A/N: Hello, and welcome back after the lengthy postpone. It was only thanks to a visit to the local PC World that I managed to get this back and finish it, although, thanks to a few questioning stares at my outfit, it longer a little longer than expected (if there are some things that shouldn't be worn in hot weather, then jeans and boots are definitely some of them (and suppose the skirt meant nothing, then?))

Well, now that this is done, I am now free to think further on the changes, which may be drastic.

So, please Read, review and enjoy after this long wait.

Chapter IV

The world anyone him swirled pitch-black, flashes of vibrant colours occasionally swimming through his peripheral vision. Like sharp katanas, their ripples of coloured light sliced through his mind's eye, showing images of human corruption and suffering through the slit-like wounds, clear light shimmering along the edges. It wouldn't let him turn away; never let him forget the reasons the he could never give up, the reasons he carried on with this futile crusade. He had to be, no, he was Kira, and couldn't be anyone else: Not the Successful Student to his teachers; the Insightful Amateur Detective to the NPA; not even the Perfect, Golden Son to his parents.

That charade had broken down many moons ago, each mask having slipped away, but not before it had the chance to dupe everyone he met. Had he not been such a good actor, so good at manipulating his peers and lying to feed and polish each of his many facades, the blow generated by the seemingly sudden onset of his illness would have been much less, and much easier to take, and his parents would have understood. They would have been able to see the dead look in his eyes caused by his downward spiral, no longer masked by that emptiness that had always lingered for as far as his parents could remember. They knew no different. There was nothing to compare it to.

But because he was such a good actor, and because he could hide such inner turmoil so well, they'd burst into tears from the shock, never knowing, never for once believing that their perfect, beautiful, intelligent son had the capability – no, the mental corruption – to commit such a deed, make such threats, and instil such fear into anyone, never mind greater men, and make them fear for their lives.

For them…Mom…Dad…Sayu…it must've been like a kick in the teeth…he could feel the thought cross across his conscious, for all of 17 years they never really knew the real me…and the minute they do, they lose complete faith…just like I have.

With a slow and mournful speed, Light awoke from the compulsory slumber, a sharp pain at his right temple jolting alive as he frowned away the tiredness that still shrouded his mind. That tiredness at always seemed to be there, but now he could feel it more than ever, the memories and visions of his slumber slipping into the background like water through roots, allowing him to forget until the time when he'd next fall victim to sleep – that is, if he did.

What happened? Why does my head hurt? I was in that wheelchair until a moment ago, right? Did I just fall out of it, like at the last institution?

The lesion on his face itched wickedly after a near hour of being ignored, now intent on punishing the teen for sleeping through the worst of the pain, and so Light made to lift a hand to scratch it – a foolish practise, he knew, considering the good it would do him – yet he couldn't: It was stuck in place, as though strapped into position, on the opposite flank. Looking down, Light sighed and shook his head in annoyance. "Should have known." He wheezed, finally using his voice properly after what felt like centuries of abusive conduct on his part, "I must've really done something bad this time to deserve this…or maybe they've just accounted for the behaviour at the last institution?"

Light was fastened into a white strait jacket, each arm strapped to its opposing side via long sleeves connected to a brown belt and buckle that encircled the waist. Apart from that, there were the same belts and buckles around the neck, chest, and hips, holding him in tight as all medieval contraptions are designed to do. He tried to sit up properly, but his ankles were tied to the white bars on either side of the bed, the ropes digging into and irritating the flesh in their tightness, making the job admittedly difficult. It was obvious now that the magnitude of whatever he'd done must have been so great that they didn't want him moving freely – or at all, really.

What are ya gonna do now, Light? At this, Light looked over to his left, to see Ryuk hovering there, a black-rimmed grin on his face reminiscent of DC's Joker. They've got ya tied up like a rabbit, as always, but the glass thing is new: are you gonna sit quietly since you know you'll be spotted, or are you foolish enough to actually break out?

Looking around, he realized that he was in a separate hospital room, surrounded by two plain magnolia coloured walls. The other two were the wall containing a huge inside window of clear glass and a sliding door (also made of glass) which was situated to his right, with the outside windowed wall opposite that. Of course, they must not want to take chances with me. All the standard hospital room furnishings were present, including a bedside table with drawers on the left side of the bed, and two comfortable looking chairs beside it on the right of the bed. The chairs mismatched, looking as though they'd been stolen from two different living room sets. A travel bag sat on the nearest one, no doubt full to the brim with Light's clothes, toiletries, and a number of books he'd collected on his travels from hospital to hospital, and nation to States (in both English and Japanese). Two plastic cups of tea sat on the bedside table in front of a basket of fruit, the contents still steaming profusely: Evidently, his parents and Sayu had only been gone for a few minutes at the most, believing him safely knocked out enough that a few minutes away wouldn't do him any harm.

"No," Light replied finally, giving Ryuk one of his million-dollar yen smiles, "I'll escape: I've got to live up to this country's expectation of me, you know. Besides, Mom and Dad like taking their sweet time at times like this."

With that, he bent his back over, letting his head touch the mattress between his legs, and began to shiver inside the jacket. Thankfully, Light had lost a little weight since the last time he was wearing one of these, and his parents had presumably made sure he was given the same size jacket.

Ever since Light was first made to wear straitjacket back in June when he'd had his first 'episode' (as it had once been called) and strangled the Invigilator, Light had been allowed the last 6 months in which to learn how to get out of these things, as he was always required to wear one at some point or other at every hospital – as his condition was largely undiagnosed, and Light's treatment of the staff was always threatening at best, they just didn't know what else to do with him, as Soichiro and Sachiko wouldn't allow anything more severe than that.

Now, 6 months on and 52 straitjackets later, Light skill in the art of escapism was almost on level with the Great Houdini himself, having always found a way out of each straitjacket placed on him, and so it had barely been five minutes when Light was out of the jacket and undoing the knots around his ankles.

Once free, he stepped lightly off the bed and began changing out of the standard lime-green hospital-grade gown, replacing it instead with a pair of beige-y coloured trousers and black and white, slipping his house slippers over his bare feet. Once satisfied with his appearance, he began rummaging through the bag again, taking out an A5 sized sunshine yellow notepad with the Floridian Seal on the front and a HB pencil. Both of these had been brought while Light was at a mental hospital in Florida, where he was treated by a neurologist who had a penchant for molesting his patients, the knowledge of which had affected Light so greatly that he couldn't physically speak until he'd been transferred somewhere else in an entirely different state.

In fact, that had been the only hospital where Light hadn't worn a straitjacket: As well as being unable to speak, he couldn't even bring himself to touch any of the staff – or even his family – for fear of negative repercussions involving that ill-minded doctor.

Opening the notebook up on to a clear page on the bedside table, he quickly wrote down two notes in his small, elegant lettering: One in Japanese for his family, and the second in English for any nosy hospital staff. Satisfied with the current situation, Light opened the sliding glass door, and walked out of the room, hands in pocket, and a small plastic smile on his face: As far as the strangers around him were concerned, he was a pleasant stranger enjoying his stay, using a mask that could only be described as the epitome of Serenity.

Looking over his shoulder at the lone Shinigami, and hovering in the doorway, Light gave him a little wink, saying, "Stay right there, Ryuk: It'll be strange if I'm walking around talking to you. Unlike with you, others can hear me speak."

Suit yourself, Light. See if I care. Ryuk then proceeded to take an apple from the fruit basket, stuffing it inside his mouth and chewing it down in one gulp. Swiftly looking right to left in a paranoid manner, he then dived for the travel bag, opening up a separate compartment and proceeding to stuff his face of the apples that lay there, no longer forgotten.

That's my Shinigami.

And, continuing to walk out, Light didn't look back, only stopping momentarily to allow the passage of a full white body bag on a gurney being led away by four men in their scrubs and masks, no doubt to be wheeled out the way it first came in. Then, once it had passed safely away, no one did or said anything as he climbed into an empty lift, a small laugh of his echoing around the small space as the lift doors closed.

Of course, had anyone had the ability to see into one's past, or even future as he could… had they even half of the wits that they were born with… they would've put a hand in the doors before they slammed shut, and carried that young, ill, dangerous man away to the safety of a padded room, where he wouldn't be able to even hurt himself.

Squeak…Squeak…Squeak…

The back left wheel of the trolley squeaked over and over with each revolution, the surgical equipment on the tray held by it rattling gently with metallic tinks. The lone surgeon wheeling the equipment down to theatre, still dressed in his lab coat, sighed for the hundredth time that day, thinking for yet the hundredth time about quitting his job, hauling up sticks, and moving back to Alabama.

He wasn't really a surgeon, only an optometrist with a minor in Paranormal studies. However, with some surgical training under his belt, everyone insisted on giving him the scrubs and scalpel whenever some lazy no-good surgeon decided not to turn in for theatre on time. Today, that lazy no-good surgeon was Dr Chase, who was apparently tied up with a mental patient on the third floor.

Young people these days. Can't do with them, can't do without them.

So once again, he was thrust into the path of a poor no-good-'un's destiny, which he would no doubt foul up – in the last 99 surgeries he'd performed, the patient's life had been risked every time, and very nearly lost if it hadn't been for Dr Chase on every one of those occasions. Now that Dr Chase wasn't here, there were only handful of words to describe the situation of the poor patient, and none of them repeatable before the watershed – well, not unless they were bleeped out.

Walking down the corridor alone, with nothing but the squeak of a wheel for company, and the promise of misfortune of tragic proportions later, the surgeon sighed once again. If he was sacked from surgical practice after this, he'd probably jump for joy and move back to the ophthalmology department where he belonged.

Tap

Suddenly, he stopped, looking behind him. Did he just hear a footstep coming from behind him? Maybe it was just the isolation and relative silence getting to him, but whatever it was, it was making him paranoid, making him check the shadows for strangers.

"Hello?" he asked the shadows, "Is anyone there?" When nothing answered, he turned back around, and continued on his journey.

Barely seconds later, there was a squeak – and it was nothing to do with the trolley. No, it sounded like the squeak of footwear, like sneakers. Surely there was someone there?

He turned around again, this time slower, trying not to make any sudden movements. Once again, there was nothing, nothing but a darkened corridor with eerie shadows and a light bulb that needed fixing. Turning back around, he'd thought he could see something odd in his peripheral vision, something red. However, it hadn't troubled him yet – so if it wished to, he decided, it would've done it on the first turn – so he ignored the anomaly, and continued the journey. In any other situation, he would've turned back to study it, but as this was some kid's demise he was walking towards, it was probably best to hurry and get the damned flat line over with.

Getting another dose of his daily outtake of air, he went back to pushing the trolley, and began to whistle a tune to take out a factor of his fear. The tune was decidedly jolly, but only because he wished it so.

The sounds of whistling bounced off the walls, taking away all silence and white noise. Now selectively deaf to everything else, he never noticed the footsteps – once in time with his own – that quickened towards him, and the whistling of wind that represented an awful force with its own hammer.

But it didn't have a hammer – no, but it did have opposable thumbs, which are just as dangerous.

The force rushed into him from behind, grabbing hold of the tails of his lab coat, and thrusting the material back on itself, and over the surgeon's head, pushing him to the floor with a thud. The trolley rolled away, he could hear, but was quickly stopped and ransacked, if the metallic tinks were anything to go by.

On his hands and knees, he slowly looked up from beneath the coat ends, staring in horror at the silhouette of the creature that scampered away, just one piece of equipment in hand as he laughed, red eyes glowing keenly at the pathetic fat sap that had fallen so easily from over his shoulder.

The surgeon sighed once more when he saw what the tool was: Thanks to the shape of the blade, he could recognise it as being the favoured scalpel of the surgical team, the apparent 'Good Luck Chuck' of the whole set of surgical incisors. According to some trainee surgeons, it was thanks to the use of that particular scalpel that this surgeon hadn't yet killed a patient.

If that was indeed true – and only a poor surgeon like he would think so – then the poor boy was indeed destined for the Great Above. If he proceeded with the surgery now, then that would be asking for trouble, especially as he was already 10 minutes late for the darn thing.

Dr Morning may as well call to postpone it, until the skies were looking brighter, and not so much like death was on the horizon.

And that was the much awaited chapter over and done with. And, I must say that it took a little out of me, to say the least. But, I'll try to keep on top of it, now that I've continued again. Hopefully, no one is disappointed with the turn-out – though if you are, I'd totally understand, and you are more than welcome to review it.

So, the story will continue next chapter, with the arrival of L as you know (or, at least do know if you've read the first version of this Death god-forsaken fic). I've also been advised to take another good look at House's personality versus L's, so expect some better quality. If I take too long, feel free to take a look at how it first unfolded in the original version, if you've not read it, and review this, if you feel the need to.

Edit (29/09/11): Because I'm a stupid person who didn't think to do full research, I've have to change Dr Morning from an ophthalmologist to an optometrist. I also had to explain why a doctor could think to give an eye doctor a scalpel.

I suppose that all there's left to say is: Thank you for sticking with me this long, please R&R, and see you next time!

Thanks again,

Ruin Takada.