Nine:
After Dark

When next L awoke, he was back in his little metal room. Alone. A migraine was ripping mercilessly through his skull and he felt more than a little ill. The coldness of the room, for once, was a balm. L slowly sat up and moved to scratch his head, but winced at how tender his head felt. In the shiny metal lining the walls, he could see a nasty, barely healed gash over his right eye—not to mention that the same eye was now black and bruised, the skin around it mottled purple and sickly yellow—and a scratch along his jawline.

A flash of bright colour in the metal attracted his attention, and L turned to look at the room's table. Was he hallucinating? If so, it was very cruel of his mind to make him imagine there was cake and coffee in the room with him. He slowly inched off the cot to stare at what had to be the most beautiful sight in the entire world: two large slices of strawberry shortcake and a pair of full coffee cups. Though some self-righteous part of his mind insisted that it was insulting that B thought he could be so easily bought, L…didn't really care. It was cake. Beautiful, pristine, sugar-loaded cake. And it was, most importantly, real.

L purposely ignored that it was an I-know-I-bashed-your-face-in-but-I-didn't-mean-it gesture as he sat down beside it. It was still cold—the cake, that is—as if it had just barely been retrieved from a fridge, and both of the little red mugs were still warm. Neither was really the most noteworthy of things, but it proved that B had brought his offering shortly before L had returned to the waking world. L filed that information away for later use and settled down to eat his cake. The sugar jolted his system awake and, for the first time in a long while, L felt like himself again. He could do this. He could beat B. He just needed a plan.


Mello tapped his fork against his plate in a persistent drumbeat. He wasn't hungry for breakfast and Matt, sitting across from him, was as talkative as a brick wall. To keep anyone from getting suspicious, Near hadn't come down to eat, so Mello didn't even have him to pick on.

"Mello? You're going to give it away before we even start," Matt muttered, keeping his attention focused the game before him.

"Me?" Mello echoed in a hiss, annoyed. "I'm the one taking all the risk! Are you sure you can get in?"

Matt gave him a withering look in reply and muttered, "Melodramatic."

Near had woken them up at some ungodly hour after midnight and they had spent the rest of the night plotting. Lack of sleep was making Matt grumpy and Mello anxious; add in the pressure of what they had to do…and Matt was certain the day was going to end poorly.

The room slowly began to empty out around them and Mello drifted outside with a group of other children, trusting that Matt would get the plan accomplished. For now…he had to play his part. Mello fingered the firecracker in his pocket, looking for a target, and he had to admit: if he had to be a part of this stupid plan, he was glad he was the decoy.


Matt wandered upstairs, nose in his Gameboy and apparently not paying attention to his surroundings. Such was the curse of being a gamer that no one thought you knew what was going on at any given time, but Matt was used to it. Actually, this time, it was a blessing in disguise. No one paid him any heed as he wandered the halls nearer and nearer to Roger's office; biding his time. At the far off sound of a gunshot-like bang and distant screams, Matt ducked into a nearby playroom just in time to not be noticed by Roger—who seemed to already know it was Mello at the root of the commotion.

When the sound of hurried, irritated footsteps had faded, Matt saved his game, turned off his Gameboy, and reentered the empty hallway. Roger's office door was closed, but, for once, not locked when Matt tried the handle. Luckier than Heffner, that. But, for whatever luck he may or may not have had, he didn't feel any less on edge until the door was closed behind him.

"Why isn't Near doing this?" he wondered aloud as he tried to decide where the personal files would be. "He's the small one."

Matt didn't have much time. Given Mello's history of incidents, Matt knew Roger would probably scold him, then bring him back to the office to sort out a punishment. Which was about ten minutes, if he was lucky; five, if he wasn't.

He glanced through Roger's bookcases and found nothing but…well, the expected. He opened every cabinet, drawer, and dresser before coming to the realization that there was nothing to be found. Matt leaned against Roger's desk, trying to think, and came to the conclusion that all the files were either in Watari's office…or only on the Wammy House servers. This was going to be potentially problematic. They could break into Watari's office if they knew he was away, but getting through the firewall was going to be hard without passwords. After all, Q designed it and everyone in the House knew what that meant.

And then it occurred to Matt to check Roger's desk. The big drawer under the one they'd found Roger's laptop in had a lock in it that made it so obvious Matt could have kicked himself.

The be-goggled boy crouched down and began picking the lock, hoping for extra time. It was so unfair that life didn't have a pause button or some magical potion that would make things happen how you wanted them to happen. The lock finally clicked open and he tugged the heavy drawer open with a grin. Yeah; when I'm good, I'm good, he thought victoriously, grabbing the only file he saw marked "B".

His fingers barely closed around it when someone put a hand on his shoulder and cleared their throat. Wincing as dread flooded his gut, Matt looked up over his shoulder and found himself staring at a very angry Roger. The boy dropped the file and closed the door, then got to his feet as beckoned.

Roger brought him around to the other side of the desk, tried to say something, paused, and then sharply said to the boy: "Wait here."

The door slammed shut behind him.

They were screwed, beyond screwed. Clearly Mello had been caught as well, otherwise Roger wouldn't have been so mad. But that brought up another issue: Matt had never seen Roger that angry before, the elderly man white-faced, thin-lipped, and shaking with repressed wrath. It made Matt wonder if this was it for them. He had to stop that train of thought though as he began to wonder what happened to ex-Wammy's House members. Were they excommunicated? Like how the Church did it? Or would he and Mello just be chucked out on the streets to leave since they were both underage and it wasn't like they could do some weird blood in, blood out thing? Or were they just going to have to face some horrifying task to get back in Roger and Watari's good graces? Clearly, whatever happened, this was the end of his and Mello's aspirations to take over for L and to make sure he was saved from a psycho. Near would probably be the one to do it…which would just thrill Mello, he was sure. What are they going to do to us?

As Matt pondered the worse, his mind bringing up the scariest moments in all his games and sticking him in the middle of the action without a weapon, the door opened behind him. Matt turned just in time to see Mello and, for some strange reason, Near being led through the door. Mello looked a bit singed and unnerved, but Near seemed as uninterested as always—though Matt noticed the younger boy had made it a point to stay standing for once.

Watari and Roger entered the room behind them—Roger closing and locking the door as Watari settled himself into Roger's desk chair. Matt fought the urge to gulp. Yeah, this was going to be bad.

"We have had enough of this," Roger managed, his voice shaking slightly. "Enough of the sneaking around, enough of the fighting and the drama, and it's time you three told us the truth about what you're doing. No more excuses about being bored or not knowing what's going on or—or—or…."

Roger trailed off into an angry silence as Watari quieted him with a silent look. Somehow the quiet disappointment on Watari's face was worse than Roger's anger and all three boys found themselves looking away from the elderly gentleman's face.

"What Roger means to say," Watari began almost serenely, "is: please explain why you have done this."

It was in that moment the three successors knew that Roger and Watari had known they were up to something from the moment Matt and Mello had broken into Roger's office…the first time…or…the first time it was in regards to L's disappearance. There was no getting out of it and no story that would save them. It was up to luck. And yet slowly, surely, they began to explain.


Avery Ambers had no idea anything was off that night. Actually, she was feeling pretty good about the world—especially after a few beers. Tonight was the first night in a long time that she was actually going to get to relax. No one knew she had left campus for the weekend and so there was no chance of anyone bothering her about class projects or things they wanted her to do that they could do damn well on their own. No, this weekend was all for her.

She wasn't thrilled with this little pub, really. The music was nonexistent—and, when someone started up the ancient jukebox, sometimes it was just bad—and cigarette smoke seemed to have become a permanent feature. But the booze were cheap and weren't too bad. Or…at the very least they were relieving the strange cramps she'd been having in her stomach lately. The pain those had been bringing her had started up abruptly about a month previously, but the pain was intense, like a knife in her gut. Each time it happened, the air gushed from her lungs and she doubled over, wanting to scream. If staying lightly marinated in liquor kept those from happening, she was completely fine with it.

That said, her state of mind was probably what kept her from noticing him come in. The bar was fairly out of the way and so there was a fair amount of empty seats, but the newcomer had sat down beside Avery, no questions asked. The nerve of it shook her out of her beer-induced stupor and she turned to fix him with an annoyed glare, fully intending to tell him to fuck off, and froze. Why did this always happen to her? Why was it always the good-looking, but weird guys that sat next to her? That always made things difficult: it was like telling a puppy to go away, she just couldn't do it. Avery sighed. She could do this. Be gentle but firm! Just get it over with!

'Uh…do you mind?" she blurted at the guy and immediately she wished she hadn't said a word. So much for being gentle and firm. The guy looked up from the drink he'd just received and stared at her with too-dark eyes from under a shock of overly-long black hair.

"Am I bothering you?" he inquired after a long minute. He didn't sound really…interested or like he cared that he might be bothering her. Instead, he sounded distant and a little moody, like he was only asking because it was the polite thing to do and he had nothing better to do with the time.

"No," she amended out of courtesy, then mentally roused herself enough to gesture to the room at large and add, "But there is a whole bar full of empty seats."

The guy stared at her for another moment and then, with exaggerated slowness, as if he'd never even known they were in a bar, turned to stare around the room. Indeed, there were empty seats everywhere. After all, discounting Avery and her unintended guest, there was only four patrons. When his stare returned to Avery, he frowned slightly and gave a tiny nod. "I understand."

And, with that, he got up and moved to sit in a corner beside a steamed-over window.

She shouldn't have felt bad, really she shouldn't have. And Avery knew it. Every vibe the guy was giving off said not to touch him or to get too close—really, staying away was probably a good idea—but Avery had the misfortune of being a very emotional drunk and, to add to that misfortune, guilt happened to be the prominent emotion at that time. Annoyed with herself, she picked up the drink and went over to stand beside the guy's table. He neither asked her to leave nor did he acknowledge her. Avery didn't bother to ask if he minded if she sat down, and…sat down anyway.

Too-dark eyes swiveled toward her and seemed to dare her to say something.

Avery shivered, not understanding where a sudden flicker of unease was coming from, and quickly said, "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I've had a shit month and I didn't want any company, so…."

She trailed off into silence, but the guy never said whether or not she was forgiven for the rudeness. She assumed she was though, because, somehow, someway, they'd started talking about anything and everything that came to mind. He listened more than he talked, but, really, that was a good thing because Avery couldn't keep up with all his sudden jumps in thought. Despite the awkward start, she couldn't help but feel…comfortable.

Hours passed in minutes and soon Avery came to the startling revelation that it was nearing on two in the morning. She'd been there over six hours. Horrified by the late hour and at the thought of having to drive back home later that day, she said good night to her newfound companion and departed.

It was bitingly cold outside, the chill nearly enough to startle her into sobriety. She hadn't thought to bring her coat into the pub from the car and she hadn't packed any scarves or hats. Chiding herself with the thought of freezing to death, she half ran to her car. A distant part of her mind noted that her car was the only car left in the parking lot as she fumbled with her keys. She couldn't wait to get out of the cold and into her nice warm bed.

Dreaming about going home meant she didn't hear the footsteps behind her, approaching quickly. In fact, she didn't realize she wasn't alone until a hand closed over her mouth. She started and tried to get out of her attacker's grip, but they fastened an arm around her neck, cutting off her breathing. She couldn't scream, couldn't breathe, and couldn't get away. Blackness began to eat away at the edge of her vision and her limbs grew heavy. Before she could even come up with a plan to get away, she had fallen into unconsciousness.

Her attacker didn't hesitate at the sight of Avery going limp, he unlocked the trunk and deposited her within it. It was unfortunate that things were progressing like this to the point where he needed a backup plan like this. That said, if his math was right—and it almost certainly was—it wasn't like she had long to live, anyway. Avery had looked ill even in the pub's dim lighting and that combined with her lifespan…really, it was like it was meant to be.

B made certain the trunk was locked before rushing over to the driver's side door. He was all too aware that the longer he took, the greater the chance that L would be gone when he returned to him. He couldn't afford to lose Lawliet now.

He'd barely gotten the car turned on when his phone began ringing. No number was displayed, only a single "X" when he checked the caller ID. His mood dropped even lower as he flipped the phone open.

"Beyond?" a cold, sharp voice on the other end snapped.

"Yes?"

"You're late. Have you disposed of the detective yet?"

Though his heart was pounding in his ears, he sounded frighteningly calm as he replied, "Oh, no…there was a problem and B…can't quite find him yet."

The voice on the other end of the line was silent for a long moment before, clearly not pleased, they offered a single piece of advice: "Look harder."

The line clicked dead.

B snapped the phone shut and dropped it carelessly in the car's passenger seat before pulling out of the parking lot and onto a nearby road. No. The last thing he could afford to do right now was lose Lawliet. Frowning at his reflection in the rearview mirror, he, not for the first time, began to wonder if this was getting to be more trouble than it was worth.


AN: Ooooh, mysterious stuff is goin' down! Poor kiddies, getting caught like that. Of course they couldn't get too far with their investigation on their own. They may be geniuses (genii?), but they're still kids. Well, maybe if they're story's good enough, L will share his I-know-I-bashed-your-face-in-but-I-didn't-mean-it present with them. Not with Avery, though. Because this is what happens to most OCs in my stories: they get kidnapped by psychos who have questionable plans for them. Yepyep. Well, I'm off to hunt down coffee and lament that there's only four chapters left in this fic. Ciao for now! Please review, okies?