BETWEEN THE BLACK AND WHITE: Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I'm only a fan.

Palette Splattered


"He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument."
-William Shakespeare

Ding-dong!

L was a habitually light sleeper, a fact which was possibly either a direct result of his restless occupation or the trait that had made him so successful at said occupation in the first place. Though his nature was influenced greatly by the vast amount of sugar and caffeine he consumed regularly, there were some people in the world that simply required minimal sleep and L Lawliet was one of them. A doctor of his younger days described his condition accurately as severe insomnia, but that was a label that the detective himself disliked due to the negative connotations. After all, his ability to function at a high cognitive level for long periods at a time was nothing less than a benefit for solving cases.

Also, hearing the doorbell for room service.

Glancing at the clock on his computer, L read the time as 7:15 in the morning. He had called in to the kitchen down at the base of the building about sixteen minutes ago, which was fine but left the cook's time-efficiency definite room to improve. L sighed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and peeling himself off of the armchair in the parlor that he had been stationed on for his brief recess.

As he stood up and hunched forward, he turned his eyes slightly for any evidence of Light, though L already knew well that Light was in his room and probably asleep at this hour. The adolescent had taken to avoiding him again, which was just fine since L had better things to do than waste time quarreling. It was bothersome, and L found his head hurting enough from strain without having his hot-tempered housemate punching it.

He punched in the password at the thick metal door that served as a highly secured exit to this particular floor, and leaned forward with his head to let the scanner examine his retina. With identity confirmed, the door unlocked and L shoved through it to where there was an elevator that serviced only the top floors of the building that L used and an emergency staircase. He opted for the elevator, which took him down to the 50th floor, the lowest in his block and, for appearances, a normal looking, if richly furnished, apartment.

Granted, he surmised as he made his way to the main door where the room service awaited, Light didn't exactly have a bad reason to be angry. L recognized that there was some wisdom in Quillsh Wammy's advice to keep boundaries and not break them. Of course, L had (somewhat) intended to keep boundaries back during the investigation when he held Light as a suspect, but those intentions were worn very thin when L allowed himself to become emotionally involved in the Kira case – and in Light.

Besides, it wasn't like Light wasn't emotionally involved, too. If anything, the younger male was more emotionally involved than he himself was. If Light had actually wanted to keep boundaries with L then he wouldn't be jumping at opportunities to fight or drop snide insults. Unhappy with his situation or not, if Light had wanted he would devise an act and keep it up with determination until L trusted him (a rare chance but something to shoot for nonetheless), while secretly plotting some grand escape; essentially, totally detaching himself from personal feelings. Light knew that he couldn't manipulate L, at least not like he manipulated everyone else, and that had him seething when he wasn't moping about.

The more the days went by, the more complacent Light would become – until he realized that he was getting complacent, in which case he would do what he could to piss off L just to prove he was still Kira. Ironically, L thought while unbarring the lock and opening the door, there was a good chance that Light relished those fights. L didn't doubt for a moment that Light wanted revenge at every second that went by, not only for L's victory but for the perceived insult of, well...

L decided not to tell Wammy, upon the man's return from Germany, that he kissed Light those few days ago. There was a 99 percent, no, make that a flat-out 100 percent chance that he would not be thrilled. He had never been pleased that the pair had been close during the investigation, though he kept his peace and understood the complexity of the circumstances, but whereas the old man had admitted to being fond of the Yagami boy back then (even to the point of suggesting that Light be given a position in open communication with Watari and L at Interpol, when he finished college and joined the Japanese police) now he was quick to point out reasons why he was better off hanged and done with.

"Mr. Howard!" the room service, an attractive blonde girl named Sally greeted with vigor. Officially, L's alias here was of a mysterious but highly successful novel writer who used some pen name, identified by no one, on his published works. That did well to explain why 'James Howard' was so rich and liked to keep to himself, and, conveniently enough, no one questioned his peculiar habit of ordering the entirety of the dessert menu almost daily, because authors apparently were naturally quirky. Due to his alleged fame, the room service workers had a habit of jumping at the chance to deliver his orders, no matter what the hour.

"Good morning, Sally," L said with a polite smile. "How are you?"

"I'm fabulous!" she chirped, twisting a yellow curl in her painted fingernail. "How is your next novel coming? And... what happened to your face?"

Sally looked alarmed as well as eager to keep the conversation going, and L frowned. He preferred Watari here if for no other reason than to take care of this sort of thing, but he supposed that his partner was more useful in Berlin at the moment. L gave some excuse about tripping down the stairs, something any respectable detective would laugh at, but the lame excuse appeared to appease the girl. He took the cart, which was filled with a rainbow of gelatins, pies, cakes and cheap but well sugared American candy, and rolled it back up the private elevator.

Speaking of Wammy, L decided to get an update, so he wheeled the dessert cart into his computer room and called for direct connection.

Wammy answered quickly, which meant that he wasn't busy. A direct visual connection was opened, but only one-way – L preferred to see people when he spoke to them, but he didn't like to reciprocate the privilege. They could never be too cautious, especially with so many government officials around Watari, and the last thing L wanted was his face exposed to Interpol.

"There is very little to direct here, and it's nothing that the German government can't handle itself," Wammy reported simply, sitting at a desk in an unbothered hotel room. "There's public distress over the attack, obviously, but I myself cannot do anything to remedy that besides vow that L will get to the bottom of it and see any involved perpetrators punished."

"Yes, I know," L agreed, helping himself to strawberry-swirl cheesecake with a small fork. "I was hoping that something would turn up if you stayed, since apparently Goddard was looking for you."

"I'm not easy to find even when Interpol knows my location," Wammy pointed out truthfully.

"I didn't expect another round of terrorists to go after you, I was merely hoping that they would do something and then you could be there to overlook the action." L glowered, chewing his cake noisily and hunching forward to the monitor all the more. "But that's fine. We have a possible lead in America, since there's a 70 percent chance that our terrorists uncovered the Interpol meeting's date and location through torturing police chief George Fletcher to death."

"His murderers weren't German."

"I know that."

L hadn't meant to come across sounding so annoyed, and in truth he really didn't have a good reason to snap at his Watari. It was bothersome, yes, that L was chasing a case that lacked any kind of direction – it could be an isolated incident or it could be a conspiracy, and if the latter were true than he wanted to be assertive in investigation as early as possible. But that wasn't really it, and both he and Wammy knew it.

Wammy sighed, and though he never lost his dignified airs of an English gentleman, L knew when the man had had enough. "Where is your guest?" He avoided saying either "Light Yagami" or "Kira" in the off chance that someone was spying on him, but more than anything he emphasized the noun of choice with mildly concealed displeasure: a mockery more to L, really, than to Light himself.

"Please mind your own business," L growled. "And I'll take care of mine."

"Then take care of it," he commanded firmly, sensing civil unrest in a place beyond Berlin. "Or when I return, I will."

Sometimes that man seemed to forget that L wasn't eleven years old anymore, and L didn't appreciate the tone that could easily have said something along the lines of 'you better take out the trash or God help me when I get back!' Which, in L's youth, had always turned into the 'God help me' bit because he had never done his chores at Wammy's House, but 'God' ended up being the headmaster Roger Ruvie, who decided that L's time was better spent doing... whatever it was that L did on his own, since Roger couldn't keep up with L but was assured his activities were probably productive, if nothing else. (L was 95 percent certain that Wammy had never forgiven Roger for the attitude that L, as a result, had a tendency to cop, but quite frankly he never had a great respect for Roger either.)

L decided to change the subject to prove he didn't care what Wammy was threatening. "Have the police found any clues in the rubble?"

"I'll contact you the moment they do," he answered. "There's a lot of rubble to be sorted, after all, and they are still prioritizing identifying the victims for grieving families. And once that is done, what do you expect to find?"

"I'd like pieces of the explosives so that we can identify where Goddard acquired it from." L finished off the breakfast cheesecake, and unsatisfied with the slim serving, he stood up to find himself another piece. "But if Goddard was always planning on committing suicide and setting off the bomb no matter what we did, then I have a feeling that there must be a clue inside and intact."

"Very well. I'm going to go relay that to the Head of Inspection here. Oh, and L?"

"Yes?"

"Take care of it."

"The Youth gets together the materials to build a bridge to the moon,
Or perchance a palace or temple on earth,
But alas, at length, the middle aged man concludes to build a wood shed with the materials."
-Henry David Thoreau

"You know, Ryuk, if the deal was for your wings rather than your eyes, I might have actually considered giving you half my lifespan."

"Eh? You want wings?"

"To have wings and fly at will through the skies...It's godlike, isn't it? It's a dream human beings have had since antiquity."

"But Light, if you sprouted wings and started flying around, people would notice you. The cops would catch you just for that."

"Ha, ha... I was only kidding, Ryuk."

The door to the balcony had been left unlocked, and Light pressed open the bullet-proof glass doors with his fingertips. The wind was whispering ice, and the temperature was as frigid as it always seemed to be here. Colder than Tokyo had ever been, with its pale snows that blended into the colorless sky. Crystals of white had blown onto the floor of the balcony, and it burnt cold at Light's bare feet. At least, that must have been the case, for rationality would decree. But Light was distracted, lost in the blitzkrieg of his mind.

What a curious, almost inconceivable thought it was. The memory of the Shinigami that had been his strictly neutral but mutually entertaining companion felt almost like something he had dreamed, some twisted fantasy where heroes sacrificed and villains schemed and magic blurred the walls of logic. All of the memories were losing their vividness, and to think. The fate of the world had once been in the palm of his hand. The persona had been feared and loved. Kira reigned over the world. Kira was the world.

Kira was the world to Light.

If only Ryuk had been able to give his feathery Shinigami wings after all. Light closed his eyes, leaning his upper body over the edge of the balustrade, wondering what Ryuk felt every time he sprouted them from his back. Convenient, how precisely convenient it would be to take a leap into the sky and escape – but to what? To where? Wings weren't going to take him to vengeance, in reality he didn't have a place to go, in the air and on the earth both.

After spending enough time locked up and cut off from the world, it's easy to get lost.

"But you know, if I did start making those kinds of deals with you, I'd end up becoming a real Shinigami. That'd be pretty interesting."

"Don't worry, Light. Even without doing that, I'd say you make a fine Shinigami."

"Hm... from what you've told me, I sure seem to be working a lot harder than the other Shinigami from your world... but don't get me wrong. I am not like you."

"...Oh?"

"I'm using the Death Note as a human being, and for human beings!"

Light should have died. He wasn't an idiot, in fact, he had been more than aware of the possible consequences of his actions. He did not desire death, just like he never desired imprisonment, but it had been such an easy risk to take when he vowed to reign as Kira in the security of his bedroom. A risk but a necessity, only dangerous if he failed. Now, by some mystery of circumstance and L's own agenda, he had avoided the death penalty. But everything that he had spent his life striving for was confiscated and he lived in limbo.

The life he had lived and the wings that had carried him were gone. All that was left were memories and L, a hatred and a feeble hope. The only other thing was the sickened churn of his stomach, a feeling not unlike being heartbroken. It was the genuine sadness he felt for himself, for L, for Kira and for everything that he would never have again.

But today was going to be the last day that he mourned himself.

A day like today called for a strict obligation that he meant to uphold – the marker for the end of living in the past, and looking with both eyes straight ahead. He could go on feeling sorry for himself for forever and accomplish nothing. If the things that he held dear were gone, so be it, there was no point any longer in wishing that things had worked out differently. He had grieved, and though it might never be enough, he had to let go and start over.

It was the only sort of respect he was able to pay himself on his February 28.

His 19th birthday.

"Light-kun?"

He didn't glance back to meet L who was approaching from behind. Light had wanted some time alone to silently celebrate his birthday, but though the pair had hardly exchanged words over the previous few days, L certainly had made a habit of messing up Light's plans.

"Yes?" Light responded after a moment.

There was a pause, and a ruffling sound through the wind. "Why don't you come inside? You'll catch a cold out here."

That didn't sound like a command, and L would have been more blunt if he were trying to indicate that there was work to be done. So Light continued to watch the wintry city below, suppressing a shiver.

Light was fairly confident in his ability to quite literally give the cold shoulder and indicate that he wanted someone to go away without even uttering a word. He was also fairly confident that the smug bastard did indeed get the message, but didn't actually care. If L was planning on repeating what happened the last time they were on the balcony together... The deliberate insult began to breed a wrath inside of him, and though he had wanted to keep to himself on his birthday, L had an extraordinary tendency to make Light rather yell at him or punch him or both. Probably both.

But before he could even turn around, there was suddenly a weight on Light's back. It startled him out of his rage and he shifted around to see L now standing right by him. The detective had a thick black blanket in his outstretched arms, and was draping it over Light's shoulders.

"What are you doing?" Light demanded before he could stop himself, words coming out in an accusation instinctively.

L's face was blank as he adjusted the blanket, wrapping the edge around Light's neck and letting the rest fall, cloaking him in a sheet of warmth against the cold. The older man held the sides of the cloth together in the front at Light's chest. "Can you take this?" he asked.

Rendered obedient because of surprise, skepticism and comfort all alike, Light took the ends of the covering in his own hands. He shifted slightly to better face L, but L was no longer facing him anyway. The detective had his hands in his pockets and hunched over the balustrade. He wasn't looking at the city, however, his wide eyes were too glazed to have been focused on anything. If it was something, then L seemed to be watching the entirety of the visible sky.

It was still for awhile, and though they weren't speaking, Light was more than aware of L's presence beside him. He shifted his own feet to prevent them from going numb, but L was totally motionless. Even though he only wore a loose pair of jeans and white shirt, L looked as though he had developed some kind of immunity to cold or discomfort. Perhaps that was what happened, when one lived his life in solitude.

"I understand," L finally stated.

"...Huh?" Light woke from his contemplations and turned to L with uncertainty.

"It's only natural." Snowflakes were falling in the detective's dark hair as he leaned into the sky, and they glistened with the same melancholy that seemed written into his listless eyes. "I have a lot to be blamed for and I deserve that. So do you."

There was a pause, but not for wait of an answer – momentarily, L seemed lost in whatever he was thinking.

"Things might have happened differently. The possibilities are creative, but we would have inevitably parted ways. Sooner, or maybe later, you yourself would have been no more no matter what the outcome..." The detective's voice grew fainter, almost inaudible, and Light wasn't entirely certain that L's words were directed at him. "It would be sad, wouldn't it."

"You have nothing to be sad about," Light finally said.

"I'm sorry." The words came suddenly, softly, not as an action but as L's description of a feeling. "It was the only compromise that I was able to make."

The way that the sentence dropped off left the implication that L wanted to say more but let it end.

Light's eyes drifted from L's face and to the pillar behind him. He was pardoned from awkwardly trying to piece together a response when L turned back to the door.

"Let's go inside. It's cold, isn't it?"

"We turn not older with years, but newer every day."
-Emily Dickinson

Toes could to numb if kept cold long enough, and during the balcony excursion Light's feet had eventually yielded to apathy. But, oddly enough, when they were given mercy as Light stepped inside the parlor against the relative warmth of the wooden floors, they burnt from chill like embers. Hissing under his breath, he stopped paying attention to L in favor of planting himself on one of the parlor's couches and rubbing his feet with his hands to warm them again. Redeeming them from the ice they had basked in was painful, but his thoughts proceeded to steal his attention away.

"Light-kun, take this."

Light raised his eyes just in time to see a glint of gold sail through the air in his direction. Instinctively, he raised his hands to catch whatever it was before it collided with his face. When the threat was neutralized he snapped his gaze toward L, who was perched comfortably on the maroon cushions of the couch facing him several feet away.

With a curled knuckle loosely nested between his lips, L's face was half concealed by his own hand. His head sat between his knees and he hunched over. The dark eyes watched him impassively through a covering of unkept black hair. It was difficult to discern exactly what was on L's mind, in fact, he seemed in a pensive trance similar to Light himself.

Light looked down at the metal object resting in his fingers. It was a wristwatch, the deep color of sun-ripen gold. The band coiled elegantly with rectangular brackets, each side meeting in the center where the watch piece connected. Hardened glass lay over engraved roman numerals encircled the center, and three thin needles ticked proudly for time keeping. Inside the outer ring were smaller rings, keeping the date and the day.

"It's yours, if you want it," L droned with little volume. "You can keep it or do with it whatever you feel like."

Quickly he hid his surprise in favor of attempted indifference. He hardened his face to meet L's again, to soak in those inky irises until he understood what his nemesis was trying to accomplish. L remained as still as a stone gargoyle except for the brief adjusting of his knuckle as he slipped it further into his mouth to bite on it.

Impatiently, Light prodded. "Well? What's it for?"

"I just told you, had you been listening you would know already," L answered with identical impatience. "I don't care what you do with it, it's yours now. It's merely a congratulatory gift for turning nineteen years old."

Though it was obvious that such a gift could only be a birthday present, this was L – everything he said, Light generally assumed to be untrue or manipulative unless he was given confirmation otherwise, and L had an equal perception of Light. Light didn't want to risk snaring himself in one of his rival's traps.

He looked at the watch again, turning it in his hands to better see it against the light, and then he looked back at L. The detective wasn't moving, he was simply observing while gnawing at his finger. He was evidently waiting for some kind of reaction, and Light was uncertain if there was something in particular that he was watching for. L curled his bony toes against the cushion and shifted his weight a bit, revealing to Light that the man was actually feeling awkward. The observation in turn made Light feel uncomfortable, like the silence was hanging limply between them instead of being tightly strung with heated understanding like it normally was now.

It was almost reminiscent of the first days of when they had been chained together as suspect and investigator, and as two young men.

The memories pulled at Light's mind, and the last of his frustration dwindled into sobriety. He turned back down to the golden device and broke the silence with smalltalk. "Is it real?"

L removed his finger from his mouth to speak and rested both hands on his knees. "It is not a fake watch."

"I mean, it looks as though it's very high quality..." It wasn't polite to bluntly make such an inquisition about a present, and Light's mother might have lectured him about the bad manners, but somehow rules of etiquette stopped applying where L was concerned. Genuine curiosity as to how much the thing was worth had sprouted within him, and though L always remained staunchly enigmatic when it came to his financial situation, he never outright lied about it for sake of modesty.

"Yes, it is. It's a collector's watch," L replied offhandedly as though he were reading off facts from the dossiers of another criminal suspect. "There are only fifty like it in the world. I thought it would look charming."

"You never struck me as a watch enthusiast." Still trying to place a rough estimate as to how much it was worth, Light balanced the fact that L had no need to spend large amounts of money on him with the fact that L didn't need to not, considering his seemingly infinite monetary resources.

"I meant charming on you." When Light raised an eyebrow in L's direction, the detective detached his tone and explained. "I assumed that you were accustomed to wearing a watch, since you never took off your old one even when, I presume, you memories were barricaded from knowing about Kira and the piece of the Death Note you kept inside it. I can't give you that watch back, but I can offer you a superior one."

Examining it with his fingers, Light turned the watch around and played idly with the knobs. He could still recall the day that his father had given him the old watch. It had been a graduation present. Soichiro Yagami hadn't been able to attend the ceremony due to being busy with work, and in attempt to make up for it, he had spent more money than he really should have on a present for his son. Though he had indeed used it as a tool while he had a Death Note, it did have a sentimental value. Light had relied on the fact that it had sentimental value to him when he forfeited his memories temporarily, and sure enough, when Light had touched the notebook finally, the watch had been still coiled around his wrist. By L's flippant use of the word "superior", Light doubted that the detective understood the concept past knowing the Webster definition by word.

There was no material item in the world that Light was aware of in which L took emotional comfort from. In fact, Light recalled L once telling him, he didn't even keep particular items for an extended period of time – new or upgraded versions were always purchased both for practicality and security. No, there was no way that anything existed to L as more than just a tool.

But on the other hand, Light thought with uncertain hesitation, had L given this watch with sentimentality?

"You don't like it?" L asked with unmasked disappointment.

"That's not it," Light said, clasping the watch in his hands. "I was only a bit surprised that this sort of thing crossed your mind."

The detective made an indignant grunt, as though it ought to be obvious and that Light should, by default, assume that any particular thing had at one recent point, indeed crossed his mind. Then, whatever mild humor that had been apparent in his facial expression disappeared. "But you still haven't affirmed that you like it."

When Light remained silent, L hastily broke it with a, "There is cake, too." He reached down toward the coffee table where the dessert sat on a glass platter. It was backwards, and he turned it around quickly so that it faced Light.

"There is always cake," Light answered wearily as he stood up, still gripping the watch. He could feel L's black eyes locked onto him, though the detective was still on his couch opposite from Light. Light suddenly felt a bit dizzy and even nauseous, which was odd considering he hadn't even had a piece of the glistening, sickeningly-sweet appearing chocolate cake that he now took specific notice of, with a sloppy "月くん、お誕生日おめでとう" decorated into the frosting. The handwriting was so wretched that of course it was L himself, and really, who else would it be? Light-kun, happy birthday.

It was... strange. It was really strange. Light's mind raced for some kind of worthy explanation and the best he could come up with was that L wanted to end their current fight. But that theory didn't dismiss the outrageous suggestion that L wanted to keep pretending that they were friends, the same game they had played during the Kira investigation. What was the point of keeping up pretenses now when the only witnesses would be the people who knew more than anyone that is was a lie?

Was it because they enjoyed the lie? It certainly made things more simple - sort of. But if they both enjoyed it, a part of it was always going to be a reality. And if it was a reality, that was dangerous grounds until it could conveniently be reduced to a lie again when it was time to part ways.

"Thank you very much," Light finally said. "It was very kind, Ryuuzaki."

Light was turned away and he couldn't see L's reaction. When L said nothing immediately, Light proceeded to exit. Weariness had overcome him, as well as the corresponding desire to go to bed.

"Light-kun?" L suddenly spoke up. "Please don't leave yet."

"Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat,
When it's so lucrative to cheat."
-Arthur Hugh Clough

The Shinigami realm was dim that day, which made that day quite similar to any other day. In the barren wastelands it was difficult to tell the difference between night and day in the first place simply due to a lack of movement aside from the occasional wind sweeping sands across the stones. But in the areas established as colonies due to a more interesting rocky landscape and accumulation of claimed junk, one could tell if the world was awake or not by the ratio of sleeping-to-awake Death Gods.

The Gods of Death would generally gather after their naps (a common event during which, on rare occasion, a more paranoid Shinigami would sneak to the Earth Spheres and jot down a human name or two, with no one watching to make fun of them for "trying too hard"). Sometimes if no one else was around, a pair of Shinigami might engage in a card game to kill time, but usually the gambling circles consisted of at least three gods. The more the better, but the inevitable problem was that they were rarely awake all at the same time.

On that day, under a dusty bridge of jagged rock, four Shinigami hunched over their cards. Their voices echoed across the waste, and it wasn't hard for Jastin to locate them.

"A Reaper and a Cyclops!" Gukku announced with a proud gurgle of his throat, tossing his cards onto the stone ground and rearing his head up. "Any challengers?"

Deridovely, who was Gukku's closest gambling buddy, smirked under his stone mask. "Get a load of this, Gukku," he teased, holding his own pair of cards in his webbed claws. The ranking cards of the Sickle and the Skull topped Gukku's own.

Gukku's horns snapped back into the air. "That's three times in a row you've beat me! There must be something wrong with these cards!"

Zellogi stood up, roaring with laughter and waving his hook-arm through the air. "Ha-ha! Pot goes to Deridovely again!"

"What are you so happy about? You lost an apple, too!"

"Gambling is only entertaining these days if someone throws a hissy fit!" Zellogi grinned.

"Hey!" Gukku growled. "Put your bet where your mouth is, Zellogi! I say we double the pot next round!"

Deridovely chuckled. "I'm in for sure. I'm happy to take double fruit!"

Sidoh, whose eyes were drooping lazily, turned in his cards. "I'll just watch this time, guys."

"And here I thought we'd actually keep you awake for more than half an hour!" Zellogi scoffed. "I bet you'll turn into dust one day just because all you do is sleep!"

"I won't sleep. I promise, by my Death Note!"

"You've got no one fooled, Sidoh," Daridovely snickered, raising his hands in exasperation. "And you two boneheads are going to lose anyway. Where's the fun for me anymore? We gotta find another play-"

"Yo, Jastin!" Zellogi shouted, putting his hands on either side of his mouth to amplify the noise. "How'd ya like to... what is that?"

Jastin the Jeweled Skeleton arrived, in his usual stalking swagger that best showed off his fine collection of jewels, at the mildly entertained gathering of gamblers. He had figured that there would be some group awake, but it was just his luck that these four low-ranking idiots were all the hour had to offer. Well, no matter. The skinny creature that he had found in the garbage piles had wanted to gamble, and he was bound to make things entertaining.

"Deal us in the next round," Jastin demanded, taking a seat next to Gukku and waving his hand for the creature to do the same. "No stakes this time."

"Who are you?" Gukku demanded, staring at the creature under the dark eye sockets of his long skull mask. "Which colony did you come from?"

The creature, who was sitting with his knees up and his weight on the soles of his bare feet, widened his crimson eyes as though confused. "Do you suppose I'm a Shinigami?" he asked very softly.

Gukku snorted. "What else could you be?"

"He looks like a human," Sidoh suggested meekly, though Jastin couldn't say for certain if the Shinigami was actually awake.

"Shut up, Sidoh. Humans don't come to the this world! Right, Jastin?"

Jastin had spent enough time puzzling over the creature's existence here, and though he had decided that this thing was just the remnant of a dead human, accidentally fallen through the portals with other throwaways, and would fade away soon enough, he didn't feel like explaining his understanding of the situation to these nitwits. All he wanted to see is what really would become of the creature, because maybe, maybe when it finally died, he could pick out the crimson eyeballs from its skull and wear them for his own. The prize was enough for Jastin to humor it wherever it wanted to go.

"How do you play this game?" it quipped, turning its face around the circle of gamblers. "Is it poker?"

"They're playing two-card," the Jeweled Skeleton explained. "You'll catch on. Ranked card wins, Death Skulls top all unless your second card is the Apple. Do you want to hear the cards?"

"Death Skulls top all? That's good enough," it said. "I would like to play stakes."

"You don't have anything," Daridovely pointed out with a throaty laugh. "Look, you're completely naked!"

"That's the best time to gamble. But because nothingness is not a bet, I'll stake a favor. I'll do something for whoever wins, whatever they ask of me in boundary of practicality and goodwill."

"I don't want to bet a favor," Sidoh groaned, visibly displeased at the thought of being forced to get up and make the effort to do something, let alone something for someone else.

"You won't have to worry if you win," the creature reasoned. Before any more protests could be made, it gave a little smile and held out a hand. "I'll shuffle."

Zellogi handed the cards without complaint to it, and Jastin smirked to himself at that luck because all the Shinigami hate being the one to have to shuffle the cards. The creature did it well, surprisingly, with his nimble hands. When it noticed that everyone was looking at it, he smiled again and made conversation.

"How many Shinigami are in your colony?"

The Shinigami looked at one another, back and forth, until Gukku contemplated out loud. "How many of us are here now, anyway? Let's see, nobody has seen Jealous for awhile..."

"Jealous is dust," Jastin confirmed. At the dumbfounded looks he got, Jastin recalled that these boneheads probably hadn't read their rulebooks for hundreds of years, something they could get away with since they didn't do anything all day anyway and it was therefore impossible to break any rules. "Haven't you paid attention? He killed to save some human girl's life! Extending human lives is something that really ticks off the King."

"No!" Gukku and Daridovely both choked out, howling with laughter.

Zellogi had heard that already. "Right, and Rem chased after Ryuk, right?"

"Rem just gave the Death Note to the girl who Jealous saved," Jastin shrugged.

"And Ryuk is still with his own human pet," Daridovely chuckled. "What an idiot, getting his Death Note lost in their world!"

"I saw it in the Earth spheres," Zellogi said seriously to him. "His human pet is the one they call Kira, and he's literally writing the names of millions of criminals so that they all die of heart attacks."

"Of heart attacks?" the human creature repeated quietly, dealing the cards, two each.

"What the heck is a criminal?" Gukku asked Jastin.

"A bad person."

"A bad person?"

"The ones he doesn't like."

That earned more uncontrolled shrieks of laughter, echoing like thunder off of the rocks. Gukku slapped a hand against the ground, Daridovely was falling backwards and Zellogi clutched his stomach. Even Jastin had to admit, the thought of a human with a Death Note was quite entertaining, like a Shinigami trying to be an apple tree. Jastin had kept an eye on the spheres out of idle curiosity, and never left unamused. It took a moment for Jastin to realize that the human creature was the only one not laughing, though its tiny smile was still plastered on its face, it looked disturbed.

"This is all happening on the human world?" it asked for confirmation. "You know, I died of a heart attack."

"You are a human!" Gukku roared from the fun of it.

"I hope all the humans who Kira kills don't turn up here. If there are millions I bet it would get crowded," Zellogi thought. "So Kira didn't like you then?"

The creature lowered its eyelids, creating a darkened scowl. "What's his real name?"

"Light Yagami." Jastin knew the name well enough from all the time he had spent looking in the spheres, and just to be more helpful he added, "He's in Japan."

"I don't know him."

"Well, don't be mad now. He's disappeared," he shrugged. When five faces snapped toward him, the Jeweled Skeleton realized they were all in the dark. They probably hadn't gone to the Earth spheres since the event happened. They could laugh about Shinigami turning into dust today, but their own times were bound to time out soon enough. With exasperation, Jastin cleared his throat. "Don't you know? Ryuk lost him! He's in a frenzy up there trying to find the boy. Personally, I imagine that L just won."

That earned a nod of recognition from the Shinigami, who were familiar with L and Kira if for no other reason than making fun of Ryuk was great gambling conversation. But the human creature's white face snapped toward him.

"You said L caught him?"

"Yeah," he confirmed. "I think so. And he must be still alive, too, because Ryuk is still stuck in the human world. I bet if Ryuk manages to find L, he'll find Light Yagami, too."

"I should like to meet Ryuk."

"Whatever, Ryuk is boring!" Gukku declared. "Let's play!"

They all lifted their cards and looked at what luck had given them.

"Fold," Jastin said at an Apple and a Scepter.

"Fold."

"Fold."

That left the human, Sidoh (who had his cards and might have folded if only he wasn't snoring) and Gukku (who was convinced that he was lucky even when his cards were rotten).

"You'd better fold," Jastin advised the creature, who had refused to even learn the card rankings.

"It's okay." The creature gave a wicked smile and revealed his cards. Two Death Skulls, on his very first try. What a lucky thing it was!

"Kill a man and you are a murderer.
Kill millions and you are a conqueror.
Kill everyone and you are a god."
-Jean Rostand

"It wasn't that hard to find, but George Fletcher's killer, David Castleton, is actually part of a mafia group," Light announced, turning to L from his monitor's screen. The two young detectives sat on the floor of L's computer room, and the younger of the two was sprawled somewhat lazily on his stomach, upper body supported by his elbows. L could excuse this, as it was only 8:30 in the morning. The black coffee that Light was drinking wasn't scheduled to display its full effect for another ten minutes or so, but fully coherent or not, Light's cognitive abilities were admirable as usual.

Light's half lidded eyes flickered back to his screen where he had researched through various news articles the mystery at hand. "All the main goons use aliases. As far as I can tell, the mandatory use of alias by members developed after it became clear that I needed someone's name and face to kill them. I anticipated the brighter gangs to go through these lengths, the ones that have the resources to have their identifying files terminated, but with Misa's eyes that wasn't going to be a problem for me. Anyway-"

"I like it when you talk like Kira," L commented as he dunked a brightly colored cupcake into his own coffee, which was dyed a light brown from the high concentration of sugar and cream and now with the slightest tint of blueberry. "I find it invigorating."

"If I were talking like Kira I would say a few other choice words to you," Light said dryly, rubbing his eyes for focus. "Anyway, since these sort of mafia groups have survived, that's going to be our key between Florida and Berlin. Of course, what doesn't fit is the motives between the groups. If we're going to assume that Goddard's group in Germany had pro-Kira motives, then why would a mafia group who is definitely anti-Kira work with them?"

"Philosophical motivation aside, Light-kun must bear in mind the compelling power of money," the detective said, licking the vanilla frosting off of a artificially pink strawberry cupcake. "Goddard was a rich man."

"True," Light contended, pausing to sip at his steaming drink. "But the leader of the American group in question is a man going by the code name Rod Ross. Ross isn't even primarily stationed in Florida – according to these records, he's been primarily acting in New York, with connections to a crime syndicate in Las Vegas. Goddard could have paid Ross a lot of money to send men to Florida to kill Fletcher and get the information he needed on the Interpol meeting. But why Ross?"

"Fletcher was in New York City." Though L hadn't been the one working on the Fletcher case, he recalled the data from Light's notes. "He had just arrived back home when Castleton killed him. Perhaps Castleton missed the opportunity in New York and simply took the plane back to Miami with him."

"Didn't you transfer Castleton's custody to Interpol?" Light asked. "I imagine they gave him the same treatment as Anton Rowley, so don't you know why he did it already?"

"No, unfortunately. Castleton was murdered, before Interpol retrieved him. Probably one of Ross's other assassins to avoid just that." That had been an irritating turn of events, but it also indicated that Castleton wasn't acting alone or in a small group. If there was enough at stake for someone to want Castleton dead, then it was a large-scale organization that he and Light had to look into.

Unsurprisingly, Light didn't seem terribly concerned about the criminal's untimely demise. "How was he murdered?"

"Poison, somehow slipped into his food. I've sent investigators to the Miami prison to look for gang involvement but I feel like that's a dead end. The murderers wouldn't stick around to be caught."

Light lowered his upper body and his head so that his chin was resting on the palms of his hands, pressed against the wooden floor. He yawned, raising one hand to cover his mouth politely and then turning the hand to check the time on his wristwatch. "What do you want to do then, Ryuuzaki? Capture the mafia boss?"

"That won't be easy," L admitted with a frown. "Not only will it be more difficult to track him because he is using an alias, he is also a man who survives off of avoiding police."

"If you don't want to, then you have to rely on whatever comes out of Rowley's mouth."

"I never said that I didn't want to," he corrected firmly. "It will be a good opportunity to disband this mafia group, because if we do find evidence that Ross was involved, then this in an international terrorist crime."

"Which means you can employ Interpol and crush them?" Light correctly guessed.

"Yes." He looked at Light with a smile. "You're becoming a very good L."

The adolescent scoffed. "Not like it's difficult, you know."

"You find this easy?" L played along, sticking out his tongue and curling it to sweep up the bright frosting on top of a fresh cupcake. It filled his mouth but it wasn't thick, so it didn't significantly impair his speaking abilities. "Then what would you do next?"

"Set up a trap in New York City. Target one of Ross's elite men who would actually meet a stranger without bringing many, if any, bodyguards. Once we have one, use him to get to the head."

"You're also a natural yakuza."

"Thanks," Light yawned, draining his mug in a final gulp. "I need more coffee."

"And I need more cupcakes." L licked the frosting caked on his fingers thoughtfully, then trailed a wet fingertip on the plastic of the empty box to pick up loose sprinkles. "I was also thinking that setting up a trap in New York City would be the best course of action, but before we go into that, we still need to pinpoint the motivations of Ross and Goddard, and how they might correspond."

For a moment, Light studied his empty coffee cup and then he glanced L's way seriously. "I was thinking that maybe you – we, that is – might be thinking about this from the wrong angle."

"How do you mean?"

"Instead of assuming that this is about Kira, what if it's entirely about L?" After the words were out, Light's conviction hardened and he continued steadily. "What I mean is, the bombers specifically said they wanted something from you, and Rowley mentioned Watari. What if you're the one that someone is upset about?"

There was some plausibility to that, L had to admit, and at any rate the hypothesis was at least part true considering that Goddard had made statements directly targeted toward L before he blew up the Interpol building. There wasn't really any way to know for certain at this point. However, it wasn't long after when the call was made.

"Ryuuzaki!"

Watari's voice came from the speaker's of L's computer, distorted not by software but by the huffiness and haste of its tone. Recognizing the urgency, L immediately opened a mutual communication link, and the old man's face appeared in a browser filling his screen.

"What's wrong, Watari?"

"I have been keeping communication with the Berlin police and requested that all suspicious items found in the rubble be reported directly to me. This box was recently uncovered."

At that instant, Watari sent an image file to L's computer. It was a package of several photographs that the German police had taken of a single item, a steel crate no more than three cubic feet large. L grabbed his mouse and clicked through the images. There was a picture where a policeman was opening the crate, and another where he was lifting the lid. Everything was made thorough and from all angles so that nothing might be missed.

But the goal of the item was not in the crate itself. L knew this instantly when the contents of the crate where pictured,

"What..?!" The gasp escaped L's lips but he hardly heard himself.

They were dolls. They were dolls made of straw.

The next pictures showed the police taking out the dolls, lining them up in rows. Ten, twenty, thirty. Forty dolls, lined in eight rows of five, lined up in a warehouse like tombstones, the tribute to the dead. One for every person who was supposed to die in the Berlin bombing. Forty. Forty seconds until a heart attack, forty, a Japanese number of death, forty, these dolls were wara ningyo and L had seen them before.

"Wara ningyo?" Light noticed, recognizing the Japanese voodoo doll and now sitting up and leaning in front of L's monitor to see. "You know, they look just like the ones that Beyond Birthday nailed to the walls of the houses where he killed his victims. I saw pictures in the case file you had me read."

L had compiled those pictures, years ago, back when the Backup had challenged him, had dared him with a riddle that didn't have an answer. And if B had succeeded with his plans, then the riddle would have evaded him forever. But he hadn't succeeded, so how could it ...possibly...?

"Hey, you're pale," Light commented, turning to L. "More than usual. You look like you've seen a ghost."

But L was seeing a ghost, somewhere in his mind. He was seeing B crouched by the dolls that he had crafted, one after the other, and staring back at him, gaping, giggling, and still smelling of squirrel blood.

"Thank you, Watari," he finally said, breaking free of his wordless thoughts. But I have no idea what's going on.

-

-To Be Continued...


Author's Notes:

1. My intention is to write this so that my readers do not need to have read Another Note to understand this story. Obviously B is from that novel, as well as his straw dolls, but I'm hoping that I haven't confused anyone who hasn't gotten their hands on it yet. Also, "wara ningyo" is what the straw dolls are called in Japanese. They are specifically what B makes in the novel, and they are sort of like voodoo dolls.

2. The number four, if pronounced as "shi" in Japanese, is considered a number of death (think shinigami, the gods of death). Ohba says "shi" is actually the reason that she chose forty for the number of seconds before a heart attack (in Japanese, "shi-ju").

3. Apologies for those readers who do not have Japanese script in their computer and my Japanese turned up as boxes. 月くん、お誕生日おめでとう in romaji is "Light-kun, otanjou-bi omedetou".

4. Rod Ross – the codename for the leader of the same mafia that Mello enlists in the series during the second arc.

Thank you for reading! -Serria