Author's Note:
I'm posting this fic to celebrate the 20 year anniversary of Death Note! (Feel old yet?)
Is a Death Note/Death Parade Crossover hackneyed and basic? Absolutely.
Has it been done a million times before? I assume so.
Has it been done by me? No. So shut up and enjoy a silly little fic.
The elevator hummed imperceptibly as it climbed higher and higher. Floor ten, floor eleven, and floor twelve all flew by in succession while quiet, unobtrusive music played from hidden speakers. The passenger felt superstitious as they passed floor thirteen, as though the elevator would halt, its doors opening on some ineffable hellscape. But the elevator continued to rise smoothly upward, never stopping, and he chuckled a little at his own folly.
"Something wrong, sir?" asked the elevator operator in polite Japanese.
The passenger shook his head and made some muttered excuse. In fact, several things were wrong. He had no memory of how he'd gotten on this elevator. He didn't even remember entering the building. Perhaps he could have attributed this to a distracted mind, but then he'd realized, around floor three or so, that he didn't know his own name.
His bizarre companion did nothing to soothe his apprehension. It was unusual for buildings to employ elevator operators in this day and age, and the obvious opulence of the elevator's shining interior indicated that this was a luxurious establishment, whatever else it might be. And yet the man standing before the panel of buttons and lever hardly looked the part of a model citizen. His hair was dyed a light green, with shocking swatches of red and yellow. His ears were covered in piercings, and there was a ring in his nose. Despite his rather delinquent appearance, however, his uniform and manners were impeccable.
The passenger could not recall giving the operator any instructions, but as they reached floor twenty, the elevator came to a gentle stop.
"Floor Twenty, Viginti," the operator announced. He directed a smile at his only passenger, and added in a helpful voice, "This is your stop, sir."
Carefully masking his confusion, he thanked the operator and reached into the pocket of his suit jacket. He wasn't sure if the man expected a tip, but it didn't matter either way. His wallet was missing. He began to pat his other pockets, searching for one that contained a wallet, keys, anything… But his search was fruitless.
"Don't worry about it, sir," said the operator. He seemed to have anticipated his passenger's intention, for he raised a gloved hand in a gesture of polite refusal. "If you'll just proceed into Viginti, someone will be able to help you."
"Of course… Thank you," he said, though he lingered in the hall a few moments after the elevator doors had closed. He wasn't sure how anyone was supposed to help him. Even if he borrowed their phone, who would he call? He couldn't remember his own name, much less a phone number.
He turned, surprised to find that Viginti was the name of a bar. The establishment seemed to fill the entirety of the twentieth floor. He admired the stone garden and delicate artwork that adorned the walls as he proceeded toward the entrance. Judging from the Japanese décor, it was a traditional sake bar.
He couldn't remember asking to be taken to a bar, and that worried him even more. Perhaps he had already been out drinking, blacked out, and was now sobering up. But he didn't feel dizzy or confused… He just couldn't remember a damn thing.
Despite the size and spaciousness of the floor, the bar was empty except for one man. He stood behind a counter of dark wood, his appearance as wild as the elevator operator's. He was perhaps thirty years old, with long, unnaturally red hair. His shrewd eyes seemed golden as they glanced up at the guest's entrance. Though a moment ago he had been meditatively polishing the head of a kokeshi doll, his face took on an unpleasant grimace when he saw his new guest.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
The bartender's hostility was palpable, forming a stark contrast to the flawless manners of the elevator operator. If this was his way of greeting every guest, it wasn't surprising that his bar was empty.
The guest didn't know what to say. The bartender seemed to recognize him, but he was sure he would have remembered such a man, amnesia or not.
"CLAVIS!" the bartender shouted abruptly. He jumped over the bar, pushing roughly past his guest as he screamed down the hall, "CLAVIS, YOU IDIOT! YOU BROUGHT HIM TO THE WRONG FLOOR!"
His shouts were answered by nothing but silence. The guest remained in place, thinking the bartender must be unhinged, before he tentatively suggested, "Um… If you're looking for the elevator operator, he's already gone."
"Tch…" the bartender scoffed as he turned away, returning to the bar. He retrieved an extraordinarily old-fashioned phone from behind the counter. The guest watched, transfixed, as the man dialed an internal number, presumably paging another floor.
"Decim!" he screamed into the receiver, "Clavis screwed up! He's brought him to my floor instead of…"
There was a pause as the bartender listened to someone speaking on the other line. This Decim, whoever they were, seemed to be less flustered. Their voice was not discernable over the line. The guest was left to observe one half of an unintelligible conversation.
"That's what I'm saying!" the bartender continued tersely, "He's here in Viginti. I thought Nona wanted him taken to Quindecim immediately… No, I don't want you to bring him here! This is your little pet project, not… Decim? DECIM!"
He slammed the receiver down, took a deep breath, and directed another hateful glare at his guest before replacing the phone beneath the well-polished counter.
Meanwhile, the guest had taken a stool at the bar, watching the drama unfold with undisguised interest. The bartender, rubbing the back of his neck with a mixture of irritation and resignation, turned his back and poured a glass of chilled sake. He offered this to his guest, who was forced to admit that he wasn't carrying any cash.
"It's on the house," said the bartender with a shrug, "Besides, you're going to need it."
With this ominous portent, the bartender turned away and resumed his polishing of the kokeshi dolls that lined the shelves behind his bar. The guest stared at his back. He did not drink. Instead, his glance passed over his surroundings once more, instinctively making note of possible exits. He was starting to wonder what this place really was, and why he was there. That it was actually just a bar he dismissed outright. Could it be a front for something? Organized crime? He racked his brains for the word he sought before remembering yakuza… And yet something told him that there were no more yakuza in Japan, or anywhere for that matter… Why did he think that?
Either way, he had no intention of drinking whatever this man had placed in front of him. For all he knew, he'd been drugged, and taking a sip of this laced sake would knock him out again. He might wake up on yet another floor of the building. Perhaps this "Quindecim" they had apparently planned for him to visit. Still, he would gain nothing by arguing with the bartender now. He needed to be patient, observe, then decide his next move.
The elevator doors pinged down the hall. He heard the sound of rapid footsteps racing toward them, then a man burst into the room. There was a feral look about him, from his disheveled black hair to the dark shadows under his bulging eyes. The guest glanced down at his haphazard appearance, noting a simple white shirt and baggy blue jeans, before he noted with a sense of shock that the man wasn't wearing any shoes.
"So, you finally decided to show up?" demanded the newcomer.
He flinched in spite of himself. He had not expected such a loud, harsh voice from someone so waifish in appearance.
Another visitor joined the first, looking just over the stranger's stooped shoulders. He was tall and fair while the other was short and dark. No, not short, he corrected himself. Just slouching rather ridiculously.
"Decim! I told you not to bring him here!" shouted the bartender. "Are you trying to shove your work off on me?!"
"Nona suggested that we handle the matter together, Ginti," replied the white-haired newcomer. Like his red-headed counterpart, he was dressed in a bartender's uniform. His tone was both calm and flat, as if it didn't matter to him what happened either way.
Ginti, on the other hand, was not satisfied with this response. While he argued with Decim, the stoop-shouldered man continued to stare at the guest.
There was something familiar about him, but he couldn't quite remember if they had met before. Still, he was desperate for any clue about his whereabouts, or even his own identity. The man seemed to be expecting him, and that was a promising start. Feeling a little foolish, he offered the man a hesitant smile.
"Don't smirk at me like that. I'm not one of your fans," the man snapped.
"I'm sorry," he replied, the smile instantly fading from his face, "Do I know you from somewhere?"
This response seemed to enrage the stranger.
"You don't remember?" he asked, his large eyes bulging even more, "You don't remember!? I thought of all people, you might have figured out…"
"Hey!" interrupted Ginti with a sharp yelp, "You know the rule! You can't tell him anything about his past!"
He felt a jolt of adrenaline. The bartender had just confirmed his suspicions. This strange man, whoever he was, knew him. And the rule he mentioned meant that his amnesia was intentional.
Frustrated, the black-haired man pointed to Decim and said, "Fine! Then make with the games, or whatever. That's what you all do, isn't it? I'm more than ready!"
"Games?" asked the guest quizzically.
"If you play along, you'll start to remember who you are," explained the stranger. In an undertone meant only for himself, he added, "There'd be no point in beating you, otherwise…"
Decim looked at Ginti passively. "It's your bar," he reminded him.
Ginti sighed, having apparently given up. "If it makes you all leave sooner, fine."
They collectively turned to their guest, who glanced first from one face, then to another. There was a part of him that considered refusing, but he suspected that if he tried to leave, they would stop him. And even if they didn't, he'd still be stranded with no memories. This was the best lead he had.
"Alright," he conceded, "What sort of game will we be playing?"
"Traditionally, the game is decided through roulette," said Decim, his strange, pale eyes sliding to glance at Ginti, "But given the circumstances… Perhaps we should let the players decide?"
Ginti shrugged his shoulders and replied, "It doesn't matter to me. We're already breaking with tradition, as is."
"Tennis!" the black-haired man declared instantly.
"Tennis?" repeated the guest with some surprise.
Ginti appeared to interpret this as his acceptance, for he clapped his hands together and announced, "Very well, the game is tennis!"
He strode deliberately across the room toward a pair of sliding paper doors. Once opened, they revealed little more than a large, empty room, complete with tatami flooring.
"Shoes off!" Ginti demanded, removing his own highly polished black shoes before stepping onto the tatami floor. The stranger had no need to hesitate. He was already barefoot.
The guest watched him as the black-haired man accepted a blue racket from Decim. He hastily pulled off his own shoes, a pair of dark-brown Oxfords, and shrugged off his suit jacket. Decim approached him with another racket, this one a dark red. He accepted it, though he couldn't refrain from asking, "But where will we play? Surely not on the tatami…"
There was a great rumbling from below his bare feet. Certain that he was losing his mind, he turned to see the tatami flipping over one after another, forming a great wave, until every rectangular tile was replaced by smooth green concrete.
"Impossible…" he breathed as two pillars sprang up from hidden compartments in the floor and a net quickly strung itself between them. The tennis court was complete.
"Show-offs!" the dark-haired stranger accused, as if this spectacle was one he had witnessed several times before, and had grown bored of it already.
In contrast, he was curious to know how the trick was performed. But he thought this might make his opponent lose patience, so he said nothing. He merely stepped onto the court, taking the side indicated by Decim.
A wave of nostalgia swept over him the moment his feet hit the concrete. He glanced across at his opponent, who was taking a few experimental swings of his racket.
"Have we played this before?" he asked.
The man glanced briefly at the two bartenders, but they were busy negotiating which of them would referee the match. Turning his face back toward him, he quietly said, "We have. Once before."
"Who won?" he found himself asking.
"To remember that, you'll have to play," replied the stranger. "Don't hold back."
He felt a slight thrill at the prospect of competition, and couldn't suppress a slight smile as he commented, "Alright, but what should I call you? I mean, I know you can't tell me your name, but if we're really going to do this, I must call you something..."
"You can call me Ryuzaki," said the man, "As for you… you'll be Kira."
The name stirred something in the back of his mind. They hadn't even started their game, but he sensed something familiar, like déjà vu.
"You've got one game," Ginti advised before they began.
"Not a full match?" he asked, surprised that after all this fanfare and mystery everything would be decided in one simple game. He glanced across the court toward his opponent, certain he wouldn't be satisfied unless they played through an entire set. But Ryuzaki made no objection as he swung his racket back and forth experimentally, testing its weight.
"Do I look like I have all day?" Ginti growled.
He might have mentioned that his bar was empty, but he wisely kept the comment to himself.
Ryuzaki was given the first serve. When taking in his size and figure from a distance, he couldn't imagine the man was very athletic. He had to remind himself that they had apparently played against each other before. Perhaps they were sports rivals, and he smiled again, imagining himself as the main character in a sports anime. Still, looking across the court at the bizarre stranger… Ryuzaki… He found himself dismissing the idea. After all, he had said that they only faced each other on the court once before.
He underestimated his opponent. The first serve pelted directly at his face. He couldn't hope to block a serve like that. His only option was to dive out of the way, or risk breaking his nose.
"Watch it, Ryuzaki!" he shouted from the ground where he had fallen.
He was shocked when an instant later Ginti announced, "Point to Ryuzaki! The score is fifteen - love!"
"What?!" he demanded, "How does that count? He aimed straight for my face!"
"Oh, did I not mention?" Ginti asked, a wicked smile appearing on his face, "In this game, anything goes. You just have to keep the ball in play. Let it drop, and your opponent wins a point."
That didn't sound like any tennis match he'd ever played in. He looked across the court to Ryuzaki, who was already holding another bright green tennis ball in hand. He bounced it once against the ground, catching it expertly in his hand, while he looked down on him with a smirk.
"What's the matter, Kira? Afraid you're going to lose?"
He scrambled to his feet. If anything was allowed in this match, then he'd just have to act like Ryuzaki and play dirty.
"I never lose," he said, surprised by his own arrogance. Where was this extreme confidence coming from?
"Sorry…" he began again, "I don't know why I…"
The excuses died on his lips. Ryuzaki was grinning at him. Not a sneer, not a grimace… But an honest smile. He was excited. His retort had lit a fire in Ryuzaki, and what was stranger still, even he was starting to feel enthusiastic about their match.
As expected, the next serve was also aimed directly for his face. He was prepared this time. Normally, when striking the ball back at an opponent, it must bounce once on their side to be valid. But Ginti had said that anything goes, so he swung his racket like a baseball bat, aiming for Ryuzaki's head.
Ryuzaki dodged, missing the ball by centimeters. He wasn't able to return the ball. It struck the wall behind him, pelting through the paper door. Ginti shouted that they'd be held responsible for the damage, but Decim merely stated, "The score is fifteen-all."
He had the next serve. It was getting harder to keep his expression neutral. Now that the tennis ball was in his hand, it was damn near impossible to keep the smirk from his face. He couldn't explain it to himself, but he was having fun.
He tossed the ball aloft, lifted his racket, and sent it pelting toward Ryuzaki. In the same instant, the smile fell from his face. Images came swirling into focus. His father, his mother, his little sister… Dinner around a small table… Studying in his bedroom… A tiny television, hidden inside a bag of chips…
The tennis ball recalled him back to the present when it smacked him in the stomach. Ryuzaki had returned the serve with ease, and the impact caused him to double over.
"Thirty-fifteen," called Ginti.
"Alright, Kira?" Ryuzaki asked, though he didn't sound in the least like he cared.
"What… was that?"
"Are you starting to remember now? Good. What did you see?"
"A… a television. But it was… in a bag of chips? Why would I have put a TV in a bag of chips?"
To his astonishment, Ryuzaki smacked himself in the head with his own racket and exclaimed, "So stupid! A bag of chips, in a flavor only you would touch, am I right? I can't decide if that's clever or profoundly stupid…"
He had dropped his racket. While Ryuzaki prepared for his next serve, Decim thoughtfully handed it back to him.
Those eyes… he thought to himself. Ginti's were gold. Decim's were light. But there was something odd about the way they looked. It reminded him of the unnatural brilliancy of Ryuk's eyes…
He caught himself again, only this time there was no delightful memory of a wholesome family dinner. Instead, he felt a familiar chill creep up his spine. Who the hell was Ryuk?
Ryuzaki's powerful serve came next, but he braced himself. He slammed the ball back, wincing as flickering images again assailed his brain… Sitting on a bus, while a crazed man waved a gun around… A woman in a black leather jacket… he pushed the memories aside, focusing on the neon ball that Ryuzaki managed to return easily. The game was starting to feel more like a tennis match now, with the volley going back and forth endlessly.
Shaking away the memory of a young blonde girl, who thrust a black notebook toward him, he finally managed to slip the ball past Ryuzaki. It just barely glanced off the edge of his racket, hurtling instead toward the two bartenders. Ginti yelped in surprise and attempted to dodge the unintended attack, though the ball never reached him. Instead, it hung suspended in midair, caught in a web of delicate, nearly invisible strings. This seemed to be a trick of Decim's doing, but he was no longer worried about the strange antics of their referees. The score was tied once again, and all at once, the images he'd been trying to push aside forced their way into his consciousness.
He remembered playing tennis now… He'd been a middle school prodigy… Then, in college… At the entrance ceremony… He had a perfect score, an honor he shared with one other… The man had confronted him, introducing himself in a furtive whisper…
"Your name…" he said slowly, lowering the hand that had moved to cradle his forehead. "It's not Ryuzaki…"
"Ah, you remember that much already?" replied his opponent, "I'd say that's impressive, but it's really not. I figured out far more than that the second I walked through the door."
"You introduced yourself to me during the opening ceremony… No, I wouldn't say it was an introduction. It was more like a challenge… You said that you were L."
The man who was not Ryuzaki made a sound like a buzzer, blowing raspberries at him through pursed lips. "Bzzt, bzzt! Wrong again, Kira. That's not my name. Not my real name, anyway. You still haven't remembered? Then again, maybe the Shinigami never told you my real name?"
He returned the man's glare. Shinigami? What was he talking about? There was still so much he couldn't remember. He hated that Ryuzaki… L… Whoever he was, he had the upper hand! He struggled to remember what their connection could be. Somehow, he knew this wasn't simply an old rivalry between college classmates.
Whatever the answer was, for now, all he knew was that he suddenly felt a strong impulse to punch this man in the face.
"Hey!" he shouted as he prepared for the next serve, "Have we ever been in a fight before?"
"A physical one?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, sure. You hit me, so I kicked you in the face."
"Who won?"
"Me, obviously."
"Liar!" he shouted, swinging his racket at the ball with all his might at the same time.
It was a powerful serve, but he had been too hasty. L easily returned his serve with just as much force. He scrambled to check the attack, but missed the ball by a thin margin. Another point in L's favor.
He waited for the tide of memories to swell again, but his mind remained focused. Recollections seemed to come only when he scored the point. If he wanted to remember all of his past, he needed to win. He glanced at the bartenders, who kept score silently on the sidelines, and wondered who, or rather what, the hell they were. How were they able to manipulate his mind like this? And if they were capable of such an unbelievable thing, what else could they do?
"Are you still overthinking things, Kira?" shouted L as his racket connected with the ball.
He managed to return the serve, but just barely. He pushed all thoughts of the bartenders aside. He had started to feel an instinctive dislike for L, but the man was right about one thing. He was overthinking this. If he didn't focus on the match, he was going to lose.
Winning was all that mattered to him now. More memories of his past meant learning more about his connection to these people. It could give him a better understanding of how to proceed when the game was finished.
The ball bounced high over L's head, missing his racket by several meters. In an official game, such a return would have been illegal, but their hosts had said that everything was allowed. He'd scored another point.
"Deuce!" Ginti cried out.
The memories seemed to come faster as the score grew higher. He could remember more details now. His father had worked for the Japanese police. His wife's name was Misa, though he couldn't remember why he had married such an immature, naïve girl. He could even recall another woman, one more suited to his taste. He shook his head. Had he been having an affair? The memories he was reliving felt true, and yet he was having a hard time reconciling who he wanted to be with the man he was starting to remember. Whoever the other woman was, he was certain he hadn't cared for her. And yet he didn't want to believe he was the sort of man who would agree to a loveless marriage, much less an equally loveless affair.
And then there was L. Try as he might, he had no control over what memories returned. He still knew next to nothing about the man standing opposite from him.
He told himself to focus again, widening his stance as he prepared for the next serve. There would be time to reconcile himself with his memories later. For now, there was just this game.
L returned the serve with lightning-quick speed, taking the next point with surer accuracy than head anticipated, given the man's disheveled appearance. Underneath his baggy clothes, he must be more athletic than he appeared.
"I have advantage now, Kira," L reminded him in a boastful tone, "Are you starting to remember who you are, yet?"
"I know I'm not this Kira you keep referring to," he said with a confidence he didn't feel. Though he wasn't sure why, he was starting to feel uncomfortable hearing L call him by that name. It felt almost natural to deny it now.
L only needed to score one more point to win the match, but he wasn't about to let that happen. He tied the score again with the next serve. They kept playing, always neck and neck. Neither player could keep advantage for long. Meanwhile, new memories kept leaping into his brain… His hands bound behind his back as he sat in an isolated room… His own father, threatening to kill him and Misa… But why?
The prolonged game was starting to take its effect on him. He'd already removed his suit jacket long ago, then the tie came off, and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled to his elbows. L made no alterations to his clothes, but he could tell he was exhausted. He was covered in sweat from constant running. His white shirt clung to his stooped back. They were reaching the end of their game. It was a war of attrition. The question was merely who would give out first?
It was then that Ginti spoke up again.
"This is taking too long!" he complained. "You two could be at this forever!"
He disagreed. He knew he had only a few serves left in him if their volleys kept going on as they had. But he wasn't about to admit that. He wanted to see what the bartender would do next.
To his surprise, Ginti merely lifted a kokeshi doll, one he hadn't noticed before. He flicked the doll's head, which flipped open, hinged at the neck, to reveal a bright red button.
"Let's make this hurt," said the bartender with a wicked grin. Decim merely looked on with a sad expression. Or perhaps a look of apathy? The man didn't seem to have many moods.
Ginti clicked the red button, and at once, bright red dots appeared across the court. They seemed to pulse with their own inner light. He noted with disgust that each was adorned with a realistic image of an organ. An eyeball glared up at him from one, a beating heart within another.
"What's this?" he demanded, thoroughly repulsed by the spectacle.
"You'll notice the spots are in your opponents range, as well as your own," Ginti explained. The smile on his face was truly sickening. "If you strike one on your opponent's side, they will feel a sharp pain in the corresponding area of their body. Of course, if you accidentally step on one on your own side, you will also experience pain in that area of your body."
He looked at the dots once more. The court had been transformed into a minefield. He could not pursue the ball with the same freedom he'd had before. Not if he wanted to avoid them.
But what Ginti had said seemed impossible. They could manipulate his memories, cause him to have amnesia, but how were these little spots supposed to cause him pain?
"If you don't believe him, Kira, you can try stepping on one now," said L in a bored voice, 'Though I wouldn't advise it. Ginti is a sadist. He means what he says."
"Hey! I'm not a sadist!"
The next serve was his, and there was an easier way to see if that the bartender claimed was true. He carefully lined up the serve, and aimed directly at one of the spots closest to the net. L must have anticipated his next move, for he darted between the dots, easily returning the ball to his side. But unlike his opponent, L did not seem to be aiming for the dots. For all his taunts and complaints, he acted as though he did not want to cause unnecessary pain.
He sucked his teeth in frustration. Perhaps he was giving L too much credit. That return might have been a fluke. It was hard enough to direct the ball where you wanted it to go.
The soft return was easy for him to send back. This time, he sent it flying to a far corner of the court, out of L's reach, certain of at least earning a point, even if he could not satisfy his curiosity to know whether the threat of pain was real.
It was a good play. L turned as if to chase after his target, but in his haste, he stepped directly onto one of the dots on his side. Immediately, he fell to the ground, clutching his stomach. The spot he'd stepped on showed the small intestine, coiled and disturbingly real. L made no sound other than a soft gasp of pain, remaining on the ground, motionless as the tennis ball struck the floor several meters away and rolled to a stop.
"Is that supposed to convince me that this is all real?" he asked coldly, "That was the worst acting I think I've ever seen."
When L looked up at him, the grimace on his face certainly seemed real enough, though he would not have admitted it. Slowly, L climbed back to his feet, as if the sharp pain he'd felt a moment ago had just started to ebb away.
"Careful, Kira. This is a test, and they will judge you for it."
He jerked his thumb in the direction of the bartenders, who were both staring with unnatural interest at this exchange. He rolled his eyes in response, though once again he felt that something was terribly wrong with the two referees. It was their eyes again. He wondered suddenly if either of them had ever blinked.
"Is that supposed to scare me?"
"It's just a warning. Believe me, nothing would make me happier than to see you get what you deserve. But if I were in your shoes, I would be asking those men for mercy."
"Mercy?" he repeated, accepting another ball that was tossed his way by Decim. "One more point, and this game is mine. If anyone should be asking for mercy here, it's you."
More than ever, he was certain that the truth would come if he won the match. He was determined. And he was prepared to play dirty.
The next serve was his. There was nothing more to say. He thought they both knew how this would end. He served with all his remaining energy, trusting that he would either hit his target, or L would be forced to step on another of the spots in his pursuit of the ball.
L took the bait. Just as he'd planned, he stepped directly on one of the spots as he recklessly chased after the ball. This time, he did cry out in pain, his free hand moving reflexively to cover his eye. But to his shock, L somehow managed to strike the bouncing ball back over the net.
He dashed for the ball, managing to slam it back to L's side of the court. But he had been careless. One of his feet came down on the edge of a spot, wherein beat a small heart.
Immediately, pain like nothing he'd experienced before ripped through his chest. He fell to his knees, screaming in agony while one of his hands pawed at the shirt covering his chest. He felt like he was having a heart attack…
Now the flood of memories came. A black notebook he picked up off the ground… A demon with bright yellow eyes… Lind L. Taylor, dying on live TV…. L, do you know? Shinigami like apples…
His screams reached a crescendo even as the pain in his chest ebbed away. But he was still in agony, as if the memories themselves caused pain. As if his very soul were being ripped apart as the knowledge of who he really was finally burst upon him…
Misa, throwing herself at his feet… The taskforce, working alongside him even as he plotted their downfall… His father, dying in front of his eyes… All according to plan…
"Game over," Decim stated. "Light Yagami is the winner."
It was not a victory he took any pleasure in. He climbed gingerly to his feet, sweating and irritable, as he directed a glare full of hatred at the man standing opposite him.
L, the once great detective, stared back at him with his disturbingly protuberant eyes.
"Have you remembered now, Kira?"
"I seem to remember killing you."
"Yes. Though I suspect that you had one of your shinigami do the dirty work. Was it Rem? I'll bet it was Rem."
Light closed his eyes, remembering the sweet satisfaction of that moment, when he watched the world's greatest detective fall.
"You're right. It was Rem," he acknowledged.
"Figured as much. But it is nice to have one's theory confirmed."
Light opened his eyes again and stared at his arch-enemy with open hostility. It was an expression he'd never been able to show L when he was alive.
"I don't remember you being such an asshole, though."
"Yeah? Well, I guess being murdered by my best friend left an impression on me."
"Best friend?" Light repeated with a bitter laugh, "Are you serious? Listen, L. We are not, nor were we ever, friends…."
He might have gone on, but something of greater importance had just occurred to him. L really was dead, wasn't he? Rem had turned to dust after killing him. Light had won their great game on that day… Hadn't he?
"If you're here…" he began, then he sighed. "I'm dead, aren't I?"
"Took you long enough," replied L, "I figured it out the second I arrived. So? How did it happen?"
The final piece had clicked into place. A showdown at an abandoned warehouse… Light looked at L, but his face was too similar to the stupid mask Near had been wearing. He looked away again.
"I don't want to talk about it."
L pouted. "That's not fair. After I waited all this time to see you again, you could at least tell me who finally got you. Was it Aizawa? He was always suspicious of you. I know it couldn't have been Matsuda…"
"If you must know, it was Ryuk," Light replied testily. There was no way Near's name was going to pass his lips now. Light would die a second time before he'd admit the truth of his downfall at the hands of one of L's successors.
"Ah, so he finally got bored of you?" L said, making Light immediately regret having said anything. L sounded far too pleased by this explanation. He wanted to change the subject as quickly as possible.
Turning to the bartenders, Light surveyed them up and down. He crossed his arms over his chest and demanded, "And what does that make you two? Gods of death? You don't look anything like Ryuk or Rem…"
"Different division," replied Ginti, while at the same time Decim said, "We're arbiters."
"They judge the souls of the dead," L explained.
This whole conversation was so absurd, Light nearly expected to wake up in the middle of a fever dream. But the pain he'd experienced only moments before felt real enough. He lowered his head, thinking of the warehouse again. The scene of his final downfall. He knew he could never dream of failure as complete as that. It had been real, and that meant he was done.
There was nothing left to do, so he did the only thing that he could. He laughed.
He wished he had died laughing. That at least might have been a fitting end, rather than the depressing, pathetic defeat of his final moments. Sure, he'd had a good laugh for a moment, when he still thought his victory was assured. But then came the betrayal of his followers, the gunshot, the rolling in a pool of his own blood… And finally, Ryuk. At least now, in whatever purgatory he'd found himself in, he could finally laugh at the absurdity and pointlessness of it all.
When his frantic giggling had finally subsided, it was L who first broke the silence.
"Wow," he said, "That was creepy."
Light ignored him. He was tired of the detective's stupid face. Wasn't the point of killing someone that you didn't have to see them anymore?
The bartenders continued to observe them both passively, as if they were waiting for something big to happen. He smirked. He loved to disappoint them. They had already missed the most exciting part of the show.
"So, what happens now?" he asked, "You're arbiters, right? Have I been judged?"
Decim's light eyes pivoted toward Ginti, who had continued to survey Light with a curious expression on his face.
"It's your bar," Decim prompted gently, "It's your responsibility."
Ginti scoffed. "Some help you are. You didn't do anything."
"I brought him," Decim said, pointing a finger at L.
"And what does that matter? The game was pointless! We knew what the outcome would be before it even started." Ginti rolled his eyes before fixing Light in his sights, "Your fate was decided the moment you used the Death Note, kid. Humans who act as shinigami…"
"Can't go to either heaven or hell," Light finished with some impatience. "I know, Ryuk already told me."
"Huh?! Oh, well… That's not exactly right," said Ginti, "I mean, there's no heaven or hell in the first place. At least, not the way you humans seem to think of it…"
"I know," Light said again.
"Figured that out as well, have you?" L asked, "Now I am impressed, Kira. I'll admit, even I was a little slow to realize what came after death."
"Nothing comes after death, L," said Light, "That's why Ryuk was trying to tell me. Fitting, since I never believed in an afterlife, anyway."
Ginti's scowl faded as a wicked grin stretched across his face. "Ha! If there's no afterlife, kid, then what the hell do you call this?"
This was a puzzle. Light glanced around the bar once more. He'd already decided this was no dream. The pain in his chest had felt too real. Then again, Ryuk had used the Death Note to kill him. He'd died of a heart attack. Perhaps this was no dream, but rather the final random signals of a dying brain. He directed another glare at L and wondered why he would recall the detective again after all this time. He blamed Near. Near and his stupid mask.
"Why does any of it matter?" Light said, "You said my fate was already decided."
"That's right. Now, will you go quietly?"
Light pointed to L and said, "Whatever gets me far away from this guy."
The two arbiters led him through the bar, past the bottles and the myriad kokeshi dolls. From there it was back into the hall, and for a moment, Light believed they were taking him to the elevator that had brought him here. Instead, they faced not one, but two elevator doors. Light glanced up and down the hall. He'd been certain of there being only one elevator before. But this was his dying dream. Perhaps anything was possible here.
There were masks above the elevator doors, of the kind one would expect to see in kabuki theater. An oni mask topped one, while the white mask of a woman adorned the other. Ginti pressed a button, and the doors to the oni-guarded door slid open.
Light walked into the elevator of his own free will. Ready to meet his final end, the one he'd anticipated since the beginning of this long, strange journey, he looked once more at the detective known as L.
"Hey," he said, a thought suddenly occurring to him, "It really is you, isn't it? This isn't some strange fantasy?"
"Of course it's me. Who else would I be?"
"Prove it. Since we're both dead, and I'm headed into nothingness, tell me your name. Your real name."
"You mean you don't know?"
"It was Rem who wrote your name into the Death Note, remember?"
L stared at him, seeming to ponder this, his final request. After a moment of awkward silence, he said, "You know what, Light? You can go fuck yourself."
The elevator doors closed, and Light Yagami ceased to exist.
Lawliet continued to stare at the closed doors for some moments after Light was gone. It seemed to the two arbiters that the energy they had come to expect from him had been sapped away. What remained was little more than a hollow shell, like one of the mannequins Decim was so fond of creating.
"Alright, you've had your fun," Ginti stated, "Get the hell out of my bar."
"We're not in your bar," Lawliet responded innocently, "We're in the hallway."
"Well, there's nothing on this floor but my bar and this hallway, smartass! Now, both of you get out, or I'll have to fight Decim."
"But it isn't over yet. You need to finish judging, Ginti."
Ginti followed the direction of his gaze. He was looking at the two masks above the elevators.
"You always judge two souls, right? Well, mine has lingered long enough. So what will it be? Will I be sharing the void with Light, or will I return in another form?"
"You're asking me?!" Ginti asked, "I'm not your arbiter!"
He shot an accusatory glare at Decim who, when put on the spot, instantly replied with, "I still can't judge you, Mr. Lawliet."
"Why not? I've been hanging around your bar for years! Surely you don't mean that you'd miss my company when I've clearly overstayed my welcome?"
"You may have accomplished your goal by facing Mr. Yagami once more," said Decim, "But that does not change the fact that I cannot judge you."
Ginti groaned, "He's right, you know. You know too much to judge fairly. You knew when you arrived that you were dead, and it didn't matter how many times we erased your memory, you always deduced the truth the second you woke up again. How is a guy supposed to force a judgment out of that?"
Lawliet seemed as if he were considering this new information, but all he had to say for himself was "It was really more of an inference than a deduction."
"See? This here is why people don't like smartasses."
"So what then?" Lawliet asked, turning to confront Decim with all the force of his black stare. "Shall I judge myself? I must warn you, I am biased."
Decim would have had a difficult time answering his question, had not the chime of the elevator forced them all to turn their attention to the two doors in front of them. For one, horrifying moment, they thought perhaps Light was making his way back up the shaft from Dis.
But in this world where almost everything is possible, there are some things that just cannot be. Light's return from nothingness was definitely one of them, and instead of one of the doors of fate sliding open, it was the usual interfloor elevator at the end of the hall, operated by Clavis, that opened to the trio.
"Ah, so he's gone already," observed Nona, stepping lightly off the elevator. Clavis, rather than remain at his post, followed her to join the others.
"Did it go as you expected, Mr. Lawliet?" Clavis asked.
"You mean did I lose again? Yes, unfortunately. Thanks for the reminder."
"He was so scary!" Clavis complained, "I thought I was gonna die riding the elevator with him!"
"You can't die if you were never alive in the first place, Clavis," Nona reminded him, "Anyway, have you come to a decision then, Decim?"
Possibly, he had fooled himself into believing that Nona's interruption would take some of the pressure off of him. Of course, he was wrong. Now he had four sets of eyes turned to him rather than two. If he could sweat, he would surely be sweating bullets about now.
"I'm sorry, Nona. I have failed in my duty as an arbiter. You had better reassign…"
"Oh, Decim. Have you learned nothing over the years? Stop being so dramatic!" Nona said. She then turned away from him and faced Lawliet.
"So, Decim still hasn't judged you, and you've had the rematch you always wanted. No plans now?"
"What plans could I have?" Lawliet asked, "I'm dead."
Nona returned his uncanny stare with a grin, "How about a job?"