AN- Oh my god, It's over. (faints) I...wow. I don't know what to do with myself. I suppose I'll go study. I seriously need to clean this up, yus I do. (nods) However, I'm quite sad that it's over, and I'll do that tomorrow. Mebbe.

Then again, I haven't updated Of Music in two months. Imma bad person. I'll work on that tomorrow.

Feel free to come discuss this story with me on my forum! That includes all the PMs that I haven't had the time or presence of mind to respond to...

Step Lightly...and really, thank you all so much. So very much.

Kani

XXXX

Terror. The word itself implied a form of fear, that's true, but there were few people he'd ever known that could honestly describe the moment from experience. He'd once asked Soichiro about his heart attack, and how he'd felt in those few moments of nothing. The man had looked at him, and for just a moment, the shadow of it was written plainly on his face. His words weren't really of consequence, regardless of how touching they might have been. He spoke of his family, and how, in that moment, he was sure that Light was going to be next, and his wife and daughter. The older officer said that nothing in the world had ever been more…terrifying. Perhaps it was the use of the word that stuck in his mind then, an inherent, unavoidable link to the shadow of the emotion itself that eased its way into his expression. The way his brow knit, his jaw clenched, lips pursing…all signs he'd seen before, but now knit together with something more sinister than mere stress. He wondered to himself if he'd just been afraid to die…but at the time it seemed an inhuman, rude question, even for one as blunt and honest as Matsuda.

So he hadn't asked.

Now, though, he thought that perhaps it wasn't a stupid question at all. He even caught himself wondering if Soichiro made up the words about his family to hide the real source of the gripping fear that he was marked with…the fear of death.

Terror, Matsuda was learning, was a very real, very sentient being, like the touch of Death itself stretched over a long distance. As though a shinigami pried his lips apart and stared down into his soul. Terror -and its everlasting taint- were real. So real.

Was he a coward? He didn't think so. No, surely, it was only natural to witness death firsthand and feel the very corners of his mind tremble in abject rejection of it. Surely, it was the most natural thing in the world to watch a person stop breathing and swear to himself that it would never happen to him. It couldn't happen to him. It couldn't.

Fewer things could be more terrifying than coming face to face with one's own mortality. It was a common sentiment, but the scope of what it implied had been lost on him. Six years on the special detective's force, specializing in homicide; and Touta Matsuda had never drawn, nor fired, his weapon. Six years of active duty, of flashing badges and studying blood spatter, without incident or injury. In the last ten minutes, he'd done both, and the department-issued firearm was still hot to the touch. His clip was half empty, and the trail of blood going up the stairs told him that he'd hit something. It was dark blood, rich with oxygen, and that meant something vital. In his…terror…he could smell it from the few feet away that he was, crouching by the wall. Then again, perhaps it wasn't that particular trail of blood he sensed but the ever-growing puddle on the floor directly in front of him. Sprawled behind the lush couch, illuminated by a fashionable reading lamp, was a man that he'd met hardly a day ago. A man that, in joining this group, had been counting on him for protection. Gevanni…he knew him by no other name, but the look upon his face in death was familiar, as though glimpsing an old friend in his final seconds. Matsuda didn't feel he deserved that look. Back pressed against the wall, he hissed his breaths through clenched teeth, eyes wide and the fear-sweat cooling on his brow. There were words for this terror…thousands of them, poetic lines to illuminate the gut-wrenching pain and exhilaration that accompanied a situation such as his, but there were none for the sensation itself. Terror defies words, marks the soul irrevocably and stains every day that follows with its hollow ringing. Staring into dark eyes, so tense that his every muscle screamed for release, Matsuda found himself beyond terrified. The blood inched closer and this was waited…what waited for them all at some point. This is the work of shinigami and gods…this was insanity, and also, mercy. He sat long after the last breathe rattled from bloody lungs and the fingers released their hold on the gored mess of his stomach. He sat there long after he could no longer hear the labored pants and mutterings of his own quarry somewhere above. He could only sit and watch as the puddle drew ever closer to his shoes, to his frozen body, and wonder how it had come to this.

A long, long time ago, he'd looked Light in the eyes and tried to rationalize murder. A long time ago, he'd tried to make justice into the common man's gain, turn it into something that someone of his…normal standing could understand and comprehend. They'd looked at him askance, L and Light, tolerant of a child just understanding the basics of something vastly complicated. If he'd only known.

To understand justice, he realized, he first had to comprehend murder. To comprehend murder…there weren't very many options. To grasp it in its entirety…one must either commit it, or experience it. They'd been both… murderers, and, Matsuda supposed, victims. But this…this wasn't a supernatural heart attack. This wasn't a cold lump of flesh awaiting dissection and study, long dead when he arrived, no…this was a man. This was another human being lying stretched on the floor, his body temperature dropping by the minute. Those had been his final moments, and stare as he might, those lungs wouldn't work again to draw breath. There was…nothing left for this man. This…was death.

He didn't understand it, but it terrified him.

Something like a wail rose, but he was unsure if it was his own. A scream for no other reason than to mourn, not the man, but the death.

And the terror.

XXXX

"That's coming from Gevanni's radio, but he isn't responding." Near's fingers worked frantically over the keyboards within his reach, commandeering the nearest satellite for its infrared camera. "L's system has access to the military, but I can't hack the civilian lines."

"Pull up what you can." Mello pulled his cell out and flipped it open with a jerk of the wrist.

XXXX

As he sat up from his pallet on the corner of the roof and fumbled for his phone, the first thing that hit him was the smoke. Not cigarette smoke but the burning stench of rubber and paint, the scent of arson. The haze of sleep cleared slowly, the dark sky telling him that it was still late, and yes, he was still trapped on top of a building awaiting rescue or death.

L stood staring over the roof's edge, and Matt froze at the sight, throat clenching.

The detective turned to look at him then, frowning at the machine in his palm, and Matt remembered how to breathe. L wouldn't jump…still…

He flipped the phone open.

"Matt, I need a hack."

XXXX

Perhaps the most amazing thing the human mind can do is deny. It can shut things away so thoroughly, so completely, that is possible for one to lie even to themselves. That, in the end, is what saved Matsuda from the shattering that rendered Light insane. Granted, he'd not experienced the previous damage that the wayward murderer had, but the trauma of his current predicament wasn't to be underestimated. In a tense moment of the nothing but the blackness behind his eyelids and the labored sound of his own breathing, Matsuda regained himself as Light had not been able to. He determined then and there that he would continue to function, and though it took him a moment or two, he eventually managed to calm down enough to slow his heart. It still pounded in his ears, but it was no longer trying to tear its way out of his chest.

Nausea followed the wake of it like rising tide, and he kept that at bay too, breathing deeply, evenly, slowly…bringing himself away from the terror as much as possible. The ghost of it tinged his every exhale, in the sour taste of bile on his tongue and the prickling of shivers down his spine.

When he finally did open his eyes, they fell upon the stairs, and in turn, the crimson trail that led up them.

Slowly, the grip on his gun tightened.

XXXX

"Anything else?"

"Yeah. IP Address 03.1440 5488, needs to host the connection."

"Isn't that Ne-"

"Yes. Do it anyway."

"…Coming online."

XXXX

He paused at the foot of the stairs and glanced over the living room again. Three bodies littered the floor, and he couldn't tell if either one of the other two men were still breathing. Rather, he didn't think he could handle knowing if they weren't, and so decided that the rest of team would be coming in soon and they could deal with the fallen. Callous perhaps, but Matsuda wasn't capable of functioning on an emotional level just yet. The sear to his heart was still too fresh.

Resolutely turning to the stairs, he strove for a sound of the man that waited above. Mikami was injured, he knew, and the amount of blood on the stairs said badly. Regardless, a man could lose a lot of blood and still be dangerous…he didn't want to rush in blind.

He'd just lifted his head when something like a moan drifted from the landing above. The voice was desolate, pained. "G-God…God will kill you for this."

Ice wound its way into his chest for the second time as a broken sob followed the murmur. Mikami was closer than he'd originally thought, and his voice was hoarse from his brief loss of control only moments ago. How long had the man been sitting there? Was he lying in wait with his own gun, anticipating the crown of Matsuda's hair over the stairs?

He thought back to Gevanni's injuries, the bloody mass of flesh that was his stomach. He'd been shot three times…the others took a bullet each, at least. Was it a six shot pistol or a nine? Matsuda hadn't gotten a good look at the firearm, and cursed himself for hesitating now.

"God will kill you all."

God.

…Matsuda shuddered to know that he was talking about Light.

XXXX

"I'm on my way."

Matt was reaching for his cigarettes blindly, watching the connection set itself up onscreen. "Why am I hacking a home-security system?"

"That guy's in there…the one that went missing?"

"Touta? Oh." He muttered around the filter, clicking the lighter to life. There was a sound of affirmation on the other end of the line and then the flame caught. A brief inhale pulled the fire into the tobacco, and as smoke curled through his lungs he felt the last of the sleep clear from his mind. "Cool."

Then the lights went out.

XXXX

As he inched his head higher, Matsuda silently began to pray. He wasn't sure to whom, and really, it wasn't a structured order of words…just the fervent, terrified, wish that he would not die within the next few seconds. He hesitated only once, flexing his grip on the gun's handle and staring at the wooden steps he was stretched out upon. There were dark puddles of color drying on the wood, and he was taking entirely too long to do this, but he could hear him. Muttering quietly only feet away, Mikami was dying, and possibly waiting to take Matsuda with him.

He'd solve nothing by staying here…and with Mikami dead, there would be no confession to end this nightmare forever. He gritted his teeth, narrowed his eyes and in a fluid motion that left no more room for doubt and error, he pulled himself up on his elbow and peered over the top stair.

Dark, glassy eyes met his and both froze for a second.

Mikami lay upon the floor much as he did the stair, though less in strategy as in necessity. His hand was clamped just below his collarbone, trying to stem the flow of blood from his chest. Not fatal, but likely extremely painful. No, the kill shot was lower, lodged deep inside his thigh. The blood that pooled on the floor beneath his knee was the rich life blood that stained the stairwell. That was the wound that would kill him, if he didn't get medical attention immediately. The gun was no where to be seen.

The sheer hatred in the man's face stopped the breath in his lungs.

Glasses askew and eyes unfocused, Mikami's face twitched in his pain, his words coarse and almost too quiet to be heard. The fear struck up again in Matsuda's chest but he nailed it into submission, unwilling to back away once he'd made it this far. This, he thought, was almost worse than Gevanni's empty eyes…because he wasn't quite gone yet. He had a wrenching suspicion that if he waited, just a bit longer…he'd watch this man die too.

Once was enough.

Once was more than enough.

XXXX

"Shit!"

"What's going on?"

"They just killed the power to Kanto. Did he get the connection?"

And it was then that L nonchalantly remarked over his shoulder. "Tell him to hurry…they've just set fire to the building."

XXXX

"Where's your weapon?" Matsuda called, trying his best to sound intimidating. His voice sounded too loud to his own ears, unwarranted in this moment of tension.

"…You?"

"Where's the gun, Mikami?" He repeated, bringing his own to bear on the man before him.

The man stared hard at him, some battered focus returning to his eyes. An uneasy feeling of recognition, like oil on water, rippled through his stomach and Matsuda pulled back just slightly.

The man's mouth was working silently as he rested his forehead on the floorboards for a moment. With a hiss of pain, he began to pull himself up from the ground.

"Stay down!"

"God…God, his name…." The hoarse voice asked of the air, and the uneasy feeling grew threefold. Years ago, before Kira, the sentence might have been nothing, but knowing what he did, it was as good as a threat.

His hand began shaking again, but he denied the fear. "Stay down!"

"Touta." Mikami used the wall to pull himself up, bloody hand prints and a smear from the fabric of his pants staining the pristine beige. So much blood….he was losing so much. "Touta…Tou…."

Standing as he was, Matsuda could no longer use the depth of the stairs for cover. He scrambled to a crouch, ready to move at the slightest hint of violence.

"Tou…"

Mikami swayed on his feet, groaning. His breath sounded harsh, shallow, but when he lifted his head again, his eyes were clearer than only seconds before, something at once admirable and horrifying. "Touta…ma…."

Then, clarity.

"Touta Matsuda!"

And he laughed.

It was a horrid broken sound, a manical bubble of laughter that bastardized what should have been a happy thing. Instead of mirth, the inherent glee in the man's voice was so poisonous it turned Matsuda's stomach, and for a moment he was once again paralyzed.

Then Mikami reached into his breast pocket with a bloody, shaking hand, and Matsuda committed the only act that his terror would allow.

He fired.

XXXX

L was still standing at the edge of the roof when the dull roar of the helicopter's blades came filtering through the sounds of the wind and the riot below. The only light to be had were the emergency strobes attached to the building's walls, and the dim glow of the fire beneath them glinting off the surrounding skyscrapers. Matt paced, tense, and Mogi and Ide sat near the door talking quietly. L said nothing, and only pointed at their rescue as it came into view.

The spot light swept over the small roof and he wondered how they must look…trapped twenty stories above the last vestiges of Kira's reign, with the building beneath their feet burning. Black smoke curled up and over the low walls, blinding when the wind shifted. The figure leaning out the door could only be Mello, and the fact that he was, in fact, leaning out the door, didn't bode well for the state of the building. He watched, expressionless as the pilot brought the helicopter to bear and then hovered. The blades sent the smoke curling down and away, and his eyes burned until he turned his head.

The greatest detective in the world, waiting to be airlifted to safety...

The irony left a penny-bright taste on his tongue.

Matt gestured the other two over, and for the first time in almost a day, L moved from his place. He'd watched the rioters move closer and closer, slowly forming a cohesive unit that eventually turned into the march on Kanto. Theirs was not the only building that was slowly succumbing to fire. When the militia killed the power, it emboldened the people. No electricity meant no security footage and fewer arrests. They plundered ruthlessly, even as the police began to set up blockades around the area, cutting the infection out and containing it to these few streets.

The helicopter made no motion to land, and instead hovered as best as it could over the roof top. L waved the men away from the equipment and towards the blond boy waiting impatiently on the runner. After a quick glance, they followed his lead. It was harder than he cared to admit to walk away from his life's work, but at last, he was more interested in the human aspect of the case than the technical. Mogi hauled himself in with only a bracing hand from Mello, and together they lifted Ide into the roaring vehicle. Matt tossed his backpack up and then made a running jump, laughing as he caught Mello by the forearm and disappeared inside.

L reached for Mello's hand, and met his eyes first.

And knew.

XXXX

Paper.

Bloodstained paper.

Matsuda's eyes stared at the dead man's hand blankly.

His mind raced.

What if there hadn't been paper there? What if he'd been reaching for his gun, a pen, his phone, anything but Deathnote paper?

Would he have been able to shoot him then?

Was it terror that drove him to do it, self-preservation? Or was it the poisonous rage he'd harbored close to his heart ever since he learned the truth of Kira?

What if?

The second violent murder he'd ever witnessed was his own... a man that he used to work with. He refused to be moved, refused to allow the body to be examined…just sat there, sharing Mikami's final moments in complete misery and self-destructive musings. It was harder than he thought to be impartial…harder than he'd ever comprehended to uphold justice in the face of the extremes.

He hovered on a blade's edge, pistol in hand, torn between the nothing and the now.

He stayed there until L himself came and took him away.