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"I can't develop feelings. That's how most idiots screw up."

-Yagami Light

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"Have you ever heard of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?"

Light blinked, slow.

"What does that have to with anything?"

I slapped a worn stack of papers down in front of him, two thin books atop the mess. He retrieved his mug of coffee from where it'd been pushed aside and settled in more comfortably.

He picked at the faded green cover of the first.

"What does a children's book have to do with anything?"

"Correction, what doesn't this children's book have to do with everything."

His brow furrowed, a heavy mixture of leftover sleep and confusion dragging at his eyes. "Explain."

I tapped the cover. "Long story short, in the book a sadistic candy maker brings five kids into his factory and picks them off one by one until only our hero remains." I flipped through the yellowing pages. "Each of the four brats is taken out in a fashion befitting each of their major character flaws—gluttony, sloth, greed, that kind of thing. It's all very poetic."

Light slurped his coffee. "Is there a point to this?"

"You've been going about your whole 'justice' routine like a homicidal Willy Wonka," I explained. "You punish them in a manner that befits that nature of their crimes."

"And?" he scoffed. "That's how the law works. That's how the world works. It's how it's always been."

"Exactly. And how's that been working out for you?"

His glower could smother newborn kittens where they slept. I smiled politely in return.

"The problem is," I hummed, placing the book to the side, "is that it's not only what people expect, it's what they want. I was talking to Shinju the other day and she said something along the lines of how she would be afraid of Kira, if she felt like she was worth killing. These rabids of yours, they know they're at risk. They don't care. If one or two or even a hundred die, it's alright, because all the others just think well, I'm not that bad, so I'm fine. A child wants something terribly, but it acts out in the process so it's spanked. However, it still gets the toy in the end. Even if the hit stings, the child ultimately gets the reward. And what's a bit of pain in comparison to getting what you want?"

His eyes narrowed.

"You're saying punishing my followers isn't going to work."

"I'm saying your brand of punishment isn't going to work," I corrected. "You give them what they want no matter what. Kira is what they want. The deaths. The judgement." I slid the second book forward.

"Romeo and Juliet? Seriously?"

"Romeo and Juliet are punished for being together, so what happens? They want to be together even more. True loves springs eternal and all that."

Light sighed and pushed the book away. "I get it, alright? Punishing them will make no difference."

I pushed the book back. "Wrong. What happens at the end of Romeo and Juliet?"

He sighed and ran a hand through his bed-mused hair. "They kill themselves."

"Because?"

He arched a brow at the prompting but I thought I could make out the spark of understanding blossoming in those poisonous honey eyes of his. He plucked the worn play from the tabletop and turned it back and forth in his hands. "Punishing them makes them more resilient. Reprimand drives them into each other's arms all the faster."

"But take away the prize…"

Light grinned then, all teeth and animal satisfaction.

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Masami's plan wasn't any sort of genius, but it was certainly above average. With a bit of tweaking, it would be near perfect.

It was almost too easy, but altogether it was that simplicity which made it so great. He'd set a countdown—impossible to misconstrue even when filtered through the media and the mass stupidity of the general public. Once the clock hit zero, a final and particularly gruesome message would be left for his 'rabid fanboys,' as Masami had dubbed them. And then Kira would disappear. Ceasing punishment had occurred to Light in the past and he wasn't above setting aside the Note for a month or two to make a point (he'd done it before when under L's confinement after all). But this was all about the timing, the preparation.

Kira wouldn't be gone forever and the period of time that he would be absent needed to jar the world back onto the right track. People needed to remember why they needed him. They needed to know that Kira was not a force to be taken for granted, to be trifled with, to be reduced to nothing more than a cult icon.

So he would lay blame like a parent disciplining an unruly toddler, tucking its favored toys just out of reach until it learned to control its temper.

"Do you actually think this is going to work?"

Light looked up. "Of course it will."

Masami was poking at the buttons on her slick grey pantsuit. It complimented her eyes nicely and cut a sharp figure—strong, but not overly intimidating. She'd spent almost an hour switching jackets and jewelry and shoes so that she looked just so. Light thought it was interesting (more so hypocritical, actually) that the little artist condemned his perpetual mask when she spent so much time painfully constructing one of her own.

"I can't tell if you're just cocky enough to think anything you try will work, or if you're just too lazy to go about looking for any flaws in it."

Light rolled his eyes. "It was your idea."

She prodded at her bottom lip, focused on a stray smudge of crimson. "And you hijacked it."

"I improved it."

"Hijacked."

He sighed. "And here I was, ready to wish you good luck."

"Don't be so dramatic." A final, cursory check in the mirror. "And I think you'd want to spread along as much luck as possible, seeing as you're riding on their decision just as much as I am."

"You'll do fine." She would. If Takada could gain a top seat at the NHN, then Masami would no doubt be able to do the same. Light was certain the board of directors was already salivating at the chance of adding a Yamashita to their roster. Not to mention that in comparison to the former NHN Spokeswoman, Masami easily rivalled (if not surpassed) Takada in intelligence, likeability, and appearance. They would be foolish not to hire her.

"Your faith in my ability to react appropriately in social situations is astounding."

"Is it really? You've managed to snag my family under your thumb easily enough."

She rolled her eyes but Light could see in the softening of her jaw that she'd taken the compliment for what it was.

Masami seemed ready to make her grand exit but paused. She swiveled back around without a word and snatched a necklace off her massive dresser before reaching up and fastening it neatly around her throat. It was a gaudy thing in Light's opinion—silver webbing that dripped with dozens of scattered green gems that he assumed were real emeralds, or at the very least something equally as expensive.

She tapped one of the larger jewels that had nestled itself squarely in between her collarbones.

"Green for good luck."

"That's ridiculous."

"Oh, please. It's a necklace. And I need all the—"

"—you said that already."

She snarled over at him sourly before turning and making her way out of the apartment.

Ryuk floated by soon after her departure, apple in hand. The reaper seemed very content lately. He appeared to actually enjoy lazing around the apartment, eating endless apples and snooping through the piles upon piles of odds and ends that had accumulated between the two female roommates over the years. Last week he'd found a blowtorch. The Shinigami never bothered to utilizehis discoveries, but he found endless amusement in making up scenarios in which the occupants of the apartment used them on each other.

"Man, and here I thought you were some fantastic womanizer."

Light snorted. He was—he is. "Masami is… difficult."

"I think you're just losing your touch."

"I think you're spending too much time with Masami."

"And you're not. That's the point."

Light rubbed at his aching temples. It was too early for this. Instead of goading the ripper further, he reached for the Death Note and a pen. Ryuk sniggered. Light began to write.

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When I interviewed, it tended to be hit or miss.

People responded to my awkward interpretations of their questions with either a round of hardy laughter or a look that spoke volumes about exactly what they thought of my 'unique brand of intelligence.'

"Yamashita-sama, please, come it."

I smoothed my sweaty palms over the smooth grey fabric clinging to my thighs and remembered suddenly that I'd forgotten to put on a belt.

"Thank you for giving me the opportunity to speak with you," I hummed, dipping my chin.

"It's not a problem, Yamashita-sama," he smiled, polite.

When he turned I discretely shimmied my pants further up my hips.

I turned to follow and hesitated, throat clenching in terror. With the door held open I could see the other dozen or so people waiting inside, all seated neatly at a round table with an ominously vacant seat directly at the center. I swallowed the ball of anxiety slowly building in the back of my throat and forced myself to bow low.

"Good afternoon."

The woman nearest to me nodded. "Good afternoon, Yamashita-sama."

Sama, sama, sama. It was making me itch. I didn't have much experience with formal interviews for companies as large as the NHN, but even in small jobs in bookshops and on campus my future bosses had never referred to me so respectfully. It was my job to respect them.

I folded myself delicately into the alienated chair. The back was too high and made me feel like I was straining my neck.

The man who had led me into the room sat in his own chair at the head of the group. He folded his hands primly on the table. I clasped my own tightly in my lap so I wouldn't fidget.

"I will admit, Yamashita-sama, your email came as a bit of a shock." I nodded. Oh, this was bad. This was bad. The stern lines around his mouth softened a bit. "Though not an unpleasant one."

"I'm glad it wasn't obnoxious at least."

He shuffled a stack of papers laid out in front of him. "Not at all. Tell me," he steepled his fingers beneath his chin, "you were a studio art major in school. You graduated in the top five percent of your class with accolades from professors and critics alike praising the quality of your work. I assume you have an endless stretch of art related jobs being shoved your way and you have no prior experience in news media. Why the sudden switch?"

I caught my fingers right as they started twitch and twist.

"Sir, did you hear about my exhibit? The one at Geidai's Gallery?"

He nodded. "Of course. I think everyone has at this point."

"Ah…" I cleared my throat. "That exhibit, that painting…" Another clunky movement of nonexistent flem. "Well, sir. It made me realize that there is a point to be made. Humanity is rapidly spinning out of control. It always has been. I just… Before all of this, I hit a—a slump, if you will. I was exhausted with the world and I felt like this was it, we were all doomed…" So dramatic, Masami. "But standing up, doing something about it in even the smallest of ways. Well, it made me feel worthwhile again. And I realized that there was no going back to the way things were. I had to be able to make a difference."

I trailed off, wondering if I'd laid on the sap too thick, or if even though my little proclamation had been truthful, it was still far too cliché.

One of the women sitting further down the table spoke up. "And that made you want to be Kira's newest spokesperson, Yamashita-sama?"

"Not his… spokesperson, exactly. I don't want to be another Takada Kiyomi. Kira already proved that he'll stand by my criticisms of his—" rabids, fanboys, obsessives, "—followers and I believe that puts me in a good position to at least try to get some of the extremists under control."

The group looked back and forth amongst themselves and a few whispered into their neighbors ears or jotted down scribbled thoughts in tiny green notebooks.

"And working with the NHN, whether that be as a graphic designer for ads or even a columnist, would help me do that," I tacked on hopefully.

The man stood, hands pressed flat to the tabletop.

"Well, Yamashita-sama. You don't have much experience in the news industry or reporting—" and here it came. The rejection. Light would kill me. Well, maybe not literally, but—"—but we'd like to offer you a starting position. With some training, you could be an incredible asset to the NHN. Does that seem agreeable with you, Yamashita-sama?"

I almost spluttered. "Thank you! That's—well. Wow. Thank you, sir."

Another man piped in with a polite smile. "No. Thank you, Yamashita-sama."

Then another. "Your presence at the NHN is our privilege."

The wide smile froze on my cheeks and in that moment I could see. They'd made this decision before I'd even entered the building. It was my name. My family. The publicity. That was what they wanted. Part of me was relieved. A larger part was incredibly offended. Leaching off the Yamashita's credibility was the last thing I'd ever wanted. I'd worked so hard to craft myself into my own person, to stand out amongst the masses even without my famous sires to back me.

I gripped the offered hand with a blinding grin that felt like I'd pulled it right from Light's Plasticine face and affixed it to my own.

"Welcome to NHN, Yamashita-sama."

"Thank you, sir. I'm sure I'll be very happy here."

"Excellent! We'll get you started as soon as you're able."

That false beam stayed firmly in place and not for the first time I understood why Light found it so easy to slip into his perfectly constructed person suit.

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The hall was full of all the things I'd come to expect from upper class business meetings.

That, at least, was some kind of relief.

There were no surprises waiting for me amongst the elegantly crafted tables topped with even more handsomely put together food. If it tasted even a quarter as good as it smelled, my tongue was in for a treat. All I'd had today was a half-cold cup of tea and a packet of crackers on my way out the door. Nerves had dulled my appetite, but now that I was coming off the high of initial success and lingering spite, I could feel hunger crawling its way into my gut.

And after my angry revelation at my new place here, I more that deserved some food in compensation. A plate of boiled softshell crab caught my eye and I could practically hear those dead crustaceans begging me not to let their corpses go to waste.

I mingled with my new coworkers as long as basic curtesy dictated I ought to before stealthily inching my way closer to the lovely spread of foods. So close. I could almost taste that crab—

"Hello. You're new here. Yamashita Masami, right?"

"Yes. Hello."

I paused. Eyes roving over the food block.

Oh. Hello.

I nodded, slow. He smiled, blinding. Pale green eyes shone just as happily.

"I'm Ryuga Hideki. I have a show on the network.Ryouma Sakamoto? You might have seen it around…" I had. It was absolute trash. "It's very nice to meet you." But pretty trash.

Now, I had met my fair share of movie stars and pop idols over the course of my very affluent childhood and teenage years. Heck, Johnny Depp had wiped snot from my nose at a hurricane fundraiser when I was seven and a blubbery mess after losing my parents at the dessert table. But for some reason this one just hit me.

Maybe it was the fact that I was old enough to appreciate the fact that I was in the company of a very attractive, very famous human being. Or perhaps my subconscious was just cheering over the fact that I had run into someone who was not only quite easy on the eyes, but also not Kira and not a manic psychopath.

Either way I stuck out my hand with cheeks that felt far too warm.

"Nice to meet you too."

His grip was soft. Not like Light's.

It also lasted at least five seconds too long. I withdrew first.

That bubblegum grin was still in place—the one that sent hordes of rampaging teenagers shifting through magazines and TV stations for hours on end hoping to catch even a fleeting glimpse of perfection.

He gestured awkwardly to one of the intricate spreads.

"I heard the ginger shrimp is supposed to be really good."

"Ah."

I could feel my stomach slowly eating itself alive.

"Do you… want some? Maybe?" He hesitated, unruly ochre hair obscuring bright eyes. "Or the salmon? Ami-san said that was awesome. Unless you like the ginger."

Was this flirting?It felt like flirting. Actual flirting. The awkward kind I'd known all my life, not the perfectly plucked and primed dalliances that Yagami Light spun.

And it was… nice?

My lips twitched up and I gestured towards the apparently awesome ginger shrimp.

"Lead the way."

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"You're never going to believe who I work with."

Sayu tilted her head, dark brown hair falling in gentle wisps across her forehead. She'd come a long way over these past few weeks, if I did say so myself. There was still an even farther stretch ahead of her, but Yagami Sayu had been dutifully putting one foot in front of the other as long as I was there to lead her.

She smiled, soft.

"Who?"

I pushed my phone into her hands. Her mouth fell open and for a moment I thought she'd squeal.

"Ryuga Hideki?" she whispered, awed.

"Wasn't that the singer you used to like, dear?" her mother called in helpfully from the kitchen.

"No way," I laughed. "Youwere one of those preteen fangirls?"

That gentle smile returned. "I was. I even went to his concert once."

"No kidding. Well, I'm sure it would please your inner thirteen-year-old to know that he's a stand up guy."

"Really." Amusement. The thin lipped kind where she was trying to come off as apathetic but failing. I grinned. Coaxing tiny reactions like this one from a girl who'd once been silent and wheelchair bound, shrouded in eternal gloom, made dealing with Light more than worth it.

"Really, really. Total gentleman. I met him at a business dinner with the NHN and he had some pretty good culinary suggestions." I elbowed her side gently and gave a truly valiant effort at waggling my eyebrows. "I bet I could set you up. A candlelit dinner—a dashing date. Not even the blind kind. You're that cool."

She blushed, hot and fierce. But it was a happy glow, not just sheer embarrassment.

"I-I don't think so, Masami-chan."

I shrugged and relaxed back into the cushions. If this was an exchange between me and Shinju, the teasing would have gone on for hours until any lighthearted poking had turned bitter and mean. But this was Sayu, and it was better to only prod gently once or twice and step back.

"If you're sure. What else have you been up to lately?"

Another smile pulled at her lips and she tugged at the too-long sleeves on her pale green sweater. She cleared her throat and cautiously mumbled, "I… I was thinking about maybe applying for school again actually."

I could practically feel Yagami Sachiko's shock and pure happiness from my place nestled deep into the couch like a frumpy bird in a nest.

"I—I know you have a job now," she spluttered anxiously, "but maybe if you have time to come look at some with me on the weekends or—or…"

I grinned and ducked my head humbly. "Mademoiselle Yagami, it would be my pleasure."

"Really?"

I heard the front door creak open and close and then the near silent sshhh of the change from formal dress shoes to slippers.

My grin softened. "Really, really."

Light's mother cornered him before he could get out a single word of greeting and trapped him in a hug that even out of the side of my eye I could tell would make his arms positively ache.

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Their grand plan was set into motion ten days later.

Takahashi Haruto was the first to go. A rabid supporter who boasted incessantly online about all of his conquests in the name of Kira. He was swine and Light would not be associated with him. Mister Takahashi had stomped valiantly into the center of his town's park and stripped down to his undergarments before carving a massive '3' into his chest with a dull pocket knife. He died of a particularly painful heart attack before the blood loss could claim him.

The media was in a frenzy over it of course.

Takahashi Haruto may have been nothing more than a subpar bartender during the day, but by night he had thousands of fellow Kira supporters drooling over his online rants and ramblings. He was a pinnacle in their community and the heart attack that ended him had people in a panic. Many thought it was a coincidence. They wouldn't think that for very long.

Masami's place at the NHN was strangely fluid. They placed her on talk shows, in commercials, and even in the backdrop of news reports. She pulled it off with a lack of grace that was almost charming. Ratings were given a bit of a boost and people seemed to like her brief cameos.

Another ten days passed and Mathew Brown was struck down.

Brown was a leader in the Kira support movement over in the United States of America. He was rash and crude and seemed far too much like the murderers he was condemning. A group of teenagers found him collapsed on the ground in Central Park, a large '2' emblazoned into his flesh and heart in tatters.

Masami appeared on another talk show that week and mentioned casually that maybe Kira was setting off a countdown.

She crossed her ankles delicately and tilted her head, as if pensive. "You know, 'three strikes you're out' and all that."

The host had laughed awkwardly and the program cut to a commercial.

Another ten days and Miyagi Nanami collapsed during a drug fueled sermon about how all those who opposed Kira deserved to be torn limb from limb and left to the wolves. In life she cursed Kira's opposition and had beseeched her cult to strike down the new devil, Yamashita Masami. Now she howled as she marked her chest with a gory number '1'—that God had abandoned them and would never return if they refused to repent.

Masami's comment about strikes and countdowns seemed to weigh much more heavily.

She was invited officially to sit in on a morning talk show and give her two-cents on Kira—it would be her own special segment. Each weekday people would turn to her and she would answer their inquiries as best as she was able. People trusted her judgements of Kira, and for the most part they were accurate. Light was proud of her.

"I hate this."

He tapped at a blank sheet in the notebook. He needed to get rid of as many criminals as he could before his little hiatus.

"It won't be forever."

Masami glared up at him from where she sat on the carpet, sketching lazily. "Yes. It will. Because that's what you want to happen and that's what you think needs to happen, so lord knows that's what will happen."

Light scoffed. "Having a segment on a morning talk show isn't that bad."

"Then you do it."

"I'm already the chief of the Japanese police."

"Let's switch then. I can wrangle criminals and you can sit and sip tea with ladies that are more plastic then skin and try not to snap when they refuse to talk to you off camera because 'God, that girl's a freak.'"

Masami's phone buzzed and she fished for it idly, a small smirk twisting her lips when she saw whatever she'd been sent.

"The audience responds to you," Light said. "More than the others. Your segment is popular. You'll wind up with your own show sooner or later so stop worrying about them." It didn't look like she was listening to him, too engrossed in her phone. "Besides, they're bitter, middle-aged women with nothing left to live for." Still, nothing. "I could always kill them if they're that much of a bother."

She rolled over onto her back, sketchbook deposited at her side in favor of whatever distraction had popped up on her device.

"Nah, better not. What's another word for pickle?"

"There's only one word for pickle," Ryuk piped in.

"No there's not. I know there's not."

Light's brow furrowed in annoyance. "Excuse me?"

She paused. "I'm trying to come up with a good pun here and—oh. Never mind. I got one."

More typing. Always typing. Masami was glued to that damn phone more now than he'd ever seen. Maybe it was the work. Maybe she'd found something of interest—a new friend, coworkers, or something else equally as benign. Either way it never failed to set his teeth on edge and tinge his usually mellow mood black.

Whatever.

It hardly mattered.

He turned back to the Notebook.

Their grand finale was only four days away and he needed to fill as many pages as he could before—the phone buzzed again.

"Oooh," Ryuk cackled, "that's a good one."

Light grit his teeth.

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Golden Week was never something I'd given much thought to other than the general contentment of having days off from school and the like, but the NHN held extravagant parties for everything and this was no exception.

That was the downside of having a job in the media. Other than the constant need to plaster a false smile on your lips and the never ending irritation from being surrounded day in and out by equally fake people, you were required to be sociable. All the time.

I sipped at my sparkling water.

I'd invited Light of course. It seemed like the right thing to do if we were still going with the whole 'hopelessly in love' charade that he'd seemed so adamant about all those weeks ago. But tonight was the night—the moment the countdown hit zero and Kira disappeared. Light had plans to finalize and last minute nitpicking to keep him more than occupied for the night.

A tap on the back of my head and a warm arm was slung over my shoulder. I grinned and tilted my head back, locking gazes with a set of dazzling green eyes.

"How have you been, Hideki-san?"

"Not much has changed since this morning," he laughed. "And you, Masami-chan?" He glanced around pointedly. "I thought you were inviting your…?"

"Boyfriend," I supplied. "He couldn't make it." I shrugged. "Work."

Hideki's brow furrowed, perplexed. "It's almost eight."

Another shrug. "He's the chief of the Japanese police. It's a busy job. I understand."

A hand tightened around my shoulder and he smiled sympathetically. No pretense. No barely concealed spite or buried motive. No cracked mask hiding all kinds of broiling mad genius just waiting to break out. "Well, sucks for him."

He offered me an arm.

"Food?"

I slipped my hand neatly into the crook of his elbow.

"You read my mind."

"You look lovely, by the way."

"A nice dress goes a long way." It really did—a form fitting mess of jade fabric that swept low and tight. A glorious green thing that my mother might have scoffed at before snapping at me to pull up the front. Light hadn't said anything about it when I'd climbed into it earlier.

"Your face helps too I think," he laughed.

"Makeup. I think that's what you meant."

"No," he grinned and squeezed my hand. "I meant it. The face thing. You are beautiful you know. You shouldn't put yourself down like that."

My mouth tilted up in a polite little smile that may have been small in size but I could feel light my entire face. It was nice to be complimented. And for those endearments to be true.

"Come on. You said something about food?"

He grinned, dazzling white teeth on full display. "Of course. After you, Masami-chan."

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"Light."

"…"

"Light."

"…"

"Light—"

"What, Ryuk?" He snarled. He was almost done. So, so, close to wrapping up the rest of this mess. And with Masami gone he'd finally been able put all his focus into—

"You'll never guess what I just saw."

"I don't care, Ryuk. I'm busy."

He cackled, red eyes glowing in the darkness of the room. "Oh, but that's just the thing. I think you do."

Light paused, letting the Death Note fall closed. "What are you talking about?"

The Shinigami grinned.

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