I, Ligeia

1. the will, which dieth not

Her face breaks through the surface of the water, her lashes clumped together and her hair falling back in a heavy curtain.

She parts her blue lips and struggles for breath. It's not a graceful display, nothing like the pictures in those silly magazines. Her eyes are still blind and hazy. She's choking on everything, her small body heaving in an attempt to expel all the water that had seeped into all the deep parts of her lungs. Her nails scrabble numbly against slick porcelain just to find something to ground her. The bathwater overflows and spills out as she heaves herself up and over the edge of the tub, still sputtering, water trailing from her mouth, her nose, her eyes.

She wretches onto the floor a few more times before she can manage a single, harsh breath.

She peers wearily at the white tiles beneath her, smacking a wet hand down for balance. Her hand slips forward a bit against the slippery surface when she puts weight on it, followed by a tiny plastic clatter. Thick blonde hair falls around her face in sodden clumps.

What, she thinks, still too breathless for words.

She sinks back into the water. Her eyes are clearer now, and her rasping breaths come steady. She sits up in the tub and looks down at herself.

What is going on? she wonders, smoothing a palm over all the parts of her body not submerged. Her skin is pale as milk, smooth and still warm from the steam. She reaches to her hair and brings a strand forward. Blonde?

There are two things wrong with this. Firstly, her hair isn't blonde. It's a deep, inky black.

Secondly, it's impossible for her to have a body with this much vitality, this much will to live, because she's already dead. In fact, she literally just died.

Although…

She lifts a sluggish hand to her face and turns it over in the air. She looks at the bloodless skin; it's a little wrinkled from the water, a little puffy. Bloated.

Perhaps so did you. Whoever you are.

She looks around, and indeed, next to the tub is a small white container rolling on its side, tiny pills scattered around it. On the corner of the tub, by her head, is a tall bottle of vodka. The dregs lingering at the bottom of the bottle are a bright pink. Raspberry flavoured, the label proclaims proudly.

Thorough. You must have really wanted it, she thinks to herself. Hope you're happy with how things worked out. I thought I'd wanted it too, once.

But she doesn't anymore, hasn't for a long time, and she figures that's why she's here now and the girl who used to have this body isn't.

A glance at the mirror shows her a sweet face with round doe eyes, blonde hair curling wildly over her cheekbones. She's thin and soft and perky all over. She's pretty. Even what she's just gone through doesn't dull her charm; the sickly pallor, the harrowed look, it only evokes the tender sentiment you might feel towards a small, injured animal. She would have been fine with most anything—beggars can't be choosers—but this is really something.

She doesn't apologize for being here, in the body of a dead girl. She isn't sorry. But…

In the rushing silence, a faint, hoarse voice resounds.

"Thank you."

She brushes her damp hair and pads around in only a plush bathrobe. It's not tied shut; seeing her own body stretching and moving out of the corner of her eye is an indescribable comfort.

She inspects all the nooks and crannies of the bedroom, curious and excited about everything. This is her room now. She wants to know everything, wants to know all the crosses and skulls, the little coffin in the corner, the heavy drapes and checkered floor. The short bookcase and all its books, the bed and its beastly plushies, the television.

There's a poster of herself on the wall, and magazines strewn about with her face on them.

She's a model. She's not surprised at all.

I'm going to be living here from now on, she thinks with a little thrill. Living.

She finds a diary on the desk. It's open, and there are already words written on the page. It's dated for December 3rd—today's date, she supposes.

The entry isn't so much a suicide note as a furious series of expletives. In sharp, heavy scrawl, the author curses the man who had ruined her life, dedicating half a page to him before moving onto cursing at his immoral lawyer, the wishy-washy judge, the sheep-like jury who wouldn't charge the man already, the stupid public who had begun to doubt his guilt, the incompetent police who couldn't provide clear enough evidence to lock him away, her own failure of a lawyer who couldn't even convict an obvious murderer. And then she curses herself, for being unable to bring to justice the monster who had murdered her parents and little brother, for being useless. For being weak enough to want to see them, even though he's still walking free.

Well, no wonder you wanted it so bad. The thought isn't without sympathy, but it isn't enough to kill her good mood, either. Don't worry. I'll deal with this man for you, somehow. Just leave it to me.

She flips through the diary, going backwards through the entries. It's a treasure trove of information—her personality, her likes and dislikes, important past events, names of the people around her, even her passwords—it's all there for the taking. There's even an agenda section that labels her entire schedule for the foreseeable future. Slipping into her new life will be a seamless process, as easy as anything.

She reaches the end. The inside of the cover is blank, except for a doodled heart and a single name—her new name. It's familiar somehow, but she doesn't care to think why.

No matter. She has lots of things to do, and not enough time to do them all. It's all very exciting.

First—

"Nice to meet you," Amane Misa tries, smiling her sweetest smile. "I'm Misa-Misa!"

She has an audition to prepare for.

"You did good work today," says Yoshi, Misa's manager. She's a stern woman, angular glasses perched on an upturned nose and dark hair pulled back in a severe way. It seems to Misa that the woman doesn't seem to know how to make an expression that isn't stern. As a manager, she's a good fit for Misa, who tended to be a bit flighty and occasionally susceptible to fits of whimsy. This is, in fact, still true of Misa now. "You haven't been so full of life since—well. It's refreshing. I'm sure you'll get the part."

Misa beams, a flash of pearl-white teeth between pink lips. "Thanks Yoshi! I know I've been down for a while, but from now on, I'm going to do my best. So cheer Misa-Misa on, okay?"

"Of course," replies Yoshi briskly, all business. She narrows her eyes a little and gives Misa a searching look. "Did something happen? You're not dating someone, are you? You know you have to be careful with that kind of thing, lest it ruin your prospects."

"No way!" Misa lets out a tinkling laugh, her eyes alight with the brilliant glimmer of something unknowable. "Nothing like that. It's just… recently, I feel like I've been given a new lease on life. Somehow, I just think everything is going to turn out okay."

"Yes, you… That's right. With everything going on these days, it might well do so." Yoshi makes an expression like she finds the topic uncomfortable, but her face is suffuse with a strange understanding. Misa has no idea what is being understood, but she's happy enough to let the subject slip between their fingers like sand.

It's several days before Misa, too, understands what her manager was talking about.

It's early evening, and she's walking around alone, looking nothing like herself. The gothic, lolita, alternative look—that's what she wears when she's being Misa-Misa. In her free time, when she's just Misa, she prefers wearing a different genre of person. Certainly the disguise is useful (after all, she's a little famous) but she mostly does it just because it's fun. This body is so pretty that she looks good in anything; it'd be a true shame not to take advantage of that.

The concept today is modern Yamato Nadeshiko. She's rifled through her suitcase and put together the mildest looking outfit she could manage, something soft and girlish. The long black wig suits her well, makes her feel a pang of familiarity. It's such a stark difference from how Misa-Misa usually looks that even her close friends wouldn't be able to recognize her.

The evening is soft on her skin. Even though she's deep within the belly of Tokyo, this particular street moves with an almost languid tide at this time of day. There are businessmen hurrying home, their ties loose around their necks, and students wandering around, some still in rumpled uniforms, but there are few enough people that everyone keeps a respectable distance from everyone else. No one does more than give her a glance or two, or sometimes three or four. No one tries to stop her, or talk to her.

She's not Misa-Misa right now. She's just another lovely girl walking alone at night.

Misa does a little hop over the curb as she crosses the sidewalk, and her skirt flutters around the ankles of her boots. As she breathes out, a white cloud swells from her lips. It's peaceful. Not that she doesn't appreciate the live-wire bustle of the day, but this kind of leisurely pace isn't bad every now and then.

She steps into a convenience store for a spot of warmth. Having been chauffeured around from place to place this past week, she's almost forgotten how cold December can be. Misa looks around the shelves and considers buying a hot drink, maybe a snack, when, out of the corner of her eye, she notices a group of guys loitering near the cooler. This in itself isn't such an issue, only that they're all looking at her and nudging each other.

She peers up through thick lashes and glances over to them. They're young, likely in the last years of high school, but not wearing any sort of uniform. They aren't the ordinary sort she usually sees coming up to her in groups, the nervous students who prod each other until one of them becomes emboldened enough to make a pass—rather, these boys look like budding criminals, punks who only know how to be angry and coarse and needlessly violent. It's already a pain dealing with any man's clumsy attempts at flirting and then his subsequent injured pride, and going through the motions with a bad-tempered delinquent sounds even more annoying. Somehow Misa gets the feeling a sweet smile and an apology wouldn't be the end of it.

Maybe she's misjudging them. Maybe they're all hiding hearts of gold under their scratched knuckles and sullen scowls and illegal tattoos. Still, none of them are cute enough for her to bother finding out.

Before any of the guys get the chance to approach her, she turns with a swish of her skirt and exits the convenience store. She hears the doors stay silent behind her for a long while, and her pace slows a little.

When she's gone down a block, she glances at the dark window of a storefront, sees her reflection on the glass.

The group is following her. They're at a decent distance and they're meandering casually enough that she could mistake it as a coincidence, but—well, they're still looking.

It's difficult being this cute, she muses, her expression unruffled. And then, without much real intent, Maybe I should have gone for a more average look.

But she's still filled with admiration with every glance in the mirror, and she can't bear to allow her beauty to suffer a single injury—and so she lets loose that string of thought and it floats away, formless. This body is a blessing and if she must handle a few inconveniences to keep it, then so be it.

Misa continues to amble down the same sidewalk, her strides easy but long. She takes no detours, doesn't take a single step away from this stretch of pavement. It's not busy right now, but it's still a big street—why would she leave the safety of bright lights and the public eye for dim alleys or questionable shortcuts?

Every time she passes another reflective surface, she sees the distance shrinking. She has to do something soon if she's going to avoid this confrontation. Entering one of the open shops is tempting, but Misa doesn't fancy being caged in a small space if they follow her in. If she goes anywhere, it has to be somewhere they wouldn't want to step foot in. Somewhere with lots of people to shield her.

Coming up on her left is a large, square building with a glass entrance. There are a number of high schoolers in casual wear milling outside of its doors, gossiping and complaining about some entrance exam or another.

A cram school.

Misa scans the stream of students exiting the building as she approaches, making eye contact with one sturdy-looking guy after another. The first stares back at her far too eagerly, his body turning towards her; the next turns beet red and drops his eyes away as if burned; the third puffs out his chest and then stumbles over his own feet. There is a brief commotion as a crowd of chattering girls push him out of the way.

Then another boy exits the building. He has broad shoulders, and is taller and prettier than all of his peers: in short, a promising candidate.

She looks at the fourth boy until he looks back. He placidly meets her eyes with a gaze as aloof as the moon itself, and then slowly looks away, disinterested but not rude.

Misa smiles a little to herself.

Without preamble, she picks up her feet and flies over to the pretty boy's side. More natural than anything, she clutches his arm to her chest and smiles up at him as sweetly as she dares.

"Darling, you ended earlier than I expected," Misa says, peering up at his bemused face. Her smile grows a little more, and she begins to chatter loudly, "Did you rush out because you thought I might be waiting in the cold? You're really too sweet! It is pretty cold though, I won't lie. Can we go inside for a while so I can warm up? My hands are freezing, here, feel them!"

Without a lick of embarrassment, she shoves one of her icy hands into the pocket of his coat, where his own hand is already an inhabitant. The boy doesn't flinch away, but it's a near thing. "Cold, right?"

In the bright glass windows, she can make out the vague figures of her followers. They are slowing, but their approach hasn't stopped. Her fingers curl towards his palm, and she begins to draw figures against his warm skin.

The boy's eyes trail up away from her face, drift over her head. His confusion—which only barely manages to cut through his disdain—drops from his face like a stone, and something harder takes its place.

"You're freezing," he agrees, all of a sudden. He begins to move back towards the cram school, still not addressing the way she clutches him with too much familiarity. "I'm sure the teachers won't mind if we stay inside for a bit. It's not like we'll be bothering the other classes."

"You're the best!" Misa beams at the boy and lets him pull her along. What a quick-witted guy. Her finger doodles an absent-minded 'thank you' over his palm, and, hidden in the pocket of his coat, his hand folds over hers in acknowledgement.

They move away from the clear glass entrance and towards the elevator. The person at the front desk gives them a nod and the boy responds with a little wave. He punches in the third floor, and the elevator doors slide shut in front of them.

After a beat, Misa slips her hand out of the boy's pocket and releases his arm all at once. She puts a little distance between their fused bodies and gathers her hands in front of her skirt. Her saccharine grin gentles, becomes mild. "You really saved me there."

"It was nothing," he says kindly, his brown eyes sincere. "I just did what was right."

"It wasn't nothing," she insists, picking up the swing of her new role. It's easy because her concept is already set: a Yamato Nadeshiko type would be thankful and sweet. Misa is young and spunky, so she allows herself a bit of stubbornness as well. "If you hadn't helped, a lot of things could have happened. I could even call you a hero and it wouldn't really be wrong."

He blinks, and then looks at her with an amused face, brows high and mouth tilted. It's a disarming look, and it's annoyingly charming. "I'm hardly a hero. Anyone would have done the same."

"But it wasn't anyone who did it, it was you," Misa says. She touches her fingers to his arm and leans in a bit closer. Her eyes go wide and dewy, a touch starstruck. "That's enough to make you my hero."

He smiles demurely, but his eyes gleam with a curious light. "I suppose."

The elevator chimes then with a little ding to let them know they've reached their destination. The doors open to a large, brightly lit room. A TV is playing quietly in the background, set to some news channel she isn't familiar with because she doesn't watch the news. There are couches arranged carefully near the television, but they're devoid of people.

"What's on the third floor?" Misa asks curiously, moving away before her touch begins to seem improper. The boy shoots her a bemused look—she's stepping out before she even finishes the question. Clearly the answer isn't important enough to wait for.

Still, his answer comes in an even tone. "A view and a snack bar. We might be in for a bit of a wait. Fancy some gourmet chips?"

"Are you saving me from hunger now?" Unbidden, a small giggle escapes Misa. "My hero."

"You were serious!" She can't suppress a peal of laughter at the crinkly bag in her hands. In bold white letters, the package proudly proclaims itself, 'Gourmet Potato Chips: Iberian Ham Flavor'. The chips really are gourmet.

"I'm always serious," the boy says seriously. As he peers between the slats of the blinds, a small quirk at the corner of his mouth betrays him.

"Oh, of course," she replies, just as serious. "Can't go around telling people jokes. What would happen to your reputation?"

"It'd become a laughingstock," he agrees grimly. The pun has her pressing her hand against her mouth to muffle another laugh.

How gap moe, she thinks, her insides bubbling with mirth.

Glancing away from the window, the boy reaches for the bag still in her hands and pulls the top open. "These are pretty good, in fact," he tells her, taking a chip for himself. "You may as well try some."

Misa tries one. As promised, it's good, just the right combination of salty and umami and a tad spicy. Still hugging the bag to her chest, she wriggles her way between the boy and the window, slotting her head under his chin. He leans back a fair bit to give her room, but his body remains folded loosely around her, his eyes gazing with laser focus down at the road.

"Are they still out there?" She peers out through another gap between the blinds.

"Yes."

She sees them. They're gathered across the street, piled together in the mouth of an alley, watching the entrance of the building like wolves on the hunt. These guys don't look like they're about to leave any time soon.

Misa sticks another chip into her mouth, and between crunches, she asks, "Can we call the police?"

"They haven't done anything criminal; I don't know if the police would bother to come at all." The boy reaches around her to snag another chip, his arm pressing lightly against her in a temporary embrace. "Do you know any of them?"

She leans away from the window, towards the heat of his body. "No. They've been following me at a distance from the nearest convenience store. I haven't even heard them speak."

"It might be best if you never go to that particular store in the future. It seems to be a hot-spot for unsavory types." Misa can't see the boy's face, but his voice sounds a little queer, and it dissuades her from further questions. She just nods, her hair brushing against his neck.

"Okay."

He backs away from the window, and her skin cools at the loss of him. Misa turns to look at his face, wondering if the strangeness in his voice will be reflected there, but it is as kind and calm as before. "Do you have anyone who can come pick you up right now?" At the shake of her head, he makes an expression as if he had expected that, and continues, "Then, first let's call a taxi."

Obediently, she brings out her phone and begins to search for the number in her contacts. As she puts the phone to her ear, he says, "Tell them to have a taxi arrive at this address in exactly thirty minutes."

She does so. Once the operator hangs up, she looks expectantly at the boy again. She doesn't mind letting him take the reins; it means the situation will be resolved for her, and she doesn't have to do any thinking. That's a pretty good state of affairs, in her opinion.

"In thirty minutes, the next class lets out," he tells her, looking calm and sure. "You can let the crowd hide you until you get the car. It should be safe then."

"I'm sorry," Misa says, knowing that she's gotten him stuck in a situation that has nothing to do with him. She's not particularly regretful, because someone has to help her and it might as well be him, but she understands that it must be inconvenient. "You must have other things to do, and yet…"

"It's fine, it's just more studying. I can do that while we wait."

"Thank you," she says again. Misa looks at him, searching his expression, his eyes, but she can't spot the lie. Either he means it, or he's a very, very good liar. Being a very good liar herself, she knows not to assume it's not the latter.

The boy considers her, too. Their eyes meet. He gives her half of a jaunty smile and says, "I'm Light."

The name strikes her as familiar and odd, but realization doesn't happen immediately. She only tilts her head a bit and says, "That's such a pretty name. I've never met anyone named Light before."

"Neither have I," he replies wryly. He tilts his own head down towards Misa and looks at her through his long lashes, his gaze soft in the dim light. He's very good-looking, and if she's not reading him wrong, he knows it well.

She appraises his face for a long moment, not starstruck but definitely appreciative. In the background, the sound of the TV fills the rising silence. "It has been one week since the ICPO broadcast. The NPA has released an official statement confirming their new cooperation with the famous detective L, and assures the general public that the case will be solved—"

When the silence between them begins to verge on heavy, Light prompts, "And you are?"

"Oh," Misa says, as she tears her eyes away from his pretty face. She glances instead at the dark window behind him. "Right, I haven't introduced myself."

Perhaps it's her imagination, but there appears to be a face in the window, pale and distorted by the thick glass; its nose is squashed and its mouth thick and dark. Misa's lashes flutter when the face pushes through the pane of glass and reveals itself to be attached to a towering, humanoid beast with long, skeletal limbs and gleaming red eyes. Neither shock nor fear come shivering across her face. She is an adept actress; it will take more than this to break her character.

The demon glances at her only briefly before its unnatural eyes narrow in on the boy in front of her. Misa looks away from the beast and back to Light, who is still waiting on her reply. She may be the renegade soul, but it appears that the demon isn't here for her. He's here for Light.

As lightly as she can manage, Misa says, "I'm—"

"I'm bored, Light. If you're late in writing names, won't L think something's up?" the creature rasps out. Light does not react to its presence and neither does Misa, but that doesn't mean that she isn't affected by it.

Being a dead creature herself, perhaps it's only fitting that the realization finally comes now; not at her own name, or at Light's introduction, or at the mention of L on the news, but rather at the shinigami hovering over the boy's shoulder like an indictment. At Ryuk.

Misa's name melts on her tongue, reshapes into something else. "—Nadeshiko."

"Nice to make your acquaintance, Nadeshiko," says Light, his smile boyish and charming.

"You too," Misa says, beaming sweetly at him. "Light."

Misa understands what her manager was talking about now.

Kira.

This changes everything.

Through impossible odds and unknown means, she's found herself in this body. This body, full of beauty and vitality, with many years of life yet to live. There is no way she is going to allow some megalomaniac obsessed with godhood to tear it all away from her.

Now, if only she could remember more about Death Note than its ending.

Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.

Notes:

Aaa I don't know. It's a thing I made while procrastinating late papers. Several different papers. On multiple occasions. All late. Haha. Yes, I wrote this instead of something else, like one of the stories I have up. I'm also posting this instead of working on a 5 day late paper. haha...

There's no reason L isn't one of the characters tagged. He's in here, although I also don't know how much. But he is.