Midmorning found Light in his usual position, curled up on his bunk with a book—though in truth, he was barely reading. He'd spent half an hour on a single page, trying to force himself to focus, but it was no use. As soon as he read the words, they slipped away from him, as if each letter had been greased with lard.

It can't be much longer now.

He'd gotten no answers out of Roger at breakfast, and Near still hadn't come back. That was probably a good sign. If there was one thing Light could count on from Near, it was bluntness to the point of cruelty. He wouldn't have hesitated to come back and tell me if the answer was no. He's thinking about it, at least. Even so, Light wished he'd think about it a little faster. Even if the answer was ultimately no, the sooner he knew for certain, the less devastated he would be.

Or so he hoped.

A door clanged down the hall, and Light's heart raced. Please be Near. Abandoning all pretense of calm, Light tossed the book aside and stood up, massaging his crippled hand nervously as he stared at the door. Two days ago, he'd stood in the same spot, hoping his visitor wasn't Near. Now he hoped it was. It would have been funny, if the joke weren't him.

The heavy door swung open, revealing an unaccompanied Rester. Shit. Despite himself, Light's hopeful smile faltered.

"Word from upstairs?" he asked.

Rester nodded, sliding the familiar set of shackles through the slot. "Put them on forwards. Near wants a word with you."

Light blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I'm here to escort you upstairs."

Light stared at the commander in mute disbelief, his heart pounding as he understood. Near could be cruel at times, but he'd never take Light out of his cell just to tell him he had to stay in. If Near was bringing him upstairs…

I'm getting out.

I'm getting out.

Lightheaded with relief, he put on the shackles, snapping them shut around his wrists and ankles as quickly as he could manage. When he was done, he tugged on them for proof, flashing the agent a broad, giddy grin. "I'm ready."

Rester returned the smile. "That was quick." Entering his passcode, he grabbed the handle and pushed the door to Light's cage ajar. "All right, Yagami. Come on out."

"I'm taking you to London," said Near.

Light glanced around at his assembled teammates, but none of them said a word. "A wise decision."

"We'll see." Near drew a pair of tarot cards, stacking them neatly atop a half-formed card castle. Strange. "There are conditions, of course. As far as the British police are concerned, you're an NPA investigator and I'm a British private eye. Obviously, the official story is that we were chosen by L for this case, and are working under his supervision. Gevanni has forged IDs for both of us in the names we will be using. I expect you to stick to your role at all times." Near hesitated. "For obvious reasons, should you make any…slip-ups regarding our real identities, I'll ship you straight back here. Is that clear?"

Light nodded. "Perfectly."

"Good. My new identity is Michael Kale. I suspect you'll find it easy to remember."

"And mine?"

"Touta Matsuda."

You bastard. Light stiffened, an angry heat rising in his cheeks. "Seems a bit unwise to steal an actual agent's identity."

"It's for your protection. I can only assume Janus has been keeping a close eye on the investigation of her crimes, and I know she's familiar with the names of the men who worked against Kira in Japan. If I show up with a Japanese investigator in tow who wasn't among the Task Force, it won't be hard for her to deduce who you really are—and given how strongly she feels about my succeeding L, I doubt she'd feel very kindly toward you, either." Near turned his head, one eyebrow cocked in challenge. "Is that a problem?"

Despite the surface logic of his words, Near's smug expression left little doubt as to the real reason behind his choice. If that were all, he could have chosen Aizawa, too, or Mogi, or anyone but the idiot who shot me—but if I object, I go back to my cell. It pained Light to admit how little control he had, yet it was the truth. He had no choice. Not really.

"It's not a problem, no."

"Excellent. I thought you'd see the logic."

Light blew out a resigned breath. "Any other conditions?"

"Of course. You will follow my orders without question. You will remain within my sight at all times, unless you get my permission first. Except when we're in the public eye, you will be shackled at all times unless I determine otherwise."

Light cracked a wry smile. "You sure it wouldn't be easier to just handcuff yourself to me?"

"Easier, probably. Safer, clearly not." Near turned his attention back to his construction. "Your curfew will be ten o'clock. At that time, you will be unchained for bed—after submitting to soporific sedation first. If any of these conditions seem intolerable to you, or if you break any during our stay, I will call this mission off immediately and return you to your cell. Understood?"

"Understood."

"You accept these conditions?"

"Yes."

"Good. Bow your head."

Light blinked, confused. "Why?"

"Just do as he says, Yagami," said Rester.

At least he didn't say Kira. The prisoner lowered his head, gnawing his lip as he stared at the floor. The position was far less uncomfortable than his usual kneeling pose, but he felt distressingly vulnerable all the same. Is this a test?

Something hard yet flexible wrapped around his neck, the ends connecting with an audible click. Confused, Light probed the circlet with his fingers, his face flushing as he realized what it was. "A collar. Really?"

"A precaution. A transmitter in that necklace will broadcast your location at all times. If you do take it into your head to run, you won't get far." The white-haired detective raised his shirt, revealing a small clicker hooked onto his waistband. "It also does this."

Pain lanced down Light's spine, sending him crashing to the floor. Yelling in fear and surprise, he thrashed uncontrollably in his shackles, his vision a redscale, flashing blur. At last, the pain receded. Cheek pressed against the carpet, he lay still, one knee throbbing in complaint.

"For God's sake, Near!" Roger snapped, outraged. "Was that necessary?"

"It was." Near's voice was flat as ever, nigh robotic to Light's ears. "That was four milliamps of electricity, Kira. One press of this button will knock you down for ten seconds, should you decide to misbehave—and should you attempt to remove that collar without my help, it will activate automatically and shock you until you stop. Consider yourself warned."

Humiliated, Light raised his head from the floor to glare at him, but Near didn't notice. The young detective wasn't looking at Light but at Lidner, fingers meshed in his hair as he calmly stared her down. At last, the female agent sighed and nodded, turning away.

"You all right, son?" Rester asked, reaching down to help Light up.

I'm no one's son. My father's dead. Light waved away the offered hand, trying to find his feet unaided. I didn't wet myself, at least. "I'm fine."

"See, Roger?" said Near. "No lasting harm done—and as long as he behaves himself, there should be no need for another demonstration. Isn't that right, Light Yagami?"

Light clenched his teeth, a muscle twitching just below his ear. "Even the most idiotic officer is going to question why a supposed agent has a shock collar, Near."

"If you wear a turtleneck, no one will see. I gather that won't offend your sense of style." Near cocked his head. "Unless you object to being released under these conditions?"

Screw you. With a jingle of chain, Light lurched upright, painfully aware of the pity in Roger's eyes. In everyone's eyes, if he was being honest, except for Near's. I told him I wasn't his dog, so he collared me. He didn't have to go that far. An ordinary stun belt would have achieved the same end, if precaution had been the point, but Near didn't really want Light to behave. He wanted Light to submit. It was the most L-like Light had ever seen him—and worse, Light couldn't say no.

I have no choice.

Part of him wanted nothing better than to spit in Near's face and return to his cell with his dignity intact, but he knew he wouldn't. Heavy as his shackles were, his desperation weighed on him far more. Better a collar than another gun in my face, or another day in a cage. At least this way, I'll see the sun. Two years in, Light's pride wasn't in tatters but in splinters, each fragment sharp enough to cut. The tighter he clung to what was left, the more he felt the pain.

"I accept the conditions," he said quietly. Nearby, Roger sighed and shook his head, but Near pretended not to notice.

"Does anyone else object to my working with Kira under these conditions?"

One by one, the SPK members shook their heads.

"Good," said Near, turning back to his card castle. "Get him changed. We leave for the airfield in an hour."

Light's appearance had changed dramatically by the time he set foot on the plane. Freed of his shackles and prisoner's gray, he almost looked like his old, free self, as if merely returning to normal clothes had taken him backwards in time. Only his hair spoiled the illusion, having been freshly cut and dyed by Rester to match the short, dark hair of the real Matsuda. Light hadn't protested at that. Embarrassing as the style was, simply having the oily mess trimmed and out of his face was a relief.

Stepping up into the private jet, Light felt a strange rush of déjà vu. He didn't remember anything about the plane that must have brought him to his prison, but he remembered the one before—the numb, interminable flight back to Japan after his father's death, still in shock over what he'd lost. They must have buried my ashes beside him—or what they think were mine, at least. Probably Mikami's. Mikami had had no family to mourn him, and Light's family no body to mourn. It was just the sort of heartless, utilitarian calculus Near would use.

"Where do I sit?" Light asked Roger.

"Wherever you'd like."

The cabin wasn't large—though still larger than his cell had been—with only six chairs and an odd sort of couch. Near was already settled into a front-facing seat, frowning at a web of string stretched between his hands. Light hesitated, then slid into the seat facing him, struggling gamely to adjust the buckle. His white-haired jailor blew out a breath of annoyance.

"You can ask for help, you know."

"I can manage."

"Roger, please help Mr. Matsuda with his seatbelt."

Gritting his teeth, Light dropped the seatbelt and raised his hands, allowing himself to be buckled in like a child. "I would have gotten it."

"Perhaps, but we're running late. I assume you're sitting in the cockpit?"

"That was the plan," said Roger. "Though if you need me to supervise–"

Near gave his assistant a baleful look. "I can manage."

"Very well." With one last, concerned glance at Light, Roger turned and walked away, leaving an awkward silence in his wake. A moment later, the cockpit door swung shut. Light worried his lip.

"How long's the flight?" he asked.

"About nine hours."

"Ah." We must be on the East Coast, then. Until he'd gone outside, Light had half-assumed they were in Britain, but entering traffic on the right lane had been enough to reveal the truth. He glanced around the cabin, bobbing his head in thoughtful consideration. "This is nice."

"What is?"

"The jet. I had a lot of perks as L, but I never had a private jet." He smiled. "Had to settle for business class."

"Yes. Well." Near wove his thumbs through the string in his hands, shifting its shape from a web to a saltire. "That's the difference between being L's successor and a fake."

Light lapsed back into silence, watching Near maneuver his loop of string from a saltire to two parallel lines, then to a simple X, then back to the saltire once more. He always has to be doing something with his hands–puppets, cards, string. It's disturbing. He couldn't put his finger on what was wrong with Near's mind, but something clearly was. L gave me the same feeling, damn him. They have that much in common.

He cleared his throat. "I've never seen that variant of ayatori before."

"Unsurprising. I never took you for an expert on cat's cradle."

"Not by choice–Sayu made me learn. I only know two-player, though."

Near shrugged, his expression unchanged. "I've never played that way."

We're conversing, at least. That's a start.

"It's been a while, but I remember most of it," Light said, leaning forward. "I can teach you–"

"No, you can't. Cat's cradle can be played with one player, but it can't be played with one hand." The young detective looked up at last, his eyes narrowed. "There's an entertainment system, if you're bored. Just keep the volume down."

The prisoner leaned back, face flushing, as the plane began to move. So much for rapport. Without thinking, he reached for his throat, scratching at his hidden collar through the black fabric of his turtleneck.

"So you live in America now," he said, after a pause. "It makes sense, I guess. No point in uprooting your team when you yourself have no family ties, right?"

Sighing, Near dropped the string from his fingers, crumpling it into a ball. "Is there something you want from me, Kira?"

"Conversation would be nice. I haven't had much chance of it of late."

"Conversation isn't my strong suit."

Light smirked despite himself. "I noticed."

"Anything in particular you want to discuss?"

"I don't know." He hesitated, trying to think up a topic the detective might accept. "What's Ryuk up to these days? I didn't see him upstairs."

"No idea. Once I burned Mikami's notebook, he went home. Haven't seen him since."

Home? "That's not possible. Even if you destroyed that notebook, he would have had to—"

"Kill you? Yes, that's what he assumed, too. Fortunately for you, I convinced him to run the relevant rules by me first." Near cocked his head, his eyes fixed on the headrest of Light's chair. "As he explained it, a shinigami whose notebook is picked up by a human may return to the shinigami realm indefinitely under one of four conditions: if the original human owner of the notebook dies, if the notebook is destroyed, if a different shinigami takes possession of the notebook in his place, or if there is no current human owner to haunt. The original notebook Ryuk gave you is now the shinigami Sidoh's, and Mikami's notebook is destroyed, so Ryuk has no further tie to either of them."

"That still leaves the one in my cell. I was the original owner, and since I still have my memories—"

"You were and you weren't. You were the first human to touch it, yes—but Ryuk didn't own it then, did he?"

No, he didn't. Light frowned, thinking it through. I took it from Rem's corpse, not from him. I only gave it to Ryuk after Mello showed up, but the first person he gave it back to was…

His eyes widened. "My father."

"Is the original owner, yes—and since he's already dead, there was no need to kill you. Convenient, don't you think?" Near cracked a tight, self-satisfied smile.

That's not the word I'd use. "Very."

"Technically, the rules still insist that Ryuk write your name from the shinigami realm when you die, but they don't specify a time limit to make that happen. And since Ryuk is free to return to our world any time he chooses as long as you continue to own that notebook, he has no reason to kill you prematurely."

"Prematurely," Light echoed. "I see."

Near restrung the ayatori loop around his fingers, leaving Light to mull his information in silence. I'm the reason Dad died, and it saved my life. That, and Near. Light stared bleakly at his damaged hand, discomforted by the thought.

"So Ryuk's gone, too. Him, Takada, Mikami…" He bit his lip. "Just Misa and I left now, I guess."

Near didn't look at him. "Just you."

"I'm sorry?"

"Misa Amane's dead."

He broke the news without emotion, as if he were telling Light the weather. Light stared at him, torn between horror and incredulity. "You're joking."

"She's been dead ten months, Kira. Jumped off a building on Valentine's Day. Just the sort of overdramatic gesture you'd expect from her, really."

Light sat in stunned silence, watching Near's fingers shift from figure to figure. Misa's dead? It had been almost two years since he'd last seen her—and longer than that since she'd been of any use—but the news left him hollow all the same.

"You should have told me," he said hoarsely.

"Oh?" Near looked up from his tangle of string. "I didn't think you cared about her."

I didn't think I did. Light had asked about Mikami the moment he first woke up in his cell, but it had never occurred to him to ask about Misa, then or since. She didn't remember anything, and I destroyed all the physical evidence that she'd mailed those Second Kira tapes. They had nothing on her. I made sure of that. The task force would have told her Light was dead, he knew, but she'd survived the death of loved ones before. As far as he'd known, he had no reason to worry over her. As far as he'd known, he had no reason to care.

But I do.

The realization startled him. No, he didn't love her. No, he never had. But for six years, Misa had shared in every part of his life—his first imprisonment, his home, his crimes, his bed—and despite himself, he had grown used to her presence. She was a fixture, a constant, dependable in her availability if not in common sense. She wasn't love to him and never would be, but in an odd way, she was home.

And now she was gone.

They all were.

Glancing down at his hands, Light realized they were shaking. Embarrassed, he clenched them both into fists—his left hand properly tight and white-knuckled, his right a crippled, useless claw.

"Are you all right, Kira?"

He looked up and realized Near was still watching him. "I'm fine."

"Good." The detective turned his attention back to his string. "I thought you would be."

Light bristled. "Anything else I should know that you haven't told me?" he asked.

The young detective said nothing, intent on his string. Swallowing his irritation, Light repeated the question. "Anything else–?"

"Yes, I heard you."

"You could have acknowledged it."

"I just did." Near twisted his fingers. "It appears that collar didn't damage your vocal cords any. Probably for the best."

For both our sakes, I'll pretend you didn't say that. "Probably," Light agreed, masking his anger with an affable smile. "I still have a question, though. Is there anything else–?"

"Crime rates are back up to pre-Kira levels, several countries are at war, and terrorism is on the rise again. Other than that, no." Near glanced over at him at last, his expression unreadable. "The world has already forgotten you, Kira. You might as well return the favor."

I expected as much. Six years of proper guidance wasn't enough to permanently surmount centuries of moral decay, Light knew, but he'd hoped some of the changes he wrought might outlast him. But he was wrong. For all he'd struggled, for all he'd sacrificed, humanity remained the same: still selfish, still vicious, still rotten. However much times changed, human nature never did.

You have no excuses. I taught you better. I tried.

Yet here he was, again, fighting the same losing battle. Near's methods might be different—and less effective, certainly—but his ends were the same. Fight crime, restore justice, protect the innocent. The world might not remember Kira, but he remembered the world. Whatever he'd lost, he still had that.

"I might as well," he echoed, "but I won't. I don't give up that easily."

Not ever.

Not yet.

Ignoring the detective's eyes on him, Light watched the clouds roll past.