[Trained to see subtle changes and minutes cracks in composure and conviction, something like a defining feature completely changing color won't escape L's notice. His own eyes wide in his own pale face, for a moment he is not the only one just looking.]
Don't...!
[The bunker is gone, dissolved like a communion wafer in wine, and L's dread is at a higher and tenser peak than it's yet been in all his wanderings. He's well and truly off the map, now, separated from his omen and cut off from his sleeping body. If he was gradually getting closer to his home dream, someone has spun his boat around in a storm, left him to wait anxiously for the next clear night to reorient himself with the stars so he can at least determine the direction he should be heading.
The facility has no stars, no boat, no numbers or patterns. This is not for him, and therefore, it's more of a prison than any bunker or jungle or hostile city.
He's seen the Emperor's crown before, he thinks, his mind whirring along. It's louder, like a computer that's overheating but continuing operations, as it must, and so it does. He's just seen it in pieces, excavated and bagged and numbered. Evidence, of what strong things do to weak things, sometimes.
The precedent, it seems, is set. So is L's jaw. Dirty beaten shoes scuff and squeak against the cold, hard floor; he's never in his life expected rainbows, learning in fact to appreciate the rain, but a window, something, would be even more appreciated at this juncture.
There's one thing, always, that L considers most-appreciated. It's just the truth, a confirmation, knowing that he was right. Everything else, he thinks he can live with... or, on at least one notable all-in occasion, die with.]
Then it's happened, for you. "The End." Or... at least, it's happened for others.
[And in L's strange clash of features, his large gray eyes hold a question that teeters on the brink of an accusation.
no subject
Don't...!
[The bunker is gone, dissolved like a communion wafer in wine, and L's dread is at a higher and tenser peak than it's yet been in all his wanderings. He's well and truly off the map, now, separated from his omen and cut off from his sleeping body. If he was gradually getting closer to his home dream, someone has spun his boat around in a storm, left him to wait anxiously for the next clear night to reorient himself with the stars so he can at least determine the direction he should be heading.
The facility has no stars, no boat, no numbers or patterns. This is not for him, and therefore, it's more of a prison than any bunker or jungle or hostile city.
He's seen the Emperor's crown before, he thinks, his mind whirring along. It's louder, like a computer that's overheating but continuing operations, as it must, and so it does. He's just seen it in pieces, excavated and bagged and numbered. Evidence, of what strong things do to weak things, sometimes.
The precedent, it seems, is set. So is L's jaw. Dirty beaten shoes scuff and squeak against the cold, hard floor; he's never in his life expected rainbows, learning in fact to appreciate the rain, but a window, something, would be even more appreciated at this juncture.
There's one thing, always, that L considers most-appreciated. It's just the truth, a confirmation, knowing that he was right. Everything else, he thinks he can live with... or, on at least one notable all-in occasion, die with.]
Then it's happened, for you. "The End." Or... at least, it's happened for others.
[And in L's strange clash of features, his large gray eyes hold a question that teeters on the brink of an accusation.
Is your guilt a survivor's, or an instigator's?]