Summary: L is an impostor. He is not Lawliet, the baggy eyed, sweets loving detective, but no one knows about the fraud. In fact, in the rest of the world's eyes, L is still L, working on the Kira case. There is only one Boy who knows that L is a phony, but he is confined in a prison by the impostor. After being beaten for hours upon hours for countless months, he struggles to remember his own identity. The phony L uses the boy for his genius, keeping his eye on Light and soon, Light's fate becomes intertwined with the strange Boy's. Can you solve the mystery before the Boy does? It is not what you are expecting.

Rating: Violent images and profanity.

There will be no pairings. Don't read this if you're searching for romance. Sorry =\. I probably lost half of you already, but whatever.

The Boy wandered, unsure of his destination. There was nothing to look forward to except the black abyss that awaited him. His legs moved independently, as if they had traveled this path hundreds of times before. But, the Boy did not know where he would end up. Heels clanked on the ground behind him. He was not alone on his journey, but he couldn't bring himself to turn back. The conspicuous follower taunted him to look, but he would not give in. Whoever, or whatever, was behind him no longer mattered. He was ahead of them for a reason.

Suddenly, the clanking ceased. Dead silence surrounded the Boy; the empty sound deafened him. He no longer could resist; he peered over his shoulder. There was not one follower, but several. Their faces were hollow with shallow, glazed eyes. They were zombies, watching his every move. And he realized he could not escape them.

Shaking, he turned back forward and began to run. The black abyss no longer frightened him, he just could not look back. The zombies were screaming for him, begging him to come back. Their pitiful shrieks soon became horrified gurgles. The Boy glanced back one last time. Each of the zombie's faces were melting. The skin on their cheeks peeled from their faces and their yellow eyes bulged from their skin. Some of their fate came slower than others. A woman, whose stomach bulged with a child, grabbed her neck, wailing as her comrades fell. An older gentleman with a small gray mustache bowed his head, awaiting his own fate.

All around them, the zombies melted into crimson pools. It stained the pregnant woman's dress, until she finally sank into the puddle and became part of it. The pool became a river, which started to charge at the Boy. He turned, trying to run, but his legs gave way. They wouldn't listen as he tossed his body forward. He collapsed, crawling on his hands and knees. The river rushed toward him; it moaned as it got closer. Breathing heavily, the Boy realized there was nothing he could do.

A strange hand suddenly reached out to him. He frantically grabbed it and was yanked up, only to come face to face with a tall, lanky boy. His pitch black eyes were swollen from lack of sleep. He did not appear to be dead, like the others, but the Boy half expected him to melt. He was fragile and thin; his cheek bones jutted out from his face. He moved his lips, but no words came out.

"What?" the Boy tried to say, only to find he was silent, too.

The river raged closer, but it didn't matter anymore. The Boy wanted it to come. He couldn't stand looking at the man in front of him; he needed to escape him. It didn't matter where the river would take him or if he would drown. The Boy backed away from the man and stretched out his arms. Crimson water poured over his body, consuming him.

Something singed the Boy's chest. His eyes snapped open as he cried out. Gasping, he stared down at the new hole in his chest. It was a perfect crimson circle with a disgusting auburn color in the middle. It nearly matched the scab next to it. After a few seconds of unbearable pain, it began to die down. Thankfully his pain tolerance had sky rocketed, but the reason for this was not too pleasant. He glanced around at the white room, trying to ignore his own blood splatters painting parts of it. This place had been his prison for too long. He couldn't tell what month, season or even year it was. The days blended together when there was no sun to tell time. And his captor refused to give him a calender and clock.

His captor. The Fiend. The Boy decided that the Fiend's goal was to drive him insane, while maintaining his intelligence. Most mornings-or whenever the Boy woke up-the Fiend would force him to do several different logical puzzles. After, he would leave him alone for hours, sometimes days. The days when he left were the Boy's only times of solitude. He could finally just think. He would practice memory tricks and go through various facts to try and keep his sanity. The Boy worked desperately attempting to recover any ounce of his identity, but it somehow slipped through his finger. He couldn't even remember how he managed to forget, or when. He trembled as he thought about it.

"You're awake," a cool, smooth voice suddenly spoke from the doorway. The Boy's stomach dropped. "I tried to wake you up, but you just groaned and kept on sleeping. I guess it just took a few minutes. Maybe you were in a really deep sleep."

"Ye-yes that was probably it," the Boy stammered, avoiding eye contact with the Fiend.

He gulped, suppressing any fears he had. Before he had met the Fiend, nothing frightened him. Even as a child, horror stories didn't phase him. Whatever went bump in the night, he would just come up with a logical reason and explain it to those who were frightened. At least, that's what he could remember. But, the Fiend had ignited a horrifying disease that the Boy wondered if he would ever shake. Besides betrayal, the Fiend had ripped open his head and dug through his skull. He had beaten him mercilessly on several occasions until he was choking on his own blood. Then, he would tend his wounds, kiss him on the forehead and beat him again.

"You've been sleeping for over 14 hours. I was getting concerned. I thought maybe you had reached your limit, but, once again, you've proved me you're stronger than you look," the Fiend did not smirk nor chuckle. His eyes were glazed with indifference. Even at his most vicious points, the Boy would find no life in the cold eyes. Unfortunately, he could relate. He was empty, and found that his face rarely contorted into expressions.

Suddenly, the Fiend lunged at the Boy, snatching his wrists and squeezing them too tight into one hand. He dangled his cigarette in the other. The Boy did not jump, he just started at his captor. The Fiend leaned close to him. His breath stank of cigarettes and coffee, but the Boy was used to the smell. The Fiend always smelt rotten, but it wasn't the Fiend's smell the Boy was concerned with. He tried to cleanse himself whenever the Fiend allowed him to shower, but he continuously felt grimy.

"I need you for something," the Fiend hissed, taking a drag from the cigarette perched between his finger tips.

He always needed the Boy for something.

"What is it?"

The Fiend pulled a file from his jacket pocket while balancing the cigarette between his lips. He dropped the file onto the floor and opened it for the Boy to get a better look. In bold letters at the top it read, "The Kira Case". Paragraphs of technicalities, which the Boy had grown too familiar with, followed the headline. He skimmed them, informing the Fiend when he was done.

Solving cases was another comfort that he had found in his prison. The Fiend needed him and he couldn't solve anything without the Boy; at least, that's what the Fiend claimed. Although he felt a bit like a lap dog when he helped the Fiend, he couldn't help but be satisfied when he found out his assumptions were true.

Kira. A new vigilante who sought after criminals and somehow forced them into cardiac arrest. It sounded impossible, but the challenge intrigued the Boy. After reading through the entire case file, the Boy realized how sore his wrists were from being tied together by the Fiend's finger tips.

"What do you think?" the Fiend asked, finally letting go of his wrists.

"I'll have to read it over a few more times. Can I have this?"

The Fiend nodded and pulled a cigarette from his fresh pack. He lit it and kissed the Boy's forehead gently. The Boy had to resist all his urges to retreat from the kiss, since the consequences were too dire. After a while, he decided his dignity had long evaporated and all that was left was surviving. Even his will to live was faltering.

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes," the Boy nodded, his eyes locked on the case file.

This Kira was fascinating; a cold blooded killer judging other cold blooded killers. What right did he have to say who lived and who died? Kira was an idiot; a smart idiot. This person knew exactly what they were doing to cover up their tracks. But, the Boy knew better. There were always loopholes. Always. Kira's own trial would come in a matter of time. He would be judged by righteous people. Or at least people who claimed to be righteous.

The Boy nearly snarled, his mind drifting to the world outside of the prison. He did not yearn for it. In fact, he couldn't help but think society outside of the walls was just as disgusting as the mold that grew on the corners of the room. He had to keep his identity a secret because he was different. The beauty that he created, his genius, was his own. It was rarely seen by others and most of the time, it wasn't appreciated. The judge of righteousness should not be an idiot, but in the outside world, he was surrounded by them. They could not judge him because they did not understand him. Even the Fiend had stumbled in his glorious path. But, the Fiend had taken action.

And that's how he winded up here. Because he was misunderstood. At least, that's what he wanted to believe.

The Boy tried to uncover subtle patterns as he read the case file over and over, but his head started to feel foggy. He was somehow becoming drowsy-had he not slept for 14 hours as the Fiend claimed?

"Wake up," a voice muttered. The Boy's heavy eyelids flickered open.

"I've wanted to ask you something for a few days now. I'm not sure why I waited this long," the voice's owner stood over the Boy's curled up body. With shaking arms, the Boy unraveled himself and sat up. How long had he been out? He glanced down at his wrist, only to find it horridly disfigured and bony. Scars and burns surrounded it, and it was pink from what felt like a carpet burn. He nearly cried out, until his memory of the prison suddenly flooded back. He felt like vomiting.

"What?"

Strangely, the Fiend's eyes glistened. "What is your name?"

The Boy opened his mouth to speak, only to find that he could not think of the answer.

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Six months later in the Kanto Region of Japan.