Chapter 10

What Difference Does it Make?

All men have secrets and here is mine, so let it be known

We have been through hell and high tide

I can surely rely on you,

and yet you start to recoil

Heavy words are so lightly thrown

but I'd still leap in front of a flying bullet for you

The devil will find work for idle hands to do

I stole and I lied, and why? Because you asked me to

But now you make me feel so ashamed

Because I've only got two hands

Well, I'm still fond of you

~ The Smiths

Light leisurely opened his eyes to find a dark figure slumped in the armchair at the foot of the bed. That didn't interest him. What did interest him was were the Death Note was. He had better hide it before L -

L.

The Death Note. That's right, he'd lost it hadn't he? It had burned in the fire. Then why did he still have all his memories? He turned back to the slumped form at the end of his bed.

"Dad?"

"Thank God, Light!" Soichiro said, hoarsey, lifting his head from his hands and instantly rushing to his side. His relief was almost tangible. Using his father as a support, Light scanned the room.

"What happened?" he said, and for a second, in that hazy sea of forgetfulness, he lifted his arm expecting to find a shackle, but found nothing more than a worn shade. A faded scar of where the handcuff had once been.

"L," he said, to no one in particular.

"Just rest Light," Soichiro urged.

"Where's Ryuzaki?"

Because he wanted to see him.

When Light had convinced his father that he had, once again, returned to a blissful, dreamless state, he listened out for the soft shuffling and the gentle opening and closing of a door before he sat up. As he stood, pain shot immediately through his head like an arrowhead. Reaching up to his hairline, he was shocked to find his hair drawn back and a bandage wrapped tightly above his eyes. Tearing away the loosely woven band, he felt for the source of the pain. The skin around it was tender to the touch and he staggered for a moment before finding his balance again. Did Hashimoto shoot him? No matter, Hashimoto is dead. Kira is alive.

The second most important thing was the Death Note. But he still had his memories. If the Death Note had been destroyed then he would have lost his memories, but he could remember everything. He was Kira.

L must have it, he reasoned. L has his Death Note. He had to find it.

The room wasn't one that he recognised. He saw clean clothes folded upon a chair by a window. As he moved towards them he felt the tug of an IV from the inside of his arm. God, he was so tired of these damn things. I'll never be tied to anything again, he thought to himself, ruthlessly ripping the needle from his skin and throwing it to the floor.

Minutes later Light was walking along a corridor, trying to find his bearings. This was definitely still the headquarters, but which floor? The sunlight from the large windows was dazzling, casting a warm glow all around, like fire. It was almost like a deserted ship. No noise but that of his tread on the floor, echoing.

I'll find you eventually. I'll always find you. You found me.

You have it, don't you, you bastard. It's not yours, it's mine, and you have to give it back. I'll give you a glorious death in return. Let me have the honour of seeing you cold. Laid out with a penny on each eye. Die knowing that I've beaten you. Die knowing that you've lost.

Then, from his right, a door opened. He could make out Watari's silhouette in the doorway but he couldn't distinguish his features. His vision was still so blurred, like the world was subtly vibrating.

"Young sir," Watari's familiar voice called softly.

You, Light thought. You know where it is. Give it to me.

"Watari-san, where is Ryuzaki?"

Watari took a few steps towards him and gently guided him towards and through a door. The motion was too quick for Light's equilibrium. He wondered whether his eardrum been damaged by the shot from Hashimoto's gun and he wanted to see him die all over again. A few steps later Light was seated in a chair and his vision cleared. He saw a familiar tangle of black hair on a pillow, everything else was enveloped in white. Everything stark white. It made Light think of angel's wings.

Not dead are we, darling?

"Ryuzaki?" he breathed, standing too quickly but somehow managing to make his way over to the bed. Watari left the room without a word. Surprisingly, despite the deathly shroud and pallor, L was alive, strapped down by those familiar firmly tucked-in sheets.

"Light-kun," L whispered, his voice was a raspy breath that hadn't seen water for hours.

"I'm here, Ryuzaki. Here," Light said, gripping the hand nearest to him. It was still warm. Still warm.

"Ahhh... hello." But Light didn't reply and L looked sorry for it, like it was just another hurt he'd been expecting. "Your head," the dry lips said.

"I don't know what happened. What happened?" Light asked.

"He shot us, Light-kun."

"Yes, but what happened? Why were you shot, he was aiming for me." Then he realised. God, that scrape on his head had slowed him down in more ways than one, hadn't it? Of course L had taken the bullet. Why hadn't he realised it sooner?

"Yes. I wasn't thinking. Silly, I suppose. I hardly know myself anymore," L said taking long, lagging pauses between each succession of words. He closed his eyes for a moment, reaching a weary hand to his forehead and pulled his hair in frustration. "I couldn't bear to lose you," he finished softly. He could hardly talk. His injuries obviously pained him to the point of silence. The sound of emotion lodged in his throat somewhere and made everything so much more difficult for him. Light wanted to make it stop because. Because it was ridiculous.

"Ryuzaki."

"I know. My brain functions are not … not objective. I'm sorry."

Light reached a hand, gently touching the bloodless skin of L's face, meandering up to brush the hair out of the way. L leaned into it unconsciously. Any little kindness, Light thought. "You did that for me," he said, as gently as he could. "I'll always be grateful. Thank you."

"You did the same for me," L replied, weakly, barely managing a half-smile. His eyes were opened wide, the skin around those dark orbs was more sallow than Light remembered but they were still two coals in the snow, staining the whiteness. Light leant down to kiss L's forehead which bare from the characteristic nest of crow-feathered hair.

"You're so stupid. So stupid sometimes," Light said softly, charmingly brushing stubborn strands of L's hair back. He was looking down upon him, his eyes narrow with a smile. L couldn't make them out. "Where did it hit? Here?" Light asked, pulling down L's white blanket slightly to see more of the bandage around his chest with morbid interest.

L became more a little more animated when asked to describe the havoc the bullet projectory had wreaked upon his body; It fascinated him. His weakened state meant that his words were slow and laboured. "It went right through from my shoulder and perforated the lung. Nerve and muscle damage. Some splintering of the scapula and all that that involves," L said, sounding like he wished that it was a more impressive list of injuries to justify the pain he felt.

"Nice one," Light said.

"Impressed?"

"Always."

A brief silence followed while L took the word in. So, he just needed to get shot in order to gain Light's admiration? If he'd known that he might have arranged this earlier. He basked in it for a while. Even if Light didn't mean it at all. Even if it was just another lie.

"I couldn't stop it completely though," he said reaching up towards Light's forehead where some of his hair was crisp, painted with dark, dead, dried blood. Light flinched away, covering the cut with his own hand.

"It's nothing," Light stated.

"I disagree."

Light pulled away. "Remember V?" he said, solemnly.

Silence, L stared up directly above him and closed his eyes briefly. "V had, what you could call, a death wish. She always did. I think that she was always just... waiting. Expecting it," L said. The words sounded rehearsed and clinical.

"Expecting it? You make it sound as if she went there looking for death."

"Maybe she did," L said slowly. As the words forced themselves through his lips, his mind was a cinema screen showing the narrow back of a blonde, broken woman. She said to him,"How could you have known? You're never here."

"As the atheist I know you are, that sounds almost as if you believe she's gone to a better place," Light said. L seemed to think on it for a while.

"No, but perhaps peace is darkness. Whatever it is, it stops. She's stopped. She was in great pain, you know? I never understood until now."

"Until you got shot?" Light smiled.

"Until I nearly lost something I cared for," L clarified.

What's this? A new game, my love? Light thought to himself. He could almost hear himself saying the words, but there were only in his head. But they were so loud.

"L -" he said. He looked to the floor.

"You know that I don't expect you to return these feelings. At least I know what they are now. It's enough."

Oh, this is just too smiled, in spite of himself. "Ryuzaki, I'm grateful to you. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel something for you."

"It's just not like the pure, undying, self-sacrificing love that Amane-san and I share for you," L laughed, wheezing towards the ceiling.

"You've scored a few more points than Misa. She hasn't taken a bullet for me yet," Light said.

"Light-kun has high expectations of his admirers."

As Light peered at the slight indentation on his hairline, he scowled at the mirror. He'd showered, cleansed everything from his skin; L, Hashimoto, and the idiot boy who'd allowed himself to be bruised, kissed, and surrounded until he couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. So he'd washed it all away. Thrown it away with the water so he could be a fortress again. But this strange mark remained. It would scar. Although it would be covered by his hair, it still annoyed him to be tarnished in this way. The scar would always be a reminder of his debt to L for saving his life, but then, it marked the moment when the tables turned in his favour. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad scar.

He covered it over all the same.

Rem was standing behind him, he caught sight of her in the mirror. Her bones were almost camouflaged against the bathroom tiles. Light's eyes fell down to the basin and calmly continued to rinse his hands while he considered his options. He couldn't be trusting. L could have, despite what he'd said, had had cameras installed in this room after all. Maybe he viewed the tapes back. Maybe he hoarded them and watched them over and over like the voyeuristic pervert that he was. No, L couldn't be trusted, which meant that he couldn't speak to Rem here. Folding the hand-towel and smoothing it over the rail, Light turned towards Rem, but without looking at her, and walked outside. He expected her to follow and never looked back to make sure. He didn't have to. She followed him as he walked up the stairwell to the roof where there were no cameras.

The roof was a podium, beaten by the wind. As soon as the door opened, the sharp air attacked Light, tearing at his eyes and hair. His clothes came to life, almost as if trying to strip themselves from his back. He turned to Rem as the wind whipped him.

"So it's true then? I'm the owner own the Death Note. I was holding it when Hashimoto died."

"Yes, Light Yagami," she answered. Was she bored or was that just the way she normally sounded? The sound carried. Her voice cut through zephyrs.

"So, it hasn't been destroyed? I don't have it," he admitted, prodding for answers. Rem remained silent. "Where is it?" he asked. Another question to be met with a world of nothing. "Rem, you're testing my patience," Light exhaled, he rubbed one arm against the coldness. Rem was just a statue. A marble nightmare of a twisted mind. She stared at him but he was beginning to think that that was simply because he happened to be in her line of sight. "Does L have it?" he tried again. Still nothing. How exactly do you threaten a shinigami? "Rem, tell me where it is. Just tell me, does L have it? I need to know." He really needed to bloody know, aside from the fact that it was freezing up there.

"No," she answered.

Oh.

"No one on the task force has it?"

"No." Her heart attack blue lips curled around the word. Light had the sense, perhaps for the first time in his life, that he wasn't liked.

The fact that L didn't have it was surprising. Light would have sworn that Watari or someone else would have picked it up, particularly since it was the reason that they went on that suicide mission in the first place. Yes, it had all gone a bit belly-up, hadn't it? Or not.

"Can a Death Note be destroyed by fire?" he asked, but he was rewarded by nothing but a blank face. Oh not this again. What does she need? Another coin in the metre or something? "Rem-"

"I do not like you, Light Yagami," she interrupted. "You are cruelty itself. I am your shinigami, but I do not have to answer your questions."

Cruelty itself? Well, that was uncalled for.

"Then why are you here?"

"For Misa."

"Well, for Misa, you have to get me the Death Note or at least a page. Something. I can't do anything for her without it."

Rem's answer was a sharp ascent. She kicked the air towards Light with her wings, the force of which knocked him back a few steps.

"Remember your promise - Free Misa," she said, ominously, before disappearing in the low hanging clouds. As she vanished, a tiny piece of paper floated down to the ground like a solitary snowflake. Light picked it up and almost laughed. It was a piece of the Death Note, but it was too small to write a full name on. What was he supposed to do with that? He slipped it in his pocket anyway, since it was too precious to leave. He might find a use for it one day.

Great, Light thought as he made his way back to the stairway. Misa, Misa, Misa. The girl is shinigami catnip. Oh but L, you disappoint me. I honestly thought that you had the book.

There had been no more Kira related deaths. No obvious ones anyway. Light eventually had to concede that it was too mammoth a task to investigate every unexpected death, even if it was just limited to Japan. To do things properly, they'd need more people, and he didn't want more people. Interestingly, since the fire there were also fewer threats and deaths which could be directly attributed to Astraea. They weren't known for being shy - they publically acknowledged their 'judgements' like sports scores. The sudden peace was disconcerting to Light as much as it was irritating. He was going to have trouble tracking them down if they were gong to avoid using the Death Note.

Watari had taken Hashimoto out with the rifle, which was surprising since rifles and kind old gentlemen with tea trays don't usually go hand in hand. Light learned later, through Aizawa, that a spark from a rogue bullet hitting the ropey, water-sodden, electric rig in the building was blamed for the fire. The burning was so fierce that there was only enough time to drag Light and L to safety before the area was completely engulfed in flames. L had described it as a divine annihilation. Lord, he was almost right.

The headquarters were monitoring events, but in truth, there was little real work for them to do. The NPA were getting testy, asking for information and progress reports. Before now, L had relayed dribs and drabs to them; just enough to keep them sweet and avoid them threatening to pull their on-loan officers, particularly Soichiro, off the case. Light suggested that someone send them word. Just a, 'Yeah, we're fine. All busy beavers here!' sort of thing, but L was ill. He fell in and out of consciousness and was hardly able to hold a glass, never mind placate the Japanese Police Force. Matsuda suggested that Light should send a message in L's stead, so Light did. He wasn't nervous because of the voice mask. He knew L's mannerisms, his syntax and pragmatics, but he hesitated over the 'This is L.'

But it gave them space. Light needed everyone out of his hair so that he could think. He liked five-year plans. He liked having clear objectives. He liked flow charts in his brain and having everything neat and tidy.

Some of the team-members took the opportunity to spend time with their families. The Kira case had been a pretty full-time job since the investigation started, and no one had had much time off work. Matsuda was occupied with managing Misa's work on her film since Mogi had been driven half-insane in his time as her 'PR'. Surprisingly, Matsuda was proving to be quite a good manager as long as he didn't stay up late at night. Only Soichiro and occasionally Aizawa stayed at the headquarters to look at deaths which might be traced to Kira. Besides that, all was peace.

Misa was unaware of the incident and Light's injuries (damn scar – he was like bloody Harry Potter!). He couldn't face the, no doubt, horrified squawking that would come from her if she found out. So he intended to keep her out of the picture just for a little while longer. It was a balancing act, he realised. He had to wait for the right time. It seemed that Misa didn't have the Death Note, which proved that his carefully constructed and foolproof plan, over which he had agonised for hours, apparently wasn't Misaproof. He hadn't spoken to Rem since that five minutes on the roof, and had hardly seen her beyond the odd fleeting shard of bone whiteness reflecting in mirrors or just around corners. One morning he'd seen her hovering outside the room in which L was sleeping. The door was open and he could picture L the way he'd left him - his head covered under a nest of blankets, one arm extending over the edge of the bed like The Death of Marat. So unaware that he was being watched impassively by Death. Light wanted to scream at her. What bloody right did she have to be here, to stand there like that? And because she was so completely inscrutable, like a slate wiped clean, Light wanted to lunge for her. He could feel the fibres of his muscles interlock and burn in demand for blood. However, he knew that to the onlooker it would simply look like he was suddenly taken by an urge to have a solo twenty yard sprint, so he settled for a silent and seething glare. Useless creature.

I killed one man to save a hundred thousand.

Not yet.

In any case, when he was ready to release L to the four winds, he would find some way of giving Misa clear instructions that even she could understand. She would find the Death Note he'd buried. Perhaps he'd invite her over for a spot of tea, learn L's name, and kiss him as he killed him. He'd watch those eye close forever. Light would be the last thing he'd see.

And then Light could find Astraea.

It was fortunate that fate had played a hand and that he wasn't at the mercy of Misa's ineptitude. It had been so perfectly planned. How could she have failed him so spectacularly? Even for Misa, this was mind-boggling. For the time being, he would continue to tell her on the phone how very busy he was on the case. She must concentrate on her film career for both their sakes. She never questioned it. She took it as his blessing to pursue her dreams before they married. How kind of Light. How martyr-like. It would never enter her tiny little mind that he just couldn't stand to share the same air as her.

Light spent a great deal of his time in L's room but they didn't speak very often. Light usually sat in an armchair to L's right, legs crossed elegantly to support some heavy tome he'd read while he dreamed of crowns of thorns. L often attempted to show off, distracting him by quoting long passages from memory of whatever he was reading. Light would smile accordingly. Generously.

Sometimes they played chess. Light let L play white on account of his injuries. If L started to ramble on about something then Light would kneel before him, curl an arm around L's waist and make him quiet with a skilled mouth.

But L wanted kisses and kind words and all the things which Light couldn't, wouldn't give him. Nothing was said at the times that Light brushed L off. He denied any instigation, steering them into another direction and back into the line of traffic. At some point though, when L was stronger and less like a baby animal desperate for something to cling to, Light knew that he would be questioned about it. Light had always been the most affectionate.

The team thought how touching it was for someone who had been treated so appallingly by L, to now devote so much of his time to keeping him company and be so concerned about his recuperation.

'You shouldn't feel like you have to care for Ryuzaki, Light. It's not necessary, he has Watari," Light's father had told him.

I know that it's not necessary. I'm just savouring it, Light thought.

After a few weeks, Light and L would walk around headquarters and Light would watch L appreciate his surrounding - perhaps for the first time. L would idly trace a finger line along a marble vein in the polished walls and study the small, insignificant details, filing them away in his mind for unknown reasons. They spent a great deal of time on the vast plateau of a roof, staring up at the giant blue spread of autumn sky before retracing their steps back to L's sickbed. How domestic.

Light had not decided upon the best time to kill L. Of course, he first had to have Misa's notebook retrieved from its hiding place under the tree. He thought of Hashimoto. He must have been the person Rem gave the Death Note to on his orders. Rem. Where was Rem? Perhaps she was watching Misa, if and when she could, from her realm of death and mirrors.

He had time. He tried to reason that impatience to return to his work as Kira would be foolhardy. Although he felt that he already had L under his thumb, he wished to be more assured of devotion and trust, as well as procuring the means of removing the weedy little man without being under suspicion.

Not long after the Hashimoto incident, L's system and secrets being practically his for the taking, Light had discovered that there were potential successors to the role of L. He first learned this after hearing L and Watari speaking of the importance of naming an heir. L's brush with death demonstrated his vulnerability. Yes, it seemed that the great L was mortal and transient after all. He wouldn't live to see another winter. If only he knew. If he did, perhaps he wouldn't be so quick to escape the cutting winds on the roof. Light could stand it. Nothing touched him now.

For his own entertainment and to gratify his thirst for vengeance, Light had long decided that it wasn't enough to simply kill L. He had to destroy him. It seemed to Light that the ultimate triumph would be to take his place, literally become L. He wasn't sure whether this would be preferable to creating his own great detective alias, but he'd recently started dropping ever so subtle hints to L that working with him as L would be a viable idea. He reasoned that as delicate as the hints were, L would come to prefer this option instead of Light returning to university and eventually working for the NPA. Something which Light was doing his very best to further, within reason, was to encourage what he suspected to be a reliance and a deepening of feeling in poor L's heart. If executed properly, L would find any way of keep him near. Light counted on it.

As the crime scene photographs came through of the new Astraea victims, Matsuda made prints and spent most of his morning wincing at the horrific images as the printer deposited them on the tray. They depicted the bodies of the victims (now 57 and counting), mostly politicians and statesmen, their deaths caught forever in pixels. The photos showed them lying wherever they fell, before people tidied up after them. Most of the victims had, with glassy eyes in anticipation of death, taken a sharp instrument and cut symbols into their chests or arms before their hearts shuddered to a halt. These symbols were the cause of much consternation. They were what Light and L were pouring over at this moment.

Soichiro sadly regarded his son and L as they inspected their gruesome bounty so dispassionately. For L, he felt a great sadness and sympathy, suspecting that he'd been practically reared on such images to have acquired such an immunity to depictions of violence and the evil. L looked frail and pained. His skin seemed transparently thin and shadowed. He certainly wasn't in any fit state to work on the case. In fact, he didn't look as if he should be doing anything apart from sleeping and being drugged up to the eyeballs with painkillers. However, as ill-advised as it may be, L had insisted upon going over the new events with the rest of the team for the first time since the shooting. They hadn't seen him since the day after the incident when, once he'd regained consciousness and enough mental capabilities, ordered three members of the task force to search the church site and scour it for any remains; of Hashimoto, V, or of the mysterious book they'd died for. Offiicially, no one had died.

Of course, the church was completely destroyed even before the fire. It had been a shell which had stood precariously, supported only by the grace of God, who had otherwise forgotten about it. It was now, for the most part, little more than a pile of blackened stones. The ground was still hot, though sodden from the fire service's attempts to dose the inferno.

As Soichiro, Matsuda and Ide examined the area, ashy mud clung to their shoes. They searched for the bodies primarily, but they had obviously been all but incinerated and ground into the earth by falling debris. A forensic team was requested to do a proper search as soon as possible. Matsuda was deeply affected by the whole affair. The lack of control of the situation had shook him to the point that Soichiro worried that he would request to leave the task force altogether.

But it was Light that worried Soichiro the most. He had changed so much since his arrival at HQ, becoming morose rather than simply being the quiet boy he had always been. His intelligence weighed heavy upon him. He wasn't living the life that Soichiro had wished for him. When he drove back home to his home without a son, he often saw boys Light's age walking and laughing with friends. But Light had never been like that, not really. Soichiro hated himself for having a favourite child, but Light was his, and from the moment he first saw him. He could hardly believe that he had produced such a glorious boy, and he wanted to make the world a better place for him. His son's seriousness hadn't been something he worried about before. Light had drive and direction and would make him proud. Everything he touched, he excelled at, and was bound for greatness. That he wanted to follow in Soichiro's footsteps had been flattering, because Soichiro was sure that he could aim even higher. But now he wondered why his children were so different. Sayu wasn't the most intelligent child in the world, but she was warm and loving, something he felt, especially of late, Light was not. Since the events in the church, Soichiro noted with concern that his son spent most of his time with L, as in, he actually chose to stay with L. While Light would occasionally make fleeting visits to the office while L slept, even then he seemed to be eager to return to his self-enforced seclusion. A veil of interest thinly concealed his boredom and coldness. Soichiro wondered whether L's impersonal aura had spread to Light like a disease. He seemed to have lost all interests outside casework, being less like an eighteen-year-old and more like Soichiro himself; a slightly jaded, deadened knife. Someone fighting for something undefinable in the face of adversity, because his pride wouldn't allow otherwise.

L, on the other hand, at least before he was injured, had become more talkative than anything since meeting Light. He made wry observations and displayed a degree of friendliness, though all his effort was for the benefit of, and apparently unappreciated by, Light.

Yet, now that Light could go home, he chose to stay here. Soichiro was proud of Light's sense of commitment and moral obligation, but it didn't seem right that he had become so reclusive. Now he worked on the case late into the night and stayed up until the early hours with L. Becoming a clone of L. Soichiro had made it clear that he had concerns about Light working on the investigation to such a extent, but both Light and L ignored such worries with a hurtful disregard.

If Soichiro ever decided to visit his son before leaving for the night, he heard the voices hush as he approached the door. He felt that, no, he couldn't knock. He'd be interrupting. He felt excluded whenever he was near them, and saw how efficiently they worked together. Watching his son wordlessly pass Ryuzaki classified documents and sugar bowls with equal importance was, somehow, heartbreaking. Soichiro felt unnecessary and above all, unwelcome. He saw how they looked at each other sometimes, like they had found greatness in a world of nobodies. He thought, sadly, perhaps he didn't know his own son at all.

A series of photographs arrived in which five victims had each etched a line of English deep into their skin with fountain pens, the effect being less repulsive than the other victims who had knife inflicted wounds. These looked like a badly inked tattoo. L placed the tip of his finger upon the collection of prints and rotated them like a magic trick, arranging them to reveal the message in full.

hadst thou sought the whole earth

there was no one place so secret

no high place nor lowly place

where thou couldst have escaped

this is the scaffold

"It's a bastardised quotation from 'The Scarlet Letter' -" L broke off abruptly. Light the disbelief in L's manner; the tell-tale tightened grip of hands around knees. There was something more to this, L had seen it, and it was meant for him alone. Light felt a sudden stab of jealousy, partly because someone else was playing games with L in his stead and leaving messages to communicate directly to him. But, for the most part, he was angry that he couldn't for the life of him understand what hidden message could rattle L so much.

"Hey, Ryuzaki," Light asked, gently.

"Yes, Light-kun," he replied, as if a spell had been broken.

"Are you reading something into this beyond the obvious?"

"No, it's just a statement of their perceived power and judgement. That and it reveals a partiality to historical romances," he joked, weakly.

"Are you lying to me?"

"What?"

"What does this mean?" Light asked, pointing at the photographs arranged on the desk.

"I don't know what you're referring to."

"This is a message to you and I think that you understand what they're saying."

"You're mistaken, Light-kun. I apologise if I gave you that impression. I'm not sure how I did."

Light nearly burst out laughing in L's face. Did L really think that he was still the unreadable mystery? They had thrown shards of glass at each other's hearts for months upon months and Light studied and treasured every nuance of mood of that remarkable frame. He knew better than anyone what was beneath the ice. He knew because he had initiated it all in the first place. L was his emotional claim and Light thought it was hilarious that L didn't realise it himself. "Because I know you, Ryuzaki," he said. "Keep it to yourself or not. Whatever. As long as you know that you can't hide from me anymore."

L watched Light's sharp profile for a few moments, suitably unsettled. It wasn't just because of the message, he was now unhappy in the knowledge that after months of Light despairing that he didn't understand him, apparently he could suddenly read him like a book. "What do you mean by that exactly, Light-kun?" L asked.

"What's this symbol?" Light said, frostily changing the subject. He pointed to a photograph which showed a prominent Greek politician lying face down on the floor of his home, his arm engraved with a series of bloody gouges. L zoomed in on the image to reveal a series of slices; the characters, 'νέμειν', could be made out amid the gore.

"Oh, that. 'Nemein'. Greek for 'give what is due'. It's probably the origin for the name, 'Nemesis', the Greek goddess of rightful indignation and retribution. Divine retribution." He paused for a moment, thumbing his lip, his eyes flickering over the crimson image. "It seems that Astraea are becoming tired of waiting."

"Waiting? You call this waiting?" Light said, abrasively.

"Consider this, Light-kun: Astraea is the goddess of human justice. It was her mother, Themis, who was the goddess of divine justice. If Kira styled himself as a god with divine rule, Astraea were willing to submit to him. This is a message to Kira, they obviously think that he knows his classics. What they're saying is that they have waited, holding back from waging war against the world because of Kira. But, as Kira has not appeared, this latest development may be their first step in taking on the mantle of divine sovereignty in his stead."

"They can't do that," Light said.

"Why not?"

"Well, it's stupid, isn't it? Shouldn't they wait for Kira?"

"You think that they should wait for Kira? You sound like you admire him."

"Don't be stupid. Kira's the reason I'm stuck here with you, isn't it? Yeah, I'm a big fan of Kira. No, what I mean is, what if Kira disapproves? Don't they fear his retribution?"

"Glad you cleared that up with conflicting statements. In answer to your question, I suppose that Astraea are thinking that if Kira is a god, then he has had more than enough time to extricate himself from whatever fix he's in. Namely, Astraea believes Kira to be in my hands and what kind of god can be held prisoner by a mere mortal?"

Light averted his gaze to another photograph, commenting in as unconcerned a tone as possible, "And they can't kill you."

"Light!" Soichiro gasped in surprise at his son's callousness.

"No, Yagami-san. Light-kun makes a fair point," L said, without taking his eyes from Light's down-turned face, "My death would be beneficial to Astraea, as it would be to Kira and, yes, a great number of people. I have at least 126 contracts on my head that I am aware of. However, Astraea appear to share the same abilities and the same constraints as Kira. They cannot kill without a name and face, and, figuratively speaking, I do not exist. Though my identity has been compromised of late for this case, my image is not on any record, nor is my name. Not even you know my name, do you, Light-kun?"

Light looked up at the question with eyes which were at once hurt and defiant. Soichiro, standing directly behind his son's chair was almost grateful for Matsuda's interruption of the intense staring contest going on between the two brainiacs.

"Chief, another broadcast!" Matsuda said, rushing forwards. All eyes turned to the main screen, the too familiar blindfolded Astraea bearing down upon them.

"People, these times of dread are short-lived. For peace and goodness we must unite. All peoples under one banner. There will be a planet with no tolerance of wrong doings. Bring the stars down from heaven. The world need not be a place so unjust that the angels turn away, sickened by human greed and thirst for destruction. Now truly is a race of iron. The evil will purged by the fire of atonement. The innocent have nothing to fear. These judgements are celestial. It was decreed that those who oppose our Great Work must be felled. Do not mourn them, for they chose their own fates and did not heed our warnings.

"Astraea is the enabler. Soon, the world shall be peace."

The video ended with a curved half-moon.

"A race of iron," L mumbled. Opening up a programme on his computer he opened what looked like an electronic book of 'Work and Days' by Hesiod and almost immediately found what he was looking for. "'For now truly is a race of iron, and men never rest from labour and sorrow by day. Strength will be right and reverence will cease to be; and the wicked will hurt the worthy man, speaking false words against him, and will swear an oath upon them. Envy, foul-mouthed, delighting in evil, with scowling face, will go along with wretched men one and all. And Nemesis and Respect, shrouding their bright forms in pale mantles, shall go from the earth, forsaking the whole race of mortal men, and all that will be left by them to mankind will be wretched pain. And there shall be no defence against evil'."

"They do genuinely believe that they're the good side, don't they?" Matsuda said.

"Yes, Matsuda-san, they do." Aizawa replied.

A/N. It's scary how easy it is to write such bonkers propagandist tosh. It's really simple - just try not to make any sense and that's a bingo! I'm chuffed that I got the word "felled" in there and that it wasn't in relation to a tree. Anyhoo...

Bibliography/Disclaimer/Howzedoozywotzit

"I killed one man to save a hundred thousand." - Charlotte Corday's defence of her assassination of Marat.

I absolutely swear that there's a reason for all the quotes but this next one is especially important, the 'scaffold' part especially. The lines from "The Scarlet Letter" by Nathaniel Hawthorne are spoken by Dimmesdale in Chapter 23. I had to alter them slightly. The original line reads:

"'Hadst thou sought the whole earth over,' said he, looking darkly at the clergyman, 'there was no one place so secret,—no high place nor lowly place, where thou couldst have escaped me,—save on this very scaffold!'"

Freaked L out a bit. Hmmm...

Finally, the loooong extract was more or less lifted from Hesiod's "Works and Days" (l.170-201). I removed or changed very little.