Everyday My Fingers Are a Gun
May. 12th, 2018 09:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hearthebell posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
lyingmonsterboxWho: L and Light
What: Another supernatural entity has joined forces with Light, and a 5-year sentence looms to add insult to the injury of L's defeat.
When: After Watari's death and L's "death"
Where: Japan
Warnings: If you're here you don't care.
If there ever was any such thing as true justice, free from the expectations and definitions that mortals attempted to impose on it, maybe this was it. L, a man who had never prioritized playing fair, was compromised, locked into a situation that he was powerless to change, all because of something he couldn't control.
Would it have been better or worse than dying at the hands of the shinigami? Than dying at the hands of Kira?
The impulse had existed since the beginning of the end. High-minded ideas unraveled into tempting visions: a fox gnawing off its foot to escape a trap, a moment of weightless flight before hitting pavement, going to the apartment's kitchen for something sharp that could be turned on his captor or himself. Visions were where all such possibilities remained, leaving L stripped of his title and his agency to sit stupidly in place. What he longed for had become inaccessible to him, and he was denied even that final, most desperate and shameful escape route, because Light, in the end, didn't take the victory that would kill him. He took the one that would spare him for at least five more years, enough time to break even a human whose life deviated from the rest of his species to the point where he might not have mentally included himself in their number at all.
Maybe he was already broken. Maybe the thought of hurting himself at all to flee this domestic prison meant he'd already succumbed to the ultimate humiliation. The world believed he yet lived, and his task force believed he was dead and buried like Watari, and the truth was somewhere in the middle. Limbo was what he inhabited now, alongside his nemesis and obsession but incapable of striking back.
Hours had passed. The television droned its white noise in the background, cycling through the courtroom dramas and soap operas and game shows before the evening news and the prime time shows. Light would be home soon. Light would have a day's worth of work to feel good about, working as L and Kira. All L had was the stubborn truth he had refused to stop chasing, and a few white crescents on his palm where his fingernails could dig into the skin but froze short before they could draw blood.
What: Another supernatural entity has joined forces with Light, and a 5-year sentence looms to add insult to the injury of L's defeat.
When: After Watari's death and L's "death"
Where: Japan
Warnings: If you're here you don't care.
If there ever was any such thing as true justice, free from the expectations and definitions that mortals attempted to impose on it, maybe this was it. L, a man who had never prioritized playing fair, was compromised, locked into a situation that he was powerless to change, all because of something he couldn't control.
Would it have been better or worse than dying at the hands of the shinigami? Than dying at the hands of Kira?
The impulse had existed since the beginning of the end. High-minded ideas unraveled into tempting visions: a fox gnawing off its foot to escape a trap, a moment of weightless flight before hitting pavement, going to the apartment's kitchen for something sharp that could be turned on his captor or himself. Visions were where all such possibilities remained, leaving L stripped of his title and his agency to sit stupidly in place. What he longed for had become inaccessible to him, and he was denied even that final, most desperate and shameful escape route, because Light, in the end, didn't take the victory that would kill him. He took the one that would spare him for at least five more years, enough time to break even a human whose life deviated from the rest of his species to the point where he might not have mentally included himself in their number at all.
Maybe he was already broken. Maybe the thought of hurting himself at all to flee this domestic prison meant he'd already succumbed to the ultimate humiliation. The world believed he yet lived, and his task force believed he was dead and buried like Watari, and the truth was somewhere in the middle. Limbo was what he inhabited now, alongside his nemesis and obsession but incapable of striking back.
Hours had passed. The television droned its white noise in the background, cycling through the courtroom dramas and soap operas and game shows before the evening news and the prime time shows. Light would be home soon. Light would have a day's worth of work to feel good about, working as L and Kira. All L had was the stubborn truth he had refused to stop chasing, and a few white crescents on his palm where his fingernails could dig into the skin but froze short before they could draw blood.
