Disclaimer! All fictional entities featured/ mentioned in this segment belong to Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata; except Erin Blogger and a few extra characters not from the canon cast, who I made up for the purpose of this fan fiction. The two quotes preceding this chapter are from Maya Angelou (I know I'm kinda late saying so but may she rest in peace) and Stephen Colbert; I just really liked them and thought I should share them.
I might have taken some liberty regarding the rule where you can regain your memories of a notebook you owned and used by touching it. The rules and the series itself don't really specify whether you have to be holding the entire notebook or if you just have to be touching the cover. All that's established is that a page or clipping of a page isn't enough for that to happen. And if a clipping or page is just as potent function-wise as the whole notebook, why not the cover?
While we're on the subject of rules, they don't specify how much immunity you get when your name is misspelled 4 times either: are you immune just to the Death Note your name was misspelled in, or are you immune to all Death Notes? From what I understand, this rule can be interpreted either way. "The Death Note will not ever affect a victim whose name has been misspelled 4 times."
13. Connection
...
"A cynical young person is almost the saddest sight to see because it means that he or she has gone from knowing nothing to believing nothing."
- Maya Angelou
"Remember, you cannot be both young and wise. Young people who pretend to be wise to the ways of the world are mostly just cynics. Cynicism masquerades as wisdom, but it is the farthest thing from it. Because cynics don't learn anything. Because cynicism is a self-imposed blindness, a rejection of the world because we are afraid it will hurt us or disappoint us. Cynics always say no. But saying yes begins things. Saying yes is how things grow. Saying yes leads to knowledge. Yes is for young people. So for as long as you have the strength to, say yes."
- Stephen Colbert
...
"I'm so sorry if I'm sounding forceful, Mr. Wammy, but we've done all that we could for him. We think he'd be better off somewhere else, somewhere that would be…better suited for children like him."
"No, no please, I understand. If I may I'd like to speak to him personally, see what he thinks about this arrangement."
"Very well. But be careful. He seems to enjoy playing with people's minds." Cold warning laced Mrs. Wheal's words that had not slipped by Quillish. Even though the boy they had been discussing had just turned eight she had spoken of him like he were a burgeoning criminal mastermind, or worse. While he hadn't tortured or killed any small animals (at least as far as they knew), he sounded like the textbook problem child. He spent most of his time ignoring the other children and the rest of it antagonizing them, and if not them then the staff and faculty. He had been involved in several fights and hoarded most of the puzzles and whatever sweets he could find.
Though they hadn't had the chance to speak before this point, Quillish knew of him from before. Four years ago Roger had rescued him by calling the authorities after luring the boy's kidnapper into his office for an appointment. Karol Ackart, a manic-depressive French woman who had worked for Lamar and Adele Lawliet as a maid, had been on the lam for four years prior to that. Her madness exacerbated by her private struggles with infertility and a string of miscarriages, she'd fatally shot the couple in their home and whisked their at the time newborn son out of the country, killing her own husband Martin along the way when he'd tried to stop her.
The trial had been a sensational affair while it'd lasted only to sink back into obscurity as abruptly as it had sprang up, as it happened for all high-profile criminal trials. Currently Mrs. Ackart was in prison serving a life sentence; had it not been for her gender, illness and somewhat sympathetic story that had swayed the jury—for all of her instability she did seem to genuinely love the boy and allegedly had kept insisting for nothing more than that they let her see him—she might have gotten the death penalty.
Meanwhile the boy, curiously named L, had had no other relatives to claim him (or if he did have any no one stepped up due to the strong suspicion that he was the product of an affair Adele had had under the old gentleman's nose; his mild Japanese features were a tip-off to his true paternal origins). So he'd spent four more years hopping from place to place, this time through foster care and eventually children's homes of various conditions. The longest he'd stayed anywhere was four months.
He found him in one of his usual spots: in the closet perched under the bottom shelf like a bird locked in a cage. His face was hidden behind a newspaper that he held up by the top corners pinched between his thumbs and pointing fingers. On his right shined a lamp that he had likely stolen off someone's desk; on his left, a jar of biscuits.
Without moving the paper to glance up at him, the boy's soft flat voice asked, "Close the door please. It's too bright in here now."
Quillish twisted his neck slightly and smiled down at him. He did not question why he was hiding in the closet. He believed children responded better if he approached them as one of their friends would, like an equal, without interrogation. They'd tell you anything once they felt safe enough around you and with proper incentive. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to have more light in here?"
"I like it dark." In spite of the boy's nationality, his grasp on the English language was remarkable, especially for someone his age. According to one of his tests, he'd scored an intelligence quotient of 170. This had been one of the reasons Quillish had been consulted in the first place.
"Ah. Well, if those are where your preferences lie, you could sit in one of the armchairs with the curtains drawn."
"No. I prefer my closet. It's the only place here where I can get total peace and quiet. I don't like sharing a room. But no matter how much I say so, Mrs. Wheal says she can't treat me any differently than she treats everyone else."
"Hm. I see. That annoys you, doesn't it?"
L didn't answer then, at least with words. He grunted to himself. Quillish took that as an affirmative. It was then that he noticed a blanket balled up in the corner. Mrs. Wheal had mentioned that he liked sleeping in the closet rather than his assigned cot.
"I'd tell you to go away but I've been told that that's not very polite and people respond better when you're polite. So I'll say please go away."
"I'm sorry if I'm bothering you. I won't be for much longer. Please, call me Quillish, and if you don't mind may I ask what you are reading?" Although no longer as limber or light as he used to be, Quillish knelt down so as to be more at L's level, physically and psychologically. He seemed like a harmless enough boy. Strange, aloof, precocious, blunt to the point of rude, but not quite the little psychopathic beastie Mrs. Wheal had painted in her office. Best to get the boy's side of the story before moving any further.
"I'm reading today's paper," L answered flatly, still without looking at him. Though he did reach over to pick a biscuit out of the jar. It disappeared behind the paper and Quillish could now hear grunts and sloshes of open-mouthed chewing.
"Anything worthy of note?"
He heard a loud gulp. "I wouldn't have bothered to pick it up if there wasn't. Quillish, what business do you have with me? No, don't tell me: you're here to take me to a different home, aren't you?"
He noted the small stack of newspapers set off to the side. Judging by its size, they must have spanned back at least two weeks.
Hmm…why would he be collecting the paper for this long? Is he following a story? Come to think of it, there has been one story of great interest that has been covered for this long, and it's still ongoing.
"Why, whatever would give you that idea…I don't believe you've told me your name."
"I don't have to. You already know that it's L. And that's the only reason anyone would seek me out anymore. You and Mrs. Wheal were talking about me and her intention to send me someplace else. Not that I mind leaving if that's your concern; I have never been too fond of this place. It's boring. But I don't feel like packing right now. I have a more pressing matter to get to."
A pang of sadness shot through Quillish when he heard this, but his smile broadened a tiny bit more. At least he was opening up, if in increments. "This pressing matter wouldn't happen to have to do with the bombings in Winchester, would it? A terrible business, that."
…
"Maybe, but it's interesting. A shame that they've gone this long without catching the culprits. At this rate another World War could break out if something isn't done. I think I could solve it if I were allowed. But I need more information than what the press has presented. If I could only get in touch with the Hampshire Constabulary and have them tell me what they know…"
Quillish raised a thoughtful finger to his lips while he rested his chin on his thumb. He was already piecing together his own theory behind the enigmatic boy. He felt unsettled and unchallenged. That was why he stirred up trouble, although he probably didn't think of it that way. He was only eight; it was unreasonable to expect he have a strong sense of right and wrong yet. A strong and conventional sense, that is.
Give him something to do and he could actually be somewhat agreeable.
"Well, if you've had so much trouble just trying to negotiate with Mrs. Wheal on room and board, I'd imagine the constables to be much more stubborn. But what if I told you that I had some experience with the authorities? If you'll allow it and come along with me, I could speak to them on your behalf."
For the first time since this conversation had begun the paper dropped to reveal a pale, sunken face framed by a wild mass of black hair peering back at him, his wide dark unblinking eyes probing him for the validity behind his claim. Though it was almost unnoticeable, Quillish thought he saw his bottom lip quiver in a very restrained kind of excitement.
His voice didn't sound quite as flat as before. "Are you serious?"
Quillish nodded. "Always."
Was it pure chance that Quillish should meet him this way or grand design? In the end, he would come to decide, it mattered not.
Some—Roger for instance—might have chastised him for indulging a child's whims like this but he always believed that anyone no matter what their age could accomplish something great if they were just given the chance. And his instincts had turned out correct. What started as an innocent game, relatively speaking, went on to solve what history would dub the Winchester Mad Bombings and avert what could have escalated into the Third World War. L's very first case, even though he was not publicly acknowledged for his contributions. And maybe that was just as well?
Barely a week after the fact, Quillish got up to check on L and bring him lunch only to find him missing from the guest room, his temporary room until he'd finished constructing his new one. A slight shuffling and even quieter sniffling from the walk-in closet clued him in on where he had gone off to.
"L? Is everything all right?" he called out gently as he rapped on the door.
"Go away." The boy's voice sounded uncharacteristically small and broken for him, like he was willing himself not to breathe lest his words came out as sobs instead. He had never heard or seen the boy cry before. So he was capable of feeling hurt after all. But what had caused this distress in the first place?
For a moment he dreaded that using the bombings to fake L's death, faking his death at all, had not been such a good idea. The two had spent all night in his home—the estate that would earn its place on the map as Wammy's House—talking about it in depth, the pros and the cons. L had seemed fine with all of it. It would give him all the freedom he needed to do whatever he wanted. "Besides, there's no one that's going to miss me anyway. And there's not anyone I would miss back."
What a thing for a child to say and so matter-of-factly, although given his past how could Quillish blame him for thinking that way? He hadn't had a proper home or family in what had so far been his whole life. He was struck by the temptation to retort, "I would miss you," but he held his tongue. L didn't need nor want pity. In fact he seemed averse to it, only invoking it if he thought it was the best way to get something he wanted, such as free shortcake from the sympathetic baker downtown.
Then he glanced down at the discarded paper in front of the mirror and got his answer as soon as he picked it up. It was a small article taking up the bottom left corner in the second page but still the words splashed out at him like acid.
Karol Ackart, aged 36, had committed suicide in prison. They'd found her topless body dangling from the bars in her cell window by a makeshift noose she had cut up from her own prison garb, no note. Around the time the Mad Bombings had been wrapped up.
He was wrong. Someone had missed him. She'd missed him enough to take her own life for him.
Oh, L.
L had been much too young to remember his birth parents the night they were murdered, and in spite of what she'd done to him she had been for all intents and purposes his doting mother-figure for the first four years of his life, the longest he'd ever had a parent thus far. He'd never asked about Karol and had refused to speak of her whether or not he was prompted, but perhaps it was natural that he develop some kind of Stockholm syndrome towards her and mourn for her death. Maybe even bear some guilt over it, no matter how unfounded they both knew it was. Or at least as Quillish saw it.
He could hardly imagine the self-loathing L must have been struck with when he'd looked up at his reflection and seen the tears streaming down his pallid cheeks, reminding him of the weaknesses he derided others for having and preferred to dismiss in himself. How tightly he curled in over himself to keep from dropping his however odd heart on the ground and cracking it. How he took his entire jar of biscuits in with him to help sweeten the bitter salt of his tears that had snuck onto his tongue.
Over the next seventeen years he would indirectly spurn another suicide and an attempt thereof following a murder spree, and even take his own life at the end of it. Either way, he would never cry again after that.
…
"You don't even believe me, do you?"
"It's not that I don't believe you. But I've told you this ad nauseam: you can't join the investigation."
"I can't take this anymore, Aizawa. I have a very strong hunch that Takada is the next Kira. Please, let me help! Even if it's just sitting around doing surveillance." Soichiro was vaguely aware of the fact that he sounded a bit like how Matsuda used to talk (and still did, if to a milder extent these days), but he was too swallowed up in his desperation to care. It had reached the point where he thought it better to go to Aizawa to discuss it lest he do something rash by taking matters into his own hands. Something that could end with him dead, or worse the rest of his former team. Or at the very least, land him in jail.
Just then Matsuda piped up from behind them: "Aizawa? Do you mind if I interject a bit? Oh, and good-morning, Yagami."
The two turned to see the youngest of them peering from around the corner of the doorway that led to Aizawa's den where everyone had gathered for their next meeting.
"Good-morning, Matsuda," Soichiro answered, more tensely than he meant to.
"What is it, Matsuda?" demanded Aizawa.
"Well, I-I was just thinking. Maybe we should let Yagami join us after all?"
"What? You can't be serious! Excuse us. I've got snacks laid out in the den if you want anything." With that Aizawa stormed down the hall to snatch Matsuda up by the lapel of his suit jacket and drag him into the kitchen.
You know, you don't have to drag him around like a dog all the time.
Soichiro peered into the den to see Mogi and Ide sitting in either couch parallel to each other. They stopped whatever they were doing to return the look and all of a sudden things took another level in awkward.
"Ah…good-morning, Mogi, Ide," he greeted with a somewhat forced smile. Not that he wasn't pleased to see them again but they didn't look quite so pleased to see him here.
Mogi simply nodded. "Good-morning, Yagami," said Ide, gesturing to the coffee, juice, nuts, fruit and bars strewn across the table between them. "We don't have much but please help yourself." Ide had been on a health kick lately and was trying to avoid donuts and the like, to the mild detriment of the others (mostly Matsuda). If he couldn't have donuts, neither should they.
Soichiro mustered enough nerve to amble over and pour himself some coffee into a Styrofoam cup. Meanwhile he heard Aizawa and Matsuda's not-so-hushed argument carry on in the kitchen, not that they didn't try to be.
"Look Aizawa, please hear me out. I don't want anything to happen to him either, but…this is really important to him. This could be the only shot he has at getting any closure. I don't think there's going to be a lot of harm in just letting him do surveillance. Besides he's just going to keep coming back until you let him join. What if he snapped? Think about what I did when I was feeling useless. And remember when he was in the hospital when the Second Kira attacked Sakura TV?"
Aizawa sighed. "How could I forget?"
How could any of them forget? Soichiro saw the photos lined along the wall: some of them of Yumi and Anika, none of Eriko as he had taken those down, a few of them of Ukita with his large protruding ears and buzz cut and goofy smile. Besides Ide, Ukita had been Aizawa's best friend, his best man at his wedding and the only one capable of loosening him up; whenever Matsuda tried to it mostly ended up winding him up even more.
Soichiro swallowed a mouthful of coffee to dissolve the lump in his throat. Even now it felt too surreal knowing that his son, who had worked with all of them in the past, had had anything to do with his murder.
Had he let L bring Light in sooner, would Ukita still be alive? Then again, they hadn't known then about Misa…maybe it would have happened anyway?
"Yeah except he knows well enough to come to you about what to do this time around. C'mon, give credit where it's due."
"All right, fine, maybe you've got a point. You rarely have a point but when you do…"
Then there was an uncomfortable silence. Soichiro was frozen where he stood and from the looks on Mogi and Ide's faces, they were just as anxious about what Aizawa should decide.
Eventually the two headed out of the kitchen, their expressions stiff. Aizawa's even more so, like he were about to say something he feared he would come to regret later on.
"All right Yagami. Maybe I can make an allowance for you to join the investigation. But only to help with surveillance. That's it. You won't be involved in any actual arrests or anything else."
Admittedly a small job, but it was something. And frankly it sounded like the only thing he could do without messing up with his current state of mind. He bowed in gratitude. "Oh Aizawa, I can't tell you how much it means to me to hear you say that. Thank you so much. I promise not to be a burden."
"That's not what I'm worried about. I mean it, Yagami: do not take matters into your own hands. Let us do the rest."
While he doubted Aizawa meant to talk down to him in such a way, he felt his ears burn. "Yes. I understand."
Matsuda clapped his hands together, his face lighting up at seeing the whole task force together again, more or less. "All right! The whole gang's together again! Since you're here we're gonna need to brief you on what's been going on. Have a seat."
"No thank you, I'm fine with standing," he insisted, leaning in on his cane.
"Uh…okay. I just thought you'd want to sit down; it is a lot to take in. Well, we just got a call from L which is why we're all gathered here at Aizawa's place," said Matsuda. "It's a different L from the one we worked with on the first case—I know, we were all shocked to hear about this too—"
"What he's trying to get at," Aizawa cut in, "is that there's someone else who's taken L's place, and he wants our help. He had Blogger confirm to me who he is."
"B-Blogger? Another L? Since when, and what does Blogger have to do with any of this?" Blogger getting entangled in the Kira case the first time around had been a mistake, but a second time?
"He said he comes from a secret organization of detectives that all go by the title of L. I'm still trying to figure out how they found each other but apparently this L has been asking Blogger to keep an eye on Amane while she's in America working on her movie. He knew about her past as the Second Kira so he suspected her again."
"Unfortunately, he might have been right about her," said Ide. "She's gone missing as of last Sunday."
Matsuda stared down at his feet, too hurt to voice his opinion on the matter at this time. Mogi simply poured himself another cup of coffee. Back then Misa had had Matsuda practically wrapped around her finger and she had even wormed her way into Mogi's good graces. He couldn't imagine how hard they were taking this.
Not that Soichiro had hated Misa—although at times he found her overwhelming and would question his son's taste in women since she'd seemed so unlike him in just about every way (which in hindsight only showed what he knew)—but when he heard this he almost dropped his cane. "Wh-what? That's impossible! Amane shouldn't remember anything; how could she have anything to do with the new killings?"
He thought about the past four years Misa had darted in and out of his family's life, how she was there for Light's funeral and even tried to fill in the space he had left as an older sibling for Sayu in her own kooky, flighty way.
It was still hard to take that this same girl had been Ukita's killer; sometimes when she'd come over he'd had to excuse himself from the room just so he wouldn't have to look in her direction. But what could they do about it? Without her memories, Misa couldn't be brought to justice (whatever that meant).
Although lately Misa had stopped talking to any of them. Sayu had mentioned being worried about her but had written up the lack of correspondence as simply not having the time. Misa did have a life of her own. An acting and modeling job was stressful in all aspects, never mind working overseas.
He loathed to think about such a possibility of Light doing this to anyone, but he wondered: had he corrupted Misa? He vaguely longed for it to have been the other way around but given the timeline, and Light's intelligence compared to hers, it was too unlikely. If she'd never gotten the notebook and met Light, she might have gone on to live a truly normal if fast-paced and glitzy life. She probably would have never thought of killing Ukita or anyone for that matter.
Soichiro didn't know, any more than he knew why Light became Kira. One of the harshest truths he'd ever learned was that sometimes murderers had the decency to help the elderly carry their groceries home or their little sisters with their calculus homework.
Aizawa shook his head in disappointment, frustration and apprehension. "I'm not sure how she got her memories back, assuming that she did, but L mentioned that she may be working with someone who defected from his organization a few years back. He called him 'M.'"
"You…I'd say you were kidding, but I know you too well to think that you would, especially about something like this." Soichiro commented, breathless. The first L had never said a word about being part of a group of detectives. But then, why should they have expected him to? He'd never trusted them any more than they could trust him, and when the case closed they'd left him there in that building without another word, coming back only to pick up his body and have it cremated when his time was finally up. Just as he'd asked. Soichiro had had his stroke in the middle of his eulogy.
He would struggle with this too in the years to come. As much of a bastard as he was, L was all alone with Watari gone and still so young, young enough to be his own son and in fact he'd sometimes remind him of the son he did have. Then again, maybe that's why he didn't go see him? He couldn't look at him without wanting to punch him in the face after what he'd done to him and his colleagues, and to himself. And for what else? Because he hated him for being right all along about Light? For knowing Light better as a complete stranger than he ever knew him as his own father?
"Is…M the one doing the killings?"
"L thinks that M might have a notebook, but he said that he thinks there's a second person who's been slaying the criminals too. We suspect that person is Kiyomi Takada, as you've said. If we're right then we need to bring her in and take her notebook before M gets at it."
It was a wonder why none of them had been killed yet, seeing as how Misa knew their names and faces and if what Aizawa was saying was true, could easily have them killed. But maybe in her twisted way she liked them too much to stoop to that just yet? It was the only explanation he could think of as to why they were still alive.
"I'm sending out Ide and Matsuda to tail her for a while. In the meantime L has informed me that he's sent a professional to plant bugs and wiretaps in her apartment."
Four years ago the task force would have protested doing this. But when the current L had suggested it just the other day it had made Aizawa think of what the first L had said about their initial resistance towards the idea:
You'd risk your lives to catch Kira but not your jobs?
How amazing it was that he, or Soichiro could remember that comment so clearly after all these years. Almost like a taunt. L seemed to love to do that, and so apparently did his successor. Sometimes you had to forsake one or two laws to uphold the ones that held more weight. And if you chose to resort to that, you'd better make sure not to get caught. After all, a crime was only really a crime if you were caught doing it.
Somehow Soichiro could see Light saying something like that if he'd never been caught and killed. If Kira's caught, he's evil. If he wins then he's justice.
"A professional, you say. You mean Wedy or someone else?" Soichiro asked.
"He didn't say but maybe it doesn't matter, just that the job gets done. Hey, do you need some water or something? You look kind of ill."
"I'll be all right. I've got coffee. You're right…this is a lot to take in."
…
"Ms. Blogger, please come into my office."
Erin looked up from her parfait and OJ to see the door leading to Near's room. Oh, it's your office now?
So he finally felt like talking to her face-to-face again? What brought that about? Nevertheless, she dug her plastic spoon into the swirled-up mound of yogurt and fruit and granola before standing up and following Roger's lead, like an employee answering her boss's call with great trepidation for what would be in store for her. Roger refused eye contact with her as he led her inside. As much as she wanted to apologize for her latest comments she'd had no idea how to go about it. Would just saying sorry be enough this time? Would he accept it?
She found Near surrounded this time by a miniature scale of the city made up of Legos™, some of his robots and action figures and trains racing around him on suspended tracks in opposite directions. He sat in the middle of it all like a monster about to destroy the whole thing, but he was swinging his arms around instead to make the astronaut gripped in his hand fly through the air.
"So have you finally told Aizawa?"
"Yes. I've given him all the information I could at this moment in time so he and his men will be prepared for what's up ahead. Including the part about Kiyomi Takada."
Erin jumped a bit at this last part. She remembered Kiyomi well enough from when she'd studied at To-Oh, even though they'd only spoken once or twice. But what did she have to do with anything? "Whoa whoa, pause and rewind! What about Takada?"
"You may not have noticed—what a surprise—but criminals have begun dying all around the world as of late, albeit not currently at as great of a scale as Light Yagami accomplished during the first incident. Mello never believed in Kira's ideology regarding the justice system and he isn't one to change his mind on such things, so we can conclude that a second notebook has fallen to our world and has been picked up by someone else, a Kira supporter. Takada used to be an anchor at the pro-Kira station Sakura TV before moving on to NHN…in the wake of director Hitoshi Demegawa's death."
A second notebook? Since when? You've gotta be kidding me. Has Ryuk gotten everyone from his world and their grandma wanting to visit ours? Oh gosh, what's the notebook done to Kiyomi by now?
"And when were you gonna say something about this?"
"I'm telling you now, aren't I?" he snorted, turning the arms around on his astronaut figure in circles. Then in that uniquely offhanded way of his he added, "Also, you've gained weight."
"Hey! I thought we've had this conversation?"
Unfortunately it was true. She might have packed a few extra pounds lately, really ever since she'd moved to LA. This morning before she'd stepped into the shower she had pinched at her stomach to check out the flab accumulating around it—the old muffin-top in the making—embarrassed at how it looked in the mirror. She guessed that this was what happened when you were under so much stress, cortisol and all that, and unlike L she couldn't think it all away. In fact, with the sort of things her mind occupied itself with lately thinking would probably make it worse.
"Yes, I remember it well. But you said we need to be more honest with each other, right? You've gained weight so I'm bringing it to light. That's probably why Gevanni pushed you away when you were kissing him. He thinks you're gross but unlike me he's too nice and cowardly to tell you that."
How on Earth Near could have known what had transpired between her and Stephen the other day, she couldn't imagine. Stephen had never crossed her as the type to kiss and tell (God he'd better not be). But then, this was Near. He had his ways. All the same she felt tears pushing at her eyelids again, though not quite hard enough to spill over them. Even if it was true, who liked being told that they were ugly or fat, or worse that someone they liked thought that about them?
"What the hell is your problem, you sadistic little prick? I don't know if you're aware of this but there is a difference between honest and plain cruel. I'm not gonna let you exploit my request just so you can say whatever the hell you want."
"Psh. I'm only giving back as much as you dish out."
"What is that supposed to mean? I—is this about what I said the other day?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. But not what you said to me; I've told you before, I couldn't care less what you have to say or think about me. Ms. Blogger, you may be partially correct about Watari's capabilities as a parental unit. He's always been more of a manager and assistant than a father figure. Nevertheless I will not tolerate anyone insulting him, unless it's me. Only I have that privilege."
For a moment there Erin didn't know what to say to that. She was stunned. This had to be the first time since they'd met that Near implied that he remotely cared for the welfare of another human being besides himself, never mind if he had no qualms about using said human being as his own proverbial punching bag.
The man in question had no comment about this. He just went about his business on his laptop in the corner of the room. Even if Roger had nothing important to actually do, he'd always be there to watch the two of them, make sure that their differences in opinion didn't get out of hand. If this room was the office and Near the boss, he fit well into the scene as secretary.
Could Roger be right? Ever since that stunt Mello had pulled to wipe out almost the entire task force, Near's attitude did seem to have taken a turn for the worse. If that was scientifically possible.
So maybe Near was capable of empathy after all? If a very stunted, vestigial sort of empathy that he liked to pretend didn't exist and which probably didn't extend to beyond a handful of people (if that). But for someone like him, it was something.
"All right, I'm—I'm sorry."
"Don't say it to me. Roger's the one you owe the apology to."
Her cheeks grew warm and she rubbed at her arm like she'd just gotten a particularly painful shot as she glanced over at Roger. "Roger? I-I'm sorry. What I said about you and Quillish…that was real dumb. And I didn't mean it. Well, I did mean it but not the way I said it—"
He only looked her in the eye briefly before averting his gaze back to the monitor. "I accept your apology," he answered, a bit too brusquely for Erin to believe that. Like he really didn't feel like talking to her right now but it would've been rude not to acknowledge her attempt at making up, again. She must have pushed a pretty big shiny red button of his pretty hard; he hadn't even been like this after the pedophile comment. "There's no time nor room here for grudges."
What do you want me to do? I can't take it back and I know you don't like McDonald's™ so that's out. Oh me and my big fat mouth, will I ever learn when to shut up? Maybe I should invest in a muzzle to put on when I get pissed off about anything…
Near set the astronaut down with his usual bored expression and resumed fiddling with his hair. "Sometimes I can't fathom what he found in you that intrigued him so much."
This next comment caught her by such surprise that it practically made her jump in place. "Huh, what?"
"I said what could he have seen in you that he found so interesting?"
"Who, Stephen?"
"No. L. The first L. As much as I don't want to believe it, I have a strong hunch that he was fond of you and you two had a relationship during the time you stayed with him. Why else would he have refrained from mentioning you in his post-case report? What still puzzles me is why he'd have such an inclination in the first place."
Now she was burning up from head to toe. Why was he bringing this up now? "Wh-what are you suggesting? I didn't sleep with him if that's what you're thinking. I mean sure, we might have gone on some double-dates with Light and Misa but i-it's not like anything happened."
"I don't think it was necessarily of that nature. You're painfully obvious when you lie; you tend to tug at your clothes as well as avoid eye contact and stammer a lot. You only stammered once and you're looking me head-on without pulling at anything so you must be telling the truth, at least as far as that goes. Besides that's too gross even for me to imagine." His tongue poked out from his puckered lips in what could be construed as disgust before quickly darting back into his mouth. For a moment he sounded almost like a child who'd resented that his father, or brother or idol or just someone important to him in general had paid more attention to someone else, who he personally deemed unworthy of the man's time, than to him. Never mind how close they'd actually been before this other person came along.
Or maybe he just couldn't accept the idea that his mentor might not have been as perfect or self-sufficient as he'd long believed, that he had been as flawed and needy and unbearably human as anyone here in this hotel, this city, this whole round world. What's more, like he couldn't accept that he himself could be wrong about anything, let alone something so near and dear to him (relatively speaking and pun not intended). That in his own quiet way he was as guilty as Mello for near-blind hero worship.
If L wasn't perfect, and Near had worked so hard to model himself off of L, then what did that make him? Talk about an identity crisis.
Poor fella. Erin couldn't remember being so torn between giving someone a hug and smacking him upside the noggin, not before she'd met L nor since. Well, there was also Light, and Misa.
"Well kid, to tell you the truth…I couldn't tell you exactly what we were. I said before that we were friends but sometimes I look back and get the feeling it was more than that, other times less. It's not like he trusted me that much; he never said a word about you guys for one thing, and the only reason I know his name is because he showed it to everyone after he wrote it in the Death Note. I'm not sure what he liked about me either. Although, if it means anything, he told me once that I was a good person. Don't know what he meant by that but at the time I thought it was a nice thing to say, especially for him."
"Hm. I suppose from a certain perspective, one could call you that. And you are somewhat amusing, much like a dog that will fetch the same thing over and over again no matter how far or how often you throw it. Or a cat chasing a laser light. Even if you're obnoxious and have a pesky sense of right and wrong, which I also find incredibly biased."
"Ex-cuse me?"
He rolled his large empty-looking eyes. "I'm not going to pretend that I understand what you must be going through emotionally, because I don't nor do I want to frankly. But if I were you, I'd let Ms. Amane go. She's let you down too many times and in too many ways for you to still cling to your friendship with her without making me question your sanity or intelligence. And that's putting it rather lightly."
"If only it were that simple. You may not be like me, but I'm not like you either. I can't just turn off my feelings towards someone no matter what they've done. And besides what about you and Mello? You guys grew up together, didn't ya? I'd think you'd feel at least a little conflicted about this yourself."
"We both spent the majority of our childhood in the same place. But we weren't what you would call close. Mello always resented me for having the intellectual advantage and always being above him on the roster. Our rivalry was completely one-sided on his part, though. I never bore any ill will towards him. I wouldn't have minded sharing the title with him at all; he has guts and good instincts. He just lets his emotions get the best of him, much like you do. Except he compensates for it by being exponentially smarter."
Erin bit back a growl. Not that she didn't agree that Mello was infinitely smarter than her—he had to be, given how much he'd accomplished at such a tender age—but why did Near insist on beating her down like this? She'd told Roger she was sorry and she'd meant it. What more did he want?
"But it shouldn't matter how close we were, or even that I know him in the first place. It doesn't change the fact that he must answer for how he's chosen to respond to his grief surrounding our predecessor. I'd say that goes for you and Ms. Amane, too. People like her don't change. They can't, not even on the highly unlikely chance that they wanted to. While I doubt we could ever bring her past crimes to light in any court, we can at least get her on charges regarding her association with the mafia—"
"Near, kindly shut the hell up!"
Before she knew it she'd had the collar of his pajama top balled up in her shaking fists as she hoisted him up into the air—he was alarmingly short and light for a young man his age. His sock-feet dangled maybe two inches off the ground and Roger sprang up from his seat like a triggered trap. He was behind her with his own arms snaked underneath hers so he could pin her body to his and keep her from throwing any blows.
For an agonizingly long minute the three were frozen that way as Erin snarled, "You know, I've met very few people in my life that deserved an ass-kicking more than you do. And the only reason I can think of as to why no one's done that yet is because you're too small and wimpy for any decent person to be able to justify it!"
Near returned her glare with a stony look this time. "Ms. Blogger, if you really want to hit me then by all means take your best shot. In fact, I dare you. Don't worry, Watari, she won't do it. She's bluffing like always."
And the longer she stared at him, totally stiff and seemingly unruffled in her fists, the more she realized he was right. The way his curled split bangs shadowed his unblinking stare made her think of L then, the way he'd looked at her when she'd grabbed him and screamed obscenities and condemnations in his face before she'd seen his own strange brand of helplessness and tenderness beneath the icy front she might have cracked after slapping him around in his chair at least eight times. After all this time she still felt no pride for giving him what-for.
She didn't think this was the case for Near. At least as far as having any feelings for her went. No, he could never. But still this too was a front. He was bluffing even more than she.
Eventually her arms lost the strength to hold him up and with slackened shoulders she dropped him back on the ground. She half-expected him to plop down on his rump again but instead he stayed on his feet to her mild surprise, although he did wobble a bit on his legs.
He flashed them both one of his tiny smartass smirks. "See? What did I tell you?"
"Hitting you'd be like punting a kitten," she panted. "A really, really nasty kitten that lashes out at people just to cover up how weak and helpless he feels inside."
Roger eased up on his grip on her and guided her back out of the room before another potential crisis erupted. Almost as soon as she heard the door shut behind her she could hear Roger demand, "L, I'm sorry but what in heaven's name was that for? What were you trying to prove by provoking her like that?"
"I can't help it that Ms. Blogger can't accept the truth, Watari. But for hers and everyone's sake I hope she can change her mind soon."
She wanted to cry again but found that she couldn't this time. She'd squeezed her tear ducts dry like lemons and her eyes felt much too sore. It ached just to blink. The issue of Misa she would have to work through more or less on her own, but more and more she got the feeling that that display back there wasn't so much about her or even Roger as it was about Near's own insecurities. She flopped back into the sofa with her fingers massaging circles into her temples. She shouldn't waste food but suddenly she'd lost most of her appetite. Her stomach felt like it had jagged rocks jumbling around in it.
Oh L, if only you were here again. Then maybe you could talk some sense into these boys? Tell them you're sorry and that you did care at least a mite about them. That you didn't mean to abandon them. Tell them that they've misunderstood everything and you only had their best interests at heart. Of course you did. Didn't you?
But that's never gonna happen. You don't even have a body to come back in. And even if you could come back it wouldn't be enough, would it? Not at the point this has reached. Your boys aren't gonna stop until one or both of them die. And maybe take a few dozen, hundred more lives with them. Chips off the old fucking block, they are. Doesn't matter how much they might hate you right now. They remind me so much of you and Light sometimes I just want to vomit.
Bottom line, you're never coming back, least of all to fix this.
I have to do something.
But what? I don't know if there's anything I can do. All I know is that if we find Mello, chances are we'll find Misa too. But what should I do then after that?
…
The weekend flew by and before long Monday night hung over their heads but Kiyomi and Teru were more than ready. M had requested that at 12:30 she was to come alone to the Yellow Box Warehouse on the Daikoku wharf, an abandoned building with no windows and only one entrance. One of his associates would be waiting there to pick up the notebook and he would be wearing a mask to cover his face. "And in case you were thinking of sending me a counterfeit, I'd better let you know that I'm going to have him test it before he leaves with it. Don't worry, he won't test it on you or anyone you know. I'll have him show you after he's written the name of the subject, and I'll confirm that it works."
Afterwards, she was to leave the wharf entirely without once turning back or putting up a fight, go to the nearest train station and after ensuring that there was no one around to listen, say aloud these exact words with no uncertainty: "I hearby give up ownership of the notebook." Her memories would be gone and she could go about her business a free and innocent woman again.
Or so M had counted on.
As Umbra had explained to her, even if she should choose to give up the notebook to Teru, she could always regain her memories by touching the notebook again. However she would only have them for as long as she was in contact with it unless she somehow regained ownership while holding it, such as by killing Teru.
"You don't say. Hm…would I have to be touching the entire notebook? Or do I simply have to be touching say, the cover?" she'd asked while drying herself off in front of the bathroom mirror that Sunday. By now she had gotten well over having Umbra in the bathroom with her as she went through her rituals. It was much like having a pet in the room, a big ugly talking pet. She knew her naked body had no effect on him.
Before this she had briefly considered having Mikami who was waiting dutifully outside come in and dry her off for her, like a servant tending to his goddess after she'd just stepped out of her bath. Perhaps make him kiss and caress and worship her as he went about it. He was so articulate in public whenever prompted to give his opinion; how good could he be with his mouth and hands at other things?
But then she thought better of it. It was too early in their relationship for that level of intimacy just yet, and letting him see her in all her unveiled glory now might prove too much for him. He was a virgin if she ever saw one despite being older than her—and/or extremely repressed, perhaps a demisexual or something along those lines—and this excited her so. He could be all and only hers. For now though she could be satisfied with the idea that if she asked him to do it, he would without hesitation.
Umbra, unaware of her not-so-wholesome train of thought in the meantime, scratched his head. "Just the cover? Hmmm…to tell you the truth I don't know if it works that way. I know that a page isn't enough to restore your memories but the cover, I'm not so sure."
Kiyomi threw him a look that would have intimidated most but Umbra just returned it with that vacant stare of his. "What do you mean, you don't know? How can you not know how your own notebook works?"
"We shinigami don't know all there is to know about the Death Note. I couldn't tell you why that is; we just don't. Armonia Justin knows the most of all of us besides the King so he's usually the one to see if you have questions, but I bet even he doesn't know everything."
Kiyomi rolled her eyes and dabbed at the nape of her neck before moving down to the tender skin under her breasts and eventually her loins and lastly her buttocks. "It's too bad I couldn't have him as my shinigami. Then again, he's probably too smart and careful to drop his notebook in the first place."
While he had noticed that Kiyomi had gotten snootier lately and started to wish he was somewhere else with another much nicer human girl he found himself missing quite a bit, Umbra took no great offense to that catty remark in itself and replied, "Well, you could test whether your theory is true. You have nothing to lose by doing so, unless you don't trust Teru as much as you say you do. I think he'd be very upset if he knew that. He seems to like you very much."
"Mind your place, Umbra. Of course I trust him enough. My problem is being able to do this without prying eyes. That said, I don't want you to kill anyone if you see them following us; that would look way too suspicious. Just steer them off our path."
"Okay."
Teru had booked a hotel room for her for this weekend and once she dressed and groomed herself to her standard of presentation, the two sat across from each other and did a quick experiment by each placing a hand over the cover of the notebook and taking turns giving up ownership to each other. Then Kiyomi requested that Teru cut off the front cover of the notebook. He looked mildly bemused for a moment but obeyed, using the blade from his Swiss army knife to neatly and slowly slice the front cover off from the book's spine like a Westerner carving a Christmas hen (he loved to be prepared and a Swiss army knife was just about the perfect tool for a man such as himself).
She took a breath to steady her nerves and placed both hands on the detached cover this time. What if this didn't work? But she'd never know unless she tried. "Teru, put your hands on the rest of the notebook."
He nodded and did so.
"I hereby give up ownership of the notebook."
…
Nothing happened. She was just as aware of her surroundings, thoughts and actions as she'd been before saying the magic words.
"Teru's the owner now; Kiyomi, can you still remember me?" asked Umbra.
It was the first time either he or Teru saw a full triumphant smile on her face. "I do. It worked. As long as I'm in contact with the cover I still remember everything, even when you own my notebook. I'll have to get a corset or brassiere to keep this with me at all times. Teru, give me back ownership of the notebook until I can find one. Until then, I'll lend you the notebook until further notice."
He passed it back to her. "A corset? I think your figure is fine the way it is, but if that's what you want that's what I'll get you." Personally he felt rather shy about the idea of buying women's lingerie, seeing how he'd never had the need to handle it before this point, but what was the point in arguing? He had no right to question God.
"Oh Teru, you never struck me as the type to flatter," Kiyomi said warmly.
He pushed his glasses back up on his face. "I'm not flattering you. That's exactly what I think. You are beautiful, Kiyomi. The only beautiful thing in this whole world."
Well! She didn't think he had it in him so say something like that, and for a moment there she wondered if he still would have told her that had she never revealed her secret to him. But she decided it didn't matter. Most everyone she'd met thought of her as beautiful; she wasn't called Miss To-Oh in college for nothing. Teru loved Kira and she happened to be Kira. What more did she need?
She cleared her throat and willed herself not to blush. "You needn't worry yourself with that either way. I think it's best that I go shopping for myself. To keep anyone from catching on to us we won't be able to see each other as much as we could before, at least for now. Anyway, have you finished making that counterfeit using the pages I gave you?"
"Yes. It took me two days straight without any food or sleep. But please don't think I'm complaining, it was worth every second of toil." Now that he'd mentioned it, his face did look slightly paler and gaunter than a few days before with a sunken look in his eyes and his voice sounded weaker. Kiyomi couldn't have that.
"Poor Teru. Be sure you get something to eat soon as a reward for your sacrifice."
"Also Teru, in case you were interested since Kiyomi wants you to take over the killings for her, you can make a trade with me that will let you know someone's name even if they're using an alias," explained Umbra. "I can lend you my eyes so you can see a person's true name by looking at their face. But you have to be the owner of the notebook to make this deal with me and it will cost you half the years you still have left to live. Also, if you should ever lose ownership of the notebook you will also lose the Shinigami Eyes. And I'm afraid you can't get back the time you traded for them."
Kiyomi didn't know whether to feel thrilled or alarmed by his calm yet quick answer to this offer: "Then I'll make the deal with you as soon as Kiyomi officially transfers ownership to me." He'd never struck her as the type who did such drastic things without at least thinking it over first.
She turned to him, taking his hand in hers. "Are you sure about this? You'd be giving up literally half your life…"
His nod was resolute. "Half my life is nothing. It's only the amount of time I have left in this world. You promised me eternal life in the next; that's what I look forward to most. Until then I will make the most of whatever time I have left here by serving you."
Actually there wasn't supposed to be an afterlife, at least not for humans who used the Death Note. But Umbra kept this to himself. Neither of them would want to hear it. Over in the far right corner behind him Sidoh cowered, both out of a craving for chocolate and a fear towards the intensity of these two humans in front of him.
Rather than give M's mook the real notebook, they would present him a fake that just happened to be made up of pages from the real one, to ensure that M would be tricked into thinking it was the real one. Kiyomi couldn't be sure how much M knew about shingami, but as long as he was given something that could kill as well as the real thing, where was his room to complain?
Before this she had originally thought about handing over an entirely fake notebook that she would trick the mook into thinking it was real by having Umbra copy his test subject's name onto a clipping she would entrust him with. But that wouldn't work for long. Once it reached M, he'd discover for himself how bogus it actually was. She was certain he'd retaliate for that, despite his promise otherwise.
In spite of his protests, Kiyomi warned Teru not to accompany or follow her to the wharf that night. After they'd leave the hotel (at different times, at least an hour apart) he was to find a sufficient hiding place for the notebook, go straight home after work and wait for her to contact him, not the other way around. Until she officially gave up ownership, she would be loaning it to him. "Don't worry Teru, I'll be fine. Umbra will warn me if there's trouble."
Sidoh did the wise thing and dawdled in the background, suffering in silence over his hankering for chocolate. As drab as his and Umbra's home was, it was quite easy for one to develop an addiction to something so captivating to the senses, no matter how petty it was thought to be in the human world.
Eventually Teru took the notebook and his leave, tensing up a little when Kiyomi bade him farewell with a squeeze of his broad, chiseled shoulders and another kiss on the lips that her frustrations made rougher than she'd meant it to be. But just as before he didn't resist otherwise. His reciprocation of the gesture felt rather timid for him, probably because he felt so lowly next to his goddess. In his mind he had done nothing yet to remotely deserve it.
Already he had been reduced to putty in her hands. She hadn't thought it possible to sway him in such a way until now, and now she almost wished she'd have told him her secret sooner.
…
"Umbra, I want chocolate. You promised there'd be chocolate."
Umbra didn't answer. The two sat on top of the cab that Kiyomi had called, watching the traffic roar and blare past them like two misfit runaways on a makeshift raft battling the weather-rocked swells and dips of a river. He had been watching the white undercover car from three car-lengths away for about ten minutes now. Everywhere Kiyomi's ride turned, so had it.
Could those be the policemen she had fretted over? Only one way to know for sure.
"Sidoh, I think Kiyomi's being followed by that car over there," he announced, pointing a long sharp paw to his target. "I'm going to have a look. Stay here with Kiyomi; you'll get your chocolate soon enough, I promise."
"Huh? Oh. O-okay, you do that." Sidoh, being the type who preferred to have someone else do the work if it could be helped and especially if they were more competent than he, curled into himself and started to hum absently while Umbra made his way over to the suspicious vehicle leaping on all eight of his limbs from car to car.
The two men inside had no inkling of his presence as he phased through the roof and settled into the back seat. He could see their names by looking at the reflections of their faces from within the rear-view mirror.
Hideki Ide. Touta Matsuda.
Recognition surged through him almost instantly, at least where the latter was concerned. Ah. I know him. Erin talks to a man going by this name over the computer and the phone and exchanges gifts with him from time to time. This must be her friend. But what is he doing here?
"I still don't think it was a good idea to let him on the team," grumbled Ide, the driver. "He's still traumatized from the first case. There's no telling how he's going to react this time around."
Matsuda sighed from the shotgun. "I don't know, Ide. What were we gonna tell him? No? And have him come back again, or worse not come to us at all? And you say that like you're not still shaken up over it yourself."
"I may not have been there to see everything but don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying I don't get where he's coming from; I'm just worried about what he'll do if she turns out to be the next Kira."
So he was right. These two were from the police. They were following Kiyomi. She'd explicitly told him not to take their lives so he'd have to distract them another way.
Then he looked down and noticed a cell phone wedged between the shotgun seat and the door. Matsuda's cell phone?
Hmm. Could Erin's number be on it? He'd sometimes thought about talking to her directly, not about anything in particular (there wasn't much for shinigami to talk about) but more for the mere unexplainable enjoyment of it. But as much as he longed to hear her nasally voice again, he knew that unless she touched his notebook she would never be able to hear him. If he took that phone now and dialed her number, she'd only hear the traffic in the background if she answered.
But calls weren't the only way to communicate on cell phones, were they? Humans sent texts to each other on them too. Erin and Matsuda certainly did. Sidoh's claws were thin enough; maybe he could have him type and send her a message the next time they were alone. For now, though…
A shinigami's ability to phase through solid objects at will had never been more useful until now. Umbra wasted no time gliding into the car's engine to look for the distributor. If he took the cap off it would cut off electricity to the rest of the engine; that should be enough to stop the car, he reasoned. Not wanting nor in any need to cause an accident however, he waited until Ide stopped at the next red light, which Kiyomi's cab managed to miss by about a hair.
The two men jumped in their seats when Ide stepped on the gas when the light changed to green and nothing happened. They were stuck, and the drivers building up in a line behind them started to lose their patience. If they weren't switching into the next lane, they shouted and cursed and laid on their horns in demand that they move.
"Wh-what the hell?" Ide turned the key in the ignition over and over to no avail. "What's going on? It was running fine just a second ago."
"Ide, we're losing her!" Matsuda cried out, frantically pointing at the cab as it quickly disappeared from their sights.
"I'm perfectly aware of that but the car won't go," snapped Ide. "Shit, we gotta get this thing off the road before it starts a pile-up…Matsuda?"
Matsuda didn't answer his partner. He had unbuckled his seat belt and bolted out of the car the instant he realized they weren't going anywhere, clamoring for a taxi with his arms waving over his head as he stormed up to the curb. In all of his haste he left his phone there next to the seat, which Umbra snuck away with along with the distributor cap as soon as Ide took his turn to get out so as to inspect under the hood.
He let his connection to Kiyomi guide him back to her cab, stopping only to throw the distributor cap in the first trash can he saw. That should hold those two up for a while. And if by any chance Matsuda should flag down a cab that could still catch up to them, he'd take care of that too. He figured Kiyomi owed him a whole box of chocolates and a cheesecake for this service.
"I was right; those men were following Kiyomi. I've taken care of them for the time being, though," he said to Sidoh upon resuming his place on top of the cab next to him.
"Oh. Gee, you're pretty smart, Umbra. Am I glad I've got you on my side…say, what'cha got there?"
He settled back into a crouched position like a predator ready to strike at the next even slightest stimulus. "A cell phone. I took it from one of those men. I think it will be good to have around."
…
Putting on her best business face Kiyomi resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose at the smell of low tide permeating the air and made her way down to the warehouse M had mentioned, her heels clacking against the concrete with well-prepared decision (or so she liked to think).
Umbra had ordered Sidoh to stay back and watch for any more stalkers. "I'm going ahead of her to check out the warehouse. When everything's all clear, I will give you a signal. If this fellow is working for the human Lumen is with, you could follow him back to your notebook."
Sidoh nodded in agreement, although this did little to settle his doubt over the whole situation. Then again, he was not the type to make plans, certainly not better ones than Umbra's. "O-okay. Thanks for all the help, Umber. I can't thank you enough."
"Actually you can. You can stop; it gets a tad annoying to hear the same phrase from someone over and over again."
"Uh, sorry."
"You could stand to say sorry less often, too."
"Oops! Sorry—darn it!"
Without much more ado after that, Umbra found himself perched on an iron rafter flecked with rust around the edges, eyeing the man standing far below him under the only working lamp in the whole building, like an actor under the spotlight. He was dressed in a fine white suit and a black mask covered his face; his eyes and mouth were shielded by thick mesh wiring, giving him a rather mummy-like appearance. Why, he looked almost like a shinigami himself if Umbra looked at him at a certain angle.
He also noticed large bulky shapes poking out from the corners and in between the support beams. Naturally curious, he slunk across the beam on all eight of his limbs like a feline towards the shadowy object nearest to him.
Meanwhile the only door to the warehouse groaned in protest as Kiyomi mustered the strength to push it aside.
"Y462?"
"Yes. Kiyomi Takada?" the man called out to her.
"This is her. I've come with the notebook." For some reason a deep sense of foreboding wracked her as she peered inside, like something bad was going to happen. She did her best to steady her voice but the tremor simply coursed into her hands and knees instead.
Umbra would have said something by now if there were any traps. That was what she'd sent him out to do. If there were traps he'd better say something now before she gave this man the counterfeit—
"Great. Bring it over here. Before I can take it, I gotta test it to make sure that it's real." Kiyomi cringed inside at the way her native tongue jostled around in the man's mouth like half-drunken gibberish. How she loathed Americans, and how could you blame her? What pigs.
"I understand. Let's not waste any more time than we have to. Here, I'll hold the notebook for you while you write the name." She forced herself to approach him quickly as she reached into her purse to pull out the book and open it to the halfway mark.
"Hey, thanks." There was something rather off about this masked man. In spite of his vernacular his tone sounded robotic, like a cyborg whose every motion and comment was being remotely controlled as they spoke.
Kiyomi wondered if she should take this time to try persuading M through his mook to establish a—not partnership necessarily, gods didn't have partners in mere mortals, but some kind of collaboration. She had the notebook and her own hidden knowledge of its mechanics and he had his alleged power to oversee the police. They could help each other out; she could only benefit from having that kind of power backing her.
"Are you in contact with M at this moment?"
"Yeah. 'Course I am," answered Y462, scribbling a name in English onto the top line of the page on Kiyomi's right side. M had kept his word about this much. That name didn't belong to anyone she knew.
"Well, has he considered cooperating with me on the matter of the police? I do believe we could help each other out with my knowledge of the notebook and your oversight of the police."
"Sssh, hush up lady!" Y462 hissed, a hand now up where his ear would be. The nerve! "What's that? Miller's dead? Okay, so I guess this is the real deal. You can hand it over then."
If Kiyomi didn't have the amount of self-control she did she may well have taken off one of her heels and stabbed him in the no-doubt pudgy hairy gut with it. But that would be, needless to say, too messy to be worth the satisfaction.
"Kiyomi!"
She resisted the reflex of turning her gaze upward from where Umbra shouted her name. Who knew that the shinigami even was capable of shouting? "There's bombs everywhere. Get out of here!"
Every nerve in her body seemed to short-circuit all at once. You wait until now to tell me this?
That bastard. I should have known—
"Also, he wants me to tell you that he's not interested in a partnership, sorry. It's not like you need to team up anyway. Once I get outta here, it ain't your problem anymore." If Y462 had any kind of reaction to hearing Umbra speak after having touched his fingers against the pages, he didn't make this apparent. His words now sounded final. The words of a man about to take his own life.
With survival now her only priority, she threw off her heels and jabbed the toe of one of them into the man's gut, not deep enough to cut him but enough to knock him off his feet—despite his appearance he was unusually weak for a grunt—so she could buy herself enough time to sprint back out the door. Adrenaline inflating her skull and the darkness outside blurred her vision and her heart blasted against her ribs as though it meant to break free from her body to escape almost inevitable demise.
What could Umbra do? Disabling a bomb was not the same as disabling a car, and even if he found a way to do it there were too many planted around the place for him to be able to decommission them all in time.
Only after she had gotten maybe ten meters away, Y462—Jack Neylon—gathered enough of his bearings to pull out the remote and push the button on top of it.
Oh dear, thought Umbra, unaffected by neither the barrage of blasts nor the flames suddenly engulfing him. I didn't expect this at all.
…
Kal Snydar, Suicide by bombing. On September 18th he volunteers to fly to Japan to collect a notebook from the new anchorwoman at NHN at the Yellow Box Warehouse at Daikoku wharf. On September 20th at 12:40 am after taking the notebook he activates the bombs planted all around the building after the anchorwoman escapes. He dies in the resulting explosion and everything on him is burned with him.
…
Sept 19, 12:55pm
From: Matsu
To: Me
Hi erin