Germanicus
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Hong Kong, China: June, 2030.
The room in the back of a small fishing warehouse in one of Hong Kong’s many port districts was clogged with the heavy fog of opium; the drug was frowned upon these days, as it had been long ago attributed to the ruin of the Chinese Empire two centuries ago. Sima Cao couldn’t care less. Those losers who came in with fish from the sea every day and drank their pitiful lives away, drowning their misfortune and insignificance in alcohol, could shove it where the sun didn’t shine. Opium opened the mind and released the senses. It liberated and made infinite what alcohol constrained and imprisoned. He had always taken his opium here, as the warehouse was owned and operated only by himself, and no one else cared enough about the small time merchant from this area of Hong Kong to follow him or even ask where he went. He grinned wryly as he breathed out a heavy puff of gray smoke, feeling his muscles hang loosely off him as though they would float away. Yes, he had always taken his opium here…but now, now, Sima Cao took something of far greater importance to his little room in the back of his warehouse.
The room was adorned scarcely: a small wooden table, two brown chairs, a single cabinet, and a little twelve inch tv were all that occupied the room. Though it was large enough to carry quite more and be used for storing copious amounts of fish, he kept it relatively empty because his shadow enjoyed the space. Similarly, though the room could be lit about as brightly as the sun, he kept it very dim in recent memory, for his shadow appreciated that as well. Sima Cao loved his shadow, for it accompanied him everywhere, always listened to what he had to say, (much more than many of the other ignorant fools in his life, the damned imbeciles.) and even whispered gently in his ear that everything he was doing was the proper course of action. His shadow, he knew in the bottom of his heart, genuinely loved him.
Most importantly of all, his shadow had brought him the notebook.
He placed his pipe down after taking a final puff, and slowly reached for the little black notebook sitting on the table; his emaciated, pale hands gingerly lifted it from its altar and caressed it softly as he took it up. Sima Cao was a slender man, standing at full height just below five feet, and would never be considered strong. His rat like face reeked of dishonesty, his slanted eyes were always arching about in different directions, never fixed on one spot for too long, and his hands often twitched and fidgeted as though he were about to have a seizure. His clothes were a baggy suit with a cheap tie and horrid brown dress shoes. His eyes were a peculiar, faint shade of black that appeared neither imposing nor peaceful to look at. No, he would never be considered a powerful man, but in his hands, he held something that made him a god. He shook his head brusquely at the thought. No, not a god. He was but a man, for only the heavens dictated who was a god. That had been the mistake of the last holder of the notebook, so he understood it. A human must never, no matter how much power his earthly shell attained, forget his mortal limitations.
Laying the notebook back on the table, the thin, elegant letters inscribed on the front reading “Death Note”, Sima picked up his pen and flipped the notebook over, pausing briefly only to flip on the tv. The small black box shone brightly at him through the hazy, dark room, and he smiled as he saw the man appear on screen, being interviewed on a podium in a national news studio under the glaring lights and expansive scrutiny of all of China at exactly 8:30 pm, just as had been announced earlier that day; Jin Tao was the mayor of a small city in northern mainland China, and was notorious for taking bribes to rig local mercantile laws in just the right way. Not true free enterprise, though of course he pretended to be all for the free market, while he simultaneously also played the perfect Communist Party member. (China was almost through its little staged play of Communism, but not quite; every politician and prospective politico had to play the part, in some fashion.)
Sima’s right eye twitched as his hand slowly but surely wrote out Jin Tao’s name clearly in the notebook. The politician, he remembered, was praised almost universally for being an extremely fit man, who ran and biked often. His large frame of around two hundred pounds of pure muscle rested under striking black eyes, a handsome, well defined face, and a luscious head of dark brown hair. Sima’s eyes fell to his watch. Thirty seconds…twenty…a smile began to appear uncontrollably across his face. Wouldn’t be long now. At ten seconds, a hair splitting chuckle, quiet and non abrasive began to fall lightly from his paper thin lips, only to stop short as he held his breath at five seconds. Time seemed to slow to an unbearably slow pace as five became four. Jin Tao smiled with his phony, lying, and corrupt smile to the cameras and waved brightly to all the people he cheated and swindled on a daily basis. Four became and three, and so on.
And when Sima Cao reached zero, Jin Tao, with his powerful, muscular hands, clutched frantically at his broad chest and inexplicably died of a heart attack.
Panic set in; the tv crews rushed the politician and the broadcast was almost immediately cut. Sima Cao continued to grin, his face twisted in maniacal triumph. Men like Jin Tao, in all of their strength, authority, and power, could not fight the mandate of heaven. He sat back in his chair, bringing his pipe up to his face and taking a long puff before exhaling heavily, letting himself become relaxed once again. This had been the third such man he had disposed of by the will of heaven. He had felt that this would conclude his time in which he tested the notebook, to ensure his shadow was telling the truth about the mystical powers of this “Death Note”, as it was called.
“So, I have to ask, why all the politicians?”
Sima didn’t react immediately as his shadow spoke to him; he had been alarmed the first time it had happened a week before, until he had realized what the gods had granted him. The horrifying figure his shadow had become, demonic and monstrous in appearance, like a warped clown with pale face and black wings, purple lipped with razor sharp talons, was hideous to look at. The fact that it had an eerily high voice, matched with the fact that it had human speech at all, had almost given him a heart attack. Now, however, he merely took his shadow for granted, for it was nothing more than his medium of communication with the heavens. Through it, they had delivered him the notebook, and so, in it, he placed complete trust. He gazed back at it, the shadow’s horrible specter barely visible in the faint light of the room, and continued smoking.
“…long ago, China was ruined by a plague. A plague of two faced, manipulative men and a herd of sheep who bowed to that plague and worshipped it like a god. Those men eventually bought the lie themselves; why couldn’t they be gods? If people made them gods, why couldn’t they claim that mantle for themselves? I…” Sima Cao looked back, staring into the piercing red eyes of his shadow and smiled maniacally, face lit up in the conviction of a man too right to know he’s crazy.
“…I, will remind them that only the gods in heaven have that privilege. And they will learn by association that the one who teaches the lessons of the gods is me.”
The “shadow” merely stared for a moment; this Sima Cao, he couldn’t help but think, was such a peculiar character. So much different than the first Kira...
The tv flickered once more, bringing on a live assessment of the situation; a newscaster, palpably nervous, stammered out the details of the mysterious deaths over the last few days, grabbing his tie as though he felt that he would be next to die from a sudden heart attack. All of the “murders” had been heart attacks, and the fact that they already knew what Sima Cao was doing, though they didn’t know that he was doing it, was murder, made him mildly impressed. After all, how could anybody link together three unrelated heart attacks and call them murder? It would have made no sense to him at all, had his shadow not warned him of the danger in advance.
“So,” he said in a firm voice, still staring at the tv screen, anticipating the arrival of the one who challenge his dedication to the gods, “you said that the one known as Near is the man who ended the reign of the pretender to the gods, the one called Kira?”
The shadow nodded, his voice cracking a bit as he chuckled. “Yep. That was him. Called himself by that title. Don’t remember to much about him, otherwise, except you don’t have to worry about him sneaking up on you, cause he’ll let you know he’s coming after you, kuyeahaha!”
Scratching his spectral chin, the shadow suddenly snapped and looked back down at the zealous Chinaman. “Oh, you know, now that you mention it, I think Near went by a letter most of the time…”N”! Yes, that was his name. Near went by N.” Of course, the shadow knew the famous detective’s real name, as well as the exact time that Near would die, but he would tell Sima Cao neither of those things. After all, what would be the fun in that? It would be quite boring, in fact, and if there was one thing he hated above all else, it was boredom. Sima Cao raised an eye brow at that; that letter, unlike the alias Near, meant something to him.
“N…you mean the famous Interpol detective, the boy wonder whose genius is unparalleled throughout the entire world, the successor to the legendary L…that N?”
The tv broadcaster interrupted Sima, announcing that Interpol was going to be broadcasting a message live all over the globe, and would be represented by the man who would be heading up the new, poorly named “secret investigation”. (A name which, for obvious reasons, Sima scoffed at.) He turned up the tv, only to hear the irritating gargled noise of static pour from the screen. He stood to give the thing a damn whack in an effort to fix it, but before he could, a voice rang, muffled and electronic sounding, from the screen.
“Hello…Kira…”
Sima Cao almost leapt out of his skin when he realized that was directed at him, before he cursed himself for a fool and slowly mouthed that there was no way they could know it was him; this was being broadcast globally, after all. What were the odds? Probably less than a trillionth of a percent, if he had to figure. The voice drawled on, not having any real definitive qualities since it was obviously put through a voice synthesizer. Sima almost snarled at the English, for he hated western society almost as much as the pigs inside the Chinese government, but fortunately he understood, so he grudgingly followed along.
“So, you’re back from the dead, eh? Can’t say I’m too surprised, old sport. Killing gods of death is always quite the difficult task, you know? But say, amigo, I just wanted to say…still love apples? Oh, never mind, I do love to ramble on, I’m sure you understand. Moving on, I just wanted to remind you that what you’re doing is crime. I suppose you weren’t exactly listening when you were last told so I’ll say it again, though do try to take notes, because we are going to quiz over this in a short time…are you ready? Pen, paper, you have it all? Alright then; you are a murderer. A cold blood murderer, nothing more, and I can’t wait to make you scream for Santa Maria as you rot away inside a cell for the rest of your god forsaken days, savvy? Did you get all of that? Need me to repeat anything? Excellent…I can’t wait to begin, this is going to be quite the hunt…”
Sima grated his teeth; the man irritated him beyond all means. He dared to defile the mandate of heaven!? And to be so condescending about it, all the while!? Oh, he thought, I will make you pay, N. He barked the same thing at his television screen, shouting over the rambling words flowing from the box and hurling his pipe at the voice of the impudent detective. This time would be different, this…Kira…(he despised the name, and had no desire to take up such a mantle, but would be dubbed the same as a result of the notebook.) would not be caught so easily! Standing almost violently, he brought his tiny foot upon his brittle pipe and ground it into little pieces in sheer rage. “That’s right you dog! I will break you, N! I will smash you, desecrate your vile, barbarian corpse! N! I will…”
The shadow above began to chuckle softly; oh, but this WAS getting interesting. He remembered N very well, almost fondly. The man had been quite clever, and this was something quite peculiar in of itself. Yes, the shadow knew N, and this man was most definitely…
“…yes, I know, it’s a shame that I have to go so soon, but I promise, senor, we shall meet very soon, until then…remember that R is coming for you! Fiat justitia ruat caelum!”
The broadcast cut. Sima Cao stood still, gaping at the static emanating from the screen until a local sitcom retook the airwaves. Corny joke and laugh track were equally ignored by the puzzled holder of the Death Note; that man…wasn’t N? What was…what in the world was going on?
Behind him, the shadow could no longer help himself. Ryuk, Shinigami and bearer of the Death Note, cackled in a shrill, spine tingling howl of a laugh. His thoughts were warm and thankful beyond any emotion he had felt before; to be so lucky a second time! To have everything fall so perfectly a second time in a row, what were the odds?
Kyeheh..keyheh…keyehehehehe! Humans, oh, precious humans, they’re still so interesting!
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Author's note: Alright, I got part two up. Having some lull in my studies right now, plus most of this was written last night, so I had some time to get out some of the main story; you didn't really need part one for this, and honestly, if you read just this, you're fine, you don't have to got go back and read part one of the prologue. (I don't like it much, anyway, it serves no real purpose.) Fun fact: Fiat justitia ruat caelum is Latin, which I found on wikipedia...I mean knew, from my extensive knowledge of Latin. (For real, I do know a bit of the language, and am fairly fond of it, thought it would be fun to throw in there, will fit well with that particular character in the story.) Part three will take longer to finish, and I don't anticipate it being done until wednesday or thursday.
Anyway, if you enjoyed, hated it with a passion, or saw a butterfly that you wanna tell me about, comment your thoughts. Thanks if you did, and, regardless to whether you read or not, have a nice day.
