After the first time I tried to wake Near from their endless slumber before noon and learned that it wouldn't take much to incur their bed-headed wrath, I've taken to stalking the halls of Wammy's House between the hours of 8:00PM and 12:00PM. There's not much else to do during the sixteen hours that Near is asleep, other than bother Meringue, and even that grows dull after an hour or two. She doesn't tend to bark much, which is bothersome, and she's very smart, which means I can't psychologically manipulate her. Not to mention, she won't stop trying to lick me…

The only trouble with wandering Wammy's, is that I'm often forced to face the few mistakes I've ever made. They tend to linger, wandering and wailing and lurking. Sometimes we cross paths. I'm not very accustomed to guilt as a feeling; shame and embarrassment are things as alien to me as the stars. But when guilt strikes me, it thunders through my ribcage and tears its way back out again. It topples me over and pounds on my back, curving my spine into the Earth. It drags me through the dirt like a spooked horse with nothing to lose.

All that said, I can't help but mess with BB sometimes.

We don't tend to cross paths all that often. In fact, Beyond tends to stay as far away from Wammy's as he can. Hates the air around here, he says. Inexplicably, though, every now and then, he'll show up, sometimes at the same time as me. Near dislikes B's presence. This is, as they've expressed, because he makes everything around him smell of burnt bacon.

As luck would have it, it seems the Devil is near.

I turn the corner, and sure enough, there he is. I smile to myself. Maybe I shouldn't, but I just can't help it. I never got to mess with people enough while I was alive.

I walk up to him, business as usual.

"Huh? Hell are you doin'?" he growls at me, unsuspecting.

I smile, plant my bare feet on the cold wooden floor, and salute to him with as straight a posture as I can possibly muster.

"Mr. Komarov, it's an honor!" I exclaim.

B scoffs.

"Up yours, dickweed. I'd spit on you if I could."

With that, Beyond turns on his heel and swan-dives out of the nearest open window, which happens to be just down the hall. According to my observations over the last few days, the children at Wammy's hold a superstitious belief that you must always leave a window open somewhere in the building, so that B can't fill the halls with smoke. It's unclear to me who started this rumor. I can't imagine that it was Near, but I've been wrong before, believe it or not. I also haven't the slightest clue who told them that B self-immolated; as far as I'd been aware, that information was deemed classified and locked away in the archives after his case was solved. I certainly hadn't intended for this information to fall into the children's hands, but, here we are.

I begin to wonder what may await me in the countryside, outside of Wammy's. Surely there's no reason why I should skulk around here waiting for Near to make any progress on the Kira case (they insist that there isn't anything they can do as of yet, and that there's nothing meaningful I could do to help them). I haven't done nearly enough exploring since I died, despite the fact that I finally have the time for it, and no obligations holding me down. Besides, I've been feeling cooped up. The lack of a corporeal body is surprisingly claustrophobic.

Given the lack of accessible exits anywhere else in the building, I choose to follow B's example. I walk calmly to the window down the hall and unceremoniously pluck myself out of it. Hitting the ground doesn't hurt so much as it overwhelms me; I can feel every bit of gravel, dirt, and plant matter that touches my spiritual body as I make contact with it. It feels fast, somehow, the ground. It doesn't hurt, but it does feel fast. Oh, how I wish I had a notebook with me, so that I could write some of these things down.

Shaking off my vertigo, I stumble my way out of the unyielding bushes that encircle the base of the building. Being non-corporeal and all, I'm unable to simply push branches aside, which makes the dismounting process all the more humiliating. I'm not a humble person by any means, but I do have to hope that BB isn't still lurking nearby. I'd never hear the end of it. And God, would that be irritating…

I find myself musing about which direction to go, and then remember: I have to wait for someone to open the gate. No wonder I haven't tried to go anywhere before, this could take hours. No helping that, I guess. I make my way to the front gate, only to see Roger arriving home, looking significantly more perturbed than usual in his hideous green beast of a car.

Not one to scorn an opportunity to escape, I scramble down the hill and vault myself through the gate as it sluggishly creaks shut. The asphalt on the other side greets my kneecaps with gusto, and I dry-heave. I'm never going to get used to the feeling of everything I touch being very slightly inside of me, am I?

I pick myself up and take another look around. Wammy's isn't exactly in a busy area; situated on a hill in the English countryside, no more or less than an hour's car ride to London, the surrounding region is best described as idyllic. There are few people around, so my chances of encountering someone who can see me are slim. I consider this fortunate. Honestly, I would loathe for a stranger to see me like this, all slick with sweat and bloated in the face, green and grey and trembling, with horrid knots and mats in my hair that will never come out, with lips so chapped they feel tight over my teeth, which themselves feel distinctly dry, and cold. At least I look as disgusting as I feel, according to Near's observations. It would be even more horrid if this was all in my head.

I peek at the Sun and, with my newly-found headache, start walking North. I have no destination in mind. Sometimes, it can be very nice to walk to nowhere in particular. It's not something I got to do very many times while I was still alive, but I still did it when I could. This is a practice I learned from Watari when I was still small; when I was a troubled young teenager, growing up in an orphanage that I was also expected to optimize, mindlessly solving endless criminal cases day in and day out, as though it was what I was made to do; when I was still unable to cope with the circumstances of my youngest years and the beasts that bayed in the back of my skull, the episodes that I hadn't yet a name for except "scary." He told me, then, that sometimes, the best thing you can do for yourself, is walk forward.

"Just keep walking forward," he said in the gentlest voice any person could ever muster, "hold your head high and never look behind you. And in doing so, you will come to an understanding."

It was years before I really grasped what he meant by "an understanding." At the time I was mad at him, even, for not being clearer with his words. That was my Watari, always vague and mysterious. Everything he ever said to me was a puzzle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in an unsolved mystery. But it all proved true.

And so, I walk forward.

I continue on for some time. Hours pass before I realise that hours have passed. The Sun begins her descent downwards, sliding gracefully between some of the taller trees and their barren branches. Silhouetted against the blushing sky, they remind me of hands, grasping at something they may or may never reach.

I find myself on an old dirt road which runs alongside a wooden fence nearly as tall as I am (or would be, were I to unfurl my spine to its fullest extent). Here seems like a nice place to linger, and so linger I do. I see a few horses in the distance, just close enough to see their coats clearly. They all appear to be thoroughbreds; one with a gorgeous chestnut coat, and a white star on its forehead; one strawberry roan, with a flaxen tail; one all black, save for one white stocking. There are at least two more much farther off, but I'm unable to make them out properly.

"Well, hello there, stranger," a charming-yet-jarring voice says to my right flank. I nearly jump out of my ethereal skin.

Fortunately, a deftness in containing myself is not something I lost to death.

I turn my head slowly, hoping not to let this strange person see too much of my face. I'd hate to frighten them, or disgust them. Whichever feeling they process first.

"Ah, hello there. I'm terribly sorry, I didn't expect to run into anyone out here," I say in as breathful and alive a voice as I can muster. I've already caught myself wheezing too many times for my liking.

"Oh, no trouble at all! I just saw you admiring my horses. Do you know anything about horses?"

This question is not asked with any sort of suspicion or ill intent. This surprises me. I'm always so used to people knowing who I am (or at least, that I'm L, or used to be L) and treating me with dubiety because of this. But this stranger has no interest in the international affairs of three of the world's most affluent detectives. This stranger has interest only in their horses… and, evidently, befriending fellow strangers.

I get as good a look at them as I can through the corner of my eye. Long salt-and-pepper hair that appears to come down about five inches below their shoulders. Thick and curly. They speak with a slight drawl reminiscent of the accent most commonly had by people residing in the Southeastern United States. An American? I turn my head a little more, and they step closer to me. I hope I don't appear too alarmed.

"Actually, believe it or not, I do," I say casually, hoping to keep a light-hearted conversation going. It's been a while since I've had the opportunity for real conversation; Near largely refuses to indulge me in any extended interaction, and the other spirits who occasionally show up at Wammy's want nothing to do with me. It's not as though I've been dead long enough to know all the ghostly hot-spots yet, anyway.

"Yeah? Have you ever ridden?"

"Oh, um… well, no, I suppose not. I never got the chance."

"Well, it's never too late to try something new."

They step ever closer and smile at me; a bright, sunny smile that makes me feel at ease. I realize with a cold shock that they're holding out their hand, as though expecting me to take it.

"Name's Theodore, but you can call me Teddy," he chirps in his crystalline voice. I can get a better look at his face, now. He certainly looks good for whatever age he is; his skin is clearly wrinkled and worn, but still sturdy and healthy-looking. His body looks lived-in, like a sturdy and comfortable jacket. He has a mole under his right eye, and a pair of sunglasses on top of his head. His dark eyes are big, and full of inquiry. He strikes me, suddenly, as someone much like myself. I hope that I mean this in the best ways, and I think that I do.

I am once again shaken by the realization that he's been waiting for my input. Whether he can see it or not, this entire encounter has me rattled. I consider myself terribly lucky, and terribly unfortunate, to have encountered him. Just as I'm thinking of an excuse as to why I have not shaken his hand yet, he presents to me an out on a golden platter.

"Christ on a bicycle, are you alright? You look awful! Pardon my boldness, buddy, but we gotta get you to a hospital."

"Oh, really, that's quite alright," I insist. I'm unsure what I'd do if he took me to a hospital, only to realize that no one else can see me. Would it be less awkward to tell him that I'm dead now, or later?

"And you haven't even got any shoes on!" he exclaims, apparently having looked down within the last twenty seconds.

"Oh, that's by choice."

"And your hair? It's a mess, bud, it really is. You look rough. Are you sure I can't take you to a doctor?"

I realize that he sounds genuinely concerned about me. Me, a stranger. A very sweaty, gross-looking stranger, who only minutes before had simply been lingering around his property.

What a kind and trusting person.

Before I can answer, he's already pulling out his car keys.

"Actually, I think I have to insist that you let me take you to the nearest hospital," he says with a laser-beam smile that tells me he really isn't joking, "so I'm gonna go and bring my car around. Just stay right here, alright?"

And with that, he rushes off. I'm not sure what I've gotten myself into here. Perhaps this is what one would call, "an adventure."

--

[A/N: If you don't understand the joke at the beginning of this chapter, I suggest you look up cosmonaut Vladimir Komarov (may he rest in peace).]