Disclaimer: I own nothing. Death Note and Final Fantasy are property of their respective owners.

Both Light and Reno had gone to the door when Tseng called Light back. He motioned to the chair in front of is desk. Light sat down, looking at Tseng with as much calm as was compatible with respect. For a while Tseng stood quietly behind his desk, looking down at the streets below. Then, turning,

"You say this fell out of a dump truck."

"Yes," Light said.

"This," Tseng said, "this is addressed to Kira." His voice was deep when he spoke, a grave, sonorous baritone.

"It is also scratched into a shard of a bio flashbang grenade," Light said. "I think it was intended to reach whoever it could."

"But you take it very seriously," Tseng said. His black, upswept eyes searched Light's golden ones.

"Yes," Light said. "Sir with all due respect, no one should depend on a vigilante—"

"Everyone here depends on vigilantes, Light," Tseng said. "Cloud is a vigilante; so is Vincent, and so are Tifa, Barrett, Cid. Every one of us depends upon vigilantes."

"But they shouldn't have to, Sir," Light said. A heat swelled in his chest. The passion to rescue, to save, it was strong in Light, and it carried his words to Tseng. "Sir, we have a chance, and a viable one, to change in a profound way. I saw that note, and I did not see it as addressed to Kira, but to me, and to us. Yes, I took it upon myself to investigate it, and I gave my findings to you. We should respond to this, not Kira. We must answer this appeal."

"I see," Tseng said. He was quiet for a minute. "Be ready on my signal, yes?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you, Light. You're dismissed."

At the ebb of evening, when the moonlight silvered the mako blasts that arched across the sky, Light stood on the ledge outside the building, his black trenchcoat—his 'thing' since Rude had sunglasses, Reno tattoos and goggles, Tseng his gloves, and Elena her being-a-girl—outstretched like wings on the wind.

He took the paper with the portrait, the relic of a strange obsession begun long ago in the mind of Faremis Gast, and held it.

She was beautiful. And he, Yazoo, was as beautiful as he had been envisioned, even down to the curve of the hips and the softness of sadness around the full, sighing mouth.

He looked towards the northern sky, the stars hanging cold above the glacial mountains.

Hang on, he thought. Hang on just a little while longer. I'm coming. No one shall ever appeal to Kira in vain.