A/N: Here you are, another chapter of AoSI: R! I know this one is a long wait, but to tell the truth, I'm kind of working on spontaneity right now (the plans are very vague at around this part), but then again, I'm still with it enough to note the slight irony at the speech Light made in chapter 3 and the events of chapter 8. If you can spot it, you get a prize.
For the most part, I've been working on the new crossover that I mentioned in the Author's Note of last chapter. It's a crossover of Death Note and House of Night, and already it has eleven chapters! It's fully planned, too, so I know exactly how it's going to go (unlike with this one). While I'm gonna try and have that crossover (named 'NoHoper', if you want to read it) finished before the end of December, this one will take a little longer than that, sorry. What's more, I've been daydreaming too much about the sequel I'm planning, but that won't be around until I've finished all of my current fics, of course (sort of like a first generation and second generation thing).
I'm rambling again, so do just enjoy this new chapter of AoSI: R!
Chapter IX
Demons
September 8th 2006
Day 3
He hadn't noticed it until now, but he was… cold. Bitterly cold.
In and of itself, that should've been strange and alarming, but he couldn't bring himself to react or even show a reaction, not at all. He could barely move an inch; he could barely speak for soreness; his limbs weakened far beyond manageable capacity. There was much he wanted to do right now: Destroy the camera being thrust in his face; demand clothing; even scratch his nose, but he couldn't summon the strength for anything, practically imprisoned.
He was on that spiral again, the one that ended at the bottom of the abyss, the oubliette with a secret window open, letting in the light. He'd crawl through it, suddenly gaining the energy to run, energy he squandered on himself to bad ends.
But… he wasn't at that point yet. The hands were still passing him down to the bottom, squeezing at his neck, his wrists, only to hand him the tools of destruction. He'd tried to resist that first time, but no longer. Even if an effort was made to fight, it was amazing how no one noticed the change that would beset him, the way never thought to ask after him during those dark times…
…No, why think that? It's not surprising at all. His masks are usually so good, so deceptive, or were… until they shattered and broke.
Earlier… (Was it really yesterday? The days were beginning to overlap…) he was in a different kind of oubliette, one that spun out of control, where the energy stabbed into him and he wanted to reel in confusion. The darkness was still there, and the thoughts remained, spinning and weaving, crushing and flowing.
Why do you go on living like this? You're a nuisance to the world! What right have you to save it?
Go ahead, no one will mind. Mother… Father… This is destroying them; you can see it in their eyes. The way they look at you, the way they look at each other. If you don't, then they will, you know that for sure.
What's wrong? She won't know, she won't stop you; she won't even be there until it's too late to stop!
This world doesn't deserve you, doesn't deserve your intellect, your strength, your martyrdom.
Just do it already! It's quick, simple, clean! Even Father could do it, and he's already been crushed into a coward by the system!
Don't let them do that to you! You'll be next!
Do the world a favour.
"I want to die." He'd said. He'd struggled against the doctors while he'd yelled. "Stop it, I want to die! Now, let me die! Let me die!" It didn't even seem real that he'd said those things, when he looked back on them. The only real part was that clear feeling, that raw, true need to leave life and reality behind, to end it there and then. He'd felt ready to end it then, as ready as the voices insisted he was.
For a long time in that bathroom, he'd pressed his hands to the side of his head, letting the nails dig into his skull, feeling the excess energy shudder and quake his bones. He'd done it then, took the advice; drunk the bleach like it couldn't wait.
Now he was weak, too weak, robbed of so many things, robbed in so many ways. He'd been treated properly after the anagoritic discovery, and held up by a nurse and his crying mother as they'd scrubbed him down in the patient's shower, in a different bathroom. He didn't feel properly clean afterward but, like an invalid, he was taken back to his room, and he'd lain there ever since… catatonic… slow of thought… cold… unaware of his parents and sister who'd fussed over him, horrified, able to see every scar he'd hidden from them, every etching.
He never wanted this to happen, never wanted them to find out, to worry over him, never. But… now… there was nothing he could do now… they knew… they were crying, asking the same questions over and over again, Why? The scenes just blurred in front of his eyes, like they didn't want to keep still, eluding him of the full picture like selective nystagmus.
For all his wants, all the secrets… he didn't cry with them, wasn't moved by the tears. He knew it already, the sights he was used to. This feeling, he was used to it, too. This cold, this feeling of filthiness, this self-hate, this… boredom?
Boredom? Yes… was that why he was so cold?
That was a come down. But true.
The cold was inside, no matter how little he was wearing.
Cold.
"You idiot!" House's voice bellowed, echoing throughout the office and down the corridor through the open glass door. "I specifically told you to keep an eye on a dangerous, violent manic depressive, and what do you do? You take your eyes off him!"
Cameron shifted with discomfort in her seat. She didn't know whether it was because of the incident itself, or the fact that no one thought to tell him until nearly 24 hours after all the excitement, but House was pissed. Usually when disaster hits the patient, he has naught but a mild interest and a cutting comment to spare, but not this time: The time, he'd flipped… he'd flipped big time.
"Tell me, when you left him in a bathroom all by himself, did you really think that he wouldn't come to harm at all? Did you really think that a handful of genius brains, a little ingenuity and a whole lot of mania would get in the way of him dunking his own head down the toilet, or breathing water, or finding the Drano® under the sink?" He made a noise of disgust, refusing to look at her. "And I thought you were humanitarian!"
A silence grew and settled for a few minutes before anyone thought to respond. "What's wrong?" Chase asked, standing straight from his leaning position against the wall, "Light's safe, right? This was going to happen sooner or later, and it just so happened that he took the opportunity sooner than we expected. Now that he's done this, we know for sure the episodes aren't purely manic, but depressive as well. It means that if he has Schizoaffective Disorder, then he's most likely the bipolar type, and if he has Bipolar Disorder, then we can consider it a mixed affective episode, and-"
"Shut it, Crocodile Dundee! That's not the important thing right now!"
Chase scowled, saying nothing of the insult, "Then, what is? That he remains alive long enough for you to solve the case and screw what happens after? That you sooth your Rubik's Complex and get an ego stroke for a job well done? Is that it?"
"YES!"
The room fell silent once again as the echoes of his declaration bounced against the wall, all unsure of how to respond.
"My life is on the line with this deal." House continued. "Either I diagnose the kid in time and we all go home happy and alive, or I fail and I die. There is no Plan C – that wasn't part of the agreement. Besides, he tried to strangle me to death, and I'm not going to let that slide."
"So you don't care if he kills himself?" Cameron asked.
"Weren't you listening? Of course I do – I'm just not going to hug him to sleep after a long day of physical self-pity and deep bleeding, like you would!" He glared at her pointedly, probably imagining her doing that very thing.
"Speaking of…" began Foreman, "where's Light right now?" Cameron looked over to him as he spoke, noting the concern in his eyes. Call it woman's intuition, but she could understand why it would be him who would ask after the boy like that: After the Thorazine incident, after the shuffle it produced and the incident that followed, she was sure he was feeling responsible for it, sure that he'd try to make it up to Light, if he could.
"He's in his room right now, still recovering." Cameron answered. She'd seen him there not long before, and knew he'd still be weak after the come down from the mixed episode and the gastric lavage.
"Right," Foreman nodded. "I'll take over the watch." He made to leave, but Cameron stopped him before he could.
"In case you haven't heard," Cameron told him, speaking more to the whole room that Foreman exclusively, "I have reason to believe that the bleach incident isn't the first time Light's attempted suicide or resorted to self-harm." Foreman's eyes widened, his mouth opened slightly, as did the rest of the team. "He's covered in deep scars, all of them self-inflicted, no doubt. We need pictures of them to confirm. Can you do that?" She addressed the last part to Foreman alone, and he nodded, making a note to find Cuddy and borrow her expensive administrator-salary-bought camera.
With both instruction and admittance he left, unsure of what to make of the news. It was unsettling to say the least, but… he sighed. This ran further than any of them imagined. These scars were specified as being deep, probably deeper than typical self-inflicted scars. If these scars didn't just cover the wrists, if Light's parents and sister hadn't been aware of it before, then this had to have been going on for a much longer time than six months ago, longer by a whole year, at least.
Things just got complicated now.
The camera in hand, Foreman wasn't sure what to make of the scene in the boy's room when he got there. His parent were sitting by again, whispering under their breaths in Japanese to one another, their eyes bloodshot with tears and worry – something he'd seen before in the faces of every parent that passed through the hospital, through their team's care, and he'd seen that every day.
Sayu, the well-meaning sister, wasn't there. She'd probably gone to buy something to eat from the cafeteria, or perhaps to eat at whatever residence the family used when visitor times were over… the nearby hotel, maybe? Maybe she's gone to get her cap back from Ryuzaki or something… he thought, letting the idea drift away as quickly as it came.
Light, on the other hand, was a completely different story altogether.
He lay on his bed in an almost catatonic state, looking as though he'd barely moved since he was put there. He was half-naked and skinny, dressed only in boxer shorts, his hair damp and his limbs practically lolling on the bed, like there was no strength left to put them in a more comfortable position, no strength to even move, like atrophy. He looked asleep, but Foreman doubted he was at all; his eyes, bruised purple beneath them still, were half-closed, and the rise and fall of his chest was slightly too fast to signify even a deep sleep. His whole manner, in short, was like a lizard basking in the heat, trying to store energy and warm up his cold blood.
Foreman decidedly abandoned the metaphor – it made the boy sound like he was waiting for the next opportunity, for the next big bout of mania to try again, and for all he knew, he was.
Foreman walked to stand by the bed, not bothering to announce himself as he took the digital camera out of his lab coat pocket. Focusing harder on the patient, it was only then that it registered what he was presented with, what he should've noticed right away.
Scars. Pale, deep, atrophic scars. They were almost cosmetic in appearance, as though they'd been cut in purely for the voodoo patch work effect, like a tribe initiation in the form of scarification. They marked out patches like that, starting with the rough ring around the neck (or rather, the collar bone area) and made a slow way down the rest of the body, covering the chest, the arms, the torso, even the legs.
The strangest ones were the slightly lighter scar across the top of his left arm and, in particular, an almost vertical cut in the middle of one patch, lying calculatingly right over the heart. It didn't seem to have been part of the pattern, but rather etched in as an after-thought, like it was there on an impulse, maybe even for a purpose. They didn't seem to cover any of the inner-wrist area synonymous with self-harm, but he was sure that there would be some on his back, that they were there for the same reason…
That is, unless there was a gang involved, and there had been an initiation involved as well. This boy was more than intelligent enough to hide it, and he had the ability to hide everything else. It would explain his violent tendencies and skills, his hatred, maybe even his illness? Illnesses such as Schizoaffective Disorder and Bipolar Disorder were often the result or part of previous acts of substance abuse, especially where recreational drugs were concerned.
No… that theory couldn't fit before it was even thought up: Light was against any and all forms of criminality; he'd hate the thought of even being involved in a gang at all. For him, that would be reprehensible, and that was without involving narcotics.
As he placed the camera in front of his face, he began to work the zoom function, pausing only as Light's head jerked slightly, eyes now looking up at him. "I'm sorry, Light." Foreman whispered to him, reading a look of apprehension on his face, "these are for Dr House." While Light said nothing to him, merely giving another jerk to signify a nod, Foreman started snapping photographs, only pausing to take the first one again as red light marred the image.
His parents gone once again and his sister with them, the watch over Light resumed with Foreman at the helm, sitting in a corner of the room where he couldn't miss anything. For the longest time, Light didn't move from the first position, only ever moved manually during the photo shoot, when Foreman had needed to check his inner wrists and his back for any scarring. Currently, these photos were being printed off a spare printer by Dora, who was to send them up to House the minute they were done, and give the camera back to Cuddy as soon as she could afterwards.
By the turn of high noon, at 3pm, Light had recovered enough strength to sit himself up in bed, a blanket pulled up to his middle and a t-shirt spared to cover the scars, though the scars on the arms remained on view. He'd even begun reading a book, presumably having finished reading Carrie that first evening, before the late-night dosage of Thorazine.
Cameron was to come over soon, an idea cooked up before the start of the watch. She was to bring Dr Morning with her, to assist in the uncovering of a new theory. It had become something of a plan or a mission, but whether or not Light had discovered it yet was yet to be seen. He was intuitive, of course, but he was still weak, and he'd currently been spending his waking hours reading, keeping himself to himself for the most part. It he knew anything, then he wasn't going to let them know.
He was, of course, on a different side of the field to the one the doctors were currently playing on, and with a current team count of five against one (including Dr Morning and not counting third-party influences who all seemed to pick House's team, including Ryuzaki), Foreman had to assume that Light had some method he used during the playing of this particular game that kept him winning thus far (if it was to be believed that he really had played this before with other doctors at other hospitals).
Considering that this was the 52nd hospital involved in the treatment of Light, that Light had set the time limit for one week and there had so far been far less than 52 weeks of game play from first being hospitalised in Japan to right now in New Jersey, Foreman would also have to believe that, in other hospitals, there was a cut-off point around the middle of the week, where Light would – by some assumed breaking of a rule or something – claim victory and subsequently move on to the next institution.
If all this was true (and there was no actual reason to convince him it wasn't) then the cut-off point may come today or tomorrow, and until they knew what would trigger it – whether it was the breaking of an unknown rule or something else – they wouldn't know how to prevent it.
While he had mentioned the game theory to Cameron before, she had only this to say: "Light has some particularly strong feelings against House, and House is well-known in the medical community nation-wide for both his abilities and his flaws. If your Game Theory is right, then House must be the Ultimate Boss on the current level of game play. With all this in mind, do you really think he would miss out the opportunity to beat House properly and – as he put it – kill him, thus defeating the boss and gaining more Exp. points? Plus, if you add that to House's need to solve this case and beat Light himself, do you really think he'd let there even be a cut-off point? I wouldn't worry about it. Your 'cut-off point' may just be the fact that many hospitals refused to treat him, and put him in a strait jacket instead. If you've come up with this theory yourself, then you can bet that both House and Ryuzaki both considered it at some point and not told us yet, or have already refuted it. Believe me, we're safe."
Foreman wasn't sure whether or not that course of action was safe, all things considered. The logic was sound, however, and he'd have to suggest it to House before they try anything with it. In the meantime, all they can do is try and come up with the rules that Light is working with and prove them, or at least try and get them from the horse's mouth.
That theory had to wait, though, in favour of a different one, one that already had evidence to back it up – evidence that was literally etched into the patient's skin. So far, it only had a working title: 'Nozik's Theory of Experience'. (While neither Foreman nor Cameron particularly loved how the title implied that the theory was never theirs, it certainly had a good ring to it).
The theory stated that people who self-harmed had a reason for it, and therefore anyone who had done it must have either done it before, or be prepared to do it again, or both. How did it fit in with Light? With the idea that if a teenager decides to drink bleach for the sole purpose of killing himself, he must have had previous experiences with the feelings that caused it enough to have done it before, and not just with bleach. It also suggested that, in all likelihood, he would do it again.
All they needed now was the reasons, the feelings it caused, how many times before. That's why Cameron was joining them: If there was anyone who could get that information, information that not even his mother knew, it would be her. As for Dr Morning, he probably wanted to come to choke the neck of the kid who'd puked on him – either that or thank him for thusly preventing the death or another ten year old who would have otherwise died under Dr Morning's unsteady hand.
It was then at a little after 3pm that Cameron and Morning arrived, Cameron armed with a little A4-sized wipe board and one of House's many board markers, and a pad of paper with a pen. While Foreman wasn't sure if the bug was on their sleeves (he definitely knew there was one on his) or that women's intuition was at work here, he was sure she knew something he didn't, and it wouldn't be for the first time.
When she'd entered the room, she'd turned to the bed and smiled at Light, giving him a cheerful "Good afternoon." Light merely looked up from his book, returned the smile and nodded. Dr Morning, meanwhile, with Cuddy's camera in hand, took up a seat by the bed and didn't say anything, just proceeded to stare at him and watch as Light returned the stare, his eyes red as they probed him the same way they'd probed Foreman and Cameron. Morning smiled as the rubies glared in his direction, and took a picture there and then with the flash on before they could turn brown again. Foreman shuddered inwardly then, remembering that feeling of intrusion he'd felt that first time, the same one that he was learning to ignore.
Light blinked over and over, recovering from the sudden flash, his eyes brown once more. Although Cameron had given Morning a dirty look for that picture, she said nothing about it, and no one acknowledged it. "So, how are you feeling today, Light?" She asked, keeping her smiles natural and easy.
He shrugged his shoulders and returned to his book, but Morning snatched it away, turning over the corner of the latest page and keeping it in his hands where Light couldn't reach. He looked understandably mad about the filching and creasing, especially at the creasing, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned back to Cameron in time to hear another one of her questions.
"Are you enjoying your book?" Light rolled his eyes at her, then gave a decided nod. Cameron nodded back, then came to sit in the other chair by the bed. She waited for a proper reply, but when none came, she asked another question. "I might read it myself, when I have some spare time. What is it called? What's it about?" Light made to point to the book, as though to ask Morning to show her, for her to find out for herself, but Morning saw the gesture first. Taking hold of the book, he dropped it on the floor and kicked it, watching with interest as it slid under the bed and out of everyone's reach.
Light looked furious. He even bared his teeth at Morning, making his feelings as well-known as Morning did by smiling like it was a barrel of laughs to be had. Foreman could imagine what message Light was getting from Morning through the look. It was as though he said, "What are you going to do about it, huh? There's a crease on a page, and it's all dusty. You're going to enjoy stressing out over that, aren't you, Mr OCD?"
"I'm waiting to find out. I can't wait to read it when I do." Cameron reminded him, her tone genial but her meaning so clear: "What are you waiting for? You're taking your sweet time. What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"
Foreman didn't know what to say or do. This method was so unlike her to use, so unethical, much more suited to House. And – if he was right about the situation – very, very sick.
"You heard the nice doctor." Morning said, finally opening his mouth. He had a Southern accent, like he'd grown up with Tom Robinson on the outskirts of Maycomb, and a deep, steady tone. "Tell her about your book. What's it called? Who are the main characters? What's the genre?" Light's glare had deepened, and he was all but growling at him, his body tense with anger.
"What's wrong?" Cameron asked innocently, "I'm just trying to make conversation. If you want to keep your book secret then I won't ask." She gave a sigh, "You know, I prefer talking to people who talk back."
"You're very rude!" Morning exclaimed, "She's only trying to be nice! You've hurt her feelings, too! Can't you speak English?"
It was like parents talking to a young child like he was simple. It was taunting, at the very least.
"How about if I go and tell your mother what an awful, rotten little boy she dragged up?" Cameron asked. It was as though her entire personality had changed, as though she was speaking to House and not a patient. "Oh dear, so violent and anti-social – I bet she'll be glad to know she's brought up a criminal!"
That did it. He snapped, yelling at her and Morning in a short string of incoherent growls. It didn't last long, and he began to cough, a hand over his mouth and the other at his throat. His eyes were tearing up, and Cameron began to shush him. "It's okay," she said, her natural warmth back where it belonged, "don't strain yourself like that. Open your mouth." He did on command, and she continued talking as she examined inside his mouth. "I'm very sorry we had to do that. We had to know if there was any lasting damage. I knew you wouldn't talk to us right away, if you could, but we needed to know quickly, and it depended on you being distracted enough not to try and work out what we were thinking, otherwise you might never have tried to talk. You'd have had us talking like that for a while if you knew why we were provoking you."
Cameron was right: He hadn't seen Light's eyes go red once during the actual spiel – he'd been provoked the entire time, definitely too distracted for it. The look on Light's face showed he'd realised it too, revealing a sort of amazement at this outsmarting from doctors. That must have been embarrassing.
"Yes," Cameron said, "there's definitely been some damage. While it's not as bad as it could have been, it'll no less be painful to talk for a while." Light nodded in agreement as she allowed him to close his mouth. "That's why we've brought these for you." She pointed to the wipe board, paper and pens lying on the corner of the bed, then handed him the wipe board and the marker. "I've had to give you one of Dr House's markers. He'll miss it, but there weren't any other on hand."
Taking it in, Light bent his head as he began to write on the A4-sized board. What resulted when he straightened up and showed everyone the contents was a single word written in a neat script in black. Good.
Foreman shuffled his chair closer to sit by the bed beside Cameron, as she read out the word for the benefit of the bug in her sleeve and the feed to House and Ryuzaki's computers, suppressing a laugh. If he was asked to write a lot, then he would have to write smaller than he usually did, and if Foreman wanted to communicate properly with him, then getting close enough to see would be best.
With a paper napkin handed to him by Cameron, he rubbed out the words and began writing again. Soon the message came back as I suppose you want to ask me some questions now, right?
"Yes, and I'll ask the first one, if no one minds." Answered Cameron. Giving a friendly smile, she went on, "What do you think of Dr House?"
Light returned the smile as he wrote; I think he's more concerned about 'solving' me that helping me get well. He's well-respected, but only because people are scared to be near him. A man who rules with fear rather than understanding shouldn't be allowed such a high position of power in a hospital.
Cameron read it out, then asked again, "I mean, what do you think of him personally?"
Light rubbed out, and wrote. His being alive is a problem. He's the best sacrifice for when I succeed. I'm sure you'll all agree when the most notorious troublemaker is removed.
"And what then?" Foreman asked, "What happens when you take your prize and leave again?"
We start again somewhere else. If the best diagnostician in the field can do nothing, then I'll have to go somewhere else.
"But if House is the best, as you've just said," answered Cameron, "and you, well…" her words drifted off.
Kill him?
Cameron read it out, then continued, "Yes, kill him. What will you do when you've thrown away what is probably the only chance you have at getting well? What's the point of starting again somewhere else when your best and only chance is here?"
I hadn't thought of it like that. I suppose I'll bring Kira back to the people, either that or give myself up. I wouldn't want to do that, whether that meant jail or death, but what choice do I have?
"You have every choice," said Morning. "If you just let them treat you, then you can get well. With brains like yours, you could make up for all this yourself. You could do good another way."
Cameron nodded in approval, "You should never choose to give up." Foreman wasn't sure why she answered like that. He'd just practically confessed to considering killing himself outright, and yet she was going for a 'pro-life/pro-choice' speech.
Foreman let himself wear a scowl. "What I want to know is if you plan to give us the full seven days deadline to treat you. You've been in about 52 hospitals, including this one, over the last 6 months or so. Presuming you've offered the deal to every institution so far, and each one has accepted, a lot of the other hospitals haven't had the full seven days. Why is that? Did you enforce a cut-off point on them?"
Light was already writing by the end of the question, and already had an answer, which Cameron read out. What I plan and whether I give you the full seven days is my business and mine alone. Not every hospital accepted – they didn't want to bargain with a doctor's life as you do, and so they were treated automatically as the losing party. You are right about the 'cut-off point', but whether I enforce it, and when is my business. You could say that I know all the rules and I hold all the cards.
"If you know all of these rules," replied Foreman, "will you ever tell them to us? Why don't we know them?"
I usually play with between three to five on the opposing team, and only ever one on my team. Do you really expect me to give away the only advantage I have against you?
Exactly as he thought: Light had the rulebook, but he wasn't going to let them see it. What was more, he's always punished the doctors regardless of whether they know the rules or not. It was like looking at society from a Marxist conflict view point – The lower/losing class made up the majority, and it was the winning minority who kept them from acting against the social structure regardless of whether they were aware of it or not. The lower class were often poorly educated for this to work – the less they knew, the less they could do to resist it. The lower class would do manufacturing/slave work for the higher class for slave wages, and they couldn't do a thing about it, even when it cost them lives.
On one hand, this was a sick game played by a twisted mind; on the other, a cruel lesson about the great many faults of the current society, a lesson demonstrating why the world needs Kira.
"Is there anything you can tell us?" Cameron asked. "Anything to look out for?"
Why should I tell you anything? Strictly speaking, the work of doctors is to treat and diagnose, not play with wipe boards.
"Well, if you want it that way, we can take it away and see how you lord it over us without it." Morning growled, and he made to take the wipe board away, but Light clutched it to him, whispering 'no' as loudly as he could. He bared his teeth in something of a snarl at Morning, while the doctor just smiled back, like he didn't take it that seriously. Had Foreman not known that Morning was married and had children of his own, he would have wondered how and why he handled children and teenagers the way he did.
The wipe board fully in his possession, Light wrote another message. I can't tell you how many days you have, strictly speaking. That's against the rules as well.
You keep talking about the rules, but who made them?" Cameron asked. "Did you make them all yourself, or…?" Foreman looked at her in mild shock. He didn't need her to finish the sentence for him to get what she was getting at.
Light just stared at her in a look akin to horror. His eyes glowed red again, but his expression remained the same, and his eyes dimmed back to brown. Obviously, he didn't need telling either.
What do you mean by that? Came the message. It had been written quickly, but hesitantly. He was starting to panic over it. He didn't know they knew, at least, not until now, and that was the scary part.
Cameron raised her eyebrows. "You know what I mean." Light flinched, as though he'd been slapped, looking away from her to the side, avoiding her eyes.
A pause, his head down, then he wrote, You mean Ryuk.
"Yes." Cameron said. "That's exactly who I mean."
How do you know him?
"We know him from you." Supplied Foreman, "And Ryuk's a him? A man?"
He turned to face Foreman now, shocked yet more. When did I tell you anything about that?
"When you tried to kill Dr House on day 1, September the 6th. You mentioned a Ryuk, and we need to know who he is. This is important."
His head cocked slightly, and his eyes bored into him, looking right past him, not even looking back at his wipe board as he wrote down the reply. That isn't allowed. He won't allow it. I won't allow it.
"Won't you?" Cameron asked. "You can't tell us anything about him at all? Who he is? Where he came from? Anything like that?" Light kept his eyes on a point behind them, mouthing words that none of them could work out.
Pass me the pen and paper, please? Once read out, Cameron nodded and passed the pad of paper to him, taking the lid off the biro and handing that to him with the lid on the end. Without another word, still staring off into the distance, he began to draw. Foreman didn't know what to think, and the amazed looks on Cameron and Morning's faces told him they didn't either as they all watched him sketch out a shape on the paper, interspersing it with various shapes and lines, shading and cross-hatching.
The pen moved quickly, and Light only ever looked at the paper once or twice, keeping his eyes on the distant point. As it began to take shape before their eyes, he bent his knees up to rest the pad on his lap, bending his head over as he finished it out of their view, his fringe blocking out the paper from them.
When he was finally finished, and he'd unbent his head to sign and title the biro sketch, the whole process had only taken a matter of minutes. Neatly ripping the page off the pad, he handed it to Cameron face down. She made to look at it, as did Foreman and Morning, but he shook his head, and whispered 'no'.
Look at it later. He wrote on the wipe board. It's best if you wait to view it with Drs Chase and House.
Cameron put it to one side face down, ignoring the shadows of the pen showing through. Foreman couldn't believe how easy it had been to get that information out of him, that he had to wonder if they could do that again with much ease.
"Did Ryuk…" Cameron began, pausing to think through her words, "Was he the reason for the scars?"
I don't understand what you mean by that. He was there when no one else was, but he's lax. He didn't make me do anything – he couldn't be bothered to.
"Then what did? Did he encourage you to do anything, suggest you do anything?"
Light shook his head. I think of him as a spectator.
Moring nodded. "I see. So he was like, say… an imaginary friend, then."
No. Your idea of 'friend' is different to the way I'd describe him.
"I understand." Morning replied. "My eldest daughter had an imaginary friend for a long time, but if she ever talked of it, she described her imaginary friend as something of a rival. I suppose you could say she didn't have any intellectual competition at school, so she created some for herself. Have you ever found that, Light? That you never had worthy competition?"
Light had to pause for that one as he thought. The reply came a minute later in silence. Always.
"Is that why Ryuk exists? As competition?" Light shook his head vigorously, his eyebrows raised.
Of course not! That would be irrational.
"Then why? When did he first appear?" Cameron asked.
About a year or so ago, perhaps more.
"Did that event coincide with any others?"
It coincided with a lot of things, but none of which my parents would know of – this never concerned them.
"What about Kira?" She asked, "Wasn't he caught just over a year ago?"
Yes, you're right. Ryuk appeared at around the time Kira was caught. What I meant what that neither of my parents noticed any change with me that would coincide with anything. Concerning their son, they're very unobservant.
"Did they neglect you?" Morning asked.
Only in a few forms, I suppose. I didn't give them trouble, and I was never the type to do so, in their opinion, so they didn't observe me as they would Sayu, who occasionally faked illness or handed homework in late. She took a lot of the pressure away from me without knowing it.
"Was that why you cut yourself?" Foreman asked. Light turned his head to him, glaring angrily, probing him with his eyes. The other doctors glared too, Morning angry, Cameron horrified. Foreman sighed. He was tired of this pussy-footing around the subject, not even sure why they were treating it as such a taboo subject. He could understand that it was a sensitive subject, of course, but Light was a big boy now, nearly 18 years old – practically a man already. If they didn't think he could take it, then he never would himself.
His hands were shaky as he wrote; forming barely legible words that Cameron stumbled over to read. Is that what everyone wants to know about? Why I drunk the bleach, why I cut myself? Is that really all everyone wants to know about? Light's breathing was noticeably faster, and Foreman stood up, anticipating a manic episode, maybe even a panic attack.
It didn't come to that. Light took a deep breath, and another one, willing himself to calm. He put his head in his free hand, and stayed like that in an almost catatonic state. It was a while before he wrote again, holding the board in front of his face to hide the tooth-bared grimace. I will tell you all you need to know. Cameron can stay with me, and Dr Morning also – they can interrogate me if they wish, while I write down your blessèd information to record in your blessèd case. In return, Dr Foreman must leave, for everyone's sake and mine. If he stays any longer, I will ask for his blood also.
Pulling his chair back, Foreman complied. Picking up the drawing, not even daring to look, he left the room with it, planning to let House see it first. He would have argued against the judgement. But that wouldn't help anyone, especially not Light.
He was offering information, and he'd gladly leave if that was the price.
The whole conversation with Light had been surreal, of course. Cameron hated that she'd had to goad him on and wind him up as she did, hated that she'd resorted to some of House's methods like that. It was awful for her, sick even, but it had gotten results fast. What was more; it had the double-effect of preventing him from using that clairvoyance of his to work out what they were doing. Had he worked it out, he would've refused to talk, no doubt, refused to divulge as he eventually had done.
He had indeed divulged a lot. For a full hour after Foreman had left, she and Dr Morning had asked questions, watching as Light wrote the answers down on the paper, pausing every now and again when he struggled to find an appropriate English word, or when translating in his head was particularly taxing at points – he was still weak after the ordeal, after all, not yet up to his full powers. To that end, there were occasional notes written on the sides in Japanese, the writing tiny but full-formed symbols in miniature.
For about ten minutes or so after the interrogation, Cameron had gone into a janitor's closet to sit on an upturned bucket while she read it out to the bug in her sleeve; sure that either House or Ryuzaki would be on the other end to hear it. She knew that, while they now had a written version of those events, hearing it spoken out loud would no doubt help in their analysis.
So far, the Game Theory was correct, having been proved without any need for the lab rat to hear of its existence. As for the Nozik's Theory of Experience, she'd decided to abandon it: It only worked out when one ignored the fact that depression could generally be caused by a chemical imbalance, and in Light's case, well… it just didn't fit. While it explained the multiple scarring, the fact that Light had cut himself to such an extensive point that the mind could only boggle at the 'why', it didn't explain the others, not really. Not the intended stab, not the truck, not even the bleach.
Dr Morning had stayed the entire time to listen to the story, asking questions along with Cameron. He could barely remember another time besides the births of his children when he was so excited and yet so full of fear, on the edge of his seat waiting for the climax, and yet willing to run from it.
That Light Yagami… He was really one of a kind. Remorseful, unapologetic, suicidal, clinging to life. He was so many things, and such a contradiction at the best of times. He'd had a secret that he wanted to remain secret, and yet he wished someone would find out before it got too far.
All in all, there was just one thing that agreed: He was dangerous. He was too unstable to be in the presence of anyone, but if left completely alone, away from everyone and anyone that he could possibly hurt, he'd just do sevenfold back onto himself. Had he ever gone to Japan, ever been there when that boy was born, knowing what he knew now, he would've been tempted to strangle the devil babe there and then, or at least advise his mother and father on having him committed to a good loony bin before he turned 16 years old. Heck, even sending him in for counselling aged 5 years old would've made a vast difference.
Thankfully, he was Dr Beyondormason Morning, OD, not some drugged-up creep like House. He had a family he loved dearly, and love to spare for anyone and everyone else, even creeps. He wasn't empty or fearful, just a little bit bitter at times. Dear Lord, he really should have gone back to Alabama – at least then he wouldn't have ended up in the presence of a crazy teenager and with shoes that still smelled like vomit.
At least he wouldn't have ended up in the presence of the one person who could further his name and career in Paranormal Science, whose own paranormality came slap-bang into the field of ophthalmology (his own field), who could still kill him as he could kill anyone else (he was willing to bet). He was so tempted to study the boy when the time came he was sane enough to allow it, even though that would really be a bad idea.
For him to do a continuous study on Light, something definitive that could end up in the science journals, the boy would have to be rid of his will to kill. He would have to be willing to work with him – heck, he knew enough now about that boy's brains to know that he could further that research himself in ways he couldn't dream of after a good day at work. He would also have to have the permission of the boy's parents. He would have to have the permission of his wonderful wife to bring him into their home (which he would have to do to get enough research data to make a case on).
That was the point where it fell down, if ever there was a point. She would never let that boy within even a twenty foot radius of their children, any of their children – even their grownup daughter who lived in Chicago, who had once dated a champion kick-boxer and was still friends with of them, who was the safest of any of them from that boy. Even so, he wouldn't let the boy near any of his family as well, and he was the one most tempted to do it.
If they were willing to stay with his parents for a while in Alabama while he stayed here and studied the boy, it would be fine. That way, none of them could get hurt. That way, the boy was less likely to hurt himself in the process, and he needed the boy alive if his research was to go far at all, if he was to prove the validity of Paranormal Science just once, and not get laughed out of every place that ever heard the words pass his lips – he even got laughed at in Princeton-Plainsboro if he mentioned it just once, especially by Dr House, who refused to believe in anything but the gods of Enlightenment and Rational Thought ('may they rest in the Eternal Home of Glasgow', as House'd usually follow those statements up).
It was really so tempting. He even prescribed the boy sedatives after the talk, and watched as their bitter taste made Light nearly gag as he motioned for a drink of something stronger than water, and wash the taste away with some orange juice provided by Cameron. If he was to be able to study the boy, then he'd need sedatives to keep everyone safe – and with those sedatives, with their fast-acting properties, the world would be safe, and so would the boy.
A/N: There, an extra-long chapter 9. For those of you who did spot any odd references to things, I apologise, and for those of you who like that kind of thing, then you'll be pleased to know that this chapter contained the second reference to the 80s film 'Labyrinth' (that starred David Bowie, the king of the titular maze). It's awful I know, but I really couldn't help it. The first one is contained within a previous chapter, and if you can spot it, you get a prize.
I suppose now you understand why I didn't give the Japanese translation at the end of the last chapter. As for the chapter title, this one was the hardest for me to find, because I didn't know what it was going to be until the last moment. I had to listen to so much Avenged Sevenfold it was unfunny. Thankfully, I found a few more chapter titles for later chapters, so I'm happy. I've even gotten on to planning some things for the sequel and a prequel fic, thanks to listening to Black Veil Brides and Breaking Benjamin rather than Avenged Sevenfold – and yes, you can hold me to that.
Meanwhile, the writing of this chapter has coincided somewhat with a strange time, where the people I know have unwittingly helped me think about some of the more serious aspects of this fic, about how it should go and end. While I'm glad for their help, I can't help but feel awful about the circumstances involved, especially as I'd think of this story during their talks of these circumstances. This, along with a rude letter from a certain site have made me rethink myself in a way that should have been more unpleasant, but wasn't. This is probably more info from me than you're used to, but I'll let you have it anyways, because you deserve it.
Just to alert you, I'm wanting to do some fan art for this fic and others, so if you want to do some for this yourself, you can alert me if you like, but if you just draw it and put it up on a site like deviantART, then give me a link and a note saying which fic and chapter the image is from, I'll put that up on my profile so everyone knows about it. If, in the comment/review you write of your fan art, you write that it's inspired by this fic and who the fic is by (i.e. me), that would be brilliant. I'm also thinking of setting up a TV Tropes page, so if you want to help, tell me and we'll get a-going on it.
Thank you, please R&R, and please stay tuned for chapter 10!
