Twelve:
The Hanged Man

Enough was decidedly enough. L had been thinking along those lines since before he'd driven himself to the brink of death by dehydration, but now…now was the first time those words filled him with a sense of purpose. Because enough really was enough. Because he was sick of this and he didn't like that B's latest visit was practically a goodbye. Goodbyes meant something had happened. Goodbyes meant that someone was probably dead. And if B had killed Watari…if Watari was dead….

L didn't know what he'd do.

The urge to pace or tap his feet—to move!—was growing stronger with his anxiety, but his mind had never been clearer. There was no work to ponder nor cases to solve. It was down to one thing: him vs B. The stakes: an open door and a continued imprisonment. This was a fight L intended on winning.

Slowly, almost innocently, he stood up from the floor and hopped up onto his cot. He'd been checking the ceiling lights the last few times the power had gone out and had finally loosened one panel. The electrical system, from what he could feel, seemed well-maintained, though a few wires felt a little ragged. L had to be careful, though. If he went messing with the wires while the power was on, he'd most likely get a nasty shock…forty percent probability of death, as well. Seeing as death meant no more cake, he wasn't really in a hurry for it.

And so he waited and waited. The power would flicker out eventually, he knew, and that's when he would strike.

And, as predicted, the power abruptly went out several hours later, cascading the room in darkness.

L wasted no time, hopping off his cot and making for where his mug had been earlier. He picked it up and threw it against the floor, feeling for a large, sharp chunk of porcelain amidst the shattered fragments, before getting back up onto his cot. He held the piece of mug in his mouth as he gently pushed at the ceiling panels. He knew the loose one was there somewhere…it was just a matter of finding it again. Perhaps, just perhaps he had a god on his side—and not a god of death or the kind of god Kira had hoped to become—for his hands found the correct panel after only a couple of tries.

The fluorescent bulbs were still warm as L felt around them for wires to the power lines. He knew they were there (since it wasn't like wires could just vanish overnight) but he still had to find the right ones and pray it wasn't a wire that would decide to finish him off. Playing tennis full time with Light could wait until after L had escaped and made sure everyone he cared about was in their proper state of living.

The all-too-evasive wires felt different than usual and he felt a momentary surge of panic. L quickly stamped on it. Panicking would solve nothing. If he panicked now, then no work would be done. The wires were the same, it was merely his mood that was different. Yelling at himself helped and, isolating two wires, he used the chunk of mug to cut them. No spark, no electrocution, no dying or spontaneously combusting. It had gone…well. He hoped. The real trick would be if the power failed to come on in his room after the power in the rest of the building was restored. B couldn't fail to ignore that, could he? Either way, he'd have to investigate. If the power came back on in his room, B would want to know why the mug was shattered and a ceiling panel was pushed up. If it didn't, B had no choice but to come and see for himself what was wrong.

Either way, all L had to do now was wait.

Sometimes B hated these generators. By jam, if he didn't wish they ran longer on small amounts of fuel. Arms straining slightly, he refueled both generators and stored the extra fuel. His right shoulder had gone completely numb and feelingless, but B made a point of ignoring it. If he could still move his arms and it wasn't hindering him, then he wasn't going to worry about it too much. He had more important things to do…especially now that Near and Watari were so involved.

Vaguely, he wondered if they'd tracked the phone yet. It would never lead to him, but he was still curious. If they had, then they might have found the girl by now. If not…well, she only had less than a day left to live, anyway, if her lifespan hadn't been previously extended.

He returned to his little control room, and clambered into his chair, deciding to wait and see what the others did next. This, however, was a faulty plan. The power was back on in the rest of the building, but not in L's room. Why was the power not back on there? He knew perfectly well that the generators worked in—B cut of his train of thought, understanding everything suddenly. As he got to his feet again, the only thing he could say was: "Lawliet!"

For the first time in…ever, actually, L heard B before he saw him, the sharp slap of running footsteps on concrete.

L adjusted his grip on the metal tray in his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the wires he'd cut were sparking slightly, throwing out tiny flecks of red light in the darkness. L had a very bad feeling about that, but no time to focus on it as the grinding of gears and whirring of mechanics came from the other side of the wall. Don't put a number on it. Don't put a percentage on success. Just attack. The door slid open with a faint scrape.

A silhouette half-blocked the door, but a murky concrete hallway loomed behind it. That hallway had to be one of the most beautiful things L had ever laid eyes on, but there was no time to focus on that, either.

"Lawliet?" B all-but growled as he stepped into the room. If it hadn't been for the dim, flickering light of the hallway outside, L was sure the darkness would have consumed him.

Don't think about it, just do it! Stepping silently behind B, he brought the tray down on his doppelganger's head. B staggered and tried to turn, only to have L whack him with the now dented tray once more, driving B to the ground. L made a break for it. Before L had gotten further than the doorway, though, B had grabbed his ankles and pulled him down. L's head made an unhealthy-sounding bang as it collided with the floor and tiny fragments of porcelain had sliced up his feet and ankles. The pain was gone in a haze of adrenalin, though, as he realized that B was beginning to pull himself to his feet.

L's hands fumbled for his fallen tray and, grabbing ahold of it, he swung it at B's face. B attempted to wrestle the tray from him and managed to plant a punch in L's jaw. In return, L kicked out and managed to catch B in the chest. The younger man stumbled and, unable to regain his balance, fell backwards to crack his head against the cot's frame.

For a second, L watched B's unmoving form; waiting. But when, after thirty seconds, B still hadn't moved, L scrambled to his feet and bolted from the room.

His feet were slick with blood and burning from cuts and his head was throbbing, but he was running on adrenalin and a tiny spark of hope. If he could find a way out, he was free. And B wasn't going to get him back. Not if he had any say.

It was the smoke that roused him from unconsciousness. Not the smoke that haunted his dreams, but the acrid scent of something burning around him. His eyes snapped open, alertness flooding his body. The back of his head felt painful and damp with blood, but he didn't care. The ceiling was on fire and that's all that mattered. Not again.

With a hiss of frustration, B sluggishly clambered to his feet and ran out the door. After the fire that had failed to kill him, he'd developed a love-hate relationship with it. He didn't regret it, though; he only regretted that he'd survived. Now, however, was different. He wasn't letting this fire kill him. This would not be his end. L wasn't going anywhere.

It took just over ten minutes to find a room that looked important. Two computers sat at angles beside each other, flicking between different camera angles. L noticed his laptop and phone were tucked away next to them. He'd noticed the smell of smoke a few minutes previously, undoubtedly caused by an electrical fire from the wires he'd severed. It did nothing for him, knowing that he'd accidentally set the building on fire and that he now had to deal with both B and a fire.

First things first, though, he needed the hard drive from his laptop and his phone. The rest of the equipment he used could be easily repaired, but not those.

The bag Watari had packed their equipment into so long ago—how long? A month? Two months? Longer?—was under the computer's desk. He slipped his phone into his pocket and put the laptop back in its bag, pausing momentarily as his eyes fell on B's computers. They might have important information on them, but there was no time. He'd have to leave them and hope they survived the fire. It was just too big of a risk to wait for a file extraction and the towers were too heavy to take with him.

L quickly memorized a map framed on the wall, remembering the way out from where he was, and rushed from the room. The air was growing thick and hot. L was far from a marathon runner and he could already feel himself tiring. It was getting hard to breath and his limbs were protesting as he ran through hallway after turning hallway—it was quickly apparent why B had chosen this place; even if L had gotten out earlier, he probably would have gotten lost amidst the maze of hallways, rooms, and false exits.

He'd just entered a room he recognized—a cathedral-sized ward with crumbling brickwork and broken furniture—when he was tackled to the floor. The computer bag skittered away from him, toward the exit.

"Lawliet isn't going anywhere!" B snarled, managing to get on top of him and punctuating the sentence with a hook to L's jaw.

His head collided with the floor for the third time that day and, defensively, L brought his knee up and managed to drive it into B's gut. B's hands went for his throat and, somehow, L managed to whack him in the head with his knee. Between labored breaths, L panted, "You're not keeping me here, B."

The fire had finally caught up with them, winding its way up the far wall and toward the ceiling with a crackling roar. Both of them involuntarily turned to look. L, however, recovered first and managed to claw his way over to the computer bag.

B seemed to regain his focus only a split second after his former mentor and tried to halt his progress with a sharp kick to L's stomach. L grabbed his leg, working through the pain, and tugged, twisting away from his attacker. B went down quickly and L only let go after B's leg made a nasty pop.

Something inside him snapped in his desperation. Without waiting for B to recover, he worked his way to his knees and landed a blow to B's face. Again and again he struck out, not feeling when he too was hit and not noticing or caring that the fire was spreading to the wooden beams overhead. All that mattered was eliminating the threat—the flaw in the equation that threatened the entire solution. It was survival.

But…as quickly as he'd started, L stopped. What am I doing? It was as though he could see himself in B's eyes in that moment: as bloody and battered as the boy was, as desperate to survive, but broken. More than B ever had been. A fallen idol of a demented child…and he could just feel that B wanted him to kill him in that moment. L lowered his hands and sat back. He wouldn't kill B—couldn't—if only because they would be the same if he did. L may have had lives in his hands before, but he wouldn't end one himself; not now. He would not become an executioner.

"What are you doing?" B questioned warily as L pulled the computer bag toward him and pulled the strap over his head.

B's leg was broken in two places and L thought, judging by the way he was holding his chest, that several ribs were broken, as well. B clearly wasn't going anywhere soon. I did that? "Give me your hand."

Overhead, the timber creaked violently. Flames were consuming the broken furniture around them, using it to fuel them as the flames grew larger and larger.

"Why?"

"I'm taking us out of here and you're going back to jail."

B stared at him for so long that L became worried he was trying to delay him so they'd go up in flames together. Finally, the boy shook his head and, almost serenely, told him: "No, L. B—I'm not going back. We can never go back."

And, as the flaming beams above them gave way, he shoved him back toward the other end of the hall. L had barely managed to catch himself when there was an earth-shattering CRASH! and he suddenly found himself staring at a wall of burning wreckage.

"Beyond?"

There was no reply from the other side of the flames.

The heat was intense and L was aware that, if the collapsing building didn't kill him, the smoke would. He couldn't linger. He had to leave.

The hallways were choked with smoke, but L struggled through them, keeping his head down. He stumbled down a twisting staircase and managed to find the entrance. He didn't stop running until his legs gave out.

Utterly alone, he turned on his knees to look at the building he'd been held in for so long. Fire had consumed most of it, but it hadn't yet collapsed. Was there any hope for anyone still inside it, though? No, L didn't think so. In fact, he was ninety-nine percent certain…but he wasn't going to actually bring that thought to the forefront of his mind. He was still trying to get the rest of his mind back in order.

Despite the smoke, the air around him was cold and sweet—fresh—and the light dusting of snow on the grass around him was soothing after the heat of the fire. Strange, though…he would have thought freedom would feel nice. L didn't feel nice at all. He…he wanted…he wanted….

He needed Watari.

Not moving from his spot on the ground, L managed to wriggle his phone from his pocket. He'd found it very distracting before, but now it was a welcome sight. Unsure if his number was still being accepted or not, or if he was even getting a decent signal, L dialed Wammy's House as though he was any other letter, laying there as the phone rang and buzzed through various scramblers.

"Good evening, who am I speaking to?" a poshly-accented woman greeted from the other end of the line.

L tried to summon his voice, but failed. There were times when relief made one quicker to act, but this was not one of those times.

"Hello?" the woman asked, her voice turning sharp and L knew she was suspicious that a) this was a prank call or b) the caller was in danger.

"L. One. Two. Two. Five," he managed after a moment. When the woman didn't reply, L said, "Can you hear me? L-one-two-two-five."

"A gift from L?" the woman clarified slowly. There were several clicks on the other end of the line as though she was typing, and she abruptly added, "Who is this for?"

L paused for the first time. If he said Watari, he'd need clearance numbers and he'd have to sit here answering questions for ages before he got put through. So he went for the next best thing—the only person he could talk to with no questions asked: "Roger. It's for Roger Ruvie."

"One moment please."

The line gave him the usual feedback as he was transferred. As L lay there, it occurred to him that they ought to work on a better call system. If he was dying, he probably wouldn't have survived talking to their operator. For once, he managed to convince himself that he could think about it later.

A bush nearby rustled and L jolted up, prepared to start throwing pinecones if anything else decided it wanted to attack him. A pair of bright, glowing eyes became visible, slowly followed by a slightly mangy cat with a fluffy tail and a "C" carved into its collar. L scowled at it, annoyed that it had managed to scare him. He was surprised C had survived unharmed, though. If L believed in signs and such, he definitely would have said that was one. With a yowl, the cat flicked its tail and walked back into the bushes. He didn't get a chance to call the cat back as the line finally connected.

"Hello?" a voice that was nowhere near Roger's voice answered.

"Mello?"

"L?" There was a brief moment of silence before something on the other end of the line clattered to the floor. Conference call was activated as Mello blurted, "Holy shit, you're really L!"

"Mello, where is Watari and Roger?" L decided he could comment about Mello's language another time…not that it really bothered him.

"Um…they're not here right now. They're looking for you. They left us in charge."

"No, they didn't," a quiet, monotone remarked to Mello.

"Shut up, Near."

"That's enough," L said, breaking the fight up before it could begin. "One of you needs to call Watari and Roger. Someone else needs to call Q and have him find where I'm located. Can you do this?"

"I'll call Q," he heard Matt reply.

"If you're okay, what happened to B?" Mello asked, curiously.

"What are we supposed to tell Watari and Roger?" Near asked at the same time as Mello.

L hesitated, ignoring that his hand was shaking at the mention of B and that he was shivering violently with cold. "No questions, Mello. Tell them…I need their help."

As the boys on the other end went about their tasks, L fell backwards, laying there. The computer bag was by his side and he didn't disconnect the call so Q could find him easier. He knew very well he should have said that B was dead and he should have been ecstatic about having such capable kids getting right into their side of the case, but…he wasn't. A part of his mind wondered if he was in shock. Looking up at the open sky, L decided that it wasn't shock…there was just nothing left to say.

AN: B? Is he...is he really dead? Or...is this another trick? Just a note about the chapter title, the hanged man, in tarot, represents sacrifice, surrendering, passivity, and a new point of view. With that in mind...it's time for hypothesizes! Good thing we have one more chapter left, right? Please review!