notes/warnings
+ just a heads up - this chapter is basically a whole lot of little things in the process of happening. it doesn't really have the stand-alone feeling that I try to aim for, but I'm happy with it anyway.
+ warning for language, mostly.
New
You.
You what?
You.
I did it.
For.
People like you.
L is kind of half-smiling, like his tiny brain can't actually comprehend the magnitude of what he's just said.
What has he just said? If Rae thinks about it logically – and Rae is always logical – then it's just a natural progression for all the things he's said ever since Rae found out his pathetic little charade. He's been falling steadily. And he's not even admitting defeat. He's changed the argument. He's trying to find a compromise.
What does it mean to have a trophy that voluntarily agrees with you? There's no fight. No convincing. No challenge and no struggle. There is only winning, for ever and ever.
But. Kira.
L puts one hand on Rae's sternum.
"That's what matters, right?" he says, quietly. "Is Light really important if I agree with you?"
Kira.
Light is always important.
Was always important.
And, well. They're arguing about a principle. They're arguing about theory. But what L just said is actual and real and Rae could rule the world with him.
I did it for people like you.
For you. Always.
Rae has never felt like this before. This tremendous sense of fulfillment, of being reciprocated on the most basic of levels. A whole future starts to unfold before its eyes, of L and justice and a world without criminals and a kingdom the size of the universe and always winning always always.
Light never has to come back. He's practically just a concept. But Rae will live forever.
L is still looking worn out and wary, hand still on the centre of Rae's chest like he can feel a heart that doesn't exist, has never existed.
It's still okay. You love me more than I...
The world does not end, so much as it begins. Is better than ever before. Rae can have everything that Rae ever wanted.
L is still waiting.
"Yeah," Rae says, smoothly, and with only the smallest and least-noticeable of mid-syllable squeaks. "Yeah. That's what matters."
I never did it.
Mail turns to Raye.
"Hey," he says. "Did you just see the skeleton thing shove L into his bedroom and close the door behind them?"
"Absolutely not," Raye replies, putting his hands over his eyes. "I see nothing. I hear nothing. The fact that I happen to be replying just after you spoke is purely random. Nothing is happening."
"Oh good," Mail replies, distantly.
L wakes when Rae does, at three in the morning.
He feels simultaneously good and kind of horrible. He just lied to Rae, who is probably the love of his life, in order to manipulate it into doing what he wanted.
He is, essentially, turning into Light.
Of course, he kind of lied out of a combination of fear and genuine concern for Rae's well-being, rather than a combination of narcissism and genuine drive to kill roughly the entire population of the earth in one sitting. So there's that.
And besides, he really does love Rae.
"I'm going to Dundee. Stay safe."
Bony fingers card through his hair, just once, and then Rae is gone.
L smiles at the empty darkness, and goes back to sleep. In the morning he will go to see Grianna Jones.
There is nothing special about Bradley Thornber. He's five foot eleven, with curly hair and a decent aim. He likes small guns. He died two months ago. He's never had sex, because there have always been more interesting things to do.
Things like getting a visa, and finding somewhere that he can be okay. Where he can sleep at night without fear, without gunfire in the streets.
He's starting to think that somewhere doesn't exist.
The phone rings. It's way the fuck too early. Something must be going down.
It's the boss. The big boss. He's laughing as he speaks, like all of this is funny. The boss inherited his position from his grandmother. He's never had a hard day in his life.
"Thornber. I've got a job for you. Me and some of my…peers have a little bet going. The person to kill the detective L wins."
Thornber fists one hand against the desk. Fuck this. Fuck these stupid rich brainless assholes.
He doesn't like L. L is a scary force, another long arm of the police, a trap waiting to snare people like him. L is known for catching murderers and thieves, but he doesn't seem to do anything about the traffickers and the crime lords. If the criminals aren't hurting rich white people, nobody gives a shit.
Thornber doesn't want this life, but he does what he has to.
"You want me to go to the art gallery?"
"At midday. If you manage to kill him, I'll raise your pay."
The boss hates to lose. He'll have every marksman in his employment at that art gallery tomorrow. Thornber doesn't have much of a chance of actually killing L.
But he doesn't want to be dead, either. And dead is what happens to anyone who disobeys the boss.
"I'll be there, sir," he replies.
L wears his old-man mask, the same one he wore the first time he met Grianna Jones.
Or the first time he remembers meeting Grianna Jones, anyway. Perhaps they have met before. Back when he didn't care about people's names unless they were related to a case.
He has changed so much. Some days he can hardly recognize himself. But he generally doesn't care.
Generally.
He doesn't have many days left. He doesn't have many days until Rae maybe disappears forever. But he can do his best to make sure Rae will be okay after that time.
L pulls on his bullet-proof vest and a hooded grey shirt. Too many people in the world know who he is. Too many people have seen him around crime scenes. He cannot risk wearing exactly the same clothes all of the time, no matter how much he wants to. He will have to function without that extra seventeen percent.
Or was it fourteen percent?
He takes a knife. He doesn't take a gun. He isn't about to open fire in a crowded foyer, no matter what happens. L tucks the knife into his sleeve, pulls on his only pair of shoes – cheap sneakers with the soles cut out – and heads down the hall.
He'll drive himself. Nobody else is coming. Nobody must ever be able to trace him back to this place, filled with all his precious people.
"Hi," Mail deadpans, emerging suddenly from a door that definitely doesn't lead to a room and possibly leads to a closet. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Going to meet an informant," L says, briskly. Mail won't stop him. Mail has never stopped him from doing anything.
"You mean Jacinta Wedgewood?" Raye says, emerging from a different door.
An ambush.
Huh.
Of course. They've seen the news. What was he expecting?
"Can you explain to me how that's not horrifically fucking dangerous?" Raye continues.
"You have been spending too much time with Mail," L comments.
"Looks like I'll have to get used to that, since you're about to get yourself shot and my only other colleague is a fucking god of death.
L sighs.
"I have to do this," he says, quietly.
"Nope," Raye replies.
"Really?" Mail asks.
"Really. I have to protect Rae the best that I can. And Wedgewood is the only person I know who has also encountered a Shinigami and a death note."
He can tell them that much. He cannot tell them of the hell-god, of course.
"Of course this is about Rae," Raye groans. "Isn't there a better way to meet this woman?"
"She's as rich as I am," L says. "And she has no regard for the law. She is almost impossible to trace, so I have to plead with her."
"Will she help?" Mail asks, softly.
"I hope so," L replies. "But regardless, I have to try."
Raye rolls his eyes.
"You geniuses should just never ever love anyone ever," he announces. "You keep your fucking phone on, damnit. And call in every five minutes."
"I can't do that," L reasons. "My whole disguise rests on the fact that the room will be crowded and everyone will be looking for L. L has minders, so I will go alone. L will be contacting people, so I won't do that. L will blend in. I'll be a hobbling little old man."
Raye and Mail glance at each other. It's kind of heartening to see them organizing an intervention together. It's nice that they're getting along.
Mail shakes his head, ever so slightly. Of course. Mail will support L, because L is doing this for someone that he loves.
"You had better fuckin' stay safe," Mail growls.
"Yes," L agrees. "Thank you."
And then, with their grudging permission, he leaves.
Raye watches L go. He's annoying and socially inept and grubby and he has really weird romantic tastes, but he's still the most important thing in their world.
They're all here because of L's reputation. They have money because of him. They have purpose because of him.
Outside, the gutters are overflowing and the pavement is slick with spent hail. It never stops raining.
"Naomi would have been able to stop him," Raye mutters, and walks away before Mail can answer.
"What will we do, sir?" Rester asks. They're driving home from interviewing a few suspects. All of them had watertight alibis, but the case isn't overly important and Nate isn't worried.
If he wanted, he could make it to the art gallery by midday. The room will be filled with L's supporters and L's foes. Nate's presence could help stack the odds in his favour.
But it would be a foolish venture, and Nate is not here to compensate the whimsies of aging detectives.
"We'll go back to the headquarters," Nate replies. "I want to keep working on this case."
Thornber slides a gun into each pocket, and straps a third under his shirt. He is always prepared. Always.
He catches the bus to Suffolk, and watches the other passengers mull and mingle around him. There are two Welcomers hanging around the Suffolk interchange, which means there must be a lot of new people coming through here.
Ever since he arrived in the second world, Thornber always dreamed of being a Welcomer. Of spending his days standing around bus stops and railway stations and watching the newly dead appear. Of integrating people into the new world, calming the frightened and guiding the lost. Of ushering people to the stopover houses and helping them reunite with family and friends.
One day. If he ever gets away from the boss, he's going to do just that.
But today, he's going to try to kill L.
"What will we do, sir?" Halle asks.
She's been dead barely a week. They're still getting their bearings. They've got a secure building, but they're still a little light on furniture.
They've taken three cases in the past three days, and all of them are exhausted. The art gallery is a fair drive from here. They'll barely make it by midday.
Near raises his head. Possibly he smiles. She'll never know.
"The art gallery will be filled with people," he deadpans. "If we go, we may be able to save somebody."
There's an unpleasant set to his shoulders and neck. He's really tired. He's barely able to hold his head up.
The heavy Transformers mask probably doesn't help.
"I'll get a car," she says.
"Whatcha looking at?"
L is busy with some sort of case. To be honest, Jas hasn't been paying him much attention. She's been watching Keehl, gauging how he responds to things, and deciding her next move. She needs to choose every word carefully. The notebook reads her. Is a part of her. She cannot make a single mistake.
She closes the notebook daintily, and glares at Ryuk.
"I thought you were going to stay in the third world," she asks, irritably.
She could warp space and avoid him altogether, of course, but she's not supposed to do that. She's supposed to be at least somewhat available to the other Shinigami.
Even though they're not like her. No-one is like her. She is all alone. Has always been alone.
At least until Keehl decides to be with her.
Not too long now.
"Are you staring at the pretty blonde guy, again?"
"No," Jas snaps, losing her patience completely. "Go away."
The building is going to be crowded, and they have no intelligence on what L looks like or who he associates with. The odds aren't good. Thornber knows the odds aren't good. But if the boss thinks he hasn't tried his damndest to murder L, then he'll be executed. Painfully and abruptly.
Thornber really wants to live.
There's one way to make sure L dies, and that's to get rid of the whole building. And dozens, maybe hundreds, of innocent people.
Thornber touches his back pocket. The bomb is small and flat and expertly made. It's got just enough power to bring down a large building without doing too much damage to the surroundings.
He hopes he won't have to use it.
It's a cult.
It's a goddamned cult. That's where the people are going. The church is running as a cover for a full-blown underground cult, and they're recruiting on a monthly basis.
God, people are pathetic.
Or, well, most people are pathetic.
Rae is trying not to think about L. Trying to ignore the quiet, excited little spark in the stomach it doesn't technically have.
L is…
We could…
Forever.
Kira is the price though, isn't he? Rae knows. In a way, it feels like it has been railroaded into this. It was so convinced that L was safe, because he was so in love. Is so in love. L shouldn't be demanding fucking anything, and Rae hates him.
But.
Oh my god what am I even thinking.
What.
What.
And then Rae forcibly turns its attention back to the church. The pews are ancient and cracking in places. The ceiling is high, and the stained glass windows are faded. There are two older women sitting right next to Rae, holding hands and murmuring quietly to each other.
"And as god is everywhere," the preacher continues, "so god is in each of us. And in some of us, he manifests. For those who truly believe, there will be enlightenment. I am god's representative, and so I am god. If you allow me to guide your life, you will be eternally rewarded."
The sermon has surpassed religious and entered the realms insanity. Of course, religion is sort of like insanity anyway. But worshipping invisible nonexistent benevolent omniscient narcisstic sky-beings is a little better than worshipping actual other people.
Wait.
Rae shakes its head, again, pushing away the unpleasant, dissonant thoughts. The sermon is well-attended. The parishioners are making donations into a tin box. The preachers name is Jade Atwell. The members of the cult are living in the belly of the church, packed into the basements, performing rituals and building weapons. Rae doesn't really need to know what motivates a person like this.
There is enough evidence. L needs to send in the police.
One of the little old ladies drops her purse, scattering her belongings all over the floor. As she bends over, Rae spies something interesting tucked into her shirt.
Her ID card.
Her name is Gladys White. Detective Inspector Gladys White.
The police are already here.
But she hasn't figured it out, obviously. She's still here, investigating, scrounging for enough evidence to make an arrests. More people will be brainwashed and hurt and abused by the time she's figured it out. The justice system is inept and useless and flawed.
See, this is why the world needs Kira.
No, this is why the world needs me. Needs Rae. Rae is enough.
There's no argument that Rae is currently more powerful and able than the old Kira ever was. Rae is a god of death, after all.
The other little old lady checks her phone. Rae thinks her name is Sandra. She skims her news feed, hovering over some story about L apparently going to the Suffolk Street art gallery. The preacher is still talking, and his voice is so monotonous and boring that Rae wonders how anyone ever could have…
Wait, what. L is in the fucking news?
L is going to a place where everyone knows he is going to be?
How?
What?
Holy motherfucking shit.
L is in danger. L is in danger – the fucking fucking liar fucking asshole - and Rae just turns and leaves, the congregation be damned.
It's almost midday. There isn't any time.
There are police officers gathered outside of the art gallery. One of them stops L as he tries to get through the doors.
"It's dangerous in there, grandpa," she warns. "You should stay out here."
She's annoyed. She should be more than annoyed. She should be fucking terrified. There are going to be dozens of L's enemies in that building, and most of them won't give a damn about who gets hurt.
There are exactly twelve police officers here. It won't be enough.
"My son is already inside," L croaks. "We want to see Mr L."
"Nobody's going to see L," she snaps. "L probably isn't even here. It's just some sort of stupid detective thing. Why would he ever go to a place where he's said he's going to be? He's an enigma."
"My son is still inside," L points out, sounding unconvinced, and she lets him go.
Inside, the foyer is impossibly crowded. People are jammed in, shoulder-to-shoulder. Some of them are wearing shirts emblazoned with the letter L. Some of them are dressed in Grianna's latest fashion style. Some of them are carrying children.
He and Grianna Jones are both celebrities, but neither of them are heroes.
People are going to be hurt tonight, unless he is very, very careful.
L elbows his way through the crowd, and takes note of the people he's passing. Grianna Jones is exactly six feet tall, so he glances at every person and their shoes to help narrow down his search.
But plenty of people are six feet tall. There isn't a lot that L can do. Grianna has to find him, or this whole venture is useless.
If he reveals himself, he will almost certainly be killed.
He pushes past a tall man with a stethoscope around his neck, a teenage boy with a toddler in each arm, and a large and well-dressed woman, who is talking about how 'L will be exactly the opposite of what anyone expects'.
She turns to him after he's passed her.
"Are you L?" she demands. Several people turn and stare at them.
"I wish," L replies, wistfully, rubbing his hands together. He is nothing but a bemused little old man, here to see his childhood hero.
She eyes him skeptically.
"It's just that you are totally different from what I thought he'd be," she explains. "And I'm expecting him to be totally different to what I thought he'd be. So it makes sense that you'd be him. After all, he's really clever, and you're all incompetent-looking."
"I'm flattered," L replies. "Seriously. L is awesome I'd like to be L."
She tips her head to one side.
"No, I was expecting L to be arrogant," she says, after a moment. "So if you were L, you wouldn't really be arrogant and you'd never have said that. You can't be him."
She rushes off to accost someone else. L smiles to himself. It's sort of fascinating, watching ordinary people attempt to deduce the complicated minds of geniuses. As long as nobody gets hurt, of course.
If anyone is hurt today, it will be his fault.
He pushes past a few more people and makes it to the other side of the room, away from the door, and leans on the wall just under the fire alarm. An ancient-looking man is hunched up next to him. He looks too old and tired to be much trouble, but L cannot be certain.
The old must have died old, for nobody grows old here. In this place, the old become young. It's rumoured that when people first realized this, they thought the second world was heaven.
But it isn't. It's just an ordinary world, only mildly better than the first world.
Nobody loved L in the first world.
A skinny blonde girl wanders past. She's carrying a suspicious-looking object in her back pocket. L managers to discreetly remove it once her back is turned.
She doesn't notice. He's gotten better at this since the Kira case. He was trained well in the art of theft.
Damn, he misses Wedy.
The object turns out to be a crude, homemade bomb. It's basic enough that L can quietly disarm it and slip it into his knapsack without anyone noticing. But it's worrying, at the same time. People with guns is one thing – they are perhaps only looking to kill one or two individuals – but people with bombs is pure terrorism. Many of the people in this building are innocent civilians.
And even those who are not innocent deserve a chance to live.
This is getting grossly, drastically out of hand. L needs to start paying more attention. He gazes around the room, scanning for any other explosives.
On the other side of him is a young-looking Italian man. He doesn't appear to be carrying anything suspicious, but he has some interesting callouses on his hands. L has never seen callouses like that on anyone who wasn't a counterfeiter.
It appears that the entire criminal population of London is here today.
L checks his watch. Five past twelve. If Grianna Jones were here, she would come to him. She would recognize him from the scene of Takada's murder. He's wearing the same mask. And yet, nobody has approached him.
He wants to wait another few minutes. Just in case. For Rae's sake.
The maid calls at midday.
"Package arrived for you from Viktor," she announces. "More guns."
Grianna grins, and wanders over to the window. This hotel room is large and ugly and terribly expensive. While she's being Jacinta Wedgewood, she has to keep up appearances.
In truth, she no longer cares about irrelevant things like that. All she cares about is finding the god of hell.
"I only ordered them yesterday," she replies, amused.
"Well, you know he'd do anything for you," the maid chirps. She's more of a caretaker than a maid. She's managing one of Grianna's permanent properties in Kentucky. She usually does a fairly good job.
"That's why he's my favourite ex-husband," Grianna says, knowingly.
To be honest, he'd probably come with her if he knew what she was doing. But what she's doing is dangerous, and Viktor is clumsy and slow-witted and would only make things difficult.
Grianna Jones works alone.
Grianna Jones also has a plan.
"So you're not going to the art gallery then, ma'am?" the maid queries. "To meet that detective?"
"No, I'm not," Grianna replies. "I'm going to stay right here until the awards ceremony."
"Fair enough," the maid replies.
After another few moments, the old man standing to L's right leans towards him. L doesn't flinch. He's ninety-one percent certain that the man isn't carrying any weapons or explosives. Whatever he's about to do is unlikely to be important.
L smiles anyway. He doesn't want to seem suspicious.
"So," the man wheezes. "We never met, and we never had this conversation. But let's suppose you and I are standing here for the same reason."
L blinks. Okay. Perhaps not unimportant.
"Let's also suppose," he continues, in an odd and raspy voice, "that neither of us want this building to be detonated. In fact, in this totally hypothetical situation, let's assume neither of us want anyone dead and therefore both of us are interested in removing weapons of mass death from the other patrons of this fine establishment."
Ah. L might not be as discrete at disarming bombs as he'd presumed, then.
"Who are you?" he asks, voice non-committal and neutral.
"Oh, I'm just a frail old man like yourself," he replies. "But let's say that the woman who spoke to you earlier is carrying something suspicious in her handbag."
L follows his gaze. Yes, okay. She definitely is.
"Let's assume that I have…friends who could take that off her, but I've been watching her and her reflexes are excellent."
"I spoke to her earlier," L whispers. "She may not be as wary if I approach her."
"Then do it," the man replies. "I don't want anybody to die today."
He's wearing an extremely well-made mask. L hadn't noticed until now. There is an excellent chance that this man is neither frail nor old.
"Understood," L replies, and goes.
Thornber is getting twitchy. There are too many people in here. The supermodel doesn't seem to be showing up. He can't find L.
He can't let the boss down. He just can't. He doesn't want to kill people, but.
But.
Thornber has never been good with moral dilemmas.
L disarms the women without any trouble, and pickpockets another few explosives on his way back to the wall.
And still Grianna Jones doesn't show up.
Part of being a successful detective is knowing when to give up.
L needs to get everyone out of the building. There are two ways to do this. He could tell everyone that Grianna Jones isn't coming, but that would be make him suspiciously likely to be L. Or he could sound the alarm.
But the thing is, if the alarm goes off, people may panic. And in the panic, things may go horribly wrong. As long as some people in the room are carrying explosives, the chances of things going horribly wrong are multiplied tenfold. But the more explosives L acquires, the greater chance he has of being caught. He cannot go on like this forever. He cannot hope to disarm the whole room.
What they need is a message from Grianna Jones. Announcing the fact that she isn't coming. That will cause people to leave without pandemonium.
Yes.
L pulls out his phone and quietly contacts Mail.
"I need a convincing synthesis of the voice of Jacinta Wedgewood," he types. "This is urgent. The audio needs to say 'I am sorry, but I will not be coming', or something to that effect."
He sends the message, keeping one eye on the old man standing against the wall. Judging by their last interaction, he is both clever and observant. L wonders who he is. His stature is too tall for Near –
Or more correctly, his stature is too tall for old Near. He could be new Near. He could be a Wammy's orphan. He could be someone else entirely.
It doesn't matter. L doesn't need other detectives, or other geniuses. He has Rae.
A curly-haired man crosses the room briskly, with an intent expression on his face. L watches him carefully as he approaches the far wall. There is a slight bulge in his back pocket, almost completely hidden to the untrained eye.
No. This is dangerous. And there isn't time to reach him, there isn't time to do anything except-
"Excuse me," the curly-haired man mutters to the other detective, and then he reaches out and pulls the fire alarm.
To add fear to confusion, Thornber puts on a falsetto voice and yells 'oh my god he's got a bomb' at the top of his lungs. People start screaming. Everyone stampedes towards the exit. He jumps over the stair rail and onto the third step, so that everyone can see him.
"Anybody takes out a weapon," he yells, in his ordinary voice, "and I'll kill them from here."
He can't go back empty-handed. He can't go back without at least detonating the bomb. He might as well get everyone else out alive.
The crowd files out slowly and awkwardly, pushing and shoving at each other. Some people have children with them. He's never been a hero before.
Whatever. He doesn't want to kill people. He wants to be a Welcomer, damnit. He wants to do something good in the world.
Everyone gets out alive. Nobody starts shooting.
Everybody lives.
Almost everybody.
When he's reasonably sure everyone is safely outside, Thornber takes the explosive out of his pocket and pulls the pin.
He hopes the third world is a better place.
Rae catches a train and several buses, and makes it back to London in record time, for a Shinigami that can barely fly.
Its mind is a steady stream of nononofucknoohgodnopleasebeo kay that drowns out all its confused thoughts from before. Nothing matters, except that L lives to regret his own ridiculous fucking stupidity and they can reconcile and be together and everything will be okay.
Oh please.
This is the abrupt downside of loving such an ordinary person. Ordinary people can die.
No no no no no no.
L cannot ever die. He'll go to hell and he supports Rae and Rae wants everything, fucking damnit.
Okay, there's the art gallery, at the end of the street. It's okay. Everything looks okay. And Rae would definitely be able to tell if L was dead, right?
Probably not.
Rae has plans though. Rae has plans and so L can't die.
Please.
Rae passes another building, walking as fast as it possibly can. It doesn't go on the road. It doesn't want to take any chances with whether or not it can avoid cars at this point.
It's almost there. A few more steps.
And then the art gallery explodes.
Everyone evacuates to a grassy hill, a safe distance away from the building. Near counts the group twice, to make sure everyone is accounted for. Then they go in the other direction, towards the city. Nobody notices. The other masked man - the bomb-retrieving man - also splits off from the group, heading in the direction of the nearby public library.
"I wonder who he was," Halle says, thoughtfully.
"Do you think he was the real L, maybe? Or some sort of wannabe?" Gevanni asks. Halle is slightly smarter than him, slighter faster than him, and Near's uncontested favourite.
But this Near isn't like the old Near. He might play favourites, but he cares about both of them. Gevanni never feels underappreciated, and that's the most important thing.
He doesn't regret leaving the old Near at all.
"I don't know," Near rasps. "Judging by the way he was looking around the room, I'd guess he had only one working eye. That won't help us find him in the future, but I doubt we'll need to."
Near often speaks at length. He's thoughtful and considerate. People matter to him. He's younger than Gevanni. He's almost definitely sleeping with Halle, and Gevanni is fairly confident he's jealous of a least one of them for that.
They reach the car, and Gevanni yanks out two gas masks, and tosses one to Halle.
Neither of them even need to ask. They know what to do next. Nearly everyone got out alive, but that isn't the same as everyone.
Near swaps his old-man mask for his regular mask. Gevanni looks away while he does it. Gevanni isn't trusted to know, but he's trusted not to look.
"Let's go," Near says, in the deep, mechanical voice that they're all used to. "We have things to do."
tbc
a/n
+ I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, but this whole entire story will be told in two parts. this is kind of for manageability (I don't want a 100k fic to try and deal with on my crappy computer) and also a stylistic choice that will make more sense as we go along. basically, Second Chances will end about halfway through the overarching story arc, and I'll make a new fic to tell the rest of the story. I'll give more reminders of this as we approach the end of SC, but I thought you guys might like to have a heads up.
+ thank you so much for reading, and for sticking with me thus far.
+ thank you especially to the awesome people who leave me anonymous reviews. I have no way of replying to you, but I appreciate everything you've said.
+ actually thank you especially to all of you. 3