You brush your teeth, spit into the sink, and stick the bristles under the running water to rinse them. Frothy, it runs around the obstruction, making its way steadily down. If we never catch Kira.
The thought sticks in your mind the way it has since you talked about it. Since you said maybe you'd be okay if it never happened. It isn't giving up.
But it also is.
You glance over, see Ryuzaki standing beside you and staring at one of the tiles on the wall, his toothbrush dangling between two fingers. He's already used it, and the globby remains of toothpaste drip silently to the marble countertop, staining it a chalky white.
You snag the toothbrush from his hand and stick it under the water with yours, then put them both back in the cup by the sink. Ryuzaki watches you do it, the other hand pressed to his lip, his fingers pulling at the skin.
"You okay?" you ask.
He pauses. Finally, taps with his thumb, 'just tired.'
There have always been only three ways the Kira case can end. With your own death (not an option), with his, or this—
Option three.
You've as good as signed up for it; this future. If he believes you. If he doesn't kill you first.
You change your clothes, get into bed. And the thought returns again. That question.
About what you want.
You've never thought about it. Not since it was first clear that you were smart, capable enough, and interested enough in your father's work to carry on in his footsteps and even surpass them. Becoming head of the NPA would have been a great achievement. Respect, admiration, attention and envy—all the things you crave—would've been yours. And you would've been doing something that satisfied you. That kept the tides of boredom at bay. Except.
So does this.
In fact, you've never felt more alive than since the Kira case started. With the exception of being in confinement… still, the months before and after? You run your finger across the circle off the handcuff and down the first few links of the chain, coil a few of them in your palm. Despite the fact that you've lost everything… despite the extreme unfairness of your situation… how can you be happier now than you've ever been?
/
In the morning, Ryuzaki pauses as he brings you coffee. Sits in front of you and taps with his fingers on the table, 'Light-kun, may I ask for the day alone?'
He hasn't yet said anything this morning, and you've been attentive, watching for a moment of code. You aren't surprised.
'Sure,' you tap back. 'Give me a bit to grab some food and books and stuff.'
'Of course.'
You make sure you have everything you need, and he steps back into the bathroom, bringing his laptop with him, closing the door between you and locking it. You sit against the door, open the pages.
It doesn't take long for you to lose your place, in the silence. As though in confinement, your thoughts turn over on each other, devouring until all that is left are fragments in between the press of your wrist against the cuff. What do I want?
It's not like you've never thought about the question.
Of course you've thought about the question. But there was always a steady and unchanging context: you were, of course, Yagami Light. Soichiro's eldest son. You had a duty to your family, you had certain standards you knew had to be met. But now… you've already divorced yourself from your family. You haven't talked to your mother or Sayu for months, and it's likely you'll never see either of them in person again. And, surely, after the Kira case is over… it's not like Ryuzaki, L, will want to stay in Japan. He's a detective the world over, always following cases, always moving on. If you go with him, it's likely you'll never see your father again either.
Your midnight fears may have taken things to extremes, but the analogy does hold that it will be like Ryuzaki adopted you into his family line. The "bride's place" will be yours, to leave everything behind you. Of course you would feel such bitter shame, and yet, you are always pragmatic. Nothing can be changed, and the Light that belongs to Ryuzaki should not feel shame for such a thing. If you forget your past, you can become something new that never had different expectations. If you forget your past…
Then, to say "I want this" wouldn't be impossible. To travel the world, to be a partner to the great detective, to be not an ordinary human of any kind but a figure of whispered legend like Kira himself… wouldn't that make you godlike? Wouldn't that, itself, be something to cherish?
/
"I hope you found a good movie this time," Misa says teasingly, on Friday, as she hops down in the seat beside you.
"It's good."
She gives Ryuzaki a look of patent distrust at this assertion, and he says, "I don't think she believes you, Light-kun."
"Will you two stop?" you complain good-naturedly. "Look, it hasn't even started yet, right?"
"Ooh, so we can complain once it's started?" Misa says.
"I see," Ryuzaki muses. "So we have permission to complain when the movie's on."
Those two, seriously.
The scene opens pulled out of darkness, a night-empty room with a bar in the background, a tall, round, empty table in front. As the credits appear and disappear, and eerie but calm music plays; synth distortion with the hint of strings underneath, a man opens a door in the background and stands, lighting a cigarette, walking back and forth, turning on a few lights that only add to the dappled gloom, flickering slightly. The scene is desaturated, blue-tinted, but the large, bold credits are yellow. The title reads: Stalker. Because it's a Russian-language film, there are subtitles underneath it. When Misa sees it she says, "oh, is that dude a stalker?"
"Not that dude," you say, with a slight grin.
In an interview, the composer Eduard Artemyev (Эдуа́рд Никола́евич Арте́мьев [Artemyev Eduard Nikolayevich]) wrote about his experience creating the sounds in the film.
Having shot all the material, [Tarkovsky] continued to search [for the right music] and was explaining to me that he needed some combination of the Orient and the West recollecting along with that the saying by Kipling about incompatibility of the Orient and the West. They can only co-exist but will never be able to understand each other. Andrei desired this thought be ringing in The Stalker distinctly but he could arrive at nothing good enough.
…Later, when I returned again to the discussion of the music for The Stalker Tarkovsky unexpectedly told me: "You know, I have some friends in Armenia and Azerbaijan. What if we would summon musicians from there…" A performer on the tar was invited from Armenia.
So, I took a rather well-known in the Indian music method as a basis of the musical solution of the film. It is constructed on the distinguishing of one base tone, which is usually entrusted to the performers on the Indian string pinching instruments, named vina or tampur. On the background of this prolonged sound, improvisation on tar (the multinarional instrument, which is used not only by Indians, but also by Iranians, Armenians, Azerbaijanians and Georgians) is made. I decided to add to the tar a longitudinal flute, being taken from the European instruments, which was widely used in the Middle Ages. … Then I turned to electronics and passed the music through effects channels of the "SYNTHI-100" synthesizer, having invented many various and unusual modulations for flute. What concerns the tar, it was recorded by me first on one speed, and then it was lowered so, that the "life of one string" could be heard, which was incredibly important for me. Then I have as if "hanged" far in the sound-acoustic space the light, key-coloured backgrounds. And this was all.
When the credits end, the shot changes to a painterly view of a bedroom, in which the main character is asleep with his family: his wife on one side and his child between them, cast all over in sepia tones and quiet; and even with the peeling plaster and the rundown nature of the whole place, the effect is not purely that of suffering. There is something too intensely thoughtful to be purely that. He's on his way somewhere, to some job that his wife despairs at, fearing it will put him back in prison.
This is the Stalker.
It's not till a few scenes in, actually, that Misa says, "hey wait, is this in black and white?" for the tinting is so subtle and the scenes so naturalistically washed-out. With two men who are desperate to get into a place known only as The Zone, the Stalker smuggles them past the military barrier in a drawn-out, nervous sequence, and then they are on their way, rattling on a cart over the rails, passing increasingly-blurred landscapes and drifting in and out of dazes, dozes.
Then: we look ahead, realizing we have entered the Zone. The scene is in color. There is almost nothing startling about it, as though it was just the next movement in a sequence. Something otherworldly has occurred, maybe; maybe not.
Half-twisted power lines fall abandoned amid the wild green meadows that look as imperfect and ordinary as any place you might go, stepping outside. Through the dangers of the Zone, through tunnels underground, brooks and old abandoned houses, collected trash and debris floating half-visible and gasoline-slick water shimmering, this sensation remains. That if there is some magic here, it's not one unfamiliar to us.
It lingers. A two and a half hour movie has no need to do anything but take its time. To spend moments in observation of things, to allow conversations to take their course. No one has a name. The Stalker is known only as that; the guide through the Zone. Still, too, the Writer and the Professor are forbidden from divulging their names. Three strangers.
They're looking for The Room. The place where wishes are realized; not any wishes, but the deepest desires of the self, born of suffering.
Water runs, rushes, stands in pools, shimmers; dirt and dust is everywhere; moss peeks out brilliantly; far-forgotten skeletons lie like old bones do, at peace. The greatest traps of all are not some impassable cliff, but moments in the dark, facing yourself.
The Stalker thinks against this most terrible journey: "Let them be helpless, like children. Because weakness is a great thing, and strength is nothing. When a man is just born, he is weak and flexible. When he dies, he is hard and insensitive. When a tree is growing, it's tender and pliant. But when it's dry and hard, it dies. Hardness and strength are death's companions. Pliancy and weakness are expressions of the freshness of being. Because what has hardened will never win."
What do I want, deep down? the movie asks. Is it what I say I want—is it what I feel?
When it's over, Misa stands up, stretching a little. "Well, it was kinda long," she says, "but actually it wasn't too bad, Light!"
"You don't have to sound so surprised," you say with a smile.
"Yes, it was very interesting," Ryuzaki says. "What do you think it was about, Light-kun?"
"Duh," Misa says. "It's about having faith in something."
You think back to the Stalker's words, and know the answer on the tip of your tongue, but it takes you a struggle to make the words in front of Ryuzaki's slow, questioning gaze. "It's about the strength of being weak."
"Well, Ryuzaki?" Misa asks. "What do you think the movie was about?"
"I think, perhaps…" Ryuzaki says. "It might be about hope, the great irony of existence… it gives meaning to humanity but still, no one needs it, nor does it change anything on the grand scale."
"Well that's a depressing way to read it," Misa says.
"Are you going to tell me I'm wrong?"
"Obviously!"
/
You're eating lunch, and Misa puts down her fork, stretches her legs out, and says, "I think the Zone is like Kira."
Ryuzaki glances over at her. You're sitting in the living area and, as usual, facing down the blue sky behind the vastness of the floor-to-ceiling windows. It's terrible, but still better than having all that space at your back.
"Because it kills people?" he says.
"Because it helps people, but they're afraid of it," Misa says. She sends Ryuzaki a flat look. "Well? I know you're just dying to accuse me of something, so get it over with."
"I've no need to accuse you when you do such a good job of incriminating yourself," Ryuzaki says casually.
Misa rolls her eyes. "Oh no. At this rate I might be locked up, day in and day out."
"You might die, Misa," you remind her. "You shouldn't antagonize Ryuzaki so much."
"I shouldn't antagonize Ryuzaki?" Misa laughs shortly. "Come on Light. What about you? How many times have you gotten into actual fistfights with him?"
"That's totally different—"
"Sure… totally different… m-hm."
You glare at her.
"Anyway, it's not like you both don't already know I support Kira!" she exclaims at last. "What am I supposed to do, pretend I don't and just hope you forget?"
Yes.
God, how stupid can she be? The last thing she should be doing is increasing people's mental associations between her and Kira. And she calls herself your girlfriend? Honestly, you can't even figure out sometimes how she managed to pull off her crimes in the first place.
"True," Ryuzaki says. "It would be impossible for me to forget such a thing, so there really is no point in talking around it. How do you think about Kira, Misa-san?"
Don't answer him. Don't answer him!
Of course your mental protestations do absolutely nothing.
"He was the one who saved me when I had nothing," Misa says, softly. "And not just me. There are so many others the law forgets. Victims of terrible things, who wait and wait for something to balance it all. Not because of revenge, but because living, knowing that the one who did something irrevocable to you is still out there… it hurts so much… it feels like," she trails off, and for a moment, just stares down into her hands. "Like you're the one who died," she says at last. "And then Kira… he does bring hope. And it does mean something. Ryuzaki… haven't you ever had hope in anything?"
"Hope in humanity is misplaced by default," Ryuzaki says. "Each and every one of us is just a monster that together, make up society. Some of us are killers, others berate and abuse; some are driven by their greed to hurt those less fortunate, and some believe deeply in the divine—but the ones who believe deeply are usually the most dangerous of all. Because they'll stop at nothing, you know," he adds.
"What about higher powers, then?" you ask. "Do you believe in anything like that?"
"With no proof either for or against, I don't make such a judgment. But… if I had to make a guess… no." Ryuzaki shrugs. "And, if there were higher powers, I think that the human world would be a mirror of what matters to them, you know? Power, greed, revenge, love… the same old thing. In that case, what really makes such a power 'higher' in the first place? It's just the power itself. And anyone with power can lord it over others and proclaim himself a god."
"Well, of course!" Misa says. "That's what makes a god. The power, the danger of the spirits of things and people in this world; the veneration they inspire. What's wrong with that? Like you said… that's what the world is. If we were given some god that existed entirely outside of all of life, how would it speak to us at all, or mean anything whatsoever?"
"Isn't the idea that it would inspire us to be better?" Ryuzaki says. "To atone for our sins?"
"Well I guess if you're talking about Christianity, sure," Misa says. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, they've got some beautiful liturgies, but if you really think that's the only way to relate to gods you're missing out!"
"So instead I should worship Kira?" Ryuzaki says drily.
Misa scowls. "Obviously not," she says. "I don't think you and Kira really work well together…" she explains. "I mean, you know… what with your thing against killing."
"My 'thing against killing'?" Ryuzaki says.
"M-hm."
"So would you kill someone, if you had to?" Ryuzaki says.
"We're not talking about that, Ryuzaki," Misa says with a carefree laugh. "We're talking about gods."
"Are we."
"Yeah, we are. Aren't we?" For a second Misa looks worried.
"Forgive me," Ryuzaki says. "I was making a joke."
"Oh…" Misa says. She frowns, and then shrugs. "Anyway," she says. "Atonement… it's a heavy burden, isn't it? Having to feel guilty all the time no matter what you do. I mean… does that really inspire people to be better? Or only to suffer?"
"Mm." Ryuzaki says. "Good point. Yes, I suppose my worldview is quite shaped by a certain religious view, even if I claim not to ascribe to any. Because, see, I still can't really buy that anything that isn't higher than the world, that doesn't have a certain measure of perfection and omnipotence, could ever claim the title of a god. It just doesn't feel right to me."
"So," Misa says. "Then you must actually believe in something, if you're putting definitions on it!"
"No, I'm talking theoretically," Ryuzaki says.
Misa grins. "You're a theoretical Christian."
"I'm an atheist," Ryuzaki says.
"I think," Misa says, teasingly, "you just don't like to be wrong."
"Oh, is that a religion now?"
"M-hm."
"Then I think you might also be a contender…"
"Sure, I'll admit it!" Misa says. "How about you, Light?"
"Me?" you ask.
"He's definitely in it," Ryuzaki says.
"I can be wrong," you say.
"He really can't," Ryuzaki says.
"Yes, actually, I can," you say.
"Tell me one thing you've ever realized you were wrong about."
You open your mouth. Fish around for an answer, and become more and more red-faced as Misa sputters out a laugh, her legs kicking in the air. "Light," she says. "Oh, you should see yourself, it's so painful…"
"Hey, you try thinking up something you were wrong about on the spot," you shoot back.
She sobers, and answers, "I thought the man who killed my parents would be given a fair trial, and I thought my eyewitness testimony would mean something. Boy, was I fucking wrong about that," she says. She wraps her arms around herself uncomfortably, and then says in a sudden, peppy tone, straightening up, "well, now that Misa's answered, what were you ever wrong about, Ryuzaki?"
"The Kira case," Ryuzaki says glumly.
"Come on," you say. "Pick something besides the Kira case. It's not even over yet!"
"True," Ryuzaki says. "I may turn out to be right about the culprits after all…"
"That's not what I meant—" you defend yourself.
"Yeah," Misa says. "Play fair!"
"An old acquaintance of mine," Ryuzaki says at last. "I was wrong about him." There's something odd about his tone, like he's not even sure if he should be speaking but the words had left his mouth before he'd been able to reconsider, and as soon as he speaks, he looks distressed.
"What about him?" Misa says hesitantly.
Ryuzaki curls in on himself and hugs his knees to his chest, answering without looking at either of you. "We had a joke, you know. That I was going to die before him. I guess it doesn't sound very funny but… it was. And I believed it."
"Is this the person you told me about?" you ask.
He glances over at you, startled. "Oh," he says. "No. But, I understand why you'd think that. I guess, technically, that could refer to either of them. But the joke was with—with only one."
"I'm sorry you lost them," Misa says, softly.
"Thank you," Ryuzaki says. "But, it's not like they were friends or anything."
"It can still matter to you," Misa says.
Ryuzaki glances at her for a long moment. He looks almost startled, and then deeply thoughtful. "But I'm not the kind of person who's capable of that," he says.
"Capable of caring that someone dies?" you ask, curiously.
"Who the hell told you that?" Misa says. "Whoever it is was a total bastard, okay, and don't listen to a word of it. I may think you're a creepy pervert but you're not a stone-cold psycho, okay? I've met enough of those."
"Really?" Ryuzaki says. "And where do you meet these psychos?"
"Every time I go to work or go out in public," Misa says promptly. "Where did you meet yours?"
"At an event mixer for psychos," Ryuzaki says. And then, belatedly, "that was a joke."
"We know!" you and Misa chorus, and give each other exasperated looks.
.
.
.