocked to see straight.
"Don't bother. I've got it. It's interesting, all right…don't know why the teacher assigned such a crappy book."
The student finally stood up and Light looked at him through slitted eyes.
He was shorter than Light but had the same slender build, probably lighter than himself. Clad in tight dark blue jeans and a tank top sweater combination, leaning to one side with his slim hand loosely holding Light's masterpiece at his hip, Light could only think he was dressed like many students dressed---his artsy flair was fashionable rather than original; lending to him a sense of the artificial. He was fake. He was plaster, and he was transparent.
After staring at the author for a second, he pushed past him and disappeared down another hallway.
Light stood for a minute. He was mildly furious but mostly perplexed. Most of the time, his novels held special appeal to young adults, since Light tended to write protagonists as young and brilliant in unconventional ways.
Of course, if the youth in question was not intelligent enough to grasp the subject matter, let alone appreciate the subtleties and the grace…
Yes, that was the reason. The boy wasn't competent in a literary sense.
By the time Light strode through the back door of the auditorium, he'd convinced himself to forget all about the encounter.
People pointed at the speed with which the boy turned pages, and whispered to their friends:
"Who is that boy?"
"Is he in your class?"
"He's gotta be in honors, what's he doing in here?"
The boy in question vaguely heard their loud musings, which were proof that he was a chameleon in this environment, blending in with a sea of others who dressed, spoke, and acted just like him. They didn't even know his name, for heaven's sake. So how could they expect to know his intelligence?
People were so easy to fool.
Of course, it had been a while, hadn't it?
A while since the snow, white and blinding and smothering, had stopped falling in his head. The last time it happened, it had been too much, and he'd switched the screen back on. Fell back into the cavern that dulled his thoughts.
But the book changed the atmosphere. It was a torch thrown against the solid rock walls, warming his blue (a miracle all ten were there) fingers. It felt good for right now. But he made sure the snow was falling softly, lest it started burning.
And after a while, he was always burned.
He didn't dwell on this and instead kept his features calm. There was something strange going on in this book. He supposed it was well written (he didn't really read books so he had very little but instinct to go on) and the characters each had several dimensions, but… something was wrong.
Two periods later (80 more pages read) (and the clouds, they were buzzing with excitement rather than raging in frustration) and it struck him as he stalked towards the auditorium. He had five more pages, two more minutes. The lead character, the twenty year old man who'd found the gun, declared the murderer.
The boy imagined all the other people who read this bit being knocked off their silly simple feet in amazement. He saw their thought process: "Edward killed Alice? Edward? Impossible!"
The character continues, and the person thinks: "Oh my God, that's brilliant. That's brilliant. It's just plausible enough to be believable…yes, Edward did kill Alice."
And then they close their book and run over it again in their minds, this time keeping in mind that Edward was the killer.
But they're wro---
The force of his collision with the stranger knocked his school things out of his hands.
The stranger had an elegant, intelligent face, and eyes that didn't match the smile he offered in apology. The boy kept his face down to cover his unease at that. If the snow was falling it wouldn't be a problem, because he wouldn't have picked up on the stranger's body language, on the slightest change of expression. Sight was a dangerous thing.
"Here, let me help you." He heard the voice above him as he bent down. "What are you reading that's so interesting you're not watching where you're going?"
Tch. What a polite way to tell me it was my fault.
"Don't bother." Why would you? "I've got it. It's interesting, all right…don't know why the teacher assigned such a crappy book."
As soon as he said the words, he felt something distinctly close to menace emanate from the stranger (was he a senior?) and decided to take his leave. He took the long way to the auditorium, figuring a seat in the back of the assembly would be best anyway.
He had to admit---the last three pages were beautifully written. The entire book, actually. The writing style was crisp and new and had real substance to it. And how old had the author been? Seventeen? The boy turned to the back cover, where there was a short biography and a picture of---
The author.
He snuck in through a side door, easing his way to an empty seat---the entire student body was there, paying rapt attention to the young man who addressed them from the podium.
It was the same young man who'd bumped into him. He couldn't have told it from his eyes, eyes that reflected his own personal winter. Only that voice was the same.
"It was quite a challenge, getting started….talking to a publishing company was intimidating."
He looked good under those lights, the boy had to admit. This guy had a face that people liked. He seemed to be earnest and truthful and perfectly innocent as he spoke.
"I found that, though education is very important, one must focus their energies into more than just their studies. I think society underestimates young people far too much. And, honestly, young people don't always prove them wrong. So---be productive in your community. Find your own ambition….and trust it. For me, this meant spending nights writing and writing."
The audience was breathless, entranced by this author. Girls whispered whenever he took a breath. Even the teachers seemed interested, standing as they did along the walls of the room, keeping an eye on the students.
The boy didn't believe a word of it.
"As for a synopsis of my books…well, I'm very flattered you've all read one. I just hope everyone understood. Some people just don't get it the first time around…."
He froze. Yagami---that was his name--- was catching his eye. Catching his eye as he spoke of people slower than average.
"I mean, upon reading that Edward had done away with Alice--"
The boy cleared his throat.
"Edward didn't kill Alice," he muttered.
The student beside him glanced at him and then away.
"Edward didn't kill Alice." This time he was louder, and the people in his row frowned and shushed him.
"EDWARD DIDN'T KILL ALICE, YOU IDIOTS!"
Giving the speech was even easier than he'd thought it would be. The students were like sheep---they stared up at him with eyes like dinner plates, hanging onto every word he said. If he didn't know better he'd swear they were hypnotized.
And so the words left his tongue, sugar coated words to bolster self esteem, to encourage, to nurture.
Light meant every word, and every word seemed to blister on his lips. He knew that there was something very wrong with that, but didn't care to examine it too closely.
He settled into a rhythm, staring at segments of the audience in a lazy but focused rotation. Eventually he caught a glimpse of that kid---the hollow one. He was in the back of the room. A single cliché seated between two other cliches. Light smiled inwardly, adding a chiding tone to his voice before launching into the beginning of a memorized analysis of his work. (He'd been to countless book discussions, all infinitely more stressful and intimidating than this room of dazed students.)
Suffice it to say, he was certainly not expecting the four words that suddenly skittered over the rows to reach his sensitive ears.
And then it was Yagami Light's turn to freeze.
He took it well, considering he was defending a verbal attack during his own assembly, choosing to wave away the teachers who were cornering the boy and instead answering him directly from the stage.
"You've read the book….right?"
This was the way to do it. Disarm the kid. Teenagers were all adrenaline. If you took that away, they were nothing. Light ignored the fact, for the moment, that he was also still a teenager.
Laughs came from the audience. The atmosphere, which had been tense and strained, lightened.
"The night that Alice was to go dancing, she stands at the balcony for a moment to gather her thoughts. Edward, who was in the garden, sees her. He has a clean shot with the pistol, and the noise from the party covers it and remains his alibi since he goes back in through the french doors just in time to greet Alice's cousin Christine. He has of course wiped the pistol clean and thrown it into the antique armory, where there are several dozen like it."
Light explained slowly, each word clear and, in a low key way, clipped.
The boy laughed.
"Well, yes, I suppose that would work. But it doesn't happen that way. You see, Edward didn't kill Alice, because Edward didn't set a foot in that garden."
"God, shut up!" A particularly fervent student shouted.
The boy blinked, caught a glimpse of the pale author. He was gripping the podium so hard his knuckles were white, but his face was completely composed.
And then, amazingly, he lifted a hand, silencing the murmuring crowd.
"Okay. Let's assume Edward didn't kill Alice. Who then do you suggest is the murderer?"
The boy hesitated. It still wasn't too late to welcome the snow, to make himself blind again. The cavern was a ring of flames.
"It was Bernard. Bernard did it. He was misguided. But he was the worst of them all. I could hear it….in his words."
Light laughed. It was the only thing he could do, in public as he was.
"Bernard….. is the protagonist. He's the only character in the book that isn't consumed with greed or obsessed with ideas of revenge. All he wants is for the world to be a better place."
He could smell paper burning. The flames were too high now. They started to melt the ice that still gathered on his eyelashes.
Instead of listening for another moment, Light motioned to one of the teachers. The boy was escorted out of the auditorium, and he hurriedly brought the discussion to a close, barely talking about his second novel.
Bernard. The murderer? Why on earth would someone think that? Of course, Light knew his books inside and out. They were his, for god's sake.
"It's insane," Light muttered as he walked down the tree lined street to his apartment.
But like before, his words blistered.
"We've never had problems like this with you before, Mello. Your aunt and uncle have never mentioned the slightest behavioral issue….you're passing your classes and you try your best at assignments. We really can't understand your outburst. Are you feeling okay? We could call the nurse…"
Mello looked at the principal through even blue eyes. He felt electrified. Alive. He shook his head sharply, his blond hair tickling his cheeks. The motion swept away the rest of the snow.
"I'm awake," He said simply, and walked out of the office and through the school doors.
He would never walk through them again.
You're so smart…
"You really think I'm smart? I…I don't know what to say, you're the genius around here, right?"
I can hardly believe your test scores. You got a perfect. You should be proud of yourself.
Bliss. Being smart was that. It was floating on clouds. A honeyed voice in your ear.
"A perfect? Really, me?"
You cheated, didn't you? Just admit it, son, it will be better if you admit it now…and on your best friend, too. Atleast admit it for his sake.
"I didn't cheat. I'm smart. I can do just as well as he can, why won't you believe me?"
You're no genius! If you think you're on his level, then maybe you're not smart at all. Do us a favor, Mello! Prove us wrong. Push yourself.
"You'll never manipulate me again, you bastards."
It was more than a slight, really. Honor was called into question and his ego (fragile as an ice crystal) was shattered. He knew that to be smart was to invite them to screw with his head again, playing the one off the other in the hopes of resulting in something brilliant.
And then the snow began to fall.
Mello shuddered. He was starting to feel proud of himself---he'd had the mental dexterity to close off his own intelligence. He'd left no clue in his memory, and still he had puzzled it together. A highly condensed summary, true, but he had the gist of what had happened.
He wasn't going to think about the fact that this had happened before, only for him to retreat once more into the smothering snow.
He wasn't going to think about how borderline insane that behavior was.
And he definitely wasn't going to think about how funny the word "borderline" was in that sentence.
Yagami Light sat on his expensive but tasteful leather chair in front of the imposing desk. His eyes were bloodshot as he read the novel over and over again, searching in the room's dim light.
It was five hours later, just as he was ready to throw the book into his faux marble fireplace, when the door bell sounded softly.
He got up, stretching stiffly, and found himself to be soon staring into the eyes of the usurper himself. One of them was blackening fast into a ring of deep violet. Light didn't ask the obvious question, what's wrong with your eye? Or even the more obvious one of, why are you here?
No. He waited for him to speak, fixing him with a look that had been known to send college professors into hiding.
"My name's Mello."
"Ok. Mello. How did you know?"
"It was obvious."
a/n: I do have some things to say in explanation...the parts that deal with Mello (betcha thought he was L, didn't ya?) are going to be disjointed by nature, because in my perception a great deal of Mello's character is disjointed! (my oneshot helps a little to explain this, by the way.) If I didn't explain it well enough, what Mello did was supress his own intelligence and his memory of that intelligence. He's capable of incredible psychological feats.
And if Light seems ooc to you...remember that he is always a different person in public, and this fic is AU. (In answer to the question of someone who left a very lovely review...it was much appreciated! )
Well, I really hope you enjoyed it, and once again, please review...I realize this chapter was awkward... ( was it awkward?)...