Bullet with Butterfly Wings- 'Hold Me Up to the Flame'
Death Note's 'what if' situation. Another character introduced!
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The crime scene was roped off and well guarded, but the policeman at Lyle's side parted the blockade with ease. He looked only a few years out of college (if he went at all), and his somewhat long hair hung in his averted eyes. The detective easily recognized the posture of a nervous, unfamiliar person.
Cops dressed in navy blue milled about, conversing in low tones with white-clad forensics experts. Their feet hastily avoided splotches of blood on the linoleum floor, and the famous detective almost grimaced.
He never did like the skittish scientists that flitted over these gory locations like maggots on a corpse. It was something of a literalized metaphor, and not a pleasant one. It was almost funny, too, how people who made a living examining cadavers grew so twitchy around crimescenes.
"So what happened to the kid?" he started off, calculating that this particular man would appreciate the small talk more than diving right into the gory details.
"She's staying with her grandmother," the young cop replied, fidgeting a bit. "She's… uh… kinda freaked out at this point. Won't talk to any of the psychologists. Aizawa thinks she's feeling responsible for all this."
"And why is that?" pushed the detective, the second half of his mind filing away points of interest in the house for his investigation. Special notes went into the chalk outlines—how they leaned away from each other, the blood trails around them.
"When they arrived at the scene after her call, she couldn't stop… kept babbling about Shinigami and praying. Creepy stuff, like something out of a horror movie." The policeman shivered, glancing over at his guest.
"Matsuda, right?" asked the investigator. He filed the name away for future reference. "Look, I know this has to be hard on you—it's your first homicide case, right? But don't worry too much. Light's on the case and J will be caught."
As they leant against the kitchen table, Lyle—newly christened 'Raito'—rested a comforting hand on the young officer's shoulder.
"I know…. It's just…" Matsuda looked away, out the window and at the birds who flitted by, blissfully ignorant of the carnage within. "Sometimes I wonder if… is J really so wrong? I mean, look at the files. These two were awful!"
"They were awful," agreed the detective tactfully, "but nothing excuses murder. It's just wrong."
"Yeah…" the older man refocused, "I guess I'm being an idealistic idiot again, huh?"
"Idealistic? Yes. But…" Raito could sympathize with his vision, if nothing else. He and this man shared a love of justice, dreams of a better world. "But that's not bad, as long as you don't loose touch with reality."
From the look of sheer gratitude on Matsuda's face, Raito could tell two things: one, there were very few people who believed in this man; and two, Raito Yagami had just gained another loyal follower with his world famous charisma. If there was one thing he believed whole-heartedly, it was that you really did catch more flies with honey than vinegar.
"Matsuda, do you have the body-prints?" that was local slang for photos of the corpse. He picked it up earlier that day, talking to the chief about evidence and jurisdiction.
"Uh, yeah." The law enforcer reached into the folder behind them on the kitchen table. "Here."
Raito took the photographs and held them carefully under the light.
In the same manor that the world had become accustomed to, a gothic 'J' was sliced out of the couple's skin, leaving a bloody well within its lines. The man's left arm held the puzzling 'iniuria', but in a deviation from the norm, his wife's was left bare.
"That's odd," the investigator remarked aloud, running a hand through his hair—a nervous habit of his. He was working on stopping that, as predictability has a way of getting a person killed in his line of work.
"Not nearly as weird as her right arm," noted Matsuda, tapping the next photograph. "You speak Latin, right? Do you know what it means?"
The detective looked at the new image with fascinated horror. He knew better than to show it on his face, but the carvings drew a wide range of reactions from him, most of them paradoxical, the way that they had since the case first appeared.
"'Audivi plutem evocantem'," he read, even more intrigued than he had been, "Loosely translated into Japanese, that's… 'I hear the God of Death when he calls'."
The officer blinked. "Shinigami?"
"Doubt it," answered Raito, barely listening to himself. "The murderer is from France—he wouldn't be versed in Japanese folk lore. And what's more, this is referring to the Roman god of death, Pluto. Hades if you want to go Greek. Classical reference, you know. The strange thing is that 'plutem' isn't capitalized…"
"Right," muttered Matsuda. "Perfect. This is just great. One year on the force, and I'm already wrapped up in some foreigner's business."
Oh, Matsuda, you better get used to it.
--0--
Misa-Misa was hardly recognizable. A flawless black wig covered her trademark blond hair, and the usual blue contact lenses were left at home. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses left her looking as plain and uninteresting as a russet leaf in autumn.
Perfect.
When Raito asked her to go out on spy-duty, she didn't hesitate for a second. Even if it had just been Light asking, instead of her boyfriend-of-many-names (and boy, did she get confused sometimes), she still would have jumped at the chance.
Light was her avenging angel, her savior. Even before she fell head-over-heels in love at first sight with the man, she'd been devoted to the detective.
The model's life was fit for a Hollywood drama, from her parents' murder to her rise to fame—nothing about her past was ordinary. In her mind, nothing could touch her.
If anything, her sureness had only strengthened over the years, particularly thanks to a single incident…
When Amane Misa was sixteen years-old, a year after her explosion into the presses, she had taken to walking home in the back routs of Osaka, to avoid the crowds.
That particular evening was unusually dark, streets still damp from the afternoon rain reflecting a spatter of orange glow from the streetlights above. As she turned an alley corner, she felt the eyes she'd become accustomed to over the years turn malignant.
In retrospect, Misa had always been one of those odd children that felt perpetually watched. It was nothing particularly scary, but a sort of supernatural audience. In time, the blond had come to think of it as her silent imaginary friend.
Tonight, however, the sensation of being watched felt stronger—oppressive and different from her old invisible guest.
"Hello?" she called out, turning to glimpse a ducking shadow, "Is someone there?"
"…Me…" answered a man's voice from the darkness, masculine and heavy.
"And who is me?" giggled the teen, relaxing. Why be scared? Maybe he was shy!
"I'm your biggest fan!" he answered earnestly, stepping out of the shadows. The streetlight overhead lit his features, and he must have been around thirty-five with wide, wide eyes.
"Oh, that's sweet." She smiled, swinging her Hello Kitty bag from shoulder to shoulder. "Can I help you?"
"I love you!" he burst out, "Please, marry me!"
"Um… I'm flattered, but you're really too old for me." she stepped back, "And I'm not really looking for anyone right now."
"Please!" he begged, moving closer, hands out, "You have to!"
"No, really, I'm fine." She waved him off and shuffled further back. Oh no, her manager had warned her about this kind of fan. She'd never even considered that she'd end up with one.
"You won't have me?" he demanded in distress.
"Well, I wouldn't put it that way…"
"Fine!" he shouted, a strange look darkening his eyes, "If I can't have you, no one will!"
"Eek!"
The man yanked a knife out of his shoe, swaying a bit as he righted himself. Sparing not a second, the man lunged out at his paralyzed victim, teeth skinned back and eyes wild.
Nothing.
Before the blade even glanced her skin, Something had intervened.
The man clutched at his chest, dropped his knife and gasped like a dying man—which, it turned out, he was.
Now, Misa was always the sort of woman who felt like she was being watched. Her invisible partner, as it was. But it was only after that night that she truly began to believe in Gaurdian Angels.
She never did find out who, or Who, was helping her that day, but they eyes were definitely gone. A part of her began to wonder if maybe there was a rule against that kind of miracle…
And if that was the case, what sort of price did her angel pay?
--
The next day came in a burst of sunlight through Raito's window, and a symphony of reporters shrieking in A minor over morning news shows.
His first thought was that he was still disappointed in Misa's lack of results, despite her excellent snooping abilities, even the next morning and the second was that... the phone was ringing. This early?
Detective Light roused himself irritably, amazingly without a hair out of place despite just waking up, and answered the phone.
"Moshimoshi."
"Ah, Light-sama?" inquired a slightly nervous voice, tinny through the old speakers.
"Yes? What is it?" Raito wasting no time with pleasantries, seeing as it was not only an ungodly hour but also surely a call about his case.
The informant said nothing for a moment, as Raito debated whether or not to simply hang up, until he finally spoke--albiet hesitantly. A single sentence.
"Portimas fabulam sub nostris dermis, he says."
And with a sinking feeling, the detective knew exactly who 'he' was.