Chapter [1]

"Therefore, you, Light Yagami, are, and always have been, Kira!" Near exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at his foe.

For most of the people in the Yellow Box warehouse, the current scene was equal to that of saving the world before it was utterly destroyed.

Strange then how the world went on as it normally did, unfazed by their drama and their suspense. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, casting tranquil waves of dark peach across and over the building.

The cicadas creaked, flying hither and thither, from one leaf to another as they always did.

A few seagulls flew overhead, one squawking commands to his flock.

Light shot through the confines of the windows of the warehouse reflected onto the dust floating in the air.

Earth did not stir.

On the human dimension, the tension had erupted into revelatory disillusionment. In that dilapidated warehouse, the worst mass murderer in modern history had been caught.

The truth had been revealed: the mask was ripped off, and the curtain was torn off the hinges.

A team of Japanese detectives dressed in formal ties and suits stared at their ex- comrade and traitor with various reactions.

Ide and his radish head stared gravely disappointed at his former ally; there was anger in that stare, but prior suspicions had dulled it.

He was almost ashamed of himself for being glad that Soichiro Yagami wasn't alive to witness this disgrace.

Then he thought of how much Soichiro had sacrificed for his son, and Ide found himself praying to a silent and uninvolved god that he had never truly believed in.

If Soichiro could be spared the knowledge of his son's treachery, Ide would pray to whatever and whoever would listen.

Matsuda, on the other hand, gaped stiffly in irate bewilderment, as if he was the punchline of some cruel and sadistic joke.

With what scarce, clear logic he had left not completely overrun by his fury and shock, he knew that he would probably not be able to control himself for much longer.

His best friend, his goddamn brother in arms had been making a fool of him this entire time, laughing at him behind his back.

And Matsuda had been stupid enough to fall for it the entire time.

He wasn't sure who he hated more right now: Light for orchestrating this twisted farce, or himself for once believing every word of it.

Mogi, the hulk of the group, stood squat and thick, tall as a mountain, bulky of a mountain.

The giant was assured of his power and brute strength, and this logic prevented him from breaking his former leader's neck.

He was nonetheless assured by his mastery of karate, judo, and amateur wrestling that he could do so.

Growing up, Mogi had become the target of an insult that implied (if not outright stated) that the Japanese were both small upstairs as well as downstairs.

Years of work later, the last guy who had mocked him for his accent ended up having to be spoon fed corn mash for two weeks.

Aizawa, the goateed messenger of the tragic truth, stared at Light with a mixture of disgust, disbelief, and hostility: the pain was less severe compared to the others because he had been the first to suspect that the enemy was within his team.

Still, in that his anger had until then been repressed into controlled, disciplined rationality, it now looked as if it would take less than normal time to infuriate him beyond reason and sensibility.

Aizawa had been in Rwanda before, working as a United Nations peace-keeper: he had known bitter rage then, rage at seeing the most terrible things in the world happen right before your eyes mixed with the knowledge that you can't do a thing about it.

He could do something about this though, and he definitely would do something about this. Even if this included death.

Another group stared at a man they couldn't help but regard as the Devil, and while they were all from different lands, their sense of justice and proficient indignation united them.

Halle Lidner, an attractive blond Caucasian woman with amber eyes, stood like something both beautiful and grim, her gaze burning like a black sun.

She was young, but she was wise enough to be aware of her own impressionability: she knew that Kira, her first big case, would most likely darken the structure of her future.

Stephen Gevanni, a slightly older Italian with light skin and dark hair, stood rigid, ready to waste the group's depraved enemy.

Gevanni had worked an international soldier of SHIELD during the Third Balkan War back in the nineties, and not even the efforts of gods fashioned in the form of men could completely repel the senseless barbarism that Gevanni was unfortunate enough to witness.

He knew what people could do, and he knew what people were capable of. This kind of situation did not shock him in the least.

The second in command of the SPK, Anthony Rester, was also the oldest member of his group.

He deliberately stood only a few feet from his team leader, intending to protect him at all costs; Rester knew that his foes were brilliant and that they would know that if they attacked the head, the body would probably fall.

Thankfully, (or so I hope, he thought uncertainly) Rester had survived more than thirty years of leaping into fire headfirst and of putting his neck on the line, and he had learned how to better his odds during such times of danger.

His gray blue eyes bore hard into those of his targets, not out of irate malice, but out of gritty experience.

He had known evil during his life: he had known it as a boy, studying the sadists that tormented the student body (although they did not torment him, at least not after he dislocated Ben Hammet's shoulder); he had known it during the Salvadorian Civil War, he, a young, naïve bodyguard, his mind reeling with the knowledge that the heroes had been the villains the entire time, that the defenders of democracy and the foes of communism would willingly slaughter hundreds over their own; and he had known it while he investigated corporate crime on Wall Street and abroad, coming to the horrific conclusion that the criminals didn't regret a thing.

Somewhere in his fifties, Rester's hair was grayer than it had to be (he never did take it easier, like he had repeatedly promised his ex-wife), and his stomach carried a few pounds he didn't need (a consequence stemming from frequent dinners of beer and pizza on assignments).

Still, he was undoubtedly the most experienced and skilled detective of his team, and even if his boss never mentioned it aloud, Rester knew that he was proficiently appreciated.

L's last, direct prodigy, Near, sat on his hands and knees, as was his custom.

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