Disclaimer! All fictional entities featured/ mentioned in this segment belong to Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata; except Erin Blogger and a few extra characters not from the canon cast, who I made up for the purpose of this fan fiction. Any other unfamiliar names may be either other original characters or allusions to real-life people. The lyrics to "Misa's Song" belong to Madhouse Entertainment and Viz Media (I'm assuming this because the song only shows up in the anime so they must've made it up). "The Rainbow Connection" is a song from Jim Henson's The Muppet Movie.

4. Calling

"My fellow Americans…the British, Chinese and United States governments have given the Japanese people adequate warning of what is in store for them. The world will note that the first atomic bomb was first dropped on…Hiroshima…a military base. We won the race of discovery, against the Germans. That was because we wished in this first attack to avoid, insofar as possible, the killing of civilians. We have used it in order to shorten the agony of war, in order to save the lives of thousands and thousands of Americans. We shall continue to use it, until we completely destroy Japan's power to make war…"

Quillish wanted to take the plate in his hand and toss it at the radio like a disc, unable to bear the scrambled words worming their way into his ear like a tube scrubbing brush. But his upbringing wouldn't allow him to pitch a tantrum. A good gentleman waited until his company said what he had to say before responding.

But what was good about this? His parents' worst nightmares had been realized, broadcasted for the entire world to behold. Could this be real?

"If Japan does not surrender, bombs will have to be dropped on her war industries and unfortunately thousands of civilian lives will be lost. I urge Japanese civilians to leave industrial cities immediately and save themselves…"

Whatever her reaction was to the broadcast streaming in from the den, Cordie didn't share it, unyielding in her pace of washing the dinner dishes and handing them to the twelve-year-old boy next to her to dry. In fact, her pace seemed to quicken. Once she started a task, she seemed completely immersed in it until it was done. Quillish's mother had admired the old woman's work ethic and hospitality in this stranger's land, chiding her son now and then to be more like her.

Now that she was gone, Cordie had taken over nagging him. She hadn't had to, but Cordie felt a sort of responsibility towards the young son of the woman who had employed her, treated her with kindness, and paid her well for a foreigner from across the pond. This was far more than what she could expect from many of her native equivalents.

Besides, as it stood, all they had now was each other.

Cordie's wrinkling dark skin and olive eyes glistened with sweat and what appeared to Quillish to be tears poking through her eyelids. It'd been almost four years since she'd gotten that wretched letter about Otis and Walter, the generic one they sent to all families of soldiers and staff killed in action. How did she take the news of this massacre of the enemy? Was she sad? Angry? Relieved?

No, this isn't how it was supposed to be. Mother and Father never wanted this. They wanted the war to end…but not this way.

His father had sacrificed himself for that exact reason. The last he and his mother would ever see of him, he had urged them to run. Out of the country where "they" couldn't track them down. Quillish had only been six at the time, his understanding of the direness of their situation limited, but not enough for him not to tell something bad was going to happen. He knew this much by the blanched, earnest looks on his parents' faces and the fear leaking into their words as he peered around the corner unnoticed.

The two sat next to each other on the pea-green sofa which suddenly looked sickly in the boy's heavy eyes. "We should go back to Britain, then!"

"No. Y-you might be safe there, but only temporarily. If I can be sure of only one thing about them, it's that they won't stop until they've conquered all of Europe, including Great Britain. You'll have to go much further than even there. The United States, perhaps?"

"Then come with us! Quillish is just a boy! He needs you in his life Isaac, and so do I!"

The pause before Daddy's resigned reply was one of the loudest things he had ever heard.

"Oh, Marie. My darling. I'm so sorry. But I can't. I'm the one they want. If I go with you, they'll hunt me down. And if you get in the way, they won't hesitate to shoot you both first to get at me."

"Y—you stubborn bastard!" cried Mummy, her fists pounding at him as she collapsed against him. "This wouldn't happen if you weren't so focused on everything you do!"

Quillish couldn't help but notice how she didn't try to break down the logic of his argument with her own, as she usually did when they disagreed. Was it because she knew deep down that his father was right about whatever they were talking about?

When he'd heard more than enough of his fill, he grabbed the waistband of his falling trousers and hurried back down the hall and into his room to scurry back under the covers, lying face-down with the blankets over his brow so they couldn't see how very much awake he was. He curled into a ball and pulled the covers tighter over himself to stop his shivering, to hide the suspicious-looking shadows creeping along his wall. Were these shadows "them?" If they saw him, they might hurt him. So Daddy had said. He suddenly felt cold, like a draft had overtaken his little room, even though the window was shut tight.

Eventually, he heard Daddy come in, felt his hefty weight settle on the edge of the mattress next to him. The warmth radiating from him had never felt more welcome, but Quillish dared not scoot closer. He was supposed to be sleeping. For an unaccounted length of time, he just sat there. Quillish could feel his eyes on him through the blankets, blue and sharp just like his. He didn't say a word. He reached out his hand to stroke the top of Quillish's head, pausing in between strokes. He might have been taking note on how similar his hair was to Mummy's, a soft light brown, almost blonde. Maybe he was milking their last moments together for all they were worth.

He heard a stifled choke. When the old man bent over to kiss his temple, his facial fair tickling his skin like fine fairs on a brush, Quillish could have sworn he felt a drop of something hot and wet splash his face. A tear. Daddy was crying, something he had never seen or heard him do before that night. If he hadn't had enough cause for alarm before, surely he did now.

He and Mummy were going away on a long holiday, he'd said, just the two of them. As much as he wanted to come along, he'd had to stay and work on that "very important project" he had ongoing. But he would see them again soon enough, and whenever that would be, they would go on the grandest holiday the three of them had ever taken.

Quillish just knew that Daddy was lying. His eyes and Mummy's gave him away. But he never called him out on it. He was a good boy. He would have to be for Mummy.

He'd given them the majority of what remained of their fortune before sending them off. He wouldn't need it, where he was going. Quillish and his mother could only imagine what became of him after that unusually humid morning at the station as the train whisked them away through a continent once again tearing violently at its brittle seams. Had he taken his own life to avoid capture? Had he taken it like a man and let them torture him until they tired of it and planted a bullet in his skull? Perhaps he went to join an underground resistance group and was killed in action? In the most ideal scenario, he was in hiding, still alive and well and thinking about them as intensely as they thought of him every single day.

Regardless, they never saw or heard from him again. A never-ending dread consumed Mother's mind as cancer did her body, and she had wasted away without the closure she had longed for over the next three years.

Now it'd been six since they'd left for America with thousands of other refugees from all walks of life, looking to escape the almost apocalyptic chaos, and here Quillish stood facing the stark reality that his father's sacrifice might have just been in vain.

But was it? It wasn't the Germans who had created and dropped those bombs. It had been the Americans, the Allies. Several people from Father's community had warned them of the Germans' intentions, and they had reacted accordingly. And it wasn't as though they'd attacked without provocation; the Japanese had struck first, slaying scores of their men and boys like Cordie's son Otis and husband Walter.

But did that make this right? They hadn't just obliterated men, but innocent women and children, as well. A weapon capable of such massive destruction did not discriminate, as much as many wished that it would. Like Death itself. Hundreds upon thousands of lives gone in a literal flash, and the ones who'd by some miracle managed to survive would live with the scars. Hundreds of children orphaned, just like him.

"Quillish. Quillish? Child, are you payin' attention?"

Quillish blinked back into focus to find Cordie waving another plate in his face. "You know the routine: I wash the dishes, you dry 'em. Don't get idle on me, now." Quillish could hear a strange tension laced in Cordie's words.

"Yes, Ms. Cordie. I'm sorry," he said, hastily putting the dish he had been nursing in his hands with the cloth into the rack to take the next one, still dripping suds onto the peach-colored linoleum. Cordie usually rinsed the dishes thoroughly before handing them to him.

"Know what the problem is? You distracted by that radio. Go on and turn it off when you done with that one, and get your behind back in here so we can finish."

Quillish had a feeling that Cordie wanted the radio off for her sake as much as his, but he obeyed without question. "Yes, Ms. Cordie."

He wasn't sure if he could stomach anymore of it, either.

That night he awoke to loud thumps coming from downstairs, punctuated by a crash. In a flash, he jumped out of bed and pulled the pistol out from under his pillow, preparing to take necessary action. Most boys his age had BB guns rather than actual pistols, but Cordie had bequeathed him one of Walter's old firearms, taught him how to use it. In the day and age they lived in, she argued, he would need to know how to protect himself, as she, her family and everyone before them had come to learn. Some people just didn't respond as well to coffee-sipping diplomacy as they did to the smoking barrel of a .38 Smith and Wesson™.

Mother would throw a fit when she heard that sort of talk in earshot. Violence was never the answer, she'd said. "Cordelia, are you suggesting that Quillish should pull out a gun for every quarrel he'll ever have?"

"I ain't sayin' nothin' like that. 'Course violence ain't the answer. Not the first answer. But get back to me when you've managed to reason with a mob who's come to lynch you 'cause you talked back to a man, or 'cause you made the same comments to a girl that another fella could get away with making 'cause he was white. Ya'll would probably fare better at it since you got color on your side, but you ain't from here. Some folks won't take too kindly to uppity foreigners like y'self, no matter what you say. Even if you're right."

What a strange country they had escaped to, Quillish would think to himself sometimes, pondering the irony behind a country that would so strongly oppose a fascist regime and yet seemed scarcely any better when it came to certain members of its own citizenship.

Now was not one of those times. Pistol poised and ready, he snuck downstairs, his pulse and steps quickening as he heard the muffled cries of a woman.

Cordie…!

Steeling himself, he reached the bottom step and peered around the corner of the banister with bated breath. There was Cordie on her knees out in the den, her head bent with her chin jabbed into her breast. Somehow she looked so small there on the floor, her body convulsing with stifled sobs as she muttered almost deliriously to herself. Scattered around her lay fragments of what used to be their radio, the messenger on which she'd taken out her frustrations.

"Lord, I-I need your guidance. I need it more than ever," he heard her croak, her shaking leathery hands clasped in prayer. "I'm…I'm not s'posed to be happy about what happened to those people. I know I shouldn't. But Lord…th-they killed Walter, and Odie. They killed my baby boy. Now they've lost all their Walters and Odies. And Cordies. I—sometimes I would pray for this. I'd pray that they would pay for what they did. With their lives. You know that, you know everything. Di-did you mean for this to happen, Lord? Did you mean for all of this to happen? Oh Lord, what must I do?"

Cordie threw herself to the floor, overcome by a wave to confusion, grief and self-disgust. She didn't notice Quillish's presence on the bottom step as he put the safety back on his gun, which suddenly felt heavier than usual in his hands. He couldn't bear seeing her like this, but he was frozen right there on that step, too paralyzed to try to reach out to comfort her. When they had first met, he had found Cordie's people to be rather overwhelming when expressing their emotions, especially on those vibrant Sundays during service at her church, the one place where they could let go of their frustrations. Even now a part of him was taken back. Cordelia had always seemed such a strong woman to him, his and Mother's rock since they'd left Father behind in Europe.

The longer Cordie's pleas went unanswered, the further he sank into himself. If there was supposed to be a perfect benevolent god above, one in whom Cordie had invested all her faith, where was He? How could He let these sorts of things happen? To her, to him, to Mother, to Father? To innocent people all over? Either He was actually a very nonchalant or a malicious god…

or there was none at all. Who could know for sure? Maybe it didn't matter? Regardless, all the bad things that have happened were the fault of people and people alone.

But did people also have the power to do the same amount of good, if not more? Couldn't people change?

Having had enough, Quillish hoisted himself onto his feet, holding the gun in both hands as he stumbled off the step. "Ms. Cordie?"

The old woman tried to stop her weeping as soon as she whirled around to see the worried boy standing behind her. "Ah! Quillish. Wh-what are you doin' up?"

"I heard a crash," he answered softly. "I thought someone had broken in and…"

Cordie made an awkward noise when she saw the Smith and Wesson™ clutched in his pudgy hands, as she hid her mouth in her knuckles. "Oh child, I'm sorry. No, no, no one's broke in. I was just…"

There was no way to explain her carrying on. She had the damn radio scattered in pieces around her, for God's sake. Not that she didn't try to. She simply rose to her feet and wiped her eyes, puffy and red and aching, until they were dry. Quillish couldn't see what they looked like in the darkness. "I…had an accident, is all, stumblin' around in the dark. Bumped into the radio."

"Are you hurt, Ms. Cordie? It sounded like you were crying."

"This ol' bird can take a few more bumps, yet. Now off to bed wit'chu," she ordered, her voice getting steadier, or wearier, Quillish couldn't tell. "I'm sorry if I woke you." She started to pick up the pieces around her feet when Quillish spoke up once more.

"I can get that," he offered, assuming that Cordie was not going to discuss the source of her distress right now, not in the middle of the night. "In the morning, I'll see if I can't salvage it."

"O' course you will, Mr. Handyman," she said, her voice missing the mirth that usually accompanied those words when she found him tinkering with this or that. She let him take the pieces from her hands, his eyes straining against the shadows to find the rest on the floor.

Whether Cordie was able to catch a wink after that was a mystery, but Quillish knew he could not go back to sleep, that night. As he stayed up to fiddle with the odds and ends on his desk by the dull flickering glow of a shadeless lamp, he contemplated the tools in his hands. These tools, these hands, he realized, could be used to either create or destroy. To save lives or to take them. For peace or for war. The hands that made the bomb were responsible for the radio that kept entire countries connected. For both the gun and the dishes on which they ate their supper every night.

He became dizzy at all the potential he could and could not comprehend, all right here in the palms of his hands. In everyone's hands.

And to think that it was but a matter of intent. A choice. A chance.

Quillish knew then that he wanted to create. He wanted to save. He wanted to create in the name of peace so that things like the atomic bomb or even warfare as a whole would never have to be used again, and no more people like Cordie and Mother and Father would have to suffer. Most of all, he wanted others to know this, that it didn't have to be this way, if everyone could just forget their differences and embrace the boundless creativity that they all shared…maybe the world truly could change for the betterment of all.

Such were the musings of a bewildered and tender-hearted twelve-year-old boy in a strange land at the end of wartime. These ideals would never completely leave him, but as he would discover for himself later in life, it was by no means that simple.

Sometimes when one wanted to create, no matter how benevolent his designs, he found himself having to first destroy.

"Nothing seems to have changed in the unsub's M.O. since the broadcast," Rester noted with a frown, his foot tapping as he scanned the newspapers scattered in front of him. His blond eyebrows knit together in concentration. "There's been a definite change in the media, though," he grumbled, finding himself unusually overwhelmed at all the articles posted on the incident. "I'm starting to wonder if this was a good idea…"

"It is possible that he saw through it, I admit," said the synthesized voice from out of the computer set up in front of him. The great Cloister Black "L" in the otherwise blank white screen seemed to glare at him, as though questioning his, well, questioning. "But as I see it, one of two things could happen after this. Either the killings will stop or they will continue in the same pattern, if not pick up. I made that broadcast to cast attention on the killer…or killers, but for now let's assume the singular. If the killings stop, then it proves that the criminal deaths were murders, and that the killer heard and heeded the announcement. If they continue, the suggestion still remains that these are murders. Either way, attention has been directed at him and he may find himself trapped. He might even lash out."

"There isn't really much of a pattern to begin with," Rester pointed out as he loosened his tie in order to release the heat building up from under it. His fingers twitched with the urge to turn down the thermostat. "The deaths happen all over the place, at random times and dates. They aren't all heart attacks, either; it's going to be a challenge to prove that all these suicides, accidents and natural deaths are really acts of murder. Unless…"

"Yes. We don't want to have to reveal the notebook's existence, but we mustn't completely rule that out either if it comes down to that. Until then Rester, I want you to keep digging through the profiles of all the victims. There is bound to be something in their backgrounds that links them together, besides the fact that they're criminals of course. Oh. And stay away from the thermostat, please. It's fine where it is."

80 degrees was fine, with this heat wave rolling through? Rester had worked in hot environments before as a commander, but this was a little ridiculous for him. At least all of those other times before there had been no AC or thermostat that could be adjusted. L was clearly not from this world. Even after they'd all started working together, he had refused to show his face to any of them. He kept himself locked away in a separate room from the others and communicated with them through the laptop. Only his assistant "Watari" was allowed to enter and exit that room, usually with food. Or, as Rester couldn't help but notice, toys and knick-knacks.

But he kept his thoughts on this to himself. L may have been strange, but he was the best of the best. It was because of L that at least they didn't need to keep worrying about the original Kira. They couldn't pull the plug on this case without him.

"If you're hot, Commander Rester, I can have Watari set up another fan for you."

"That would be…appreciated," he mumbled, cranking the level of the fan blasting beside him as high as it could go. Stacks of documents fluttered around him, bound together by clips. Rester's eyes were starting to droop but it was way too hot for coffee. So he reached over for the can of energy drink and held his nose to dull the taste of it, wondering to himself just how low young people's tastes had gotten if they could stomach this, never mind like it.

Around that time Watari shuffled past him again in his black suit and tie (even in hot weather a gentleman must be properly dressed), holding out in front of him a tray that consisted of a glass of juice with a bendable straw and a plate stacked with two sandwiches packed with peanut butter and Nutella™, each cut into four neat triangles. A typical child's midday snack. The two locked eyes for an unusually awkward moment before Rester averted his eyes back on the documents.

"Do you need another fan, Commander Rester?" the old man asked wearily.

"Yes, please. Take your time getting it, though," Rester answered politely. Watari nodded in understanding before continuing on his way. He rapped on the door with the "Do Not Disturb" tag hanging off the knob.

"It's Watari. I have your lunch. I'm coming in now."

"So you may," said the computer.

Placing the tray on the stand by the door, Watari used the card around his neck to swipe into the lock, undoing it. As he disappeared inside, Rester shook his head.

It never crossed my mind that L could be someone with severe Peter Pan syndrome.

Somehow he had a hunch that he wasn't the only here thinking this, sliding a glance towards McEnroe sitting across from him, who also held his tongue on the matter. The fan whirred between them, sweeping short blasts of cold air on both sides.

Inside the room Roger surveyed the multicolored maze of Legos™ set up throughout the perimeter. Taking a deep breath, he moved slowly through the narrow pathway, one foot after the other like a tightrope walker until he reached the center where his charge sat on the floor curled over his action figures.

As he bent down to set up the meal in front of him, he felt the boy's eyes bore into his hands. "You might as well give up."

Roger looked up, taken aback. "Huh? What are you talking about?"

"You're still in denial about him. We've tried every other lead already. I am sure you know deep down that he can't be anywhere else."

He sighed. "I know. I just…I suppose I'm having trouble accepting that."

When Mello had disappeared Roger was afraid that he would pull off a stunt similar to what B—Backup, Beyond—pulled when he had run away all those years ago. But time went by and all they'd met with on his end was silence. Matt had taken off not too long after he had, probably to find him himself. His whereabouts were shrouded in even more mystery.

Mello had always been something of a loose cannon, but would he really stoop so low as to use the same murder weapon as Kira had? Exactly how many people had fallen under his pen had yet to be determined, but it certainly had to be higher than Beyond's victim count. He was killing on a national, possibly international level, and the worst of it?

There had been no discernible purpose behind it all. Beyond had killed as part of an attempt to give L a case he could never solve, essentially defeating him. Light Yagami—"Kira"—had taken up killing to try to eliminate the criminal elements from society and to satiate his god complex. It was possible Mello was collaborating with a criminal organization, but outside of that it looked as though he had been doing this more or less on a whim, not to prove a point or to "benefit" society. Whatever scruples he had had, if only because of his admiration for L, he seemed to have abandoned since he'd left Wammy's.

But what would happen now with Near having just called him out on public broadcast? Indeed, though Near's, or rather L's announcement sounded like a rejection to another case, he had made it to get a reaction from the killer.

But Mello had been one of the top-scoring students in the House for a reason. After keeping such close tabs as he could on the Kira case, it was very likely that he saw through it. Still, according to Near, no matter how he should choose to respond, or even if he responded at all, the killings were now brought to the public's eye. The Kira followers were bound to have a field day about this, and the police, maybe now they would become more diligent?

Maybe. Too many maybes. Roger should have gotten quite used to the maybes a long time ago, but even if he had, that didn't make the situation any less grim.

Roger glanced down to see young Mello's photo tucked underneath a few Legos™, taken from a time when his blue eyes held more innocence than ice, though he had always had a cheeky smile. In his haste, Mello had forgotten about this photo when he'd left. His emotions had gotten the best of him, as they tended to do.

He wondered what the boy looked like now after all this time.

He wondered what he thought about the broadcast and how he would react to Near's preemptive strike.

He wondered what Watari would think if he could see for himself what the program had precipitated.

He wondered what L would think.

Most of all, he wondered whether this was all of their fault.

"Be careful, God is watching,

In a street blackened by night, please link our hands together.

Even if I'm by myself and far away, He can always come find me.

He comes to teach me everything He knows,

Even if I should no longer remember,

He will teach me over and over…

But what should I do once I know everything?"

This song came to Misa's mind whenever she felt particularly melancholy. She couldn't remember why exactly she had written it; the lyrics and melody just came to her one day after her name had been cleared, before Light and Ryuzaki died. It had stuck with her ever since. It was her private song. "Misa's Song," she'd dubbed it. She never recorded it or sang it to company, she had other songs for that purpose. It was her prayer, her doubt-filled cry to whatever higher power was out there, if such a thing existed. Perhaps Misa was one of those people who couldn't function if there wasn't something bigger than her to believe in. She used to think that that higher power was Kira, like so many others. But…

"Take care of yourself, for God is watching,

Don't hang yourself by your hand in a dark alley.

Even if you walk alone, He will always find you,

He knows, so tell Him your sins,

Oh, he knows, so tell Him your sins,

Tell him, even if you don't know His face…

But what will I do if Heaven's doors are closed to me?"

Oftentimes when she was alone, a profound guilt would make her break out in this song from under her breath in her native tongue. It gave her relief, however fleeting. She couldn't remember what exactly she'd done to earn this feeling, but it gnawed at her from the inside-out. The feeling that for all of her disdain for the wicked, she herself was inherently sinful and almost nothing she could do would change that fact.

Her fingers left the sleek black grand piano, the instant she heard Erin's own singing and footsteps over the dark, soft notes, the loud nasally optimism of her voice erasing them from the air in a flash. She recognized the words as some of the lyrics to a song Erin had shared with her, "The Rainbow Connection™." One of her favorites, its most famous rendition performed by a banjo-playing frog.

"Someday we'll find it, the Rainbow Connection,

The lovers, the dreamers, and me…"

As far as Misa knew, her friend had never done anything particularly horrible, like she had. Not that she would wish that on her. In fact, she hoped that Erin would never have to feel that way for as long as she lived. She didn't know whether her capacity for forgiveness made her noble or naïve, more foolish than even her.

Let them say what they like, but ignorance may be the greatest bliss there was to be had.

Kimiko entered first and then Erin came stumbling through the door with bags in each arm. "Are you sure you don't need help with those?"

"No, no, I got 'em!" Erin insisted, twirling a bit on her heels as she tried to keep her balance. Whatever her deal had been the night before, she seemed to have gotten over it. So it seemed. No. Misa couldn't approach her about it, not yet. Soon but not now, not with Kimiko in earshot.

Besides, it didn't sound like a good topic to touch on just before a house-warming party. "Oh man, this is gonna be a blast," she huffed, plopping the groceries on the countertop when she reached the kitchen.

Misa couldn't help her smirk. She could recognize that flush in her dear friend's face anywhere. "Why's that? Because Steve's gonna be there?"

That made Erin stop for a beat, her ears burning into pieces of jerky on the sides of her head. "Uhm…well, yeah, I mean, it'll be great if he and his friend make it, but I mean, the party as a whole will be a blast, since you guys are hosting it. Who knows? Maybe he'll bring some guy-friends too, some nice guys for you. Oh crap, I forgot to tell him he could bring guests…"

"Oh. That could be a problem. Everyone's allowed one guest, but no more than that. We only have so much food and space, after all," said Kimiko, starting to put perishables into the fridge. Most of the furnishings in their house had bright neon stickers on them to help Kimiko around the house, since she could only see color and light in her one good eye. "And frankly, I wouldn't like to be left with a total disaster area to clean up when they go home."

"N-no worries, I'll just ring 'im up and let him know. I offered a separate invitation to Halle, so she can bring a guest, too, if she wants. Wait, did I?"

A playful impulse swept through Misa, pulling her to her feet and compelling her to sneak into the kitchen to pull out from one of the bags a jar of red glitter she had requested for. She poured a fistful into her hand with no one looking, then she snuck up behind Erin with her hands poised in front of her lips.

She puckered her lips as though blowing a kiss, blew as hard as she could—pppft!

—and assaulted Erin with a gust of red sparkles clinging to her face and clothes before Erin could completely turn around. "H-hey! What'd you do that for?"

"I'm granting you the love goddess's blessing. May you finally have the courage to make Steve your boyfriend by the big night, and your relationship gets the happy ending it deserves."

"What are ya, my Fairy Godmother? Gi-gimme that jar!"

Before long, the girls were taking turns throwing glitter at each other, while Kimiko stopped putting food away to see what the matter was. "What are you two doing?" she asked, unable to see for herself.

"Uh, nothing! Hold on, we'll be there in a sec."

Misa took advantage of Erin's moment of weakness to take a generous scoop of glitter and sprinkle it through her friend's thick brown hair.

"Hey! Cut it out, will ya?" she protested, reaching up to frantically pick at the shimmery specks clinging to her face and clothes. "This is a pain in the ass to get out, you know that, right? Augh, I look like a giant ruby slipper!"

"Everything's better with glitter, Erin," said Misa with a smirk.

"Are you sure you don't want to take the bus or something?"

"We're not that far. I made it this far on my own before you pulled up; there's no reason why I can't make it back just as easily. It's not like my house suddenly got up and moved farther away when I left it."

Matsuda tried to laugh at Soichiro's attempt at a joke, but it came out forced and nervous, like it always seemed to, these days. On his way back from work, he had found the Chief—well, former Chief, Aizawa was technically the Chief now—coming out of the store with a bag slung over his shoulder bearing groceries. Neither Sachiko nor Sayu were with him, only the polished dark red cane gripped in his right hand with dragon-shaped designs carved into it, a gift from Sachiko and Sayu for his birthday last month. His constant companion. His reminder.

"Yeah, but you look pale. And you're sweating a lot. Maybe you should sit down for a bit, have a drink—"

"Well…now that you mention it, I am feeling parched."

Matsuda started to turn to fetch a water bottle from the car, but Soichiro stopped him. "No, I have something. I've got it." He hobbled towards a nearby bus stop to lean against the bench, but didn't sit in it. Ever since he had graduated from the wheelchair, it seemed that he avoided all chairs and seats when the option was given. It was as if he was afraid that if he sat down for too long at any time, he wouldn't be able to get up again. Never again did he want to take simple things like walking for granted.

Matsuda watched him muster the feeling he had managed to regain in his left arm over these past few years to slowly unzip the fanny pack strapped around his waist. As a younger man who minded the trends, fanny packs looked unattractive to Matsuda, but Soichiro had gotten over the embarrassment of being seen in public with one of these a long time ago.

Perhaps Matsuda just didn't like it because it along with the cane seemed to accentuate his mentor's age. His frailty. He had just turned 53 and yet he looked like he was 66. Sometimes even older.

Matsuda felt helpless just by looking at him. He knew he shouldn't feel that way since Soichiro was doing quite well for himself compared to others in his situation, determined to be anything but helpless. But the feeling gnawed at Matsuda anyway, always needing to be helpful, even now.

Soichiro's gulps were deep and almost desperate, as though he were a traveler marooned in an arid desert and had just come across an oasis. Matsuda willed himself not to cringe, but couldn't help uttering out loud, "Gosh Chief, you must be really thirsty. Didn't the doctor say that you have to stay hydrated?"

The water bottle seemed to pop as he pulled it back out of his mouth. He wiped the corners of his chapped lips with his forearm before snapping the bottle shut. When he had finished slaking his thirst for the time being, the bottle was almost a quarter-full. "I'm getting my fluids, don't you worry. And Matsuda—"

"Ah, right. I'm sorry for calling you Chief. It's…force of habit, I guess."

Like a student used to addressing his teacher as "sensei," long after he'd graduated and left the dojo.

"Hey, if you want, I can drive you back home—"

"No, thank you. I told you, I got this far on foot. I'm sure I can make it the other way," he said, rubbing the melting bottle against his forehead to cool off.

"Hmm, okay, but at least let me walk with you. I can leave the car here and come back to it when we reach your house."

Soichiro took a deep breath to calm himself. He was tired of everyone coddling him, no matter how well he knew they meant. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Before the stroke, he used to be Chief of the NPA, a mentor, a husband and a father. A provider. A protector. A pillar. People used to need him. Now he couldn't even walk to the store by himself without worrying everyone.

Then he would remember how things turned out the way they were today. Then again, maybe it's what I deserve…

He was too tired to object. Matsuda was the persistent type, one of the things he had always liked about him, a good trait for any cop. "All right, if you insist."

"You want me to carry some of those for you?" Matsuda offered, pointing at the groceries in the bag.

"I only have one bag—"

"No problem! I've got one in the car. We'll split up the load. That just looks like a lot to carry by yourself…"

"…Sure. Thank you for offering."

When they set out the bags to divide things up, Soichiro noticed Matsuda putting most of the heavier items into his bag, leaving Soichiro with the fruit and vegetables. He thought about mentioning that he can at least carry the fish, but decided against it. The time wasted debating over who should carry what could be time used to actually get the food home before the summer heat spoiled it.

When they finally reached the block where the Yagami family resided, Soichiro tried not to look too out of breath in front of Matsuda. He heard the shouts of two children coming up the street alongside them, a brother and sister. The sister, her rich brown hair tucked underneath a pink helmet and her bony scratched-up elbows and knees padded, wobbled to and fro on top of a yellow bike for the first time, while her brother kept pace astride her with his hands next to hers on the handlebars. His golden brown hair bounced around his angled face and seemed to reflect the sun off it like a halo.

"Big brother, I'm scared! What if I crash again?"

"Don't worry, I've got you. Don't think about crashing. Just keep your eyes forward and keep pedaling. And don't let go of the handlebars, okay?"

He had just come home from work when he saw the pair out in the middle of the street. The day had been as hot and clear as this one, just after Sayu's seventh birthday, and Sachiko was inside getting dinner ready. Hastily stopping on the side of the road a safe distance back, he had stumbled out of the car and up the sidewalk, just in time for the moment of truth.

"Sayu, I'm gonna let go of the bike. Just tell me when you're ready, and I'll let go. And when I do, keep pedaling and hold it straight."

In a burst of impulsive confidence, she shouted, "Okay! Let go, Light!"

And he let go. Off sped his little girl, her path swerving and shaky, but she kept going, following her brother's advice except to break her concentration on the road to squeal over her shoulder. "L-Light! I'm doing it! I'm doing it! I'm riding the bike!"

He smiled at her, calling as he ran after her, "That's it, Sayu! Keep looking forward, you're doing great!"

Soichiro blinked again and the kids disappeared into the haze, their cheers and shouts still echoing in his mind. It had only been his memories running away from him.

Who would've thought that the same hands that had held Sayu steady would scratch out almost ten thousand known lives eight years later? That those same bright, kind eyes that had helped her find the confidence to ride a bike would look at him years later with such darkness and savagery as he ordered for his death?

Oh Light. What happened?

It'd been four years since that fateful November morning and still he found himself asking this question, each attempt at an answer as fruitless as the last.

The children and the bike were immediately replaced by the family car rolling down the street before it turned into the driveway before them. Sachiko had had a doctor's appointment today, and Sayu had needed the car to run an errand with a friend. In her haste, she had left her grocery list behind on the fridge for Soichiro to pick up.

He saw Sachiko slide out from the passenger's seat, Sayu from the driver's. Light had died before he could see his little sister graduate from the bike to the car, and Soichiro had been preoccupied with literally trying to get back on his feet. Sachiko had taken it upon herself to guide Sayu through that milestone.

Sachiko looked up at the two with a start. "Soichiro! You brought groceries? Oh dear, I knew I was forgetting something. You didn't have to—"

"It's no trouble. I needed my exercise, anyway," he answered more sheepishly than he meant to. "Matsuda helped me carry them back."

Sayu trotted around the front of the car then, her purse slung over her shoulder. "Huh? Hey, Dad! You got the groceries for us? You didn't have to do that. Are you okay? You look kinda flushed…"

Your mother just asked me that…

"Oh yeah, never better."

"Well, come in and sit down, dear. We can put the groceries away."

"No, let me help. I can do it," he insisted, remembering what the doctor had told him about exercising his left leg and arm. Use them or lose them.

"Good to see you again, Matsuda," greeted Sachiko with a smile as she took Matsuda's share. "Thank you for your help! How are you?"

"Doing well, doing well," Matsuda cheered back, bowing in return. Soichiro couldn't help but notice the deep blush running into the younger man's face when his eyes fell on, then promptly darted away from Sayu. Fathers were especially keen on these things. "Everyone on the force says hi, and so do my parents! They just celebrated their 32nd anniversary!"

"Ah, does your mother enjoy the gift I sent her?"

"Oh yes, very much so. She wanted me to give you her gratitude again, next time I saw you."

"Aww, their 32nd year? That's great! 32 is a lucky number, too!" Sayu chimed. "Congrats to them for sticking together for so long!"

No one noticed Soichiro gulp down the lump forming in his throat. He and Sachiko were approaching their own anniversary in September. Their 25th. An unlucky year.

It was a wonder sometimes how they'd stayed together for this long after all they'd been through already.

Or maybe it wasn't? Like him, Sachiko never backed down from a commitment once she made it. Even if she wanted to leave him after everything that had happened with Light and the Kira case, she could never bring herself to leave an old man like him to flounder around on his own.

He squeezed his eyes shut and adjusted his glasses as he headed for the front door. Get a hold of yourself. Why are you even thinking like that, all of a sudden?

"Ah, um, th-thank you, Sayu! I'll tell them that when I see them again! How have you been?"

Sayu waved her fingers with a good-natured smile. "Oh, not much. Just wrapping up this last semester at To-Oh, getting ready for the next one." Sayu had developed an impressive work ethic for someone who used to complain about having homework back in junior high.

Losing Light had made her grow up fast.

"Hmm, education, right? That's your major?"

"Ha, yeah! I want to become a teacher, probably for primary school kids."

For some reason, Soichiro was uncomfortable with the fact that Matsuda knew what his daughter's major was, even though it wasn't exactly a secret.

"Working with kids? That's pretty, uh, cool! Kids are the greatest!"

"So Sachiko, how did it go?" Soichiro asked as the four began to make their way to the door, apprehensive of her answer. "At the doctor's?"

"A clean bill of health," beamed Sachiko. "Though he did say I need to exercise more. Keeping house isn't enough, it seems. He suggested that I try yoga or something along those lines to help relieve stress. T'ai chi sounds more up my alley. If you want, we could even try it together."

While they all headed into the house, Soichiro pulled Matsuda aside to let the women in first. As evenly as he could he said, "Hey. Don't think I haven't noticed."

The way Matsuda sputtered and stammered was all the confirmation he needed. "Wh—n-noticed what? What're you talking about?"

"You're not that hard to read, Matsuda. I've seen the way you've looked at Sayu lately. Your face is bright red right now. You like her, don't you? That's probably why you come over as often as you do…"

Matsuda looked like he wanted to drop dead right then and there as he put up his hands in defense. "What? No, no way! I-I would never—"

He couldn't exactly blame him. Sayu was pretty, there was no getting around that. She was bound to attract male attention sooner or later, as much as the father in Soichiro preferred to deny it. And Matsuda was probably the nicest and most harmless guy he had ever known. Still…

"Well, you can forget it," he declared, calmly but firmly. "I'd never let Sayu marry a cop."

Though he had tried to be discreet about the matter, Matsuda's nervous outburst had attracted Sachiko and Sayu's attention back into the hallway where the men stood. Immediately Sachiko became as stern as her husband. "That's right, I'd never want that for her."

Sayu didn't deserve the heartache that came with marrying a man with a badge.

Matsuda looked cornered, shaking like a dog just spanked with a rolled-up newspaper. His tongue seemed to tie itself into knots in his mouth as he tried to explain himself, and when nothing came, he conceded with slumped shoulders. "Oh man. I never even got to tell her that I liked her," he moaned, not noticing Sayu in the threshold watching him with gentle amusement. "Y-you're too cruel to me, Mom and Dad."

"Mom?"

In an instant, the bag in Sachiko hands fell, with all the fruit and vegetables rolling out of it. Soichiro almost dropped his cane. That had come out of nowhere.

"Oh God, did I just say that?"

Sayu giggled, then. "Aw, don't feel too bad. Personally I think you'd be a good catch, Matsu."

The red-faced grin that broke out on his face made Soichiro want to roll his eyes. Poor Matsuda. Maybe some things would never change? "What? Y-you really think so, Sayu?"

"Yep! In fact, if you were just a little younger, I might have considered going out with you sometime."

It was a wonder that the hopeless would have-been suitor didn't completely fall over on his back. Sayu had indeed grown up over the past four years, reaching a maturity that seemed to surpass even Matsuda. Sachiko and Soichiro couldn't be more proud of her.

Another twinge of sadness surged through him as this sunk in. My little girl's all grown up. When he was still with the NPA, he hadn't been around much to see her or Light grow up. Justice didn't care if you had a family at home. And it certainly didn't care if the criminal you were trying to catch happened to be your only son.

Now Sayu had grown up, right before his eyes. She was in her prime, going on to do everything that Light would never get to. She didn't need him anymore.

As Matsuda tried to shake off the rejection and trotted into the kitchen to help put the rest of the groceries away, Soichiro noticed something fall out of his jacket. An envelope. With all the strength he could muster, he supported his weight on the cane as he bent in to pick it up. It was postmarked from Los Angeles, California, United States.

Ah. This must be from their young American friend Erin. A mix-up during the Kira case had brought them together when she was here in Japan studying abroad, and ever since she and Matsuda had found each other again she'd send cards and little gifts from time to time. The last he'd heard she was doing well for herself. He found another flowery greeting card inside the envelope, with a message scribbled on the bottom in crooked, shaky kanji below the glittery text. Just another reminder that she was thinking about them.

She always was rather sentimental. Sometimes loudly and overwhelmingly so. She'd often forget their native etiquette and hug everyone on the task force or slap them on the back for pretty much anything. She'd even give L or Matsuda "noogies" when the urge compelled her. Perhaps it was just a matter of age and culture that made it seem strange to him? Most of the young people in America probably did that sort of thing all the time. Still, her gestures were appreciated all the sa—

Huh?

His fingertips caressed the back of the card. He'd heard stories of people who became hypersensitive in certain ways as compensation for losing function of a body part, either naturally or through practice. His right hand must've become more sensitive in response to losing the feeling in his left, because he thought he could feel extra print on the back of the card. Was he imagining it? It wasn't impossible. But when he looked front and back, there was no extra printing.

None that was visible.

He turned the card over and trailed his fingers along the back. He held it up to his eye and squinted.

What on Earth…?

He glanced toward the kitchen to make note of how preoccupied the others were, whether they would notice if he walked away. When it looked like the coast was clear, he began his trek up the stairs, taking care to avoid the squeaky spot on one of the middle steps. Along the way he glanced at the stair chair lift attached to the wall. He'd suggested many times to have the thing uninstalled since he got out of the wheelchair, but Sachiko had been just as adamant about keeping it. She still didn't trust him on stairs.

He scowled at it. Use them or lose them. Biting back his bitterness, he pressed onward, taking it one step at a time with his cane hanging from the crook of his elbow as he held on to the banister for what felt like dear life.

Sneaking into Light's room felt like entering a mausoleum every time. Over the years they had given away most of his furniture and belongings. Whatever was not given to friends and family was donated to charity, as Light would have wanted (which Light? My son, not the killer. But they were one in the same). But they had kept his desk and chair as an altar of sorts, a place where his picture sat next to a vase filled with flowers which Sayu and Sachiko tended to every day. The shades were now always open, bathing the room in bony white sunlight, bright enough to spotlight the dust particles dancing in midair.

The way Light had kept his room in life, Soichiro was surprised to see any dust in here at all. But then, Light had always kept the shades drawn. This was his sanctuary, where he slept. Where he studied and occasionally stopped to help Sayu with her studies. Where he dreamed. Where he schemed. Where he killed.

Soichiro closed his eyes. Sometimes he could almost feel his son's presence, his rigid silhouette crossing the stains along the walls where his bed and shelves used to be. His ghost? Or was it just his grief getting the best of him again?

He hesitated for a bit when he approached the desk, trying to shake the feeling that he was violating something sacred when all he was doing was going through a few drawers. He stared into Light's frozen face from beyond the photograph. For some reason, his bronze eyes seemed to narrow at him in accusation and contempt, like he hated Soichiro so much even from beyond the grave that he wished he would die just like he had, or all the criminals—no, all the people he had slain in trying to change the world.

Light had been his greatest failure, as a detective and as a father.

His eyes darted towards the floor. His hand reached out to brush Light's face before placing the picture face down. When he drew it back he felt a thin film of dust on his fingers. He rubbed it away into his sweating fingertips before taking another breath to steel his nerves and opening the top right drawer to pull out a pen-sized light. An ultraviolet light used to look for hidden messages written in basic invisible ink.

He clicked it on and shined it on the inside of the greeting card, his head rattling in sheer disbelief.

You could do better at things like this, Blogger.

Just then, he heard the rumble of a truck crawling up the street before he could fully immerse himself into the hastily scribbled message. He peered out the window. Sure enough he saw a tow truck passing by, the car attached to it very familiar.

Say, isn't that—uh-oh.

"Erm, Matsuda?" he called out into the hallway.

"Yeah?"

"Your car is being towed."

"Wh-wh-WHAT? No way! Excuse me, Sayu. WAIT, COME BACK! THAT CAR BELONGS TO A COP! I HAVE THE BADGE TO PROVE IT! STOOOOP!"

The force of the door slamming behind him seemed to shake the whole house. Soichiro sighed as he saw Matsuda scramble out of their yard and chase after the truck like a dog chasing a car yapping at it all the way. From the foot of the steps he heard Sayu chuckle, "Oh my God. Mom, can I take the car one last time? There's no way Matsu's going to get his back that way."

"Well…all right, but don't be out long. Watch for traffic, and I don't want to see any dings."

"Like I've ever brought the car back with scratches. Thanks, Mom! We'll be right back."

With the soft jingle of keys, Sayu was out the door as well. Like a scene from straight out of a romantic comedy.

She's just helping him out, Soichiro told himself. She just rejected him after all. Nothing was going to develop between them. It'd better not.

Around that time, Sachiko realized where her husband had gone off to and called up to him, "Honey? Are you upstairs?"

Soichiro slipped the card back into the envelope and the envelope into his fanny pack. He'd have to look it over later. Not to mention Matsuda would have some explaining to do, the next time he saw him. "Yes."

A distant but unmistakable tension laced her next words. "You didn't use the lift."

"I didn't have to," he answered, more defensively than he meant to. He hobbled out of Light's room and peered down at his wife glaring back up at him, her arms folded across her chest.

"Soichiro, I thought we talked about this. You're not ready for stairs—"

"The doctor said—"

"I know what he said, I was there. That's why you go to therapy. But you're not ready to climb this many steps. What if you fell?"

"As you can see I got up the stairs just fine. If I'm not ready now, then when will I be?" he asked, his chest tightening with anger. "I don't need the lift anymore."

"And what about getting down?" Was that a challenge?

Soichiro straightened up, putting on his stiffest face so as to hide his anxiety. "I can do that just as well. Watch." He was making the turn to start his descent down the stairs when Sachiko made her ascent up them.

"No, stop where you are! You are not going down these stairs without the lift. Now what were you doing upstairs to begin with?"

"You can trust me enough to leave me alone in the house, but not enough to get up and down the stairs by myself? For all you know, I've been running marathons on these when you're not looking. And I didn't realize that I needed a reason to be upstairs in my own house."

He shouldn't have said that. Why did he say that? The look of anger and near-horror on Sachiko's face made him regret his words instantly.

"Ugh, I swear you've gotten so ornery ever since you got out of the wheelchair—!"

She stopped when she saw the blood rushing to Soichiro's ears. He didn't blush, he was too proud and reserved for a full blush. Instead, when he got embarrassed his ears turned red and hot, and he would purse his lips, tuck his chin slightly and dart his eyes toward the side. It had always been one of his many endearing traits in Sachiko's eyes.

Sachiko briefly covered her mouth, as though replaying her last words in her mind. "Oh no. Darling, I didn't—I didn't mean it like that, I'm so sorry—"

"No, i-it's all right. I'm the one that should be sorry. For, erm, being an ass…let's forget about it."

They had had their share of ups and downs like any other couple—if not more due to his job—but ever since Light's death, a dark cloud seemed to have descended over the house, and their marriage. Sometimes the cloud would dissipate, but it always came creeping over as thick and grey as ever. Sachiko had not only lost her son on that case, but she had almost lost her husband. Midway through the case he had collapsed with a heart attack, and just a few weeks after Light's funeral he was struck down again, with a stroke this time. If he fell on those steps, he was as good as done for. For all of his resentment on being constantly coddled, Soichiro couldn't say that he didn't understand where her overbearing stubbornness had come from.

He sighed. "I guess I was struck by the urge to see Light's room again. I was checking to see if the flowers needed watering. Saying a prayer for him. That's all."

Over the years as a detective, especially after the Kira case, his faith had dwindled. Why did he keep praying with Sayu and Sachiko? To keep up appearances, mostly. He couldn't know for sure what had happened to Light's soul after he'd died and he probably never would. He just had a feeling that all the prayers in the world would never do Light any good.

At the same time he couldn't deny the comfort it provided, however temporary. People prayed to find some sense in their lives and to stay close to their loved ones, living or dead. And no parent could bear the idea of their child suffering for a minute let alone eternity, never mind if they deserved it.

He couldn't bear the idea of Light's soul vanishing into nothingness either, whatever that meant. It just couldn't have, or else he wouldn't still feel this way. Right?

Sachiko closed her eyes as her hand found its way to her heart. She bowed her head. "Oh. I see."

"Well, I should probably get started on dinner while we wait for Matsuda and Sayu to come back."

"I'll help." That sounded more like a question than a reply in Soichiro's ears.

"All right. But stay put while I get the lift up here."

His next few words came out thick and quiet: "Yes, Sachiko."

"You're rather quiet this evening, Takada."

"Oh? I'm sorry. I've just…had a long day at work. That's all."

"Is everything all right at work? You've seemed stressed lately."

Kiyomi maneuvered the chopsticks and placed another sushi roll into her mouth, eating not necessarily because she was hungry but in order to buy herself time to think of an appropriate response. She chewed on the fish, rice and seaweed slowly and deliberately, savoring the fresh salty flavor of the sea. She shut her eyes to give herself a break from her companion's sharp, searching gaze.

"Just your usual stresses that come with keeping the public informed on current events," she answered after she swallowed.

He had his hands clasped in front of him as he tended to do when he was thinking. It always looked to her as though he was praying to a higher power whenever he did that. In fact he had a rather peculiar habit of holding things with both hands—with the exception of utensils of course—as though they were sacred somehow. But he rarely said a word about his religious beliefs. Though he would have much to say about his social beliefs, one of the things about him that Kiyomi had to admit that she found attractive. They had met during a debate on Sakura TV, which she had hosted of course after Demegawa caved to her insistence that she do so, and they had been meeting each other after work at least once a week since then. Kiyomi could figure from his actions that he was a Kira supporter.

Just like her. Birds of a feather, she supposed. For birds, safety came in numbers.

"Is there…anyone in particular who has been causing you problems? Anyone who has been harassing you?"

Kiyomi froze, her glass just millimeters away her lips. Had she been taking an actual sip when he had said this she might have choked. No, that wouldn't be good. "I beg your pardon? Mikami, how on Earth could you jump to such a conclusion?" she asked as calmly as she could.

"You're refusing to discuss what goes on in your workplace. That's typical of someone who has been repeatedly subjected to a hostile work environment."

Perhaps Kiyomi shouldn't have been surprised. Mikami was a highly successful prosecutor. He was bound to have seen things like this before. "You know, there may be other reasons why I might choose not to disclose my work day. It could simply be because there is nothing important to discuss."

"Are you listening to yourself?" he asked, pushing his glasses back up against his pale face. "You're a news reporter; there is always something important going on everywhere you go. Besides, if there was nothing going on, you would be more inclined to sit up straight and eat."

Kiyomi fell silent, her grip on her glass tightening and her shoulders squaring. She heard them, then.

"I'm sorry Miss Takada, but I'm telling the truth. We've already filled all the positions. I wish you the best of luck."

"Know your place, Taki. No one wants to hear your stupid opinions."

"Your head's like your ass; you gotta learn to loosen up!"

She could still feel the sting of Demegawa's meaty, cigarette-stained hand slapping her rear. Nishiyama had delivered the second blow with a sneer as she glared at the back of his head while he walked away yet again, adhering to her philosophy.

"It's dog-eat-dog out here, honey, and I didn't see anything."

It was then that Kiyomi had realized that her breathing had picked up. The way her career had panned out so far had been nothing at all like she had hoped when she had graduated. The pride and joy of the Takada family, she got all the best marks and held the title of Miss To-Oh back in university. She had her share of suitors and had even briefly dated one of the school's other top students, though the end of that courtship had been one of the more sour moments in her life. But she pulled through it, and with her credentials she had been certain that she was a shoo-in as an anchorwoman at one of the best news stations in the country, like NHN.

As it turned out, none of that mattered after college. All the spaces had been filled, by women who with little doubt in her mind had slept their way into them. Sakura TV had been the only station that would give her a job, and as much as she had preferred not to be affiliated with them, she had convinced herself that it was only a temporary arrangement, she would keep sending out her resume until she found something better and besides she had to get her name and face out there somehow.

But here she was, all because she refused to put out for Demegawa. And so the desk went to Nishiyama, his not-so-secret mistress. Meanwhile her own parents wouldn't speak to her out of shame for having their daughter involved with such a trashy station. The debate had been a fluke. She hadn't gotten so lucky since then, and now her boss was hounding her for "payback" for letting her do it.

"So who is it, Takada? Is it Demegawa?"

She put down her glass and sighed. Really, who else did she have to talk to anymore? "Yes," she answered softly. "I admit, he's been…pestering me for some time."

A distant and strange urgency seeped into Mikami's voice then, his dark eyes flickering with conviction. "Takada, you're stronger than that. You can't let him get away with this. What happened to standing up for what's best for everyone?"

"I know. But it's not going to be like this forever. I'm quitting Sakura TV and planning to move on to something more credible."

"That's not enough. Between harassing you and using Kira to scam all of his followers out of their hard-earned money…Demegawa needs to be brought to justice. He must answer for what he's done. You owe that to yourself, and all the good people that he's abused."

Kiyomi loved that about Mikami. Most prosecutors were in it for the money or the reputation, but not him. He was genuine. It had been such a long time since she'd seen a stronger sense of justice in anyone besides herself.

"Believe me, I want more than anything to see that happen. But no one else will speak up against him. He surrounds himself with sycophantic idiots who let him use them to wipe his shoes off after coming out of the rain. I don't think I'd have much of a case with only he said-she said to go on."

She didn't see it coming when she felt his hand slide over hers on the edge of the table, his fingertips resting over her knuckles. Faint jolts of electricity shot up her arm at the gesture. It was an innocent, assuring touch.

"I will help you in any way that I can," he said. This had to be the softest that she had ever seen him act. Kiyomi didn't know what to make of it. "You have my number and I have yours."

That was not to say that she didn't welcome it. "Thank you." With her other hand she cleared her throat. "It's getting kind of late. So, should I get the bill this time or will you?"

"I will," he offered.

Mikami walked with her back to her apartment; it was Thursday night and her place happened to be on the way to the hotel where he worked out at their fitness center. Being the sort of man who ran on a schedule, he bade her good-night at the front at 8:15 so he could get to the gym by nine. Though the softness from that moment had since disappeared, he reaffirmed his desire to see Demegawa brought to justice.

Personally, Kiyomi didn't think it enough for that pig to be sued in court. He was one of those types that the world could frankly do without. But as much as she hated to admit it, she doubted any harm would befall him anytime soon. Four years had gone by since Kira's last judgment had been passed, and whatever had happened to him it was unlikely that he would ever return. But there were people out there who refused to abandon their faith. Demegawa could attest to that. For all of his scamming and pickpocketing, he did what he could to keep the fire alive if for the wrong reasons.

If only, if Kira could not return, that someone could step in and continue his work. He could have changed the world.

Once she'd stepped inside and traded her heels for slippers, she lit a candle. From her purse she fished out an access pass she had chanced across earlier that day in the restroom while washing her hands. The woman on the card flashed her sickly sweet, phony smile at her.

Saeko Nishiyama.

Kiyomi didn't waste any time tearing the card out of its plastic case. It wasn't much in the way of dealing justice, but it would have to do for now.

Outside her door the card had already melted down to the halfway point—she made sure to start on the side with Nishiyama's face on it as she held it to the tiny flame and imagined the woman going literally and figuratively up in smoke, despite her usual disinterest in all that voodoo nonsense—when she could have sworn she heard a swishing noise from her living room. Like a book falling to the floor.

What was that?

She dropped the remains of the pass into the jar for the fire to consume it. When she returned to the den she found a plain black notebook lying in the middle of the floor. It hadn't been there before.

The corners of her mouth twitched, her brow knitting itself together. What the…?

She bent down to pick it up and briefly flipped through it. All of the pages were blank. Where had it come from? Out of the ceiling? She looked overhead and found nothing. The roof, the entire room was the same as it'd always been.

For reasons she couldn't fathom, her heart began to race, its beating the only sound she heard. Was there someone in here? Why couldn't she shake the feeling that there was another presence here with her?

"Hello?" she called out. No answer.

She was about to turn and walk out to check on the candle when suddenly something large and shadowy plopped in front of her from out of nowhere, the shock and horror enough to sweep her off her feet. Before she knew it she was on the floor, all the blood draining out of her as she watched the shadow slowly rise up and take shape. A spiny, willowy black and white creature that almost touched the ceiling, it crouched on long grasshopper-like legs garbed in what looked like ratty pants.

The thing stared at her with pupil-less unblinking slits for eyes, scraping one of its six paws at the back of its mangy jet black mane. Good God, its claws looked almost as long as her head and neck put together! The scream that she might have let out stayed clogged in her throat.

And then it spoke, or rather whispered. Whatever mouth it had was hidden in rags, like a bandit from out of someone's darkest nightmare, and its breathy words were muffled under them.

"Oh dear. It looks like I'm too late."