More authors continued to die over the course of several days. Sam knew it wasn't a coincidence and she became nervous, certain she would be next. She continued to attempt to assure herself that she was going by a pen name, that no one even knew her real name other than L and Roger. Yet, the doubt continued to linger in the back of her mind.

She had her auburn wig and professional clothes on as she stood before the publishing company. They were reading her haiku and she wrung her hands nervously. They didn't seem happy.

"This is good..." She sensed a 'but' coming. "...but, we think you can do better."

She refrained from saying anything, waiting for them to continue.

"You see, haiku is impersonal; they don't have any emotion in them. Now, if you were to do a free verse or a sonnet..." One of them began.

"You would be able to capture your emotions much easier! Write something sad, dark! Dig up some past angst!" Another ended.

Jeez, do they think I'm depressed or something? "I-I'll try again, but I can't promise anything. I'm no good with poetry! Why do you guys even want me to attempt it?"

The man sitting in the very center folded his fat hands together. "About sixty percent of your readers are teenagers. While your writing does convey some emotion from you, it would be better if you could connect more emotionally with the teenagers. You know how they love all that angst. We want you to write a poetry book with at least eighty poems in it and we will publish it sometime next fall. In the mean time, try again with the poem and come back here this Monday."

Sam visibly wilted. "E-eighty? What if I can't do it?"

Their expressions darkened in unison. "We hope that you won't fail."

She interpreted the hidden meaning, buried under that one sentence: "Fail and you're fired."

She gulped and nodded. "G-got it."

"Glad that you understand. Thank you for dropping by, Saxon. You may go." The center man dismissed.

She nodded and left the room, wilting more and more as she left the building. "Eighty? How do they expect me to do one poem let alone eighty? Oh, man, this sucks. I need some major relaxing. Maybe a deep tissue massage...No, no, I just need to do some more research. Maybe try to get in touch with my inner angst."

She trudged up to her home and quickly got comfortable. She turned on the news, expecting to see more deaths.

"The author poll has come in. Saxon Leroux has placed in the top twenty at rank eighteen."

She smiled, pleased. The news anchor's cheery smile abruptly twisted into a grimace.

"More authors have died during the past two hours. All of them heart attacks. People are beginning to wonder: Is there another Kira amongst us and why is he only interested in authors?"

Her smile quickly fell and she shivered. "A-another Kira? That can't be good..."

"Breaking news! Interpol had called together an emergency meeting earlier today regarding the Book Kira. Watari was there in place of L, bringing a laptop which L used to communicate with the world's law enforcement. Here is a part of what L had said about the case."

The screen turned blank and an 'L' written in Old English Text appeared on the screen. Sam leaned forward, eyes and ears intent on the screen.

"I am sure that you all have heard about the recent deaths of over fifty world renown authors. The wishes to go by the name Inclementia, so it is inappropriate to call him 'Kira.' I have discovered a video tape of a scrambled voice recording to an author, I shall not disclose his/her name at the time. In the message, Inclementia stated that he felt that the author deserved to be considered as the world's best author and was going to do something about it in two weeks. He had sent the message on August 31 and the killings began September 14; exactly two weeks. I can see that he is killing off other authors so that this author can be the best. While I am not ruling out the author as being the suspect, there is a very small chance that he/she is Inclementia."

"I have already set up my own group to work on this case, but police worldwide should feel free to give me any information relevant to the case. I am asking for Interpol's full cooperation as my methods may be considered 'outside the law'. Do not interfere with my plans, no matter how immoral you may perceive them to be. That goes to the whole world as well. I will take down Inclementia no matter what. This case will not be dragged out for as long as the Kira case had been." The screen cut black before returning back to the newscaster.

"Safe to say, the world's greatest detective, L, is on the case!"

Sam released the breath she had been holding. Just like before. Near, I hope you will be careful. In the mean time, that stupid poem...Dig up some past angst! How ridiculous!

Sam didn't have a troubled past. Granted, she was an orphan, but she didn't even remember her parents; she had been in orphanages since she was a baby. The old orphanage she used to be at in France had told her that they found her curled up in some dirty rags by a dumpster, her name written on her forehead in black marker, but that was it. People who knew about her story jokingly called her "Dumpster Baby." An old man named Roger came, and, impressed with her apparent intelligence, took her back with him to England to attend Wammy's House when she was fourteen. She was never picked on, never stood out. In fact, her whole life, she had been permanently etched into the background: seen but never heard.

There wasn't a negative emotion in her. She was cool and level headed for the most part. It took a lot to anger her and even more to make her cry. She was only easily offended and sensitive about what others thought of her, which was why she tried to act polite, especially toward strangers. She used to wonder if that was why Near was so expressionless, so good at maintaining his emotions and reacting as minimally as possible, if at all. She considered even asking him once, but thought better of it; she had a feeling she would be lied to.

Initially, even as a young girl she worried about what she would do with her life. Would she remain an orphan isolated from the world for the rest of her life, or would her life be taken from her before she even had a chance to make her mark? The minute she had picked up a pencil, she knew. Writing was what she would be best at. She loved the way ink smelled and the way her hand cramped up if she wrote too quickly or for too long. She loved seeing the dust coming up from her fast hand turn into beautiful words that expressed anything and everything. More importantly, she loved how everything remained frozen on the paper. Even when everything changed around her, the words and story remained the same.

Grabbing a blank piece of paper and a pen, she placed it on the top line and let her hand move as she decided on what to write.

Inclementia

A shadowed figure sat on a leather couch in a darkened room, his legs crossed. He was tapping his chin, grimacing at the news. "The author poll has come in. Saxon Leroux has placed in the top twenty at rank eighteen."

"Blasphemy! My Saxon does not deserve such a lowly rank!" He exclaimed, his voice like gravel.

He pulled out a black notebook that said DEATH NOTE. He began to scribble in it, but paused when a loud cackle resounded from behind him. Though he was used to the laugh, it still derailed his train of thought whenever it snapped through his preferred silence.

"Heh, aren't you getting bored with repeating the deaths in the same way? Maybe you should shake things up a bit." The poisonous voice encouraged, red eyes gleaming in the darkness.

The figured grinned, considering the words thoughtfully. "Excellent idea, Ryuk. Yes, I want to make these authors suffer for making my poor beloved Saxon stay in eighteenth place."

The red eyes belonged to a Shinigami, and he cackled again. This guy is almost as interesting as Light used to be. This could be a lot of fun!