Disclaimer: Characters and affiliated material belong to Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. No profit is made off this.

The soul of wit may become the very body of untruth. –Aldous Huxley

Deify

It is year 2010. Kira's name is on the headlines again, on my father's newspaper. Saturday morning, all seems normal and pleasant. Who would imagine earlier that day before dawn someone from my school had suffered a gruesome and violent death, now splayed on the front page of the morning paper? The sun is brilliant, undeterred by the few languid cirri lounging in the sky. Sunrays stream through the kitchen window and across the eating area. Mom finally sits down to eat her breakfast muttering a gentle itadakimasu. Dad has the newspaper upright, his whole upper body hiding behind it. Mom frowns at that, having already told him to put it down when breakfast is served.

The headlines are in bold black font, to the left of my face. It's been Kira-related nearly every day for weeks. Kira has finally been captured, the one who started it all: Light Yagami, young Japanese national—too young. A prodigy and perfect paragon of what every patriotic Japanese man wants to be (I scoff at the charlatanry). No other information is being released by the United States government—which has achieved what the famous acclaimed super-detective L did not.

Kira no longer holds sway over the actions of men around the globe. The string of fear-conditioning deaths is finally curtailed. But hardly stopped. His followers continue his work, less thought-out, more sloppy and dangerous and terrible than the original. I'm not surprised. Even his name, Kira, is anathema to life itself.

My toast turns to ash in my mouth. I swallow with distaste and glance one last time at father's newspaper.

PRO-KIRA GROUP KILLS FELLOW STUDENT

That fellow student and those Kira followers go to my college. A whimsically delinquent act in another's part had been determined "criminal", so they cornered him and stoned him to death—biblical and barbaric. And that's all it takes. Young people don't understand evil, could judge it even less, and without Kira around, his followers are getting out of hand. They think they're keeping their "messiah's" legacy alive.

Reading this, so much stored information resurfaces. In the news, in Ireland, the deadly conflict between Protestants and Catholics—heard three innocent children were burned alive in their home by a Catholic extremist. In America, a pair of Christian boys battered a gay student from their school to death with baseball bats.

It's common knowledge that in the Middle-East boys throw stones and homemade grenades at tanks running down their home's streets, aspiring to be militia when they're older—unless they already are—then turned into terrorists and suicide bombers in the name of God. Saw a documentary back in highschool about the Gaza Strip where children on their way to or from school got caught in a crossfire erupting between the Hamas and Israeli soldiers. I watched a thirteen-year old boy on a stretcher surrounded by medics scream in pain, crying a stream of tears as he died. Next thing he was quiet, face blue, parents wailing in agony over him. Never seen something so real on television in my life—imagine, seeing someone you love die like that in front of you. I had almost puked.

Amidst this religiously conflicted world, what did Kira accomplish by killing criminals? Only added one more type of hate/ethical-crime and brainwashed more idiots as if there weren't enough terrorism, oppression and death over phony gods in this world.

My food doesn't go down well. To some people, like dad, this is just unfortunate news happening in another place far from home—someone else's problem. To me, these things are real, around me, their happening at my doorstep, people breathing my air are committing these atrocities—this is my problem.

And those pro-Kira fools, what did they hope to accomplish at campus? Turn everyone into perfect saints on the surface? Turn this system into a dictatorship where men cannot evolve naturally? Must we follow the ignorant doctrine of delusional fools, or die?

I stand up, ignoring the inquiring looks of my parents.

"Taro?"

My mother's voice holds concern. I shake my head to assuage it and make some lame excuse to leave the table. She buys it and dad goes back to his reading. After grabbing my coat from the racket near the door and slipping into my shoes messily strewn on the genkan, I step out my front door. Not a step past it, my cell-phone vibrates in my pocket. A college mate texted me, he wants to go drinking with a few of our friends. I think that might be a good idea, a distraction. I text back my response and head over to the nearest bus stop.

Outside is really quiet; not a soul on the streets, barely any vehicles go by. At the bus stop, a very old, small man is sitting on the bench beneath the shelter. He has a dull metal cane on which his hands rest, propped up in front of his somber face, between his shaky knees. Despite his slight quivering, he's rod-straight, arrogantly so. Defiant of his age, as if he were completely unaware that his body is frail; firmly certain of his immortality.

Like all elderly, he wears a windbreaker and khaki chino pants. His white hair is gelled back. I'm not very close as I approach the bus stop, maybe six meters, but whatever sharp instincts he had in his youth must not be so rusty because he looks up and trains his sight on me unwaveringly until I am standing right next to him.

My first impression of him is that he's the war-veteran type who loves to tell stories and complain about the government to the nearest person. I feel a little annoyed because I prefer to be left alone. No one ever has anything interesting to say. I stand there wondering if I should join him at the bench. It might look like an invitation.

He surprises me with, "Quite dawdling like a lame ass and sit. I'm not going to whack you over the head with it." He gestures at his cane. "Although that might pump some neuron activity by the look of you."

Too stunned by his bluntness, I simply sit down next to him. It's kind of tense now.

"You're not one of those are you?" the old man asks, eyeing my choice of habiliments.

My wardrobe went Goth recently—not hard core, I'm not really into any fashion, but black cargo pants, shirts labeled with rocker artistry, black jackets and thick chains are just comfortable.

Or maybe it's the reaper's influence. The reaper I met six years ago. The reaper that changed my life. He disappeared for years and only just recently returned for no reason, other than to hang around me often. Thankfully he's not around at the moment. He's very talkative and demanding of attention, like a small child, and has an irritating chuckle. He would have made it awkward for me under the keen scrutiny of the old man.

"Sorry, sir, one of those?"

"Kira-worshippers. Lunatics. You one of those?"

"No. Not at all."

"Young pampered boobs wouldn't know the first thing about a cruel world, yet here they go judging things they couldn't begin to understand should they live to see my age."

Smirking, I feel a smartass comment surfacing. "Thought at your age you come to understand a lot? Isn't that what old people always say?"

"No," the old man answers in a clipped tone. "Not even close. Idiots are everywhere, in every nation, every town, of every age, and they make up the majority. Can't escape them. Don't let other granddaddy-tokey-brains feed you all that hogwash about experience earning you wisdom. Not a bit of it! Experience and true knowledge together, perhaps, depends, but either of those alone will only doom you to flawed judgment, bad decisions, and despair."

I raise my eyebrows. "Touché."

"What?"

Smiling politely, I reply patiently, "Means you make a good point."

The old man snorts. "Of course. Look around you!" He waves an arm at the quiet lane with perfectly painted suburban houses. "Everyone—young, old, women, men—all discontent, bored, soulless shells living life as told. And then they'll age in a blink of an eye, die, and then what? What was their time on Earth worth, I ask? Wisdom? Knowledge? None of that anywhere! No matter how much of a smartass you sound like, no matter what titter-patter they feed you at school. You're doomed to ignorance and bad decisions."

Up until that last comment I had been giggling inside over his odd choice of words—tokey-brains; titter-patter—but it sobers me. No matter what, you're doomed? What a pessimist.

I remain silent because I disagree with him. That cannot be all there is to life. I don't know much about science, history or mythology, I follow no religion, but I don't think the universe is so meaningless. I think it's just our decision—humanity as a whole—that is wrong. Something must have happened in our pre-historic past to cause our present circumstance, something that wasn't supposed to happen. It's a gut feeling and I trust it—after all, the world cannot be this fucked up for no reason.

I also feel like something big is about to happen. Kira was just a warning gale, towing the greatest storm we'll ever see.

The old man moves one of his hands to rest beside his hip where I notice today's paper. Ah. It's clear now, why he's so angry at young people and Kira.

"You know," I start to say, not knowing why. Boredom maybe, but the old man brought up an interesting point. "Maybe it's because of that, what you just said about people being doomed to discontentment, maybe that's why they need something greater than they, something powerful to hold on to. Aren't religions all the same, made for that purpose? How's Kira's posse any different?"

He glances at me funny. He looks like he's making a show of considering my words. He's a weird, quaint little old fellow. I think I like him.

"That makes it right?" he challenges me.

"Didn't say that. I completely agree with you on that point. Just that it's the excuse people need."

"There's no such thing as excuses. See this area around me, boy? You're sitting in it."

I frown in confusion. "Um, yeah. What about it?"

"It's a bullshit-free zone."

Laughter bubbles out on its out. I try to contain it but I end up snorting it out through my nostrils. Yeah, I definitely like this old man.

"The Mesopotamians first did it," he says quietly. "The rest of the world followed. Civilization built on deception, and maintained by deception. Justified violence and conquest—and there is only one thing that could justify these actions by men. God. Doesn't make it right. Men or God."

"I understand that," I interject, "but not everyone has the mental and physical vivacity to learn further than what is needed to maintain a comfortable lifestyle. So because true knowledge is a commodity that takes up too much time and energy to acquire, with keeping a good job, paying bills and taxes, building a family, and so on, they need the notion of some powerful entity that protects them and issues justice when they are too weak and too busy to do so themselves. It also gives them the feeling that they understand this world—we all want to know why we're here and how we've come to exist. God's the easiest answer. Otherwise, life would be a depressing mystery. And Kira was a…well, how do I put this…a tangible God—so to speak. It's no wonder he's popular."

"Tut! Weakness is a decision—and just as easy to make as strength; just a matter of realizing it. Knowledge is not a commodity, you poodle-brain, it's a responsibility we all must adhere to as human beings. It is the sole guide of our decisions, small and great. Our decisions are important for the maintenance of the world as well as our own individual lives. And however individual you may perceive the distribution of life forms, they are part of a grander scheme which must not, I repeat, must not, turn for the worst. Countless murders everyday committed solely due to ignorance. Unhappiness born of oppression because the common man is indoctrinated, not educated. A perfect example of such a man: Kira. Is this justice? No. This is the result of neglecting that particular commodity, as you so witlessly put it.

"Now listen and don't interrupt," he continues. "The Mesopotamians started it—purportedly. All these civilizations and the ones to come after bordered themselves within the boundaries that a single common nucleus set for them." Here he strikes a finger into the air in front of my face for emphasis. "Deities. Men deified, men who were deified, for a single common purpose: dominion. That is the purpose of "gods". Not salvation. Though, it is a far more pleasant thing to tell someone you want to follow you. Is it not? No one wants to be conquered, everyone wants to be saved—therein, my boy, lies profit."

Much to my embarrassment, I goggle like a fish but quickly catch myself doing it and just end up staring wordlessly. I study political science and international relations, but I find myself without the wit to counter that argument.

Now that I hear him more carefully, he has a very succinct and eloquent way of speaking. I realize he must have been someone important. Highly intelligent, perfectly groomed. The way he holds his cane, the way he sits, he's at home with authority.

I mull over his words. He widened the perspective and made it sound so easy to understand, yet I am confounded with this new viewpoint.

"Kira was no fool," the old man says after a while. "Is not the very idea of an omnipotent being that 'should be' feared made clear? Is it so difficult to understand the nature of fear? The greatest device to achieve mass control! The U.S. has been doing it since the 911 attacks. Their hold over their people has tightened; their laws control more without the people's consent, and the people think it's to protect them. Hah! Wait a decade or two when it's too late, they'll regret that. Now our government is doing the same, taking advantage of the fear Kira instilled to tighten their hold on us!"

"That is true," I put in. "Even our education, our workplace, the media, and the streets are all closely monitored. And the government isn't even trying to hide that fact anymore. They say it is to flush out potential Kiras to prevent a repeat of the first, as well as to protect people from Kira fanatics. But they really are controlling everything we do, see and think. People, like my parents, agree that it's to keep them safe.

"With Kira, Japan almost turned into a theocracy," I add. "Now what is it turning into? A subtle totalitarian system? I study politics and at first I thought it was enough to understand the way our country is governed, but the further I tread down that path, the less I understand and the more I fear cannot be changed if people continue letting themselves be controlled by fear and running to hide behind the government's skirts every time there's a threat. Each time they do, they're less free than before. Even if safety is returned, their rights which they sold to get it are not."

The old man chuckles solemnly at my choice of words, nods and continues speaking of it. It chills my bones. "Like today, the earliest commander of tribes understood the true value and profit of fear. And like today, most people under his rule did not. As humanity evolved, grew more questioning and demanding of their world, and as a result more understanding and knowledgeable, these god-appointed rulers had to revamp their excuses for the doings of deities and their doctrines. Dogma and ritual became more sophisticated, kaleidoscopes of deceptions more potent.

"Rulers are no longer 'god-appointed' but 'people-appointed'—a myth all the same. Deities are a comfortable option. But the Law of Speciousness is as ever present as it was in the very first civilization, ever since the first man stopped beating his challengers with a club for dominion and discovered politics and religion as his greatest arms.

"And so 'righteous killings' continue, gods rise and fall, others remain, but the wars in their name persist all the same. People die for untrue ideas cobbled up by men who are supposed to have privileged education. People die for nothing. More people still, left behind by murdered loved ones carry the unbearable burden of their loss. For nothing…" His voice trails off at the last line as he looks down at the pavement, eyes profoundly sad with a far-away look, as if the last words he spoke meant something deeper, more personal to him.

His sauciness and the illusion of immortality are gone. All of a sudden he looks so ancient, fragile and weary that I'm afraid he'll fall dead then and there simply because he's tired of breathing. He must have been in his late eighties or nineties.

"What war did you fight?" I ask.

I'm struck certain he fought one. And he was an important man. Don't know what gives it away; his age, his words and speech, his energy, his dark memories all together maybe. My granddad is almost the same age, full of dark memories from World War II, except far more ignorant, senile, slouching away on the couch in front of a television, screams in his sleep sometimes. This old man sitting beside me still has a commanding aura about him, his memory is clear, his wit sharp.

"The most dishonorable one our people ever waged," he answers, confirming my suspicions. "We were once the allies of someone more evil and maniacal than Kira, but not very different. I was around your age then, a tender twenty-three; not a soldier but I worked for that war in worse ways. The fruit of my work? Well let's just say that is the reason the Tokyo Convention was passed."

"What's that? Sounds familiar."

"A safeguard for ethical standards in medicine. Not that it's much followed today, if you dig deep enough to know more than you should. We and the Germans undertook a new science we called racial hygiene. We wanted a biological solution for social problems. I'm sure it's no new news to you that we Japanese think ourselves superior to other Asiatic nations. Not that it makes us 'superior' but the fact is that we do have a little more Aryan in our genetic structure than other Asian groups. Hitler acknowledged it, stating that this influence in our blood is the reason we could rival the Germans in technology.

"For all his genius, he was a complete boob sometimes. Guess no one told him that in the ancient days while we and China were building advanced weapons and empires much like Rome in the West, his people, Celts called the Alemani, were just a bunch of yellow-headed barbarians."

He sighs tiredly, licks his dry, pruned lips and continues his story. "Terrible, the things we did; Japan and the Third Reich. The people we killed, the families we destroyed thinking we could save the world; fix the economy; make a better, cleaner future. Undergoing the lesser of two evils for the sake of the greater good. I truly believed that then. And that monster had been my idol—no; I had deified him. He was my savior. I wanted to be so much like him I'd weep because I never felt remotely close to touching his genius."

He turns his head towards mine and his eyes are no longer vibrant but defeated, despondent, glistening with tears. Tears probably as old as he is. How many decades did he live, regretting his life?

"I was not so different from Kira. The funny thing is Kira would have thought I deserve to die like all the other criminals he killed. He was too young to understand…how alike we are, Light Yagami and I."

I'm shocked into silence and look away contemplatively. The arrogance, the authority, the intellect, and the frailty of the old man, it all reminds me of the image of Light Yagami, his tragically young, handsome face on TV. The old man's features aren't grossly enlarged with age, and looking at his face more closely, I can see he must have been a very good-looking man in his youth. Yeah, guess he does remind me of young, dreadful Kira.

Is this what evil men turn into should they live to be this old? Torn to shreds with remorse, pessimistic, stricken with grief for their former victims.

He told me his "area" is a bullshit-free zone. I thought it had been a hilarious thing for a little old man to say. Now I think I know better. By the sound of it, he had been a doctor of sorts during the Second World War, had worked with Nazi medicine. Had killed people. For a cause he thought was correct.

Now he's a broken old man that refuses to let bullshit in his zone. He's had a lifetime's share of it.

The old man finds his voice again and says, "I killed out of hate for those I considered useless and inferior. I was promoted for it." He sighs, shakes his head and adds, "Light Yagami, that fool got himself killed because he garnered too much attention. He should have been more subtle. Things have changed, governments have become more powerful, their control is more absolute because over my lifetime governments finally cut their wisdom teeth, grew clever in their governing—Japan, Germany, Russia, Argentina, and yes even the U.S., and so on. They've all changed. Realized the best way to gain more control is not subjecting the masses to fear of punishment for undesirable behavior, but by encouraging favorable behavior with rewards and certain liberties. Comfortable options. There never was a democracy to fight for—it was a brutal dictatorship before, it's a scientific dictatorship now.

"Perhaps eighty, or even seventy years ago, Kira would have succeeded, but in this day and age the world stage has grown more intelligent, things like that have to be executed in secret, without the eye of the world on you. Fame destroys power, only in stealth and silence can you obtain control, and by the time the world notices it, it's too late. Heck, perhaps the reason Hitler failed was because he too made a grand show of things. Even so, alone, full of youth and ignorance, Kira could never have gotten far. Not in the twenty-first century."

"How do you know Light Yagami is dead? The papers didn't mention his execution. Just that he's been caught," I ask.

"I know. I'm government, boy. I know how they work. He's dead by now for sure. And whoever was with him, if they're not dead, they're wishing they are."

There was a pregnant pause. I think he might be right about that. I see the bus coming from a distance so I'm about to stand up to search for change in my back pocket when the old man sits me down with his words one last time.

"Governments are all secretly fascist in nature, schools indoctrinate instead of educate, professionals spout specious untruths, young geniuses are ignorant and violent, common folk look for gods instead of truth, youths follow madmen. Whether evil or good, Germany's Hitler, Japan's Yagami, South America's Che Guevara, Chile's Allende, United State's Kennedy, none ever had a chance to realize their ideal society. That's our world, boy. A Brave New World."

Well so much for my distraction, I think, while trying to find sleep. My talk with the old man toned down after that frightful and hopefully untrue warning. It became completely silent during the bus ride; the old man sat in his place for the elderly, and I went all the way to the back. After, I went to a sushi place with friends, we talked of our fellow schoolmates, the dead one and the ones going to prison, and of Kira some more. Thankfully, we changed subject pretty quickly. But all day, since reading dad's paper, there was, and is, only one trail of thought circulating in my mind, thanks to the old man at the bus stop.

Kira. Government. Society. Reapers.

No one knows how Kira killed. As crazy as it would have sounded once, telepathic powers is the generally favored theory among common folk. More logical ones prefer to say it was not one man but a powerful global network with super-nano-technology which they fed to their victims, and Light Yagami was just a face, maybe even framed. Some conspiracy theorists state that world-leading governments were behind it and others debate why would these governments be behind the murders of important criminals when governments use them; criminal organizations are a crucial part of the underground political system.

At this point in my life I am not about to dismiss any ideas, no matter how fantastical they might sound. Not with a history of having obtained a similar god-like phenomenal power once.

When I was fourteen, I had been the wielder of a reaper's notebook with the power to take lives simply by writing their names in it. Thought it was a diary when I picked it up on the street on my way home from school. The people whose names I wrote in it had died. And though I might not have Kira' genius, I had known a greater wisdom which that terrible cold intelligence had been doomed to neglect. I had burned the cursed thing. Perhaps Kira should have burned his curse as well, whether it had been a reaper's notebook or some other heinous thing which had unfortunately fallen into his hands.

I still have the death-eraser, which brought back those people I killed by erasing their names from those ghastly pages. It was given to me by the reaper who had dropped the notebook I picked up all those years ago (had been around the same time Kira first appeared, come to think of it). I don't know why I keep the eraser, it will hardly change anything. The murders committed by Kira and now his enraged followers cannot be brought back by cheap wizardry. I suppose the reason for keeping it is to remind me of that unjust power and what must be done with it. To remind me that I had killed people once, just like Kira, and Hitler, and the old man at the bus stop, and unlike all those men, I had been uniquely fortunate enough to be given a chance to undo those nauseating deeds, however unwitting they had been.

In a way, the feeble but tangible weight of the eraser in my pocket every day makes me feel secure. Like it can undo things. But I know that's a fallacy. I am deceiving myself with silly beliefs and icons, just like everyone else around me.

One day, when I am a stronger man, I will do away with the eraser. For now it is my guide. A reminder and a warning.

Ever since the incident with the death note, as the reaper calls it, my life changed. No one noticed so I suppose the changes are mostly internal. I question the things I see every day; the things people say and do, when before I simply took them for granted. These "things", the common things you see every day being done and said and thought, had just been there since I was born, part of life. Now I'm not so sure. You think you got the world figured out—then something like six years ago happens. Something like today at the bus stop.

Evil men can redeem themselves, human behavior changes, evolves—how can men evolve if their lives are cut short? True, they might never change, but that is a decision they have to make, no one else has the right to force it, not even phony gods. No man, prone to ignorance, anger and violence like all the rest, has the right to judge. And if one day a new world is built with a new humanity, it's because human beings worked for it together, as one, not in force but through growth.

I came to understand so much because of that old man, who has known evil first hand. Could he have opened the eyes of a young man if he had been killed for his deeds early on in life? Would I be here in bed pondering what is wrong with the world and looking for a real solution that doesn't involve killing?

Maybe that's what justice is about. Not vengeance but leaving men room to grow. Through experience and true knowledge together, perhaps, depends.

Depends on what? Guess I'll have to figure that out on my own.

There's so much to figure out. I want to know the purpose for the existence of reapers. Why do they get to choose who lives or dies? Why do they have the facility to give such terrible power to ignorant young boys, like me, for no good reason? Shouldn't there be a law against that? Like the universe should have some natural way of balancing that power.

There is so much to know. A trickier task is to understand the truth behind that which you come to know—so few people do. I sometimes think my mind will drown. Other times it's like a heavy beast is sitting on top my brain.

I wish I could go to some expert with this information. Perhaps a scientist, or historian, or mythologist? Someone who researches and doesn't just chuck it all up to some god.

I had the most eye-opening conversation with an arrogant, quirky old man harboring a dark past and remorse so profound I shiver just imagining it. And out of all the intelligent questions that should have risen out of that experience, all I can ask myself now is, why?

Maybe that's just an easy way to ask a million questions? Where to start answering?

Will I end up researching reapers my whole life? A feeling sweeps over me at the thought; something like a fresh breath of air filling my tattered lungs, rejuvenating me. Maybe that's not such a bad idea.

Knowledge. The old man said it's our responsibility as human beings. Our future depends on it. Maybe I'll find the truth about reapers, death and life, and be able to show it to the world? Maybe the world will change then? The more we know, the better decisions we make.

Just as I thought that, a dark, huge, elongated figure emerges through the wall of my bedroom that leads to the outside, as if that solid structure is nothing more than butter. It's dark, but I know who it is. I sit up in bed and turn on the soft lamplight on my bedside table.

There's an ever-present grin splitting the livid face of the reaper. His yellow eyes are saucer-round and uncaring. It's an ugly expression, like a skull's grin and deathly stare. But he has the answers I want and in spite his appearance he doesn't scare me anymore.

What better starting point for my life's research than the reaper who started it all.

"Hey, Ryuk. I have some questions."

"Heh. Sure."

[FIN]