ONLY I.

                                                      “ It doesn’t matter though, does it. ” 

                        Hurt settles under his skin and he is tired, rounds of mental matches and physical fights and the voices of the lost leaving a body too young for the oncoming sight of death. His arm now lies a useless stump beside him –– his eyes struggle not to close with finality. The world blurs and maybe, maybe earlier he would have yelled; fought against the idiocy of his shadow with stinging verbal onslaughts ( maybe, when his foe was a man hiding behind a letter –– but then he was gone and there was another, weaker, pathetic, he shouldn’t have lost –––– )

                               He is unraveling within his own mind.

                                           “ You are nothing. ”

            hesitated silence claims itself victor of his voice, & he finds his gaze drawn inevitably back towards the broken figure collapsed fallen upon cement stairs. this was a matter of stale static, agitating the stream of his blood & rattling the hollow of his bones — he sweeps from shock to stunned apathy in a fraction of second with no transition, & now he contemplates how his figure looks like a scarecrow : lifeless, horrifying, empty. & so he speaks again with mild tone, with rhetorical question. NOTHING ( after all, he is a shadow. ) though he may be . . . you are less than he, who has not yet lost. 

      ❛ maybe it doesn’t. but tell me this, what does matter to you n o w ? some death this is.

 i go on the death note wiki and look at character stats

 L // intelligence: 8/10 Light // intelligence: 9/10 Near // intelligence: 9/10 Matt // intelligence: 6/10 Mello // intelligence: 7/10

                                      &.   xdeified​

           ` that may be so . . still, i suggest we wait a little longer before we make our move. ’

        ❛  i don’t know if there is any other option but to wait. even so —

        the pads of his fingers press down upon the desk surface as he brings himself to lean forward with the intent of better inspecting the grainy image flickering blandly upon the monitor screen. there then lies a pause, a brisk shake of the head, & the drone of a hum stifled by closed lips before he continues.

                “ We don’t. ” 

         His words are sliced bitter, disdain pounding a headache inside his skull. Pain blossoms from his arm –– from his chest comes an irregular staccato, each press downwards leading to a harsh loss of breath. Pressed shut, his eyes refuse to see the horrid imagination his mind decided to concoct; his shirt stains red with every passing second. 

                  “ We were stupid, and were too trustful with Mikami, and we suffer for it. ”

        The steps are hard underneath him. It hurts. At one point ( minutes ago, as he ran from his reality ) he would have fought against it, and his own oncoming death. At one point. But he sees the naive, blissfully ignorant version of himself, and he sees his own grave. 

                         ❛ we are not the same.

             his voice cuts forth as a blade set in ice — he intends to bite,  but there is no intent of injury, or of defense. it is FACT as he knows it, & he wishes to separate himself entirely from you: a manifestation of justice failed. his gaze sets forth to watch  scarlet stain both jacket & shirt; he sees it with disconnected indifference - it isn’t his blood ( & yet it is ). still, the points of his teeth grate into his cheek & he now shakes his head.

            ❛ i have not made the same mistakes you have. you blundered. you .  .  .

            words & purpose slip his mind as he turns his gaze to observe something anything — & there’s nothing. nothing but rust & damp & stains & metal & the red light of the setting sun.

                                      there is no dignity in this.                                    he was watching himself DIE. 

               L –Tongue tips dig skywards to flesh filled rooves, grooven teeth parting from their beds at their masters childish coo. It is a hummed acknowledgement, naught but white noise before a blinking screen, stitched with inked black letterings. The name, as he sees it, is heavy. Yet, heavier still is the pause prior to their interactions, pauses filled with swollen bastard thoughts, barren space filled in the brief interlude with only tactful eagerness. He blinks to the screen, back to the  L  claiming their anonymity. & Naked as breach blood, he sees – he sees that you are poisonously pure to act like this - bleached white & like to kill you as it cleanses, like to burn you in its thoroughness. 

                     Near would rather consume less of you. But this is to be done. & So, you dress; name slipped atop your scales like an old shirt might. & So, his voice crackles, robotic, stilted along its pilgrimage to the GODS in retaliation. 

                                                                   ( F O R S A K E N )

                   His tone would be high & young could you hear him - untainted by sounds of interest, cleansed by a bluntness that  b r u i s e s - but you cannot through these filtered interests…

                                                                       & so he ASKS.

                                            ‘Arrogance or Sentiment.                                                                   Why keep the name?’

          a black worn headset promises silence as it closes him off from his surroundings with  black cushioned ear piece —  & it is promised in vain. indeed, he is far too conscious of his team’s dim whispers sometimes stunned silent. he finds himself with lips pursed, with the hood of his eyes narrowed in sharp speculation of a white & unwavering screen. it blinks at him with indifference, boldly declaring the singular letter ‘ N, ‘ scripted in a font family so familiar . . . it can’t be coincidental. though . . . perhaps it could be — it is undeniable that there are fanatics who find themselves bound to the media from which they draw inspiration. it could be coincidental, it could be a farce — but for the fact that this disguised voice has instigated a direct connection. this could not be ignored.

          his tongue skims the point of ivory teeth as tawny gaze continues to drill into the screen . . . as though staring could break through the screen & end this.

          still, he laughs: it erupts from his lips as a short, staccato sound . . . mild in tone. after all, light yagami is one of charm, composure, good nature. he would not be ruffled by this obvious impertinence, although he did have every right to be.