Chapter Six: Clear Cut, and Cold

Erin had several choices before her. Despite that, she felt that there was only one real option.

The Shinigami wanted her to get involved. They wanted her to upend the plot. She could think of a multitude of different ways to do that off the top of her head, but they were messy, and none of them ended well for her. And that was only if she succeeded, which was not necessarily a guarantee. Besides that… she did not want to get involved. What she wanted to do was get back home and sleep for an eternity. She wasn't exactly sure how that would turn out though, given that she was only technically (something like) alive because of the goodwill of Death. Which. Was not even remotely comforting. She figured that if she did not show the results they were anticipating, her extended time on earth, even if it wasn't her earth, was going to be rescinded.

Even if she did throw herself headlong into the battle against Kira, there was no way she could do so without putting herself in danger though. Certainly, it was a bit of a comfort that it seemed implied that Kira could not actually kill her with his Death Note. In that regard, she might possibly be invulnerable. If she ended up getting kidnapped or something of the like, and became incapable of carrying out the mission, then she was useless and thus dead; which, although she doubted Light would kidnap a person, particularly not personally, he had shown a propensity for making use of willing pawns. Any of his minions would do it for him in a heart beat. Misa would probably chain her up in a basement if he even hinted that he wanted Erin out of the way. If she triggered some sort of suspicion from the police… from L… there was no way she would be able to escape some form of confinement, leading to a bad end there too. She might have a chance if she threw herself before L, and told him everything. He was already beginning to suspect supernatural means wasn't he? If she was able to provide some clues, no matter how outlandish, there was no way he would be able to completely ignore them. That would have to lead to the conclusion Ilmort and his boss wanted eventually.

That was the thing though. Even if she did manage that, what was in it for her? She'd still wind up dead, a used cartridge to be thrown out. The only reason that she was even breathing was because they wanted something from her, because she had a job to do. She was no fool. There had been no offers of a reward at the completion of her mission, no mention that in return for her services, she could go back to living her life, in any world. It was clear that she was very literally living on borrowed time, and that such a courtesy would not be a lasting one.

So she was damned if she did, and damned if she didn't. Dead either way.

The only thing left to her was to decide how she went. She could spend days, weeks, maybe even months, toiling away to bring a halt to Kira's machinations. She could spend her time drowning in stress, having to face the the fact that she was caught in a fictional world day after day, after day. She could shoulder the burden of every life she did not manage to save, especially if she ended up failing. Or. Or she could get out. Be wild, and insane, and free, until her watcher got fed up and decided that a redo was necessary, that it was time to wipe the slate clean.

The choice seemed obvious.

It was three o'clock in the morning, or thereabouts. The lights were dimmed, the staff tired. Even if it was a hospital, the wing she was in seemed to be deeply entrenched in nighttime quiet. There was hardly a sound about. If she was careful, she could get out. She could go. Somewhere. Anywhere. It didn't matter where.

She pushed herself out of bed, relived that they had long since taken her off the drip. Sure, they'd been pumping her full of pills for the pain, but at least she didn't have to worry abut ripping out needles, or setting off any alerts. That would have put an end to her flight, just as surely as a missing leg would have. Although, to be honest, she was so desperate to get somewhere far away, she thought she might have chewed off a limb if it meant escaping.

Not literally, of course. Erin was a wimp, after all. She acknowledged it openly.

The linoleum was cold on her bare feet, but she found a pair of slippers set down right next to her door, likely in the event that she ever wanted to get out and get some exercise, rather than sit in her bed, staring blankly at a wall. Oh, she was sure they were going to be shocked when they found out she had gone. They were very much not likely to be considering her a flight risk, despite her occasional bout of hysteria. After all, she had nothing, and seemingly no one. Where could she even go to?

She slid the door open slowly, an inch at a time, peering cautiously out into the hallway beyond. No one was around. She thought she could hear the muted sounds of a floor cleaner in the distance, but there was no sight of whatever poor sap was working so late. The coast was clear, but just as she dared take her first step out of the hospital room, Erin had a thought, one which prompted her to glance towards the ceiling.

Sure enough, a small camera peered down at her with its beady black eye, the faint hint of a blinking red light lighting up a small portion of the wall behind it. Such things had always been a discomfort to the young woman, though she often pushed it from her mind. Right now though, it froze her breath in her lungs, and stalled her movements. She froze, staring at with wide eyes, presented with yet another choice that was no different than the last.

She could give up, and turn around just like that, or she could just go. If she was quick enough she had a chance of making it out onto the streets before she was caught. Once she was out in the wide open city, with a maze of city roads and alleys at her finger tips, Erin had a chance. She was far from an expert at being on the run, which she very much would be. The police were investigating her after all. Still. If she was lucky, she could buy herself enough time that it wouldn't matter once they tracked her down anyway.

She squeezed her eyes shut, inhaled deeply, and bolted.

Her feet slid and skittered on the smooth flooring, her hands traced lightly against the low metal bar the traversed the wall of the corridor. Her pyjamas swished—never was there a time she had been so grateful for the lack of open backed paper gowns. She'd need to scrounge up something else, but there had to be some sort of homeless shelter, or something where she could get other attire. Food would also be a problem, and lodgings. All things which the female did not want to think about. If she wanted to avoid getting corralled by any of the big players, she could not afford anywhere memorable, and not for long periods of time.

If there was anything television had taught her, it was that she should stay on the move as much as possible.

That was a ways away though, and the misplaced soul really just wanted to get a breath of fresh air. Suddenly it felt like she was going to suffocate, like her lungs were beings squeezed by two giant, invisible fists. The faster she rushed—pounding her fingers on the elevator buttons, and when that was not quick enough, making her way for the stairs— the more she felt like the whole building was trying to swallow her up. For a second she even thought she saw Ilmort out of the corner of her eye, and had to choke back a cry of terror.

She was breathing heavily, sweating horribly, and wondering how a few days of bed rest could ruin her as much as it had. Of course, she had always been ruined. She'd always been weak, prone to illness, susceptible to stress and avoidance. Perpetually exhausted, quick to give up, quick to find the easy way out, and when that failed, she shut down completely. She was as neglectful of her surroundings as she was of herself. It was no wonder that by the time she reached the base of the stairs, she felt like someone had stuck a knife in her side, like her legs were about to give out, and like she might just throw up.

She swept her lanky, greasy hair out of her face, scrubbed the sweat out of her eyes—definitely sweat. It stung and burned, and it was sweat because she couldn't be crying. Erin Harker didn't have time for dramatics. So she wasn't crying, she was sweating because she wasn't used to all the exercise.

Next up was the hard part. She had to find a way out that wasn't in the open, or visible to any of the night staff. She crept around as much as she could, sticking to the shadows where possible, even though her pristine white clothing was a bit of a beacon. Still she did what she could, pushing through the tangle of foyers and long halls resolutely. And if she found an open janitor's closet, and if she happened to find an old pair of coveralls, several times too big, and a squished up, dusty old box of face masks that looked as if someone had dropped a bucket of dirty mop water on it at one point, and if she took a moment to deck herself out in said items, well, she was stealthy enough that no one noticed immediately.

She tried not to look at the camera blinking away silently when she stepped out of the small room, and instead hustled down the next hall. Based on the maps posted at random intervals around the entire complex, there was supposed to be a back garden access of some kind at the end of it.

Sure enough, at the end of the hall, the glass doors let in the cold, sterile light of an outdoor lamp, reflecting coldly off of the frosted grass. She was about to push it open, when she remembered something important, and checked to make sure that it wasn't an emergency exit, holding her breath as she did. It wasn't. Perhaps she was being offered a bit of luck after the steep decline in her fortunes.

The first breath of fresh air that Erin Harker took after what seemed like an age, was cold enough to sting. Her cheeks turned red in a matter of seconds, the tip of her nose quickly following, along with her finger tips. She didn't care. She very nearly danced out across the walkway, although she did manage to restrain herself at the last second. Never before had she been so happy to experience the untamed cold of a December night.

It was December, wasn't it? Erin thought she remembered that being around the time when the story had kicked off. She couldn't be sure when in December it was though. Sometime in the beginning, maybe? Not that it made a difference what part of the timeline she was in. She wasn't going to get involved. She wasn't going to need to know, thankfully. She really hadn't been one of those fans to memorize the timeline. Sure she had enjoyed running though the metaphors and the symbolism used in the show on chat groups, had tossed around a few opinions on the themes and what not. Heck, she certainly ranted about the characters once or twice. But. That had been the extent of it. She was not equipped to handle a covert mission to rewrite the whole freaking series.

They should have chosen someone else, if it was so important. Really.

It didn't take long before Erin found herself outside the boundaries of the Hospital, quietly making her way down the streets. It was cold, very cold, but still not bad enough for her to turn back. Although the place she had come from was prone to hot like sin summers, its winters were far worse than this. Comparatively this was little worse than a crisp fall night—although she wished for a good pair of socks, and maybe a hat, it was tolerable. It would certainly effect her if she had to suffer it for too long, since sometimes it was the warmest places where people most often died of exposure, but while she put some distance between her and the place she was running from, she could survive.

A few cars passed her, as people prepared for the day of work ahead of them. Even though Erin was more familiar with much smaller urban centres, it did not take her too long to realize that it was because of the size of the city, and the inevitable traffic that professionals were out and about as early as they were. Still, four in the morning seemed like a pretty awful time to be up and about. There were many mornings when she had been wide awake at that time, but the thought of having to get up and drag herself out of bed, or away from whatever uncomfortably stiff pose she had locked into overnight was bad enough, let alone venturing into the great outdoors.

Yet, there she was, wandering down an unfamiliar street, with no clear plan, and no clear destination, when she could have just as easily remained an unresponsive vegetable in her hospital bed, waiting for the reaper to come.

Just like that, the panicked energy which had possessed Erin Harker faded. Suddenly feeling a thousand years old, the young woman slumped against the nearest wall, and sank into a crouch. She thought maybe she would cry, but found that no tears would come. She couldn't even feel that sharp tell-tale pain in her throat. No, instead she just felt so tired. The icy temperature of the concrete was soaking in through the cheap cloth of her stolen overalls, turning her finger tips red, and running uncaring caresses down her spine, and yet it was like she had become numb to it. All she could do was to stare hollowly at the ground.

What had she been thinking? What had possessed her? What would running away possibly accomplish? There was nothing but cold and starvation waiting for her. She knew better than to think there was going to be some grand, wild adventure before her end. She knew better. She knew that she was just going to be miserable, and die miserably no matter what option she took. What had been the point in this foolish little rebellion, then?

Nothing. None. There had been absolutely no point, just an instinctual fight or flight response in an impossible, fatal situation. Foolish, stupid, of her as it was. What was the point of instincts like that, meant to keep her alive, when she knew it would certainly never work? Death was branded into her very flesh at this point. It would have made so much more sense if she had simply done what she had always done when facing things she could not overcome, which had her trapped in an inescapable corner.

She should have just not.

It took all of her her energy and might to roll her head back and gaze up at the sky forlornly, searching, with empty eyes that reflected no stars. There were none to be seen anyway.

Ah, she thought, wondering if this was what it was like to be paralyzed; to be turned to stone. Immobile, numb, heavy like marble. Yes, this was surely what it was like to be empty, to be a void of thought, of feeling. Of a future. The end was in sight, unavoidable, undeniable, inescapable. Just like that, things like potential, dreams, goals, and even hope were erased from her minds eye, giving her nothing but a blank slate. Not the good kind either. No, it was the kind that remained cold and heavy over a grave, a tombstone marking the cut off point of human struggle.

God, she was doomed. Dramatic, perhaps, but still doomed.

The real question was why she was so torn up about it. Given her staunch ability to convince herself that she did not care one way or the other, she should not have had such a hard time accepting her own demise. In fact, to some degree she had accepted it. However, instead of waiting gracefully for the end (gracefully being a relative term, since she would have just been rotting in a hospital bed while she waited for Ilmort to to lose his patience), instead she went about struggling like a fly caught in a web.

What an idiot.

With a groan Erin pressed her fingers against her eyes. This was why she hated thinking. Nothing good ever came of it. It only ended becoming a depressing spiral of negativity and inescapable fatalism. Typically it just meant that she gave up entirely, and turned into some sort of melancholic turtle.

Except that she no longer had her safe little room, or her safe television show to simultaneously hide away in, and escape with. She was stuck at the mercy of an unsympathetic monster, in an unsympathetic story. Her only options were fairly immediate death, or slightly delayed death.

After all, how was someone like her even supposed to go about putting a stop to Light-freaking-Kira Yagami's kamikaze train wreck of a murder spree anyway? If L could not out smart him, then no way could she, even with all her knowledge. What was she supposed to do? Walk up to him and shoot him in the face? It wasn't like she had a gun, or could even get one. Maybe a knife, but how the heck was she supposed to find one teenaged kid in such a big city—was she even in the same city? Maybe she could break into his house and steal the freaking book? She did know the trick to his stupid desk trap at least, but again, how the heck was she going to find his house? It's not like they listed his freaking address in the anime.

Oh sure, maybe she could just get the nurses to call up Chief Yagami. Sure. That would go down perfectly fine, no troubles whatsoever. "Hi mister police guy who interrogated me on the nature of my highly suspicious appearance in your country, might I know your address? Oh, you aren't really comfortable with that? That's fine, maybe you could introduce me to your son that I'm probably not supposed to know about. I really just need to strangle him. If you lent me a weapon though, I could probably kill him a lot quicker."

Yeah. No.

Plus she really didn't think that she had it in her to actually kill someone. Normal people flippantly talked about killing, but there was a reason not every single soul on the face of the planet was a cold blooded killer. The point was moot anyway, as she was most certainly not going to intervene. Even if she had sulked about L dying for ages after finding out.

Erin dropped her hands away from her face just in time to see none other than Aizawa approaching slowly, arms low and outstretched like he was creeping up on some sort of wild animal. Behind him, a car had been pulled over, still running, the door open and the headlights lighting up the area around her. She hadn't even noticed. Hadn't heard a thing.

She peered up at the policeman, who had realized that he had her attention and was now trying to look a mixture of firm and coxing at the same time. Poor man. He always seemed to see her at her worst. He was too upstanding to actually find joy in someone's death, but Erin could not help but think that maybe he would be at least partly relieved when her allocated time in his world finally expired. Not that things would get any better for him. She had always thought him one of the smartest fellows on the task force, and in this world intelligence only seemed to be rewarded with suffering in one form or another.

"Sorry," she whispered at him, more regretfully than she wanted to allow herself. "For-for booking it. I… I just panicked."

He paused in his approach, eyeing her sharply. Then his sighed, deeply, tiredly, and started to shrug out of his jacket. "Come. We need to go back."

Yeah, and if there was one thing that her sad attempt at running away had proven? It was that they were definitely monitoring her at all times. She figured then, because sometimes it just made more sense to assume the worst, that L definitely was involved. If they were watching her, there was no chance she was going to get within even twenty yards of Light or his home. Not without an army of officers football tackling her and hustling her off to some underground isolation cell.

Not that she had any intention of doing any such thing. Definitely not.

A/N: Ah, and so I make my annual return to this disaster of a story. Even though I was bragging about having this chapter half done a year ago. If I'm being honest, I keep getting distracted by what a mess of a plot is going on here. Never mind my absolutely painful characterization. I guess that's what happens when a silly teenager decides to start writing a story with little to no knowledge on how to actually do that. Seriously. Other than "save L" I've got very little in the way of notes. Still. You are all so kind and patient, giving this thing a chance, that I am deeply reluctant to let it go. So, I guess I'll see you next time? Also, my editing is a nightmare, I'm sorry.