Gods and Idols

"A desperate disease requires a dangerous remedy."
-Guy Fawkes

Just a few minutes ago, Light Yagami had been powerful. Almighty. Omnipotent. A force as fierce as passion had ensnared him, drawing out a vast, latent intensity that he had kept suppressed for months. The atmosphere had radiated with revolution. A few minutes ago, Light had been more than himself, because just a few minutes ago, Light had been Kira.

But now he stumbled to his room, trembling with a frustration was only human. Tendrils of solicitude coiled in his stomach like a nest of writhing snakes. Although he walked upright with every indication of complete bodily control, the gold-mahogany hallway slithered in front of his eyes unsteadily, blurred by the malevolence that wracked his mind. His feet moved mechanically, his person was just a machine until he reached his room – his cell – and gently closed the door behind him.

L was there, back in the balcony. L was in the hallways, L was in the rooms. L was in every video camera, the title of the disease that plagued this building. It was everywhere, everywhere, seeping in the carpets and making the air stale, shackling its victims and announcing the threat of mortality. A disease, a plague. A demon. A god. A god who controlled this place, a god who controlled the world. The Lucifer to Kira.

If Light looked into the mirror, or into the white-ice reflection in the window, what he saw was a perversion of a memory. Light Yagami, if such a person was a reality anymore, was a pale human with sunken in eyes. Now he wore the loose sweaters and jeans that he was given, and he hadn't touched a pair of socks since his capture. Thin and weary, he saw something ghoulish. Something infected. Poisoned.

Slowly, Light sat on the edge of his bed, where both the window and the camera obstructed his vision. For a minute or two he simply breathed, closing his eyes.

Then he began to shake. It started with a falter in his breath, which caused a jerk in his posture. From there, his ankles tensed, which lead to his knees quivering. Teeth gnashed together as his jaw clenched, and his head snapped downward as he grabbed his scalp, distorted, pulling at his hair and snarling, until an eruption of raw, painful emotion finally ripped free of his willpower.

“Aaaaaaaargh! ”

It was a terrible sound, to anyone listening, and though Light could hardly hear himself he felt the scream scraping up his throat, like the air was lined with shards of glass. It was uncontrollable, uncontainable, it was a howl of grievances that had been repressed since he had lost his freedom.

His body still trembled in the fury of it all, shudders running down his spine at the helplessness. Throughout all of these months he had retained it, wearing a face of acceptance for the cameras that were always geared on him. He had tried to keep the peace, to play the role that was the only reason he was alive. He had brushed away taunts, he ignored his handcuffs, he avoided thinking about how he might never see another human aside from L and Watari for the rest of his unknown existence.

But every day, he would lose. Every time he opened his eyes he couldn't escape the truth, like a snake in the grass he walked upon. He had been forced to remain a prisoner to his own failure, the only time in his life he had been a failure and now was punished eternally for it. Every time he looked at L's eyes, tearing him to pieces, he would lose.

And as long as L was alive, he would continue to lose.

(That could be altered...)

His knuckle trailed across his mouth, brushing against his lips. He could still feel L, attacking him, trying to destroy him inside and out. L, proclaiming that he would destroy Kira, willing to hold back nothing until he had eliminated the revolution. Until he had eliminated Light Yagami... brandishing his victory and his domination until he had reduced Light to a mindless tool to do his bidding.

The saliva in Light's mouth felt thin and dry, but he stopped shaking. This was the sort of thing he had been anticipating, after all. Physically, psychologically, his worst enemy was going to punish him.

But why did L have to...?

A perversion of a game – the game that Ryuuzaki and Light Yagami were dear friends. It was nothing but a caricature, an image both distorted and disturbing. After all, friends don't kill each other, friends don't deliberately cause suffering on the other. Friends don't rip one another to shreds and restrain (or not) the urge to laugh in delight.

L and Kira would never, could never have friends. But then, the saying goes – keep your friends close but your enemies closer yet. And in that sense, Light supposed, as close an enemies ever could be, he and L must be a caricature of lovers, too.

“The gods play games with men as balls... In wondrous ways do the gods make sport with men.”
-Titus Maccius Plautus

Jastin the Jeweled Skeleton didn't quite know what to make of this. As far as Shinigami hierarchy went, he was a high ranking god due to his vast inventory of knowledge concerning the detailed rules that the King had constructed. Because the King himself was difficult to locate and less than desirable to communicate with, lower ranked Shinigami would usually consult him, Jastin, instead. Not that most of them cared about the rules. Most of the gods didn't really care about anything anymore except rolling dice and playing cards, and on occasion, remembering to write a human name so that they wouldn't turn to dust. But on the rare event when one of them was actually afraid of breaking the 'rules' – and the penalties were pretty harsh – then to Jastin they would come. Perhaps he had grown arrogant, after so long. Which was why this human was quite the punch in the gut.

“I've really never seen something like this before,” Jastin complained as he tinkered with a ruby grafted into the gold on his skull. “I guess you turned up with the other junk, eh?”

“I've been here for awhile,” the humanoid creature said, standing up and stretching his thin limbs. Jastin could see finely outlined ribs underneath tight pale skin, and though he really didn't know much about this type of thing, he wondered if the thing was even alive. “Oh, this is where the junk comes in, you say?”

Jastin grunted, mentally going through his list of lore. A Shinigami wasn't supposed to talk about these things with humans, but he really wasn't sure if this thing was a human. And besides, those rules were applicable to the human world in case of human contact. But then again, no human to his memory had ever been here before. In the end, the Shinigami concluded that it probably wouldn't matter here, since even if he was a human, this thing didn't have a name or a lifespan number, and therefore the rule could be disregarded. “That's right. This world only exists through sustenance from the other worlds. The portals here, they bring in random trash, or whatever it is. I bet you saw them. You can even look through them at the human world.”

“I already saw,” the thing answered with a chuckle. “I saw lots of things.”

“So that's what you've been doing this whole time?” Jastin accused with a note of ridicule, before reminding himself that this, again, was not one of the gods (who everyone would make fun of if they tried too hard at human-watching or killing), but just a little bug with the rest of the garbage. It'd probably die soon, anyhow.

The creature watched him with those marvelous sparkling red eyes, and suddenly began to lean backwards. Jastin watched in confusion as the human bent over backwards, catching himself last minute with his arms so that he was in a bridge shape. It scurried along the rocks a couple of feet, saying, “There's one back there, about sixteen feet. Then to the north – I designated my own north, you see – there's another about twenty-six and a half feet, and to the south there's a portal at forty-seven feet away from where I am now.”

Jastin really wasn't sure if he was supposed to respond to this or what, so he just stood in befuddlement.

“Hey!” the human said, doing something that Jastin was confident he couldn't do or at least wouldn't try: he began to arch his back upright again, until he was standing on two legs again. “Why are you reliant on all of this human trash? You're the first monster I've seen, and I guess I've been here for months.”

“Months...?” Jastin realized how lazy he had been lately when it came to human lore, because he couldn't recall the exact number to convert this term into Shinigami time. “It's connected, so we can hunt the humans. Don't you know what a Shinigami does?”

It giggled, clasping its hands together. “Aha! The cause is magnetic to the effect. The grim reapers exist to kill.”

“Yeah, with this.” He held up his notebook, thin, sleek and white with studded jewels around the edge. The title was written in Shinigami alphabet, and realizing that this human thing probably couldn't read it, he told. “It's a Death Note. You can write a name in it, and the person you want to die drops. We get the remaining lifespan in compensation for the work, and that's how we live, you see?”

“You write a name? Write a name?” It cocked its head to the side. “In what language? With what utensil?”

“I only have a pen, but you can write in whatever you want as long as it shows. You have to write the name the way the human believes its name is written.” Jastin was so adjusted to explaining the rules that he forgot who, or rather what, he was talking to. He laughed in amusement while he watched the skinny thing's beautiful eyes widen in attention. “But don't get excited. I don't think it'll work for you.”

“People won't die if I write them in?”

“I meant you won't get any lifespan out of the deal.” The silly thing. What did it expect? “So it'd be really pointless for you to even try.”

The human lifted a foot off the ground, rubbing it against the knee of the other. It balanced like that, swaying its head from side to side while going over this information. “That's very interesting. I've found out a lot about this place. Now I understand why when I whisper through the portals... sometimes they can hear me.”

“What are you talking about?” Jastin asked. “We talk around the portals all the time, and it's a really long way... no, it wouldn't work. You're crazy.”

“I'm not crazy.” The words were hissed, the ruby eyes narrowed and he was baring white teeth. It looked like it was going to lunge at Jastin's throat, right then, and if Jastin hadn't been immortal he might have been unnerved. Actually, he was a bit unnerved. This thing was quite out of the ordinary, and 'ordinary' was a very defined word in this realm. The human's anger suddenly dissolved into a placid smile. “Don't call me crazy. If you don't do that, maybe we can be friends.”

“You wanna be friends, huh?” The Shinigami looked over the creature again, and as always, his gaze stopped at those jeweled eyes, those lovely things, and he was quite jealous. Well, he wouldn't mind having those eyes around him more often, so why not? “If you can manage to part yourself from chatting with the humans, you're welcome to gamble with us.”

“Is it gambling if you have nothing left to lose?” it snickered, putting a hand over its own mouth and speaking muffled. “I suppose it could be the same if you have something very dear to gain.”

“What d'you want?”

The creature didn't answer, instead he trotted a few paces where a puddle of gasoline had formed in the jagged rocks. He seemed to be studying his own reflection, one finger pointed at the liquid and the fingers of his other hand stuff between his teeth.

“Well, to be honest, I don't think you'll last long,” Jastin confessed. “I dunno why you're here, but you don't belong. We can hang out as long as you continue existing, but whatever you want, you'd better be quick about getting it.”

“It shouldn't take too long.” It straightened its back, smiling, and began to strut further in the opposite direction that Jastin had come from. “I'm already making progress. Even I hadn't anticipated just how readily people will do what they're told.”

Now Jastin was too confused for words, and he scratched at his jewel-studded skull.

“You're so slow,” the thing said, turning its skinny neck without ceasing its footsteps. “Didn't you say you wanted to see me prove it?”

Jastin did not recall the point in the conversation when that creature had suggested any such thing, but he hadn't been this dumbfounded in a hundred years. Those ruby eyes were too entrancing for argument, anyway, and he found himself following along in charmed obedience.

"Get out of the way of Justice. She is blind."
-Stainslaw Lec

“Are you ready to cooperate yet?”

“F-fuck you.”

“That is unfortunate. For both of us.”

Anton Rowley, captured accomplice to the terrorist suicide bomber Frederick Goddard, did not have a chance to respond again, lest howls of pain be called a response. There were two interrogators in the stained white cell – one, Thomas Roberts, leaning stiffly against the wall and asking the questions, second, Adrian Morris, currently burrowing his fists into the prisoner's stomach. Rowley himself would not have been in any condition to stand on his own, considering the amount of blood dripping from his body and the heavy discoloring of bruises marring his skin, but the chains held him up.

L frowned into Monitor 6, which allowed him to witness the work as well as command and interfere as he needed. He would have preferred to have a more direct control of the interrogation because the application of torture needed to be delicately balanced. The criminal's psychological and physical condition had to always be the primary concern. If one was too gentle, the prisoner would be likely to lie and resist. If one was too harsh, the prisoner would start babbling nonsense and doing whatever possible to be granted mercy. At both extremes, there were no useful answers. L needed to extract the truth.

With human ethical concerns and restrictions, of course.

“N-n-no more!” Rowley cried.

A swarm of phone calls had followed the attack, all wanting L and Watari. This was the first major terrorist attack that had hit international news since Kira's earliest days of reign. As much as it nagged at L's pride to think about it, Light had had a valid point the other day. There was no use being stubborn about the fact that yes, Kira did lower the crime rate, and yes, it was going up again now that he had disappeared. Not that this was entirely applicable to the mind frame of a suicide bomber, but nonetheless. Berlin didn't want a repeat of this incident, Interpol didn't want a repeat and innocent civilians certainly didn't either. Rowley had answers, and the world wanted them.

Light would probably have been gloating obnoxiously if he was here at that moment, if only because he would make more snide remarks about how the world was better off with Kira. But as it was, the adolescent had been ignoring him for two days, ever since... Light was always in his room, working on his own cases, so far only hunger had been able to draw him out, but the one time they had crossed paths in the kitchenette, Light had given him a glare that could shatter glass and went on his way.

L turned up the volume.

Roberts held up his hand after a few minutes of the beating, and Morris took the cue and stepped back. The former walked into the light that shined pale on Rowley's slumped form. “I can stop this all, if you'll only cooperate.”

Roberts and Morris were acting the classic 'good cop bad cop' psychological interrogative tactic. This was the point when Roberts would ask, genuinely, if Rowley would simply cooperate and spare them all. Morris would act eager to inflict more pain, perhaps say something about avenging those who died. Rowley would then desire Roberts's presence and would start opening up to keep him close.

“Be sure to start with simple questions,” L reminded again into his microphone, which transferred his voice into a small earphone that both interrogators wore. “Yes or no, or a short answer. If you can do that, he is 80 percent more likely to volunteer the full story himself.”

“G-God!” the man stuttered, blood dribbling down his face.

“I will give you one more chance before we have to hurt you again,” Roberts pressed, but calmly. “Take a breath now and answer me – why did Frederick do it?”

“Because... God!”

Rowley was shaking in his chains, wide-eyed. The man was a hardened mafia convict, but after a few hours of this he was cracking. That was good to know, but that also meant that even more strict delicacy had to be paid to the next few hours. If the interrogators did their job well, they could accomplish in one sitting what might otherwise take weeks.

Roberts sighed loudly, fishing out a cigarette from his pocket and retreating as he lit it. He inhaled sharply, turning away. “Take some more time to think about it, then.”

“No, wait! Wait-- Ahhh!”

L turned down the volume, upon hearing a quiet footstep behind him. The noise had been loud enough that L had actually been anticipating Light hearing and, despite the adolescent pointedly avoiding him, he would come to see what was going on. L momentarily tried to convince himself that he hadn't been trying to get Light's attention on purpose, but then, he had requested that the interrogation be conducted in English so he was fairly certain that, rationalize as he might, he was deluding himself again.

Straining his keen ears, the detective could hear Light in the entrance, shifting slightly. Light would know that he had been heard, and even if he was incredibly childish he wasn't socially immature and wouldn't run away now. The only question remaining of this half-planned interaction was who would speak first.

L's voice was already leaving his throat but Light formed the words first.

“What you're doing to him – that's terrible.” There was a straining to the steadiness of the youth's tone, which lead L to deduce that he was uncomfortable. The tone then raised into something accusing. “You are terrible.”

“Ah, should we murder him with a heart attack?” L catechized. He stayed staring into Monitor 6, not turning away even to pluck a jellybean from a ceramic bowl beside him. “No... that won't protect Germany's citizens now. I am willing to do whatever it takes to solve a case.”

A scoff. “L's methods for solving crime are admirable, as always.”

L turned his neck to view Light behind him, gazing darkly at the teenager. When the detective's eyes met his, Light's eyes lit with burning embers and he caught the glare, returning it. L raised a finger and bit on his thumbnail. “Kira must know my methods well by now.”

“I don't know a thing about you,” Light snapped with surprising and sudden emotion, taking a step closer offensively. “The only thing I know is that you have no boundaries, and you don't know when to quit!”

Immediately, L was on his feet with cat-like agility. Though he tucked his hands into his pockets, they twitched with the sudden desire to make fists. “Drop the self righteous act, Yagami-kun, because I don't buy it. You are not incomparable to me. The difference is only that I have federations of citizen-elected governments and agencies to approve my actions, and you are nothing more than a rebel.”

A foot pounded into the ground as Light advanced another step, jamming a thumb in the direction of Rowley, who was screaming out in the moments he had breath. “If this is the law-enforcement at its most righteous, then the world needs a revolution more than ever.”

“A revolution?” The word mocked quietly out of L's breath. The detective held up a pair of fingers. “There are just two reasons why Light Yagami is bothered by what he sees. The first is that he wants to convince me, and perhaps himself that he is the same person that he was when he was not Kira. He fools himself, as ever, that he has inherited his father's nobility, that good cannot be done if sacrifices must be made – at least providing they aren't on his own insolent terms. And the second reason...”

L's voice lowered softly, it was slow and dark as a shadow of a predator looming. “... The second reason is that Yagami-kun has deduced that it would have been him in the monitor if I had not interfered.”

Light was undoubtedly able to infer this for himself, however, the words blatant and out loud left him stricken.

“But I should inform you that had I delivered you to Interpol, you wouldn't be in Rowley's position,” L went on. He hesitated only to bask in Light's silence, before continuing mercilessly. “In fact, it would've been much worse for you than that.”

The adolescent didn't answer.

“If circumstances had allowed for that scenario, I would have supported it, too,” he admitted as he observed the sanguinary prisoner coolly. “Light Yagami, you are the worst single-handed murderer in human history.”

“...You son of a bitch.”

The crude language made L raise an eyebrow. Light rarely swore, and L knew that the disciplined Soichiro Yagami had raised his son to have a clean mouth. This indicated that L had hit some nerves just hard enough to pierce a barrier, and the wrath was going to explode out.

Sure enough, Light swept forward and grabbed the collar of L's shirt, standing over and snarling down at the detective. “You arrogant son of a bitch! I'm only here because you want a damned trophy! So what am I, your greatest conquest that you feel the need to showcase your victory to both me and yourself?!”

You are my greatest conquest... Calmly, mechanically, L replied. “Correct.”

Saying that, he anticipated that Light would be pushed over the edge and punch him. It was annoying that L had felt the need to be impertinent and insult the younger man for the purpose of angering him (further), but he was also aware that Light was going to continue to sulk about the other evening until he had some manner of revenge. Thus, L allowed the fist to connect with his cheek and knock him backwards with painful force. Even with handcuffs on, the adolescent still punched ferociously.

After carefully avoiding falling on any computer equipment, he sprung up into a crouch and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now are you happy?”

Evidently not, as Light hoisted his knee upward to crash under L's jaw and throw his head back.

L had been more than fair, as far as he was concerned, in allowing Light one hit. He bulleted the palm of his foot forward and snapped it against the youth's stomach, sending him in the opposite direction. “An eye for an eye, my friend.”

“We aren't even,” the youth thundered, recovering himself quickly. “We're nowhere close to being even!”

“I suppose,” L sighed. “You still have many favors to owe me for sparing your life.”

A fist whizzed through the air as Light punched again. L sidestepped, crouching down, and only felt the brunt of the blow against the top of his shoulder.

Brazilian Capoeira was a highly acrobatic martial art, and had always been something that came natural to L. He had honed his abilities, studying the logistics of footwork and weight distribution. L knew his own body, and he knew Light's – darting forward and sweeping a leg through Light's ankles easily caused the youth to drop. Without two free hands to balance himself, Light was helpless when he tumbled to the ground. If someone like Light Yagami could ever be called 'helpless', at least.

The brunette tried to immediately regain himself by standing, but L pounced on him.

“You should stop fighting me, Light-kun,” L said, struggling to pin the resisting youth down to the ground. “It's obvious to both of us that you're at a severe disadvantage with the handcuffs.”

Mocking the teenager while he was down had been something that L had experimented with a number of times in a number of situations and it always yielded the same result: Light would find a way to turn the tables. It might have been better to keep his mouth shut, but remaining silent around the teenager had never been something he was good at. Like a vicious predatory beast, Light sprung up to liberation and punched again. The force of it brought L down to the floor, and rabidly, Light took the pin.

Light grabbed L's throat, wrapping his two hands around it and lifting L's head. “You bastard! Why'd you do it?!”

“Why did I kick you?” L asked uselessly. Seeing the expression on the younger man's face, L leered, lips curving slightly into a smile. “Or, why did I kiss you?”

Silence, only seething silence followed.

“...If you want revenge, Light-kun, then I suppose...” L felt coils of some kind of terrible amusement rippling up inside of him, and he smiled through the darkness with eyes lit up behind shadows of hair. “You will have to kiss me back.”

A jolt of electricity surged through Light's expression, eliminating the vengeful acrimony and widening his eyes to surprise. But a man like Light Yagami was never surprised for very long, and his features narrowed again from the venom of hatred. He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment – an observation only made from meticulous study of the flickering gold in his eyes – and slowly he began to lower his face.

Right then, L questioned not only their sanity, but sanity as a concept – what it meant, what it could possibly mean, during an incomprehensible moment like this. Once again, L was challenging Kira, daring him to continue a game that was, or should have been, already over. Because no one else in the world played it like Light Yagami. To the victor goes the spoils of war.

Light was so close that L could feel his breath, before suddenly he lifted up. Angrily, he shoved back, the crimson tinting his cheeks redolent of the blood-red of murder flooding his eyes.

“What's the matter, Kira?” L prodded softly, alluding to his first challenge to Kira. “Can't you do it?”

“After all of this time I've known you, I-” Light started to say, but he and L both were silenced by Monitor 6, when a familiar word spilled from a crying prisoner's mouth.

“What's that? Say it again,” Roberts demanded on the screen, a note of eagerness bringing his voice to speed. “Goddard told you to look for who among the Interpol hostages?”

Rowley let out a broken sob, distorting his words. “Watari. Someone named Watari!”

"When the strike of the hawk breaks the body of its prey it is because of timing."
-Sun Tzu

In the countryside of Winchester, England, in the patch of birch trees stood a small chapel. The chapel itself existed prior to the orphanage it neighbored, but had been abandoned by the time Wammy's House was built. Whether or not God existed in this church was a matter left for each orphan to decide, but these days it was always in use one way or another by the children.

At least, it had been until recently.

“C'mon, Matt,” a blonde orphan clad in black sweatshirt and jeans pressed. At fifteen years of age, his attitude and style might have suggested that he was a mere teenage punk, however this assessment appeared to clash significantly with the heavy textbooks that he carried. “Walk any slower and you'll be going backwards.”

His younger companion, who was more interested in his handheld gaming console than the path in front of him, grumbled. “I don't get why you can't just study in the library like everyone else, Mello.”

“Because I hate studying with people around,” the first orphan, Mello, declared as he lead the way down the grassy path.

“Then I don't get why you're making me come along.”

“Because you move as much as a rock anyway, playing your damned video games,” the blonde snapped, uttering an ambiguous statement that might have been an insult or a compliment. “Keep up with being a sessile organism and maybe you won't annoy me.”

“Yay.” Matt yawned and glanced up from his game only because he vaguely recalled that there were stairs to get to the door and he didn't want to trip. They had arrived at the chapel, and, unlike usual, there were no swarms of kids playing hide and seek or tag. Noting this with mild interest, Matt ventured a guess. “You just sound like a dumbass when you lie.”

“What the hell would I be lying about?” Mello asked, stopped at the stone steps so that the slower-moving Matt would catch up with him before entering the wooden door.

The darker haired youth dug his eyes back into his game, nearly tripping on a stone step as he followed along impassively. “'Cause you're sc-”

“I am not scared.”

“Dude, you heard those kids weepin' about how they heard a ghost here,” Matt accused with a great act of boredom, whilst looking up again because Mello had a nasty tendency of exploding into violence when he was displeased (which was most of the time, considering his issues with Near and all). “I was in the room when they came screaming and bitching that they heard a voice here.”

“I don't believe in ghosts,” the blonde claimed vehemently, tossing open the wooden doors and stomping inside the old building to prove his point.

“I do,” the other shrugged with indifference. “I'm just not scared of 'em. I know how to kill them.”

“You can't kill a ghost, moron. They're already dead.”

Matt quickened his pace to catch up with the blonde teenager, who was strutting boldly onward. A good argument was sure to slow him down. “Yeah you can. You can, you know, exorcise them. All you need is some white magic, or a cleric. Fuck, you're a Catholic, you should know this shit!”

“White magic?” Mello repeated incredulously, as though he couldn't imagine that his game-obsessed friend would actually utter such a thing. “You loser. Anyway, I don't believe in ghosts, I told you already!”

“There you go lying again, man! I hear you chanting on at night about some Holy Ghost and Jesus and whatever.”

“You're such an idiot. The Holy Ghost is part of the Trinity. It's another name for God, got it?”

“...So God is haunting this church?”

“For chrissake, no, God does not haunt. This ghost isn't God!”

“Then you do believe in the ghost?”

“No! I only meant if, in the hypothetical and highly unlikely situation that there is a stupid ghost scaring the kids, that wouldn't be God.”

“How do you know? Shit, if I were God I'd have loads of fun-”

“Shut the hell up and play your damned game!” Mello snarled, clomping his boots forward down the aisle of pews.

The older orphan was scouting for an ideal place to study, preferably without dust or rat feces or whatever else an abandoned building acquired over the years. Distastefully, Matt thought it might not be a bad idea to bully some of the younger kids into cleaning the place up, but if Roger, the manager of Wammy's House, found out (again), he would throw a fit. If he ignored the stuffy smell, Matt was absolutely fine with obeying the Mello's humble suggestion to game. He focused his attention back down on the screen, following Mello out of the corners of his eyes.

All was going smoothly and when the blonde halted, Matt assumed that he had decided upon a worthy spot to park his ass. When a short shriek of disdain accompanied the stop, Matt snapped his head up and immediately assumed that the ghost was real. When the shriek strung out into a growl, Matt knew that the flash of pale white was none other than the very human (or so it seemed, sometimes) Near.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Mello demanded, trying to look threatening with his arms wrapped around the stack of school textbooks.

Near was the color of the snow. When Matt had came to Wammy's House, he initially thought that the pallid boy was shy, bashful and quiet. However, that perception altered the moment that Near's eyes caught his own. As the youth's hands were toying with a model airplane, his dark eyes were toying with Mello's face. They picked it apart like an old scab, and then Near turned back to his plane, running the wheels along the wood of the pew.

The younger boy didn't answer. His expression showed no indication that he intended to answer, it was bored and uncaring. Perhaps he intended to ignore Mello, or perhaps he planned for this – but a moment later, a girl's voice sounded.

“Yikes!” It was a yelp of surprise, but was shortly followed by, “Oh, false alert! It was just a mouse...”

“Linda's here?” Matt asked with interest, as he currently held no ill feelings toward anyone. The girl was the type to prefer large groups of people, except for the times that she shut herself in her room to draw pictures. She was one of those daydreamers more than anything else. Though, Linda did like to hang around Near, but if they had sneaked off to this church together for a date or something it didn't look like it was going well.

“That's right,” Near affirmed, soaring his plane through the air. “She asked me to come here with her.”

“Then I'm asking you to leave,” Mello griped. “You're the last person I wanna see here.”

That was more or less the truth, Matt supposed, and the boy would probably sooner have Kira hanging in the church than Near. There was no way that Mello would be able to study if his superior rival was close by – the reminder of no matter how hard he tried, Near was better than him and therefore the one in line to become the next L. Matt imagined that it must suck to have defeat constantly rubbed in one's face, which is why he chose the path of apathy – or, as he put it, not giving a shit.

Near smiled with what appeared to be innocent affection. “But I'm glad that Mello is here. Maybe you can help us.”

Linda appeared, running from the far end of the aisle. She stopped and put her hands on her knees, panting, when she met. “Hey Mello, hey Matt! I'm glad you're here!”

“Yo.” The gamer finished saving his file, and as such was more willing to participate in conversation. “So what's up?”

“I was curious, that's all,” Linda said, catching her breath. “Everyone said they heard a ghost last night, so I wanted to check it out. Since Near... wants to be a detective...” Here, she paused, well aware of the rivalry between Near and Mello for the top detective position, and then she cleared her throat and continued at a quicker pace. “I decided to ask him to come peek around with me. Isn't that why you guys are here?”

“Hell no. You think that Calculus book of Mello's is ghost busting equipment?”

“Shut up,” Mello snapped. His mood, if it had been sour before, was a black hurricane now. “Grow up! You don't seriously believe in ghosts, do you?”

Linda quieted unhappily at the harsh tone, and Near looked unaffected as usual. The pale boy frowned slightly, studying an imperfection on his model plane, and then said, “My rationality denies the existence of supernatural beings, however, if evidence suggests to me otherwise I find no use in being stubborn.”

Matt wasn't quite certain that Near meant it as an insult or simply an observation, but Mello was quick to interpret it as the former. “What's that you said?! How about you look at me and say it again?!”

“And what would be the benefit of repeating myself when we're all aware that you both heard and understood my words the first time?” Near's voice had lacked emotion before, but now it was cooling into distaste. But in a moment, he came across completely indifferent again. “You may help Linda with her investigation if you like, or you may study. You won't bother us.”

“You'll be bothering me!” Mello raged. “I get so sick of your smug face, just having you around pisses me off!”

Well, at least he was being honest.

“Instead of thinking about me,” Near countered smoothly, “perhaps you should be more focused on your studies.”

“Ha..” Mello chuckled, the dangerous kind of chuckle that made Matt step backwards and fish in his pockets for a cigarette. Sure enough, Mello lunged forward and grabbed a handful of Near's white cotton shirt and pulled him upward so that their faces were inches apart. “Listen to me, Near. I am going to be the one to succeed him, if it's the last thing I do. And you'll be the one who loses. I promise it.”

Near looked agitated, but in a bored way that suggested his greatest concern was that with Mello grabbing his shirt, his range of arm movement decreased and that made for poor playing with an airplane. The younger boy turned to meet Mello's seething face, and simply said, “then you had better go study.”

The snide remark, if carelessly delivered, struck a nerve with Mello. Mello was always studying, dedicating himself fully to improvement and giving his all into the hope of becoming the next L. No one doubted that Mello was intelligent, and if effort and aspiration defined a good student, Mello was the best at Wammy's House. But Near never studied, he played with his toys and he surpassed.

“It'll be me, you hear?!” the passionate youth shouted, shaking Near with his fist. “I'm going to be L!”

“No,” came a hiss.

All surprised eyes turned to Linda, the girl who had given up at competing for L's title when she was ten. She now stood in an awkward slump, her back arched downward, but her face was up. Her large blue eyes were dulled, staring vacantly at the stain glass windows ahead.

“It is me who is going to be L,” Linda declared in a strained voice, and then fell forward onto the ground. Her eyes were closed and she did not move.

"We are all guilty of everything."
-Herbert Huncke

“Interesting,” Jastin, who had no idea that such a thing was possible (and why would he have bothered trying?), admitted. “But what's the point? Aren't you just going to fade away soon anyway, like you were supposed to in the beginning?”

The creature howled with laughter.

-

-TBC...

1. Thank you to DN author Quillian for sending me a huge list of awesome quotes to use!
2. And, thanks as always, for taking the time to read!