Serria's Fanfiction

Zenith

2008-08-27T15:52:01Z

Title: Zenith
Fandom: Death Note
FF.N Link:http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4501759/1/Zenith
Rating: PG
Characters: L/Light
Genre: Angst
Summary: Perhaps it's the rain, but L thinks oh, now I don't feel so childish anymore. No one has ever been up this high with him before, and together, on raised stakes, they see the sky.

The thing about kids is they laugh and they cry, and they do one or the other interchangeably. It makes no difference. Children aren't kind, the intricate concept of mercy is lost behind their wide-eyed stares. They are a programmed species, stumbling toward perfection with a million years of evolution and what instead they focus on is getting (taking) what they want and surviving. The downfall of others, a weakling beat until he's bleeding and can't stand or underwear stolen and trampled in the mud, now, that's a joke. Now, that's entertainment.

L himself knows this well. The children at the orphanage have evolved to hardened brick or disappeared in trying. You cry at first, but then soon realize that a) no one actually cares, and b)your fortunate position depends on competition, and when you're an orphan that means an uphill battle with natural selection. You cry less. You deny you ever cried and try to forget how to do it again. And you laugh and laugh when the failures of Darwinism fall and scrape their knees, you laugh because you earned that right - that's the one true nature of being the best. That's what evolution is about.

Exceptional marks, national academic recognition and a police chief father, Light Yagami doesn't think he's a child, hasn't been a child since about nine or so when he first babysat Sayu. But he's scared with a gun to his face and now, now he's at the top (just what he wanted) over Ryuuzaki, and he worked hard so that now he can clutch his stomach and cackle until tears are pouring and he can't breathe.

Twenty-five years old, L is seven years Light's senior, and perhaps it's the rain but he thinks oh, now I don't feel so childish anymore. This is what it feels like, this is how it works, and now he's crossed a burned bridge that's crumbled behind him and he couldn't return if he wanted to. It's not conducive anymore to over-think, worrying never affects the end result and merely clouds your judgment, but only an adult knows that humans are sickeningly mortal. It's the moment of justice (of truth) with two lives on the line. If L's arrangements with the ICPO prove fruitful, Light's execution is near, but if whatever Light hides his smile about is more grand then that's it for L. That's what losing will feel like.

Strange, but evidently, such a thing can occur.

Even L doesn't know himself anymore, and he doesn't know why he pretends to hear wedding bells when he has Light all alone in the cold roof (the cameras out here will be impeded by the weather anyway). Weddings are such a grown-up thing, in fact, they are a useless, mundane thing that has no merit to L unless it relates directly to another case and criminal profiling. He thinks, perhaps, that Light is his perfect match. Light strives to win and he has the ability to back up his ambition - something rare and something precious. They toddle together like acrobats on the stakes they raised and they know somebody's going to fall - but no one has ever been up this high with L Lawliet before, and together, on raised stakes, together they see the sky.

(vast atmospheres filled with nitrogen, oxygen and other gaseous matter essential for supporting human life - beautiful, why has it been so long since he noticed it? Is it because never before was Light here, in the zenith, to provide lumination required by the human eye to perceive the brilliance of color?)

But it's silly and you can't marry children, anyway. Light will laugh, if he can, and dance upon L's grave as he murders everyone who tries to mess up the child's game of righteousness that he himself conceived. You can't marry children. Light won't be dressed in white and kissed upon the lips at the nuptial vows, Light won't be carried away with a wedding band instead of handcuffs to be claimed as L's own, to have and to hold, until death do them part.

The last part, L supposes, is actually true.

"I hear bells. Is it a wedding..? Or maybe..."

"What?" Light, he won't pretend - this kind of pretend is only for grownups and he's too close to winning (too close to being lost forever), he can't afford to falter. He knows survival of the fittest, but he's only eighteen and he wants to be a god. An immortal child soaring to the zenith. "I don't hear anything."

Or maybe a funeral, L thinks as he brings Light inside and dries his feet as the water drip, drip, drips. Light is uncertain now, but he'll doubtlessly be laughing soon enough. A wedding, a funeral, children don't need to comprehend either to get what they want or to survive until tomorrow.

-fin

Author's Notes: I wanted to write something short because I tend to be kinda, uh, wordy, and so I wrote this in less than an hour and am pleased to announce that it's under 1,000 words! Does that make this a drabble?

Desideratum

2008-07-26T18:21:11Z

Title: Desideratum, Chapter 14: English Minuet
Fandom: Death Note
FF.N Link: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3538084/13/Desideratum
Rating: M - sexuality, language, adult situations
Summary: Because L's real name means nothing to him, Rem was unable to kill him at the climax of Light's plot. Through the pressure of circumstances, the two geniuses leave on a journey of self-discovery. Truth and victory are rendered bitter when an escape from each other becomes each other. Yaoi
Previous Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8-1 8-2 9 10 11 12

ENGLISH MINUET

“Hah...”

L had never been the sort of man to put much judgment in physical appearance, unless such an endeavor was relevant to the process of formating a criminal profile. Yet despite the fact that Light Yagami was the perfect criminal, L himself could not help but look and completely comprehend how Light was handsome and confident in a way that surely only a cold blooded killer could be. The white button-down dress shirts that the young man was accustomed to donning had a way of giving Light an outer air of intelligence, grace and more than anything (or perhaps because of everything), power. When he had the choice, Light dressed so pressed and ironed, with the collar folded and shirt straightened and head held high to make him a vision of adolescent flawlessness. Even when the shirt was untucked, loose and casual, there was nothing unprepared about the cool composure of his face, the acknowledgment of himself that made him already border on divinity.

Perfection was the precursor to the most brutal of sins. Perfection, like power, corrupted absolutely and such was the force that made the gods indiscernible from tyrants, and such was the force that made a boy's head easily sway by terrible dreams of blood baths and revolutions. Dreams of idealism were what twisted a child's face into a smirk in the face of sorrow, and fired the brilliant glint of crimson in his tawny eyes.

As for L, he knew that he was terrible too. Because when he tore at the buttons of that white dress shirt, sending a pearly piece of plastic flying across the room from a broken thread, what he was thinking about was stripping Light Yagami of his wings and leaving him grounded forever with the rest of the humans who knew they were doomed to Earth for eternity. The humans who were only humans and wise enough – dead enough – to accept their own existences as irrelevant in a merciless universe. When the shirt was finally untangled from Light's arms, L threw it in a messy heap on the floor – to let it be forgotten until the morning.

Light was sprawled before him on the mattress, his arms laying carelessly on the pillows. He tilted his chin upward and gave the impression of looking down at L, even though L was the one standing up. He smiled, unconcerned, and hardly bothered moving as L next hastily unwound his belt and worked the zipper of his khaki pants. Like even L himself was now Light's servant, doing his bidding as the god rested against a bed of white silk.

But L didn't care what was going through Light's head for the moment. He knew what he wanted, and he knew that he could, he would have it.

“You know, I know you lied to me about the train tickets to Winchester being available at earliest tomorrow,” Light's tenor voice rumbled. “You've found convenient distractions ever since we left Tokyo.”

L's fingers curled around the elastic band of Light's white boxers, and he paused to peer again at this youth from under the wild dark bangs that half-clouded his vision. As Light lay on the pale blankets of the London hotel bed, calmly, rich brown hair spilling in a halo around his head against the sheets, L thought if a god existed, such a thing must be him at these moments. After all, L was – had been – certain that gods were the elaborate inventions of humanity, to provide the much yearned answers to a desolate existence; had been until he saw a haunting, looming God of Death for himself. Perhaps both perceptions suited Light in his vast perfected self. If gods were man-made spectacles who harnessed the hopes of millions through promises of judgment upon the wicked, such a thing was Kira. If gods were confused, cruel creatures who saw little value in the human life and could kill without a second thought from a place far away, such a thing was Light.

But such perceptions remained subjective, remained in the angle that one chose to look upon the being on the pedestal. Crush the pedestal, clip the feathers from the wings of angels and underneath all the splendor, the show of brilliance and goodness there is always a human. An actor, even an actor who believes his own script and rehearsed lines. And when you have a human, you have someone you can conquer and someone who you can actually have faith in – that is, have faith in the fact that they are fallible and they can die. Because what else was certainly real, and certainly something that Lawliet could comprehend?

Here, he had Light Yagami.

Resentment made L smirk, pulling the undergarments down and exposing Light for a human. He leaned forward, casting shadows against Light's body and lowering his chin until it cradled on his torso, at eye level with him. He murmured, “Or perhaps we tarried too long at the duck pond for all our sins?”

The younger man raised himself on his elbows, if only so that he was a head higher than L. “There's something that you're afraid of in Winchester. Why don't you tell me?”

Instead of an answer, L's tongue slipped out of his mouth, lapping silently against Light's slim stomach. He tasted and smelt of soap – anticipating the sex, Light had taken a shower beforehand and would take a shower again after. Like the others, this was a five star hotel, the best of the best that was available on such short notice, and the soap had a rose fragrance that made images of English countryside gardens float through L's mind. And Light (always Light), Light walking through the gardens with his white shirt and a hand extended to the world's victims, like a god in Earth for a temple.

Clip the wings of the angels and what's left is...

“Hhhn!” The hiss exhaled through Light's gritted teeth as L bit down on his thigh. It was controlled in his jaw, not tight enough to draw blood but held with the grip of a wolf. Light grabbed L's hair immediately, winding his fingers into his scalp and pulling. When L hand slid down Light's stomach, tracing against his pelvis bone and then latching on to his testicles, Light's grip lessened slightly. In turn, L unclenched his jaw, licking where there were now deep teeth imprints. With his hand he began to massage the area, roughly, but with precision that made Light inhale. It was almost like an experiment, and certainly a learning opportunity like any other. L was learning what made Light gasp, what made beads of sweat trickle down his brow, and such a sight was something he valued the moment he said those supposedly self-identifying words to him: I am L...

With his free hand, he untwisted the lid of the small complimentary lotion bottle that he had found on the nightstand. Carefully, he managed to squeeze some of the cream onto his fingertips, and as he brought the hand to Light's bottom, he also moved his mouth to the bottom of Light's shaft. Softly, he pressed his lips against it, almost like a kiss, and lingered there more to make Light go mad with anticipation than to take things slowly. Finally, he widened his lips and began sucking, still massaging with the other hand, and making Light pull against his hair in an effort to bring him closer. When he hardened, L allowed his lotion-bearing finger to gently intrude into him, massaging the entrance well before adding another.

L tightened his hand around Light and raised his face to look at him. Light's eyes were tightly closed and he was gripping the bedsheets. His cheeks were lightly flushed. At the pause, he opened an eye and somehow managed to smirk. “Of all the cruel things...”

“There are crueler things, Light-kun. I was only making sure that you were all right...” L leaned upward against Light's stomach, kissing and sucking against his chest. He curled the two fingers inside of Light, and after an adjustment he hit the place that he wanted to hit and not even Light could keep completely silent. To intensify the feeling, he moved his hand on Light's groin more quickly. The sigh that Light made then was something content, like a cat stretching in the sun, and with his eyes closed again L thought he'd never seen Light so seraphic.

But I will pull you out of the sky...

“I want you to say my name, Light-kun,” L said after pushing in another finger, causing Light's eyelids to flutter open and reveal the glazed brown, like cream swirling in English tea. “When that feeling overwhelms you, you will say my name. ...Do you understand?”

...so you can be with me.

Of course Light heard every word, he was not a man to let any detail go unnoticed, especially not in concerns to his pursuer. But he shifted, lifting his shoulders, and mumbling purposefully to change the topic, “I should turn over. Won't it be easier that way?”

“Did it hurt last time?”

“A bit...” Yet Light's tone was far from convincing, ringing with the unsteadiness of ecstasy from the pleasure as L's hands brought him closer to orgasm.

“It'll be easier like this.” L abruptly pulled out his fingers from Light's bottom and used the hand to direct Light's legs around his back. He hoisted them high around his shoulders so that Light's lithe body was half suspended in the air. Light caught on quickly and crossed his ankles, his knees bent around L's shoulders and L raised Light's hips under the weight of them. As Light adjusted, L rubbed a handful of lotion into his own member, touching it and grimacing against his own throbbing arousal. “Ah... it's just that...”

Light's head was turned to the side against the pillow, tousled hair beginning to stick to his cheeks and forehead. As L put both hands on his hips to adjust for the penetration, Light's now-wide eyes rolled upward to L.

“...I want to see your face.”

Before any kind of response could be uttered from the adolescent's half-parted lips, L began to push inside. Light's irises wildly flickered from L's hips to L's face to the ceiling and back again, and a grimace found its way on his face. It was an expression that was hard to read, though doubtfully any more than the shock of adjusting to L's girth advancing inside of him. If it meant more, L was beyond caring. The burning tightness wrapped around him, as dangerous and wonderful as Eve's forbidden fruit. He flushed, exhaling in a ragged breath as the tight entrance pressed against the pulsing length. Everything around him seemed to go dark, forgotten, and there was only Light – Kira, absorbing all the color and light that the rest of the room had forsaken.

It was all he could do to pause to allow Light a few precious seconds to accommodate. Light's breath came out short, scattered hisses between gritted teeth and he was still curling his fingers tightly into the sheets, making every effort to keep from crying out. L went further in, which caused Light to throw his head back on the pillow, neck arched, and a muffled keen escaping him. Yet, when L dared to hesitate, if more to soak up the frantic expression on the other's face than for sympathy, the younger man snarled a go! Keep going!

L thrust hard, losing any kind of restraint that he might have previously had. Nothing else mattered except connecting to this person in the ultimate intimacy, pouring in all of his frustrations and desires into a single point that enveloped the tattered remnants of logic. He leaned forward, landing against the mattress on his knees and bending Light's lower half further forward until his knees were close to his shoulders. Here, the aroma of salt filled L's nostrils and he could see the moisture of desperation dribbling down the other's brow and catching in his eyelashes. The heat was almost too much to bear, but there was no turning back now – he thrust again.

His hips thrashed against Light. At first, the overwhelming sensation from the slick, narrow passage made his movements erratic, untamed. Light moaned, sending a jolting shiver down L's back, but he would have been a fool to take the noise as a submission. Light wrapped his legs even more tightly around L's torso and pulled him forward, forward and in further than ever before. White lights flashed in L's eyes, but he wasn't finished yet. With Light's legs entwining their two bodies together, L continued with a mutually established rhythm, in a cycle that Light reciprocated with his own time.

It was difficult to conceive, when the were both wet with sweat and hot with lust, that they were looking at Death with their half-lidded eyes.

Or that the watch on Light's wrist was still ticking.

(tick, tick, tick...)

With a sudden snapping jerk of his pelvis, L hit into Light and found a place that made the youth's face surge with electricity and cry out. Dazed but encouraged, L burrowed his fingers into Light's hips, cupping around his bottom to maintain the angle. Light's upper teeth were gnashing into his lower lip in a futile effort to stifle his cries, causing them to come out in a harsh uh, ahh, uhnn. L could feel the breath against his cheeks, and the sound put a rush of lust aching throughout his body. He tightened his grip, trembling now with the insatiable longing to both satisfy himself and rip cries from his doomed seraph.

“Ryuu-...” Light began to choke out. “Ah, L...”

At the peek of his hardness, a tremendous shudder coursed through L's spine. He spasmed and his vision went blurry. Everything was like a bed of clouds except Light. Light the harbinger, the criminal, the boy who thought he could take wing and claim the sky when their business was complete. Could he? Could he make the world his, if L had let him go unhindered? The question was a paradox, so thoroughly flawed in itself, so ironically mistaken because he would never – could never – let Light go. Just as Light had been unable to let him go. Too badly they needed to destroy one another, too desperately and, in the tightness that connected him to his doom, he wondered if he wanted Winchester to end their journey. The thought made L convulse again, convulse and shake until he couldn't hold on any longer.

L spilled himself into Light, a stream of hot semen. He gasped as he came, and his muscles seemed to go completely numb. Releasing his fingers, he went to take Light's member into his hands despite feeling light-headed, but the efforts were almost pointless. Light bucked his hips into the air and cried out.

“Lawliet!”

The word overcame him.

It overcame him and with a shock in his chest he fell forward into the sticky ejaculation pooled on Light's stomach. Simultaneously his head was heavy and empty, he couldn't lift it from Light's panting chest. For a moment, he felt as thought he couldn't breathe.

And then the moment was more than just a moment.

Burning, burning. The world was spinning in a blur of color.

“Lawliet?” Light whispered then, slowly folding his arms around L and tightening them into an embrace. “..Are you...?”

But before Light could choose the end of his sentence, L recovered and pressed forward with his elbows and tangled his fingers into Light's hair. He caught his mouth and poured kisses upon his lips, sucking and searing and needing until all energy was gone and they could only lay there, silent but alive, and forgetting themselves in the pounding of their heartbeats.

It was colder today, with a new splash of white snow glittering in the afternoon sun, but Misa felt as though she were the only one who noticed. In the Harvard area, the streets were filled with young students – scholars who wanted to read their books and lead their protests, so threw on knit scarves and hats and went on with their lives. The young model shivered, blowing out a breeze of pale breath in a sigh, and made her way through the crowds while trying to keep her balance on the iced sidewalks. Behind her, Ryuk lazily drifted along through the air with his tattered black wings outspread, casting invisible shadows against the bright sky.

They had agreed to meet at a coffee shop. Starbucks, Misa read carefully in English letters before she entered, while thanking the gods that she could at least read the foreign alphabet, if not much more than that. After stepping inside to a sudden change in atmosphere, she stomped her feet on a black mat until her designer boots were free of snow and unwound her scarf from covering her nose. It'd be awhile before she was warm, but at least there was hot coffee waiting. Someday later – soon, she told herself – she could laugh with Light about how she endured the weather in America.

For now, though, she had to focus on the mission at hand, and so she scanned the faces and the red-lettered names above the heads of everyone in the small shop. When she saw who she was looking for, she turned the other way and headed toward the counter. The clerk smiled and said something she didn't understand, and Misa pointed to what looked like a picture of a large sized latte. The total price showed up in green numbers on the till, and Misa fished out the appropriate number of bills and coins out of her purse. She tapped her foot as she waited for the clerk to finish making her drink, and she knew that he was watching her.

“Hally-san.”

“Teru,” Misa responded informally without bothering with honorifics, slipping across from him at the table. He had visibly scooted over to accommodate her if she had chosen to sit at the same side as he, but Misa would have none of that. Even if neither Light nor Teru Mikami would ever know the full truth, she ached for her beloved Kira, and could only tribute her longing with determined chastity. She crossed her legs at the thighs and folded her arms.

Despite his obvious respect for etiquette, Mikami didn't seem offended by so suddenly being on a casual first name basis with her. His face lit up just to see her, though, Misa could recognize that the look of adoration was not for her, but for Kira himself, and Misa was only the intermediary. To her, it was easily recognizable, because it was identical to her own face after Kira had punished her family's murderer. “Are you well?”

Misa wished she could answer honestly, and heave a sigh and complain that she didn't know more than three words in English, and she couldn't understand these American customs, it was too cold, and above all she missed Light so terribly that it hurt. But complaining was not only inappropriate, it was cheap. She was serving a great purpose for Kira. What more could she want? “You're doing well, Teru,” she said instead. “Kira is pleased.”

“He... what did he say?” Teru's fingers curled tightly into his styrofoam coffee cup, nails making indents but mercifully not quite piercing it. His eyes darted around the bustling shop, and he leaned forward and spoke in soft, hasty Japanese. “Is God satisfied? Does he have new instructions?”

“Only to continue.”

After they had finished their coffee, she smiled and waved when they parted ways, playing her part as an actress in Light's grand production. Teru Mikami smiled back, beaming, and seemed to have no idea that God was sending his child to be crucified. Or maybe, somewhere deep inside, Teru knew, but it was a purpose he gladly served.

Expendable.

An expendable tool who offered his body, heart and soul to the god he believed in, knowing full well that he might never get them back.

Misa thought, as she arrived back in her hotel room and hooked up the voice scrambler and prepared an audio tape to send to the police, that she really wasn't much different. The only difference was that Teru Mikami thought Kira was indestructible. But Misa prayed to every god she could think of – even to Kira – that Light would forever be safe, because deep inside, she knew that her savior was just a boy. But somewhere less deep inside, she told herself she had nothing to worry about.

“Hyuk, hyuk,” Ryuk rumbled. “Things are really going to get exciting now.”

It wasn't L shifting and leaving the bed that woke up Light in the morning. It wasn't the soft noises L made as he took a shower and put on a pair of pants. It wasn't even when L knelt beside him on the mattress, leaning down to him with one hand against his cheek and nipping light kisses against his neck. This, Light could endure with a sleepy groan, and he could curl into L's naked waist and accept the comforting warmth of another human body. When L said his name gently, his full name, he burrowed his face into his pillow and restfully zoned him out. Fingertips brushed down his spine, trying to pull down the blankets, but Light yanked them back up again and was ready to drift back into heavy sleep for another hour at least.

What woke him up was the television, quietly buzzing across from him.

“-American president David Hoope has stated officially last night that they have taken Kira into custody, but has not released any name nor further details. The International Police Criminal Organization, the ICPO, has also issued a public statement that they will ensure this matter is looked into internationally and with cooperation from representatives worldwide. Again, no details-”

Light froze up at the news with a sudden awakening, a hot thrill rushing through his body and tensing every muscle he had. Beyond all luck, Misa had actually succeeded in his instructions of scouting out a new Kira who existed solely to be a scapegoat. With a fake Death Note and pages filled with his handwriting, no more evidence would be needed to arrest him after Misa tipped off the police as to his identity. The X-Kira would be interrogated, initially as to his role as Kira. The man may or may not deny it, and he may claim that he had only been using the notebook for a few days, which was true, but the United States probably wouldn't let him so easily off the hook. When interrogation got harsh, X-Kira might be inclined to mention Misa's false name and describe her features to plea bargain, but Misa would kill him within a few days with her own Death Note. Without L working the case, focus from Japan would relocate to America.

It just could be enough to distract Interpol and the task force from the fact that the thirteen day rule no longer assured the innocence of Light Yagami. It would certainly be enough to ensure that, thirteen day rule failure or not, his father and the other Japanese police would reject any doubts they had previously had about Light being Kira. They knew Light himself wasn't killing now, and Light had L himself as a witness to that. When L found his name, he would drop dead of a heart attack – Light was relying on Ryuk's speculations to him on that day that felt so long ago now. L's 'real name' was in the Death Note, and though Light didn't like that he was in a vulnerable position by working so directly with L, he supposed L of all people deserved all of the effort he was putting in. After L was out of the way, Light would sobbingly call his father and tell him what happened, and his dad would quickly have him sent home to Tokyo. Light could even tell the task force why L was dead, certainly not any fault of Light's, and they would bury their grief and proceed to work with Interpol in American investigation as Misa continued to make false notebooks and recruit new Kiras.

America would be dealt with when Misa killed President Hoope. Misa would send a video to the White House and give her regrets, but state firmly that America must no longer hunt Kira. Once America was tossed off the board, the rest would crumble. Interpol would be more difficult to subdue because of the strict confidentiality anti-Kira measures they had taken, but if their supporting countries gave in to the reign of Kira they had no reason (nor funds) to continue.

From there, it would be a never-ending process. They would continue to capture Kiras, who soon after being taken into custody, would die. Kira would reign so long as Light could control the Japanese task force and steer clear of suspicion against Misa. As for suspicion against him... well, who could accuse him when criminals were being punished while he was living at home again under the supervision of his father?

L's kisses trailed downward against his neck, hitting him in a crook that made Light squirm. It tickled, but rather than admit it, he pushed L's face away with his shoulder and sat up, nestling himself in L's arms to keep the man satisfied.

“Kira's caught?” Light asked, putting sleepiness into his voice and resting his head against L's chest as though he were too tired to care. “That can't be...”

The detective pressed a palm into Light's cheek to hold him against him, fingers winding loosely into his hair. “America says it is so,” L replied softly. “That doesn't mean it's true.”

“But you know,” he insisted, breaking his eyes away from the television and craning his head upward to peer at L, whose head rested against the headboard. Light allowed himself to sound more and more awake with every second as to illustrate a sense of excitement. It almost seemed useless now, but he had to act the part of the unfairly accused who wanted nothing more than have his name cleared. “Lawliet! Could Kira really be caught? Is it the real Kira?”

“Shh, Light-kun,” L hushed, adjusting his knees so that they stood upright on either side of Light's body, and Light was laid against him. An arm wrapped around Light's chest, laxly bent at the elbow and fingers lightly pressing around his ribs. “It's difficult to know what the real Kira is planning, but he's made an interesting move.”

“You aren't even considering that it might be Kira...”

“I believe that the person who was captured will be dead soon, or else will lose all of his memories of the Death Note.” L paused, listening to the television repeating itself with breaking news. “And that the real Kira means to fool us all.”

It didn't matter at this point what L thought, so long as he kept his apathetic behavior consistent, but Light exhaled. “So this is all completely meaningless.”

“It's not useless. It's a move that could either help Interpol trace the real Kira, or could help Kira terminate his opposition. But in the end...” The voice trailed off, and there was a soft thud as L shifted his head back into the wooden headboard behind him. He hesitated with a moment of unfinished silence, until finally he said, “In the end, everything is meaningless.”

But as he spoke, his arms winded tightly around Light, and when he was quiet again they didn't loosen. Light's breath caught, and for a few minutes he allowed L to hold him in silence. L was unhappy. Light could feel it as easily in his murmurs as in the slow rise and fall of his chest and the passive beating of his heart inside.

Light was inclined to agree. Yes, there were many things that were meaningless, and many things that should not be lingered upon.

Yet...

Decisively, he turned over, sitting on his knees and resting his stomach against L's. He leaned forward to set one hand upon L's shoulder and the other in the curve between his cheek and his neck, tangling a bit in his soft hair that looked like midnight even as the morning light sprinkled in through the window.

"It'll be okay," he lied gently for reasons he didn't think about, and tenderly brushed his lips against L's own.

“What do you think of that?” Diane Wittlinger asked while flaunting a wide smirk after. Though the live broadcast of American President Hoope had aired hours ago announcing Kira's capture in America, the offices had been busy with reports, files and other classified information coming in from America. Akiyama Takahashi looked pale, much to Diane's delight, and she leaned over his desk with a palm planted on the wood. “Our American agents have already confirmed the man's identity as a Teru Mikami. In no way related to Soichiro's boy.”

Akiyama didn't answer. He didn't even look in her direction. He stared at his computer screen, but his eyes were too dark. He was trying to work something out in his head, trying to account for a thousand unknown details, and Diane knew full well at least some of the problems he was facing.

“You might not be head of investigation anymore,” she threw out, knowing it would agitate him to hear. “America will want to take over.”

“Teru Mikami is from Japan.” The words were slow, and controlled, but not quite certain.

There was another way to go with this one – destroy the theory that he had staked his position on. “Exactly. Kira is from Japan, just like L said about the original Kira.”

Then the Japanese representative turned, fire in his eyes and spitting out his words like venom. “No, you idiot! Don't you think I read the dossiers?! Teru was studying in America at the time of Kurou Otoharada's death! If you had listened to a damn thing L said, you would know that Otoharada's death was only reported in Japan, and Kira responded to a live broadcast aired only in the Kantou region. Mikami's not Kira. He's just a fuckin' lackey.”

Diane hissed, her long nails digging into her palms as she clenched her fists. “What do you want me to do then? Tell Hoope to piss himself and keep his fake Kira? How do you think the public will respond when we tell them that this isn't Kira after all, when everyone's celebrating? Morale and government confidence hasn't been this high since the name 'Kira' crept into our dictionaries!”

“I don't care what Hoope does or what anyone thinks. But what you'll do is tell him to piss himself and then bring his fake Kira to me. I myself will find out exactly what's going on, and how this relates to Light Yagami.”

“Go ahead and find out how it relates to Light Yagami!” she snarled. “Because I'm telling you, your superiors and very, very curious why you're wasting time and money chasing after some teenage brat when the United States has a genuine murder notebook in their possession. Now you want to tell the President to let you have Mikami? Who in God's name do you think gave you that authority?”

Akiyama stared at her sharply, before straightening his tie and standing up. “L will,” he said, and then was gone.

With large white snowflakes dancing lazily down from the clouds, the streets of London were chilly. More than that, however, they was messy. The weather was just warm enough to wet the snow, and the result was a sloppy mess of mud on the ground. L amused himself as they walked toward the station by watching Light try to step around the puddles, and even after his shoes were brown and soaked, he still stubbornly tried to reduce the further damage. The urge to accidentally kick the adolescent and send him splashing into the sidewalk was tempting, albeit childish, but L had never claimed to be particularly mature.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Light demanded as he sidestepped around some slush that L had marched carelessly through.

“What do you mean?” L asked innocently, and then pointed out, “This is how I always look at you.”

“No. That's the look you gave Misa the first time you met her. Right before you had her apprehended. So naturally you're making me uncomfortable.”

L outwardly scoffed and inwardly chuckled, and Light smiled too. Light's smile was sly, with the twist of his lips and the furrowing of an eyebrow that L had come to learn spoke as well as in words that this was Light being playful. It had been a strange revelation at first, and a part of Light that had taken time and companionship for L to learn. Light – Kira – was competitive, this much and been obvious from the moment Lind L. Taylor had clutched his chest and died. Yet, Light generally acted overly serious, and his normal smiles were often controlled and placed, fooling everyone except for the world's greatest detective. Seeing his true faces was like being told a secret.

Uncanny, perhaps, but L desired to dwell in it. After all, the journey would be over soon.

Both L and Light knew that.

“Wait, Law– ..where are you going?” Light asked behind him as L suddenly turned into a shop along the sidewalk. L opened the door with the chime of a welcome bell, entering a breeze of warm air and a crackling of merry Christmas music on the radio as behind him Light read the sign. “The Cake Shop? Agh... of course such a name can't keep you away. Lawliet, can't we just eat at the London Waterloo?”

“Why wait?” L asked as he trod forward to the glass display case, leaving a trail of mucky water in his footsteps. The shop must have been new, as L had never heard of such a place, but the menu looked promising. Prices were definitely overmarked but that wasn't exactly a troublesome issue for him. The young clerk gave a glare and trot over with a customary greeting, and L made his decision. “Strawberry shortcake and coffee for me. What do you want, Light?”

“Nothing,” Light growled, crossing his arms. And then, “Tea.”

Service was pointedly slow, but within a few minutes they had made their way to a small chestnut table by the window. Light was still scowling, tapping his fingernails against the ceramic teacup as he waited for it to cool down (for such an adolescent was far too dignified to blow on it). Unbothered, L dropped a handful of sugar cubes in his coffee, not looking away from Light's face as they plopped in one by one. Light pretended to ignore L's attention, but with each second he grew more irritated.

“What?! Eat your cake and let's go.”

“Light-kun,” L said gently, holding up a forkful of cake. “You hurt me. I've been enjoying our adventure together, but it's almost as though you wish for it to come to its end.”

The adolescent darkened, slumping over on the table with his chin in his hand. He glowered for a moment, then said more carefully, “It's not that, Lawliet. But we both know that now isn't the time to be enjoying ourselves. I swore to solve the Kira case, and with every day, every detour, more lives are lost to Kira.”

“Yes, it's true,” he agreed, sucking on his fork until the cream was thoroughly free from the prongs. “But it will all be over... soon. And after that...”

“After that we'll go back to Tokyo and have Kira's head.”

“That's right...” L turned to his backpack, on the floor by his chair, and fumbled with the zipper. He retrieved his laptop, which he immediately opened and booted up. “I had realized that I should alert the headmaster that I will be visiting, otherwise he will have a heart attack of shock. That's why I stopped, for a moment to write him an e-mail.”

“And then we'll be going to the place you were raised?”

“After I left the orphanage in France, yes. Watari brought me.” Light was frowning, and L smiled. “Relax, Light-kun. It won't take long. All I've wanted to do is to confirm my original birth certificate, which is in the vaults of the institution. I am sorry that it has taken so long. I admit that efficiency has not been my priority, and perhaps it would have been wise to leave you with your father and allow you to continue the investigation, but..”

Light lowered his gaze to his reflection in the tea. If he had stayed, probability was high that he would have been arrested by Interpol when the thirteen day rule had been tested and proven false. If not by Interpol, then the Japanese task force would be forced to admit that Light might not only be guilty, but that the circumstances of his innocence were highly suspicious and convenient. Light needed to rely on L, at the moment, to safeguard him. It was an ironic and delicate situation for him, and Light was undoubtedly formulating his own counter-plans but as it was, L could keep Light with him at the moment.

“But it would've been lonely without you,” L finished instead.

The words earned a look of surprise from Light, quickly covered by darting his eyes in the direction of the window and focusing them on the passing traffic.

L watched him a moment more before turning back to his laptop, typing in a group of nonsensical numeral plus digit passwords. Whatever happened, L could claim these moments as his own. The inevitable fate they they would face – whatever course that fate took, perhaps without even much influence by the actions that they took now – would come. L wasn't so delusional to reckon that he could stop the ticking of time. He was only certain, at that moment, that he could at least hold the watch hands back for a brief pause from their endless travels around in immortal circles.

And why not? Surely it was no task that a normal human could complete. But no one argued that L was human, not anymore.

No one except Light.

To think that the criminal he had spent a year pursuing was now his partner in confidence, in travel, and even in lust was ludicrous, at least, it should have been. But the truth was that L felt... old now, aged further than his twenty-five years and after the day that Light's Shinigami killed his dear Quillsh Wammy and tried, unsuccessfully, to slay him with a name he didn't have, he wondered if he could ever be surprised again. Everything seemed natural because he was only half awake, and he was also half sleeping. In a way, it all remained a dream, a dream that kept him chained in the opaque. Kept him chained to Light with no desire yet to discard him, but with all reason telling him that he had crossed the line if now he was purposefully trying to withdraw from the world that needed him back into the shadows just to drag Light with him. Just to have Light with him.

Because destroying Light himself would give him faith again in reality by destroying his faith in dreams. When Light was gone, when Kira was gone, everything that had been the ruin of L would dissipate. Light, with his gods of death, his murder notebooks and his names to stamp on faces, and his justice, would be a memory that L would take pains to never access again. What was lost couldn't be regained, but the new would be grown. L would, could endure.

The problem was that... was that... salvation might have been miscalculated. If salvation was actually in Kira – in Light – then L was doomed right beside him. If Light brought such a thing as fate in his procession of the unbelievable, then L could accept orders like a machine processing coding and compute, however, as far as L could deduce there was an underlying conundrum: and that was a choice.

I need your authorization to extend my authority and move my investigation forward with all the resources that I will require. I know that Kira is Light Yagami, the son of Soichiro Yagami who you previously incarcerated under suspicion. I also know that you know that Light Yagami is Kira, and I hope we can work together to put an end to this chaos once and for all.

-Akiyama Takahashi

But the choice had already been made. There was not even a thought to freedom.

The e-mail illuminated at him in crisp English, the death warrant whose oblivious victim was only a meter away. In almost a morbid fascination, L stared with mouth agape again at Light, with his elbow curled at the table and his eyes watching a choir of Christmas carolers make their way down the sidewalk through the window. So close, his laptop with the etched words might as well have been a gravestone. Fate, for Light, had come with the Death Note.

L had tried to ignore it, but ignorance was a luxury that would always be denied to him. The world was vast, and L could go to Russia, to France, to China, Canada, New Zealand, wherever – but wherever he went, he would never escape. He was connected to Interpol, to the governments, to the politicians and the police, to himself. To L. L, at the head of the rest, would always want, need to solve the challenge that had been placed before him. That was what the world was, and who L was.

He had known – should have known – since Quillsh Wammy first told him the truth about what he was to become. A detective of this caliber can no longer be a human, because humans have weaknesses that make them fallible. Infallibility is a mechanical approach, so L must be a machine. A robot with the most technologically advanced of artificial intelligences, a thing of steel and wires who doesn't need to waste time for sleeping or for trusting people. Or waste time with the nonsense of self-identity.

Wherever he went, he was a system who had to abide by the golden rule of all systems, and that was to continue to follow the systematic path.

The truth was that Light Yagami was unquestionably the merciless serial killer Kira, and he unquestionably knew it. L could have had him arrested the moment he set eyes on the adolescent and knew, but he had been seduced by the desire to work out the puzzle and put the pieces together himself. He wanted to conquer Kira on his own terms, and wanted to conquer Light Yagami on his own terms, too. By his folly he had been paying the price ever since, when he should have died along with the only man in the world who he could trust. Even if his body remained breathing, something had died that day.

Something had changed that day.

What was left was to either move forward and compromise Wammy's House to the face of Interpol and of Kira, or to stop now and realize that what he had been trying t accomplish was never going to be solved with a simple algorithm... and to accept that he had known this all along.

“Are you done yet?” Light asked, raising his head and looking expectantly at L. “...What's wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” L answered softly. “It's just as it should be.”

Light frowned, sensing something unspoken. “Then... shall we go?”

L looked away from Light to the sky beyond the glass, where a mountain of clouds soared forth to block the sun with promises of a snowstorm soon. “I just realized something. I never wanted to go to Winchester at all."

Clip the wings of an angel, and what's left is...

A Paradise that is lost to us forever.

-To Be Continued...

Author's Notes:

1. That's probably the longest sex scene I've ever written. lol

2. This story is finally nearing completion. I need to stop being so damn lazy and just finish it. Some parts, particularly earlier parts, are still irritating me... but well, I'm excited to be able to say that I've written to completion something besides a one-shot.

Thanks for reading and all of the support! -Serria

Between the Black and White

2008-07-09T19:56:28Z

Title: Between the Black and White, Chapter 10: Kings and Pawns
FF.N Link: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3634072/10/
Fandom: Death Note
Rating: M
Summary: When L captures Light, he finds himself unwilling to relinquish his kindred spirit to the police, and instead has other plans to make Kira atone for his crimes. But the saga of Shinigami, genius intellect and old memories - BB - has only just begun.
Previous Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

KINGS AND PAWNS

“The most profound things are inexpressible.”
-Jenny Holzer

“What's with the expression?” Light demanded with a leer at L. “Do you really think Beyond Birthday's come back to haunt you?”

L tightened his toes, digging them into the floorboards with so much force that they turned white. “Should I reach that conclusion? I've been made to believe in murder notebooks and gods of death, so should I not believe in ghosts as well...?”

It was distasteful, adversaries or not, but Light laughed out loud. His total lack of concern was astounding, especially considering that it was he himself who had been dabbling in the supernatural more than anyone else, and somehow he had found the nerve to mock the notion of ghosts. The gleam in his amber eyes could have been interpreted in a thousand ways, but ultimately L supposed that Light simply found no reason to be alarmed no matter what the explanation for the wara ningyo came to be. They were directed at L, not at him, and without L...

“If anything should happen to me,” L reminded unhappily, “you have no more assurances that you'll be allowed to live.”

Light's irises slid his way, and the cruel grin still twisted in his lips. “Calm down, I never said I wanted you to die. Well, not recently, anyway. I just think you've made up your mind a little early.”

The detective lowered his attention down to his toenails as he clenched at the ground. They were getting long and uneven, and required trimming soon. Two had already tore. “I have very good instincts.”

“Yeah, don't I know.” The casual acknowledgment of his capture exemplified well enough Light's careless amusement. He chuckled again like the whole situation was theatrical, and then cleared his throat. “But why don't we look at this logically and maybe we'll find a clue. Even if your friend has somehow risen from the grave, it can't hurt.”

“Logic has steadily began to lose all credibility to me.”

“Someone else could have planted those dolls. There was plenty of publicity for the Los Angeles BB Murder Case, right?”

This wasn't totally true, as at the time the case had been considered minor in comparison to other crimes around the city. L himself wouldn't have looked twice at the case if the wara ningyo hadn't caught his eye and lead him to realize that Beyond Birthday was deliberately trying to get his attention. On the other hand, the murders and crime scenes had been investigated by a small police force and once Naomi had succeeded in arresting BB, details of the case were no longer classified information. “The question is how Los Angeles connects to Berlin.”

Light raised a pair of fingers. “We know two facts: Los Angeles was a challenge to L from BB. Berlin is also a challenge to L.”

“From the same man who has been dead for a year?”

“Someone who knew of B, anyway, well enough to understand the straw dolls were meant to directly confront you.” Light curled his hands behind his head and leaned back into the floorboards, head angled just enough to keep his vivid brown eyes on L. “You knew him. Did he have any good friends?”

“...No, he didn't.” L had vivid memories of B, even as a younger boy, distancing himself from the other children and opting voluntarily enough to play alone. The psychopath had been on reasonably close terms with his once-roommate, dubbed 'A', but after A committed suicide B halted what meager efforts he had previously made to make friends. The only other person that B actively tried to grow a relationship with was L himself, but that was a caricature of admiration if it meant anything at all.

It would be unfair, however, to state that B was a such a remarkable deviation from the other orphans at Wammy's House back when he resided there, at least for the most part. Many of the orphans were awkward and had enough peculiarities to send therapists running. A considerable number of them were also loners in their time before Wammy's House, and thus preferred to spend their free time alone. This wasn't such a strange thing, considering that some of these children had traumatic pasts prior to their enrollment, or if not terribly traumatic, some children simply don't adapt to losing their parents or being brought to such an intimidating institution as easily as others. When the recruiters for Watari's orphanages around the world looked for candidates, judging for emotional strength or psychological stability was a much more difficult task than gauging intelligence capacity. Furthermore, unlimited individual attention to each child couldn't be offered, as the place was closer to a school than a care-oriented foster home. Though it certainly wasn't norm for the residents to run away and go on killing sprees, personal issues added to academic competition could lead to alienation or at least social quirks.

Keeping this in mind, without focusing exclusively on the disturbing Beyond Birthday, there was an explanation. Why would remain a mystery, but the how could be solved. “It is possible that his legacy is being carried out by another orphan in Winchester. He made those straw dolls often at the place we were raised in and hid them around the grounds.”

Light raised a fine eyebrow at this identifying information which he might have given an arm and a leg for four months ago, but there was no sense of accomplishment for him now. After all, his motivations for that path had been completely stripped away from him. Still, that didn't seem to satiate his curiosity completely, and he inquired, “You were raised in an orphanage with Beyond Birthday? In Winchester?”

“Some of the time, yes.” The information itself was, irrelevantly enough given Light's lack of Death Note, useless. There was no document nor certificate in that orphanage any longer with L's well-guarded real identity, so revealing it to his almost-murderer wasn't something L regarded as dangerous. But when Light gave a loud “hmm!” and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling with a half smile, L felt the need to add, “Is the irony that amusing?”

The smile faded but the thoughtfulness remained as the adolescent sat up and laid his hands loosely in his lap. “Sorry, it's just I never knew you were an orphan.”

“Of course you didn't know. Light-kun has a dark heart indeed if the thought of orphans makes him smile.”

“No...” Light shook his head distastefully, long strands of auburn swaying across his cheeks. Underneath the untrimmed hair, his expression drained of humor almost in an instant as it transformed into something serious and plain. “But to go from an unwanted child to Interpol's great mastermind in a few years... you are amazing, aren't you L?”

L blinked.

It wasn't a compliment as much as it was an observation. Light had hid his obvious desire to know L well throughout the investigation, and personal questions were always made with strict subtlety. Here, so it would seem, the facades lost their necessity and the result – the things they both wanted to see more than anything – were as cryptic as before they had been unwrapped. If L told Light his life story, Light would only have more reason to frown in confusion or glare in resentment. It wasn't much different for L every time Light admitted in words out loud that he was the Kira that L had spent what felt like a lifetime seeking.

“You yourself went from Japan's most promising student to Interpol's most wanted in a few days,” L retorted quietly. “If I were to dedicate ample time to pondering how amazing you are, I would never get anything done.”

This wasn't quite an insult, but this also wasn't quite mere observation. Light studied L with narrowed features, curling his fingers into fists in his lap and angling his chin so that his bright irises were watching him under half-lowered lashes.

Finally, “Why do you do that? You always turn everything around to me.”

Stone-faced, L curled a hand under his chin. Was there a particular way he was supposed to answer such a thing? No, L had no obligation to explain himself, especially not to a young man with an explosive IQ. Especially not to Light.

And yet... why indeed? Was it worth Light's agitation to see him look at L with something more than cold indifference?

“...I cannot be blamed if Light-kun is magnetic.”

At that, a glare embedded its way into Light's expression, but it wasn't quite a snarl. The calculating look transformed into genuine puzzlement, which was then replaced by a shrug, a sigh and a return to the original topic.

“How fascinating is death, the extinction of life.
One moment here and the next gone.
The light put out and only the empty bag of the body left.”
-Henry van Dyke

There was no point in denying it anymore: Quillsh Wammy was becoming an old man. He realized this as he drove on the quiet road through the English countryside with the windows windows rolled down in both the driver's and passenger's seat, and despite pressing business, his foot only gently pressed against the gas pedal to slow acceleration. Short pieces of an old song came out under his breath, coupled with a reverent silence. The moment was his, a chance to relax and reminisce. The memories of his younger life were progressively dulling and blurring together like the print of an old newspaper, but to be back in Winchester made forty years dissipate in the blink of an eye.

Winchester was cool in March and as crisp as a photograph. The ash trees that gathered in groups along the roadside spread leafless branches up into the white sky as though they thought to ensure that it stay in the air. Like a canopy, they stretched over the road and swayed gently in the slight breaths of wind. Everything was sprinkled with a soft layer of snow that glistened proudly even without a visible sun in the clouded sky.

Quillsh parked the car in front of the gates at the Winchester Wammy's House, staying seated for stolen moments extra and watching several children making snowballs in the yard. One little girl was trying her hand at building a snowman, but she had rolled the base too thick and she wouldn't be tall enough to attach the head if she continued her work proportionally. He slipped on his gloves to protect his ever-more sensitive skin from the chill and exited his vehicle to the symphony of yelling, laughing and shrieking that the youngsters played in.

“Hey, some old guy is here!”

“Who is it? One of Roger's friends?”

“You can call me that,” Quillsh smiled, walking along the path to the mansion and avoiding flying snowballs in the process. It had been awhile since he had been here, and it wasn't really any wonder that the children didn't remember him. The ones who did would know him only as Quillsh Wammy, because the title of 'Watari' was a secret protected dearly and only the most promising candidates would learn his identity. “Why are you all outside, children? Surely it's not recess this early?”

A young boy, lisping from his lack of two front teeth, took it upon himself to explain. “Roger called a holiday because of the dead girl.”

“One of the students died?”

The boy's face lit up with juvenile excitement. “He has no idea how it happened!”

He thanked the boy and continued into the heavy doors. Children were scattered around the entryway in scarves and mittens, playing games or gossiping to themselves in voices so overly discreet that even Quillsh with his weakening ears could hear their secrets vividly. Unfortunately, knowledge of so-and-so making out with so-and-so in the library didn't capture his interest – these were mostly new faces and new names and after all of his years of life it was nothing he hadn't heard before. The only little tidbit of interest was a whispered, hey, did you hear Near is playing detective for Linda's death? followed by the less relevant, I bet he liked her!

The orphanage itself had already changed from the last time that Quillsh had walked through it. It was the small things that seemed to stick out the most, like a piece of new furniture or the newest dent in the wall. Physical damage, of course, never lasted long anyway considering the funds that Wammy's House had to hire staff for various household duties and maintenance, but even the housekeeper that scolded a young child for tracking muddy snow in across the hallways was a new face. No amount of money in any type of currency would ever stop the flow of time, and as secluded and brilliant as Wammy's House was, it would remain a victim like the rest of the world.

But there are some things that stay the same.

Roger Ruvie was in his office, where he retained a tendency to keep himself and avoid the children if he ever had a free moment. As usual, his head was buried in the withered fingers of a hand, holding his grimace as though headache was getting the best of him. The desk, though usually meticulously organized and free of dust, was filled with heaps of scattered papers as well as his own expensive computer equipment. As Quillsh pressed the door to creak it open, Roger's head tilted up with unmasked irritation until he recognized his the man who had come to see him.

“Q-Quillsh?” Roger said, immediately standing up and straining his eyes for further assurance. He hastily slipped in front of his desk, eyes still darting around each wrinkle in Quillsh's face, until finally he accepted the visitor as more than a passing figment of his imagination. “Oh thank God.”

Quillsh took Roger's hand, wrapping the trembling fingers in his own and shaking it briefly for greeting. With a kind smile, he said, “It looks as though your age is catching up to you, my friend.”

The orphanage headmaster didn't smile at the teasing and he didn't let go of the hand. Instead, he gripped it even more tightly when the handshake was, or should have been, complete. “It's not that. Oh, what am I saying, of course it is, but something has happened here and everything's going mad.”

He paused to make sense of the words. “The girl Linda died...”

Panic, if it had been hidden before, jolted out of Roger's bulging eyes. His voice lowered to a harsh whisper. “I don't know how it happened, Quillsh!”

“So I've heard,” he answered gently. “I've heard everything that's going on in the ten minutes I've been here. These children spread tales like wildfire; that at least hasn't changed.”

“You don't know it all.” Roger disagreed gravely. He swept a hand through his gray hair, looking more perplexed than before. “I would've contacted you immediately but I know you and L have been working in Berlin on that bombing case. I didn't want police involvement but I couldn't just keep the body, so I had it brought there for an autopsy and I told the children who... witnessed the scene to not speak of it with anyone outside of this institution.”

Quillsh stepped toward a chair in front of Roger's desk and helped himself to a seat, and Roger in turn sat in the second of the pair. He lowered his voice. “Roger, these things are unfortunate but they do happen. This isn't the first time that we've lost an orphan and I don't understand why this bothers you so personally. The students will find something new to gossip about in a week...”

A wrinkled frown creased into the other man's forehead. “Linda was a young and healthy girl, by all medical records we have. The autopsy reports were inconclusive. They don't know how she died.”

The old detective nodded, fingers curled under his chin. “I see. But surely there is some explanation that eludes them-”

“There is.”

The interruption made Quillsh quirk his eyebrows, raising them under the shade of his brimmed black hat. Roger's face had been drained of all color, and abruptly, he stood up and strode to the other side of his desk. He fumbled with a set of keys from his pocket and, after two failed attempts, successfully unlocked a metal cabinet drawer to extract a package sealed in a manila envelope. Roger was holding the concealed thing by the corners of the envelope so precariously that Quillsh was reminded of Lawliet himself, and seeing his dear old friend in that position would have been humorous if only the atmosphere hadn't suddenly gone cold in a way that the winter couldn't be blamed for.

Roger tossed the package to Quillsh, who caught it easily and looked carefully. He wasn't signaled to open it, as Roger's head fell down into his hands again, but the message was clear enough. He untwisted the metal clasps that kept the tab of the envelope in place.

“I found this in Linda's room.”

Logically, he shouldn't have had any reason to expect anything. Quillsh Wammy had lived a long time and made a fortune off of his ability to remain logical and think things through with rationality. Somewhere inside of him, however, was the same young man who became a brilliant inventor by insisting that there was some way that pieces could fit together into something grand. He had returned to Winchester to investigate why straw dolls had turned up in Germany and as he reached his hand into the unknown, he knew exactly what he was going to pull out.

The wara ningyo was made of birch sticks, with pink yarn winding it together to create the shape of the body. It looked carefully crafted and the creator had clearly put tenderness into its creation. But even if it was the work of the artistically talented Linda, that wasn't enough to give the doll a face. It remained empty, like a lifeless warning. Or was it really...?

“He killed her,” Roger announced with a wavering tone that made him sound either thirty years younger or thirty years older. “I don't know how, Quillsh, but he killed her.”

Quillsh slipped the doll back into the envelope promptly and looked up with firmness. “That's ludicrous, Roger. Of course there's a reasonable explanation.”

“Like another Kira did it?” he demanded. “How would Kira know? Is Kira the one whispering to the children in the church? Are they spreading ghost stories about him?”

“It's not Kira. It's a... if anything, it's a prank, of course. A cruel prank and perhaps another suicide.”

Roger put his palms down on the desk and leaned forward. “Another suicide... like A's?” He gave a bitter laugh, the laugh of a man not himself. “It's a prank, all right. It's his prank, that thing that you brought here. Before her death, Near told me that Linda said that she was going to be the next L. Linda only wanted to be an artist, oh for Christ's sake, it was him!”

The unsteady fear that his oldest companion was showing made Quillsh feel suddenly very sick. He had not even mentioned what had been uncovered in Berlin – more wara ningyo, forty of them like graves for every victim whose bodies were scattered in pieces from the explosion. It couldn't be... like a bizarre fairy tale, it couldn't be true.

But Quillsh was an old man now, and he had already seen things that couldn't be. He had spent a lifetime inventing things that couldn't be – he took the little children and tested them systematically until he had invented L, and he had invented B. He bowed his head and rubbed his eyes with gloved fingertips, murmuring softly. “What makes you so certain, Roger?”

“Because I believe in God,” came the answer. “And I believe in the devil, too.”

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
-Dylan Thomas

A gurgled shriek rang throughout the vast wastelands of the Shinigami realm, so forceful that not even the twisting rocks and tunnels could muffle it from pouring into the sky. The noise was followed quickly by a choir of wind-like gasps and grunts, and then finally the throaty noises that did for chuckling.

“What do you mean you lost your Death Note?” Gukku demanded, leaning into Sidoh's panicked face and causing him to shrink backwards. “You mean you... lost it?”

“That's what I said!” Sidoh cried out in distress. He searched in vain the ground around him with his hands, grabbing at every loose stone as though the book that kept him living might be hiding underneath. The hope that he had lost it within the last few hours was quickly extinguished. “I had it the last time I checked...”

“And when was the last time you checked?” Jastin asked without sympathy. He had no pity for lazy gods like Sidoh, if they turned to dust then good riddance.

“I.. uh...”

“Are you trying to cheat me?” the human creature spoke up. For the first time in the short time that Jastin knew him, he looked irate, even angry. The red eyes glinted in the dusty light in an eerie way that captured the attention of everyone in the circle and, for a moment, actually managed to silence them. “I won the card game, didn't I? All I want to do is borrow your Death Note, Sidoh. Why are you trying to cheat me?”

Sidoh flung his hands into the air despairingly. “Why would I cheat?”

Deridovely snickered. “Ryuk is the only one who ever cheats.”

There was a pause.

“Wait... Ryuk had two Death Notes... didn't he?”

“He told me he tricked the King for a second!”

“Ryuk did what?”

“Ryuk has my Death Note?!”

“Now hold on, Ryuk said he lost his in the human world! That must mean he lost Sidoh's there when he went down to find something!”

“Yeah, but he found it, stupid. Kira picked it up, remember? And Ryuk was following Kira around until... he lost Kira, too.”

“Where's Kira?”

“I told you, Kira's gone. It was L who did something, that's what I think.”

“I forgot who L is!”

It had been too long since the Shinigami had something so exciting to talk about, and they chattered as hastily as lazy gods of death could. Their voices rumbled in gossip that was, to the human, almost a foreign language due to his lack of understanding. However, this human was not an ordinary human, he was clever and had no scruples nor fears about toying with forces beyond his comprehension.

In fact, the human couldn't hold back a grin, which turned into an eruption of uncontrollable giggling. The Shinigami abruptly stopped their conversation to each turn to their newest gaming partner, who was clutching his stomach like he might die of laughter if only he wasn't already dead – or indeed, whatever it was that he was.

When the human finally caught a hold of himself, he sneered at Sidoh. “Well, well. You owe me a favor but it looks like you and I might just end up helping each other. After all, if we're not careful both you and I will turn into dust, right?”

“I... don't like the way you say that,” Sidoh moaned, one clawed hand covering one of his reptilian eyes and half his face hidden behind the tatters of his white cloak-like wings. “You're really scary, you know that?”

The creature didn't ignore the statement, he simply grinned pleasantly but his eyes were glinting with the deepest of crimsons that made Jastin shiver. “Wait here a little longer if you can last that long, Sidoh. And then you and I will find Ryuk. We'll find Kira. And we'll find...”

The sentence never finished because the human hopped to his feet and started back toward the junk piles, leaving all the gods scratching their heads at what he could possibly be after.

“Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.”
-Lord Byron

The darkened room of twenty computers plus equipment had been quiet for the past half hour, save the speedy tapping of keys from two young men and an ever-present hum of machinery. The atmosphere, however, was anything but passive. Light had tried to consult L on what his plans were going to be, but L remained distracted, not exactly dismissing Light as an investigation partner but isolating himself in his own thoughts which made such a proposition as teamwork difficult. Despite suffering a year of L's unwanted attentions on him, being ignored now found a way to creep under Light's skin. But on the other hand, Light was perfectly fine with taking his own direction and not submitting to L's orders, and being able to work on his own in the silence soothed a part of him that had been constantly jilted since he came here.

Complexities and mysteries aside, there was something very mechanical about online research. Absorbing himself in the Internet, Light could focus on a single, if sketchy, problem. He could organize a list of tasks in his mind, divide them into sub-tasks and then prioritize. Hacking and cracking security programs was something that he was skilled at – when he was younger, he had made a game of sneaking into his father's police files and excitedly taking mental notes on how to become a great policeman, and when he was older, he took to breaking into programs for the challenge instead of the prize. There was no prize for him today, but the challenge tasted better anyway, like jogging until one's body burned after being caged for weeks. There was satisfaction in every new lead, and there was peace in the detachment it gave him.

He was looking for the New York mafia boss, Rod Ross, and any kind of clue that could lead them to plausible conclusions. What he found was better yet.

“Ryuuzaki, will you look at this?”

At the direct use of his name (one of many, anyway), L's stupor broke. He was sitting as usual with his weight on the palms of his feet and his knees upright, and when Light motioned him to his monitor, L adjusted. He shifted his feet and stretched his hunched back in Light's direction, moving his face in front of the screen. Light couldn't see his expression, only the mess of silky black hair that glimmered against the artificial light.

“In three days, according to this report, there will be an banquet at the Plaza Hotel in New York City. The banquet is dress suit, expensive and exclusive – an invitation only deal. Rod Ross's name is right on the list here, along with a handful of German names. This report also says that police will not be in the area during this time.”

“What report is this?” L asked.

“That's the strange thing,” Light admitted without fully concealing his own astonishment. “It's a file straight from the NYC police force.”

L kept his face in Light's monitor for a few more seconds, probably until he had memorized the data, then turned his head with a small nod up to Light. “Then we know it's reliable. I feel that this is the drug trade that connects with Goddard, and Goddard will be expecting it to go completely smoothly.”

“But the police know about it...”

“They've been bought off,” L dismissed. “Ross has the resources to do it. The information is there specifically so the force will know where not to be.” At Light's glare down at the monitor that judged the concept like only Kira can judge, L smiled. “Light-kun, if all policemen were as honest as your father, then Soichiro Yagami would cease to be exceptional.”

The remark was strange, and though it wasn't uncommon for strange things to find their way out of L's mouth, it felt out of place. It was, admittedly, an innocent statement and meant kindly, but thinking about his family made him uncomfortable these days so he made a point not to. This was especially true after his recent resolution to put the past behind him. But such a goal was difficult when he was faced with the imperfectness of the world and the corruption of law-enforcement – the supposed protectors of justice and public safety. It wasn't as if the notion was foreign to him, but when he thought of his father, of Aizawa and Mogi, Matsuda and Ide putting their lives on the line to do what they believed was right, he resented the criminal underworld even more. And the police officers who cooperated with that underworld were criminals themselves, accomplices, and they deserved punishment in the name of the ones who were honest and pure.

L gave him a curious look and Light cleared his throat. “Well, anyway, this would be a good opportunity to get inside information on Ross, or even take him in if we can catch him with the drugs. You can encourage him to cooperate.”

“Ah. Yes.” L settled back with his weight evenly on his feet, one hand resting on a knee and the other with its thumbnail clicking between L's teeth. “In three days... I should send Watari. I'll need Watari back in the United States. Or...” At this point, it seemed that L forgot to voice his thoughts and fell back into his own head.

When L was completely silent again, lost in some trance, Light found himself tapping his fingernails against the wooden floor with annoyance. All that work to find the information and not even an indication that you're going to do anything? Thinking about it too deeply only made him weary, and he stood up. “Fine. I want to go shower now.”

“What?” That woke L up. His head whipped around, black hair ruffling with the movement, and stared with wide eyes. “How long will you be?”

Light scoffed. “Don't act so insulted. If I hadn't said anything, you wouldn't have even noticed that I left.”

“Of course I notice. I want you here.”

“I have a schedule that doesn't revolve around you, you know,” he said airily. When L blinked, the humor lost on him, he added, “I thought I'd take a nap after the shower.”

“Why?” As if it weren't the most obvious thing in the world.

“Because there's nothing to do. I don't know what else you want me to do.”

“I want you to stay with me,” and then, “I might need your help.”

Exasperated, Light raised his hands, an indifferent gesture coupled with an intent glare in his eyes. “Are you ordering me to stay or not?”

“No... I'm sorry.” L curled down into his knees, still watching Light but apologetically. After a brief moment he turned back to his computer, mumbling. “You've done more than enough. Go do what you want.”

With a final hard look at the detective, Light excused himself. He couldn't be expected to yield to Ryuuzaki's every whim nor pity him just because he was moping around. A sulking L was an obnoxious L, and confined to the same building as him or not, Light hardly wanted to be near him lest he was allowed to punch him. He had every right in the world to begrudge L where he could – after all, what did he have to complain about? He had everything in the world except for social graces and a vegetable pantry, so Light would have to be pardoned from voluntarily watch L fume in a corner because his childhood buddy refused to stay dead.

The thought soared through Light's mind as he pulled off his dark sweatshirt, and it made him stop with the clothing still dangling from his arms. As if automatically, his eyes trailed to the window where it was, for once, not snowing, but frost still misted the glass. What if the ghost of B had actually risen from his grave and was trying to lure Ryuuzaki like a rat out to a place where he could have his revenge? If Light were to believe in ghosts then he would have to start believing in all of the Japanese folktales he had learned as a child, from shrines and from picture books. But then, why not? It was as Ryuuzaki had said. There were gods of death, like a kami spirit from the old stories. Ryuk had been something that Light had accepted, just like he had accepted that his Death Note was from a spirit world. If B was actually haunting Earth as a ghost, Light was certain that he would be able to accept that as well. Yet, Ryuk had told him...

The cold began to prickle against Light's naked torso, so he hastily finished stripping his clothing and turned the knob of the shower to hot water. Putting a finger under the nozzle, he measured the temperature until it had reached something desirable and stepped in. A steaming stream of water fell upon his back and his hair, instantly remedying the chill. He splashed it around around his body until his skin was tinged with pink.

The fact remained that Ryuuzaki seemed to think that B might haunt him if he were a ghost, which said quite clearly that B had every reason in the world to resent him. That was... interesting, but expected. Light knew from experience that L's targets had justifiable reason to loathe him. But out of all the deceased that he had caught, why was B the one to remain a legacy? Because he shared a youth with Ryuuzaki? Because he was one of the few who knew the secrets that Ryuuzaki kept so closely guarded, the knowledge of the beginnings of the world's most brilliant detective?

And if Ryuuzaki thought so, did Light have any reason to be skeptical?

If Beyond Birthday was somehow real, in this hypothetical situation, and he was targeting Ryuuzaki – the more pertinent question was if Light did have something to worry about. He had and still took the scenario with interest but also indifference. After so long kept in this tower with L and Watari where not even the ground could reach him, Light had come to feel totally untouchable. Not safe, not exactly safe. Despite the assurances of a life sentence instead of a death penalty, his ward remained Kira's fiercest enemy. As long as could remain cooperative with L and put up with his prevarications, he could be assured that L had no reason to alter their agreement. Light had ceased to be a god, and he could admit it without heartache anymore that his existence had been quickly transformed from monumental to nihility, absolute unimportance.

But to exist for so long in a place high above reality and void of contact, with only two men for company, why wouldn't he feel as though everything below him couldn't touch him and couldn't hurt him? The world had been taken from him. There was no connection left, so why should he fear it?

Light brushed his hands through his hair to rid it of any remaining soap. The water weighed it down into longer length yet, and it fell obnoxiously over his eyes. With a mental complaint about how annoying it was when his hair was allowed to go unchecked for so long, he swept it to the side and turned the faucet off. Dripping wet, he dried himself with the towel before stepping out onto the bath mat and dressed in fresh clothes.

Laying safely on the counter away from the water, despite being water-proof, was the watch that L had given him. Light frowned and reached for it, pausing to study the glint of the bathroom lighting against the gold surface. It fit comfortably against his wrist, and was infinitely more pleasing than the damned handcuffs that L had become, apparently, too lazy to require him to wear. Light was fine with L leaving him to his own devices, and the compromise had given them both time for some personal space. It met less arguments and fights, but ironically, Light found himself seeking out L more than the other way around. L was, crudely put, his only real form of entertainment. If he was forced to solitary confinement again he was certain that insanity would get the best of him.

When he allowed a thought at what might have become of him being convicted as Kira if L hadn't intervened... the notion made him gag, but he supposed he had something to be thankful to Ryuuzaki for.

And at least... to be fair...

...it's this person and not anyone else.

“You decided against napping?” L asked intently, but without taking his eyes off of the computer screen.

“That's right.”

Instead of looking back at him, L glanced at the monitors which constantly played the feed from his video cameras stationed around the house. Light rolled his eyes as L gave him his attention through a computer when he was standing just ten feet behind. “Why do you have a chess board?”

Light knelt and set down the wooden game board, careful not to spill the wooden case which held the black and white playing pieces. He opened the latch, where each carved unit rested safely in foam. “To play chess, obviously.”

“I don't want to play,” L mumbled. “I have too much to think about.”

“I didn't ask you to play,” Light pointed out, sitting back comfortably on his legs and beginning to set up the game. He took care of the pawns first, lining them up neatly in the center of their squares to face their opponents. “I wanted to play against myself.”

Like a jilted cat, L snapped his eyes back to Monitor 12 and crouched down in a position that made him look ready to lunge at something or someone. Immediately, he began to tap against the keys of the keyboard. “Enjoy yourself.”

“I will. I'm feeling lucky today so maybe I'll win,” Light said jovially, beginning to arrange the fighting units. The rooks went into place, then the knights, the bishops and finally the stars of the battle, the king and the queen. Instead of being something lavish, the chess set looked hand carved, and each piece had been made with the utmost detail and care, and the set looked daunting when fully configured. Light put two fingers around the head of a pawn and slid it forward. “Let's see... White, D2 to D4.”

The pawn slid up two spaces in front of the white king, leaving the space in front of the most significant piece vulnerable. Now came Black's turn, and with a bit of disdain, Light announced, “Black, A7 to A6.”

“If you're going to broadcast every move you make, then play somewhere else,” L grumbled, typing as loudly as he could attack his keyboard without breaking the keys.

“Oh, don't worry. It won't last long.” Now it was White's turn again. Light set his sights on the back row of the army, and took hold of the king's bishop. With the pawn out of the way, the bishop was free to slide diagonally out onto the battlefield. “White, C1 to, ah... F4.”

Black again. “Alright, Black H7 to H6.”

With the black army doing nothing of importance, Light was free to unleash his Queen. “White E1 to C3.”

“That's cruel, Light-kun.” If L had been trying to ignore Light, now it was impossible. The white army was utilizing a four-move checkmate, which was one of the most simple ways to win if one's opponent made no moves to interfere with the process. With Light's queen lined in C, she could use her unlimited vertical range on the next turn to take the king's bishop's pawn. This would put the queen diagonal to the king, which would be a check. The king could normally move one step diagonal and take the queen, but the white bishop at F4 guarded the queen and cinched the check-mate.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Ryuuzaki. All right, now... Black G-”

“B8 to C6.”

Light turned up to L, who was still across the room with only his hunched back visible. “What's that?”

“Black B8 to C6,” the detective growled. “'Move the knight in front of the bishop's pawn.”

“Ryuuzaki, please don't give me any advice,” Light dismissed. “It's my game and that makes me feel as though I'm cheating.”

“It's my chess board.”

“You said you didn't want to play.”

“B8 to C6.”

And so, for no reason in the world and without much to gain but company, Light tore L away from the computer and indulged him in a chess match. Ryuuzaki managed to save his game with a knight, and then with a pawn. For the first time playing the game, Light realized how ironic it was that the King, the leader, the army's lifeline, was almost completely useless on his own. He needed his pawns to be anything at all.

“I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says I must not stay;
I see a hand you cannot see,
Which beckons me away.”
-Thomas Tickell

There had been a time when the countryside church near Wammy's House had offered services, and Quillsh recalled attending at a time. The attendance had been slowly but steadily decreasing when he first funded the building of his Winchester orphanage, and without revealing the true intent of the institution Quillsh had asked for charities – not because he needed the money, but purely to keep appearances. When finally the old priest couldn't fight his cancer anymore without hospitalization, the church was abandoned. At least, as a religious function. The orphans themselves continued to enjoy the hideaway, and he recalled L once complaining to him that B – who went by the given alias of Ryuuzaki then – that he was always following him there.

As Quillsh and Roger made their way up the crumbling concrete steps and into the place, Quillsh immediately noticed how run down it had become since the time when he had attended. If there was one thing that never changed between normal children and children with phenomenal intelligence potential, it was that they rarely volunteered to clean and as such the church had become a dusty, broken place. Other things, however, did change, were constantly changing, and in his age Quillsh couldn't forget that nothing lasts forever.

A stained glass window, once a lovely work of art illustrating the Virgin Mary holding her son was now shattered against the faded carpet. Quillsh clicked his tongue disapprovingly as he stepped around the sharp pieces, about to tell Roger that this place was dangerous for the younger children to play now and it had to be either cleaned up or demolished. His reprimands were halted when Roger stopped and pointed at the a spot right near a rotting wood pew.

“This is where the body was,” Roger stated, turned away. “This is also only my second time going in here since that day... The first was to fetch Linda when Mello came to me with the news.”

“Roger...”

“Don't reprimand me!” he commanded hoarsely. Quillsh could see him visibly shuddering in his brown coat as though there was a heavy draft, but though it was winter the church walls still blocked all of the wind. “Oh Jesus, don't reprimand me, Quillsh. I'm not as brave as I used to be. I'm not as strong.”

There was no point in either offering scorn nor sympathy, so Quillsh merely nodded and stepped forward. He crouched down on his old knees and placed a hand on the carpet. It was a worn red color already but he couldn't find any spots of blood. There was no visible sign of struggle either, but of course the church was already a mess from children playing so this couldn't be determined for certain. He would have to talk to the witnesses, Near and Mello, and ask them what they saw.

He raised his gaze, and it caught at the altar in front of him. Curiously he strode forward and placed a hand on the dust-covered table which was once the proud platform for the Anglican priest . He ran a finger along the surface, picking up a trail of gray with his glove. Before the altar there was the crucifix, only a wooden cross now that all of the gold and majesty had been donated when the church closed.

After a moment of silence, he stepped around nearer to the cross. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he turned to the altar, and that was when something caught his eye. There was something scribbled into the wood and as he came closer it became more clear. He adjusted his glasses and tilted his head upward to read the thin writing, thin, but blotchy and crimson. It was blood, smeared, and the letters formed were simply, "LABB".

L After Beyond Birthday.

A strange haze went through Quillsh's head, the haze of realization and dread. LABB had been Beyond's title for the game he set up with L, that time that felt like a forever ago now. The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases. Who could have known about this but L himself? The blood was dry, but it was no more than a few days old. Suddenly, an insane thought crossed his mind - had Linda been reported with a pricked finger in her autopsy? If so, could it be? Could the impossible be? And then-

“Do you believe in gods, Mr. Wammy?”

It was like a harsh whisper, a stream of wind blowing into his ears. Quillsh pulled his hand back, startled, and turned around with a fright. He had been sure that he heard the voice, but when he looked the only soul in the church was Roger, who was quietly mumbling to himself.

-To Be Continued...

Against the Shards of Mirror

2008-07-05T14:21:44Z

Title: Against the Shards of Mirror
Fandom: Death Note
FF.N Link: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4370346/1/Against_the_Shards_of_Mirror
Rating: PG/T - mild sexuality
Pairing: Naomi/Wedy
Summary: FBI agent Naomi Misora goes on a mission to arrest an evasive million dollar thief. Things don't go as planned, but maybe this was a taste of liberation. Yuri.

Against the Shards of Mirror

In retrospect, Naomi Misora couldn't believe that something like this had happened to her. It was humiliating, it was undignified and it was just plain ridiculous that she had put herself in such a situation. The more it nagged on her, the more it bothered her, until she was certain that she could tear that woman to pieces if she had the chance now. But she didn't have that chance, and she would probably never have it again.

At least no one else would know what had taken place on that night. True, everything happened in the grand Los Angeles Institute of the Arts, which was, prior to this incident, known for its fine security. True, there were video cameras and alarms and guards. But if security had been impenetrable, the FBI would've never sent Naomi in the first place. They weren't dealing with an ordinary thief. This was the cunning professional given the moniker Black Cat, and there wasn't a doubt in Naomi's mind that she had terminated all recordings that showed her face on record.

The Black Cat had, according to FBI estimates, stolen over a ten million dollar value, assuming the unlikely situation that she hadn't been involved in any other burglaring aside from what was confirmed in the recent months to be her work. But the Black Cat didn't just steal. This woman, whoever she was, played with her prey like a feline played with a cornered mouse or grasshopper, batting it with her paws and daring it to try to escape her. As such, the Black Cat had as good as told the cops where she was going to strike next by pilfering in a patterned sequence. It was clear that Black Cat enjoyed the challenge, and even more, she enjoyed humiliating her opposition as they failed to capture her.

Knowing this, Naomi had readily accepted her mission. She hadn't earned the title of 'Massacre Misora' for a reputation of timidness when it came to her work. On the contrary, she was dedicated to the point of burning obsession when she arrived at the museum that night. Security was firmly briefed with the night's plan. They were to beat the Cat at her own game and haul her in for a life sentence without parole.

Security was stationed in secret around the diamond display room, where, taking into consideration the past robberies, the Black Cat was most likely to strike. Not a single agent was confident enough to outwit the Cat and capture her on their own, as such, they would use full force without mercy and overpower her. No amount of cunning could get one woman out of a room with twenty-five armed guards.

As for Naomi, she was dressed only in normal clothes instead of donning her standard uniform. Her badge was hidden under her leather jacket, and also tucked in her belt was her handcuffs, communicator and gun. The position she was serving in this game was patrolling internal perimeter for suspicious activity while remaining ready to do ground work wherever the showdown ended up being.

There wasn't any excellent excuse as to why Naomi paused in one of the galleries. A particular piece had caught her eye - it was an abstract, with purple pastels erupting into real shards of mirror on a wide canvas. Her own reflection, torn in pieces by the uneven layers of glass, stared back at her. Dark eyes and glossy black hair that marked the Japanese descent that even she seemed to forget about often these days confronted her with the identical conviction that she harbored.

"Hmm..."

It felt like a lifetime ago when she had left Japan. She had been young then - of course, she supposed she was still young, but the truth was that age was only a number and she wasn't and never would be young in the same way again. Like a pioneer, Naomi flew to America for freedom, to find her own way of life. When the FBI offered her a position she thought for certain that her dream of living in adventure and independence would come true.

But 'Massacre Misora' looked back at her with eyes empty of anything but determination to succeed. The FBI wasn't liberation, it was another set of ropes that demanded nothing less than total commitment, on the threat of failure. Failing her employer was one thing, but Naomi was certain even worse would be failing herself.

Sighing, she brushed loose hair that fell messily over her cheek behind her ear and gave the reflection one last glance before continuing her patrol. However, at that moment, another face appeared in the mirror and she immediately halted.

"Pretty, isn't it," a soft voice purred, leaving it ambiguous if she was referring to the painting, Naomi's reflection, or her own.

With a chill, Naomi turned to set eyes on her target for the first time. The woman was tall, with height all the more from the stiletto heels of boots that rode up to her knees. She wore black leather, tightening around a feminine figure that stood proudly, but with just enough swagger with her gloved hand on her hip to suggest a cool confidence. Confidence was affirmed all the more by the upward curve of her red lips. Along the woman's shoulders fell blonde hair, as styled as a movie star, which was an image complimented by her dark sunglasses.

The Black Cat smirked at her, and Naomi gritted her teeth without allowing the frustration to betray her face. She had the option of pulling out her gun right now and count on that forcing the burglar to surrender, but her display of total confidence destroyed her own. Being brash wasn't going to work. If she could keep the woman's attention for long enough, her army of security would come and they would count on numbers to subdue her.

"Who are you, at this place so late?" Naomi asked as though she didn't have any idea. "The museum is closed to the public at this hour."

"Don't worry about it," the Black Cat grinned, sauntering near the paintings and studying them with mild curiosity. "I'm not the public."

Naomi put on a look of concern. "Well- then... did you come here on special permission?"

"That's right." The Black Cat tipped her head to the side, and waved a hand in the direction of a large oil masterpiece. "I came here to look at the artwork. You know, I'm quite a fan."

"...You must be, if you come at two o'clock in the morning."

She turned her face to Naomi, smiling widely. "Funny, you came to the same place at two in the morning."

"I guess you could say that," Naomi shrugged, trying to think of inconspicuous ways to reach behind her and click the emergency button of her communicator, but under the watch of the Black Cat such a feat seemed impossible. Her hand had twitched, but she made the movement look natural by leaning back against the metal railing that was supposed to keep visitors from getting too close to the paintings - a final security that, unfortunately, probably wouldn't be very helpful in this case. "I'm writing my dissertation on art of the Renaissance period, so I got a pass to come here to study the art in peace after hours."

"Really. Then, Miss Expert, tell me which one of these beauties is worth the most."

Naomi bristled. "Uh...what?"

"I'm in the market for expensive artwork, you see. I came to take something pretty away." The Black Cat chuckled, and then cooed, "Isn't that what you came to do? Take something pretty away?"

"I... I'd never steal-"

The woman laughed merrily, drowning out Naomi's feeble attempt at shock. Then she lowered her head, peering at Naomi from underneath her sunglasses, and taking a step forward. "You know, you're lovely, too. Maybe I should be the one taking you away with me, not the other way around..."

"...What?"

Of all of the things that Naomi Misora had been mentally preparing herself for during this mission, of all the preparations she had made, and of all the training she put herself through, this was not something that she had been ready for. Genuinely dumbstruck, she stared at this woman, this epitome of everything that she had made it her business to put behind bars, this smirking superstar of a burglar and found her heart thumping loudly.

"I think you'd like my way of life," the woman purred, prowling closer, one dainty step of her boots at a time. Every word was so delicately placed, dripping with perfected feminine allure. "But who wouldn't want freedom like mine? The question is, who can... handle it? You're a bombshell, but are you strong enough? Are you clever enough?"

Almost like an answer to the question, Naomi's warning senses went wild. The Black Cat was closing in on her like the blade of a knife, and Naomi dropped her upper body and shot her leg high into the air. The burglar turned her face and managed to dodge the brunt of the blow. Immediately, she also dropped her weight into a crouch, giving her the appearance of a stray cat waiting to lunge, and then she did. Instead of kicking, which would put Naomi in a extremely compromised position considering the sharpness of those stiletto heels, the Black Cat dived forward and, with a little chuckle, pressed Naomi against the exhibit bars and-

-and kissed her.

She gave a stifled gasp, and Naomi, through dizzying logic, didn't register what was going on immediately. Her predominant thought was that certainly she could hold a fight against this bitch if she tried, despite being of the smaller build. She was trained in Brazilian Caepora, and her brutality in a fight had been half of the reason behind her brand of 'Massacre Misora'. The problem was, for whatever reason, she wasn't trying.

The Black Cat lapped her tongue across Naomi's lips before entering them, breaking in with all the grace and ease as she broke into the museum with. She was assertive, even bordering on aggression against Naomi's stupefied passiveness, sucking tenderly but with firm control, and any attempt to turn away was stifled by the burglar's hand under her chin. The woman was warm and seductively gentle, brushing fingers through Naomi's hair, and past any point of rationality...

Somewhere, beyond all reason, Naomi wondered if this was a taste of freedom.

The Black Cat lowered herself onto the other, her waist and breasts pushing against Naomi's own. Naomi could feel the breath of this woman who answered to no authority, she could even feel the heartbeat of the bandit who basked in her own total liberation. Complete and absolute...

No, just a common thief with her eyes on diamonds. Naomi Misora couldn't afford to falter, not when a successful mission was literally in her grasp. If she fell prey to some trick of the moonlight, against the shards of mirror, then she deserved to have her dreams crushed into dust. Such a notion was unacceptable and in the end, through the shock and surprise, Naomi was too old to melt against a passing dream.

It was startling, it was almost inconceivable, and it was wrong. But this was a distraction as effective as any, and Naomi thought to try to activate her communicator while the burglar was preoccupied. If she could press the call of emergency, this would all be over in a few minutes and she could shove the shame aside as though it never happened. Feeling light headed, she crawled a hand behind her back, only to have it meet the Black Cat's.

And then suddenly, snap.

The steel of a handcuff coiled itself around her wrist, and another identical sound pinned the other end to the bars behind her. With a snarl and a curse, Naomi pulled away and kicked, but not before the woman's hand ran along her ass and burglared both her gun and her communicator from her belt. The thief tossed them across the room, completely out of Naomi's now-limited reach.

"Damn it!" she hissed, knowing better than to try to reason with the thief to kindly undo her handcuffs.

The Black Cat stood up, smirking proudly. "That was fun. I wish you would've been a little more responsive though."

"How did you know what I was?" Naomi demanded, crouching into a more dignified position with flames raging in her eyes.

The woman snorted. "Call it a sixth sense, if you like, though I call it common sense."

"You..!"

"Call me Wedy," she smiled, waving and walking the other way. "I really would love to steal you too, honey, but I'm on a tight schedule here. See ya around."

So Naomi was left with nothing to do but yell at the top of her lungs for backup. The Black Cat - Wedy - was as unconcerned as ever, and though she dashed out of the room like a breeze of black leather and blonde hair, the calm on her face gave the impression of a easy stroll. Furious, Naomi pulled against her handcuffs, but to no avail. She heard shouting from down the corridor, and even the sound of a gunshot, though of course Wedy escaped. There wasn't a doubt in Naomi's mind that she did.

She would be long gone a second later.

With a final curse, she curled her legs and leaned against the bars. As she waited in disgust for the security guards to get to her, she found herself wondering where Wedy was off to now. There was no way of knowing, and perhaps Wedy didn't know either. Wedy surely lived a life unbound by direction or expectation, she made her own rules and broke them when convenient. Naomi resented it, loathed it, envied it and after everything, she was the one trapped here while the other woman roamed .

Naomi touched her lips with her free hand, still wet from the kiss. It would take awhile before she could forget that she was carrying this small part of Wedy with her as she went into the office and took her next assignment. But a thought lingering longer was that Wedy's lips would also be wet, as though she were carrying a part of Naomi into the moonlight.

-fin

A/N: Written for the week #14 prompt, "Wedy" at dn_contest.

Thanks for reading!