So, Miss Mikuru, what was your "situation" with L?
I admired him.
No, I mean-
Oh, well there is no doubting that we were of the different gender; but no, there was no sensual contact between either of us...except, well...
She pauses, turning to her screen again. Marc remembers asking to have a private interview, no interruptions; she had never really given him a thorough answer.
Except?
Once, probably on America Halloween, which is L's birthday. I had kept such information to myself, mind you. Done serious math to pin point his precise date of birth, I commended him for his advances in the Kira case. I gave him a hug.
A hug?
Yeah, Mister Reporter. A hug. A simple notion of affection, and he had returned it. If he was joyed, I was unaware of it. But he thanked me, with that glorious rare smile that I was thrilled to see each time.
If he thanked you doesn't that mean he was gratified?
Betsuni directs herself away from her computer. Her face is contorted in sorrow; not shielding, not concealing any feelings.
No.
The reporter feels as though he's non purposely struck a nerve, and goes to apologize. Betsuni shakes it off with blatant disregard. Empty words, she calls them. She wipes some hair from her face, eying around the room. She seems like she's taken on the persona of a stranger, the way her eyes clue in on all the details.
In my mind...I had treated my life like a shoujo manga up until that point. I was the Mary-Sue, like Tohru from Furuba, or...
She holds herself. She in no doubt knew that though the man in front of her was full of emotion; compassion and sentiment, he was here to do his job.
I had great feelings for him as time progressed, we worked harder, collaborated, plotted. We did all we could.
I can't help but not neglect the fact that you speak of the famed detective in a passed tense, but the Kira case is still going...
Betsuni nods; a slow nod, staring at the reporter's feet. He was wearing classy buckled black loafers. They look odd to her.
Because, L will be dead.
Her voice is haunting. There is a long quiet that follows the girl's child like charm. A looming voice to utter such words was skull striking. The hair's on the back of Marc's neck curl at her sweet voice, face sinking even farther. Such a pretty woman before him. He stops the tape recorder to strike the rest of their conversation from being held in time; maybe he would dispose of the cassette later, he was unsure. "Do you mean to say that L is alive?" Bestuni, eyes now unmoving, stares at his palms that openly hold the halted recorder.
"L will be dead within the next week or so." the reporter once again, could not fathom such a prediction. He leans back in his chair, observing the girl before him. She avoids his gaze, fixating on a mutant stain of caffeine on the wall. "He wrote his own name in Kira's Death Note."
After the revealing of the killer note book, Marc Fujascvek neglected to inform his coworkers of his interview with Mitoru Mikuru. Incidentally, even when he did find the time on his hands to advance in his own personal theorems, he was unable to contact her. Even her domicile had been swept dry of any life. There was not a single piece of evidence that turned up of her presence, and for his own benefit, he reviewed the last minutes of the tape he had, late night in his office, headphones on and heel tipped over his desk. Eyes shut, the vivid and recent memory of the little doll was in his head quickly through his ear drums.
L lives not so long away. I wish to visit him...eventually.
Why aren't you with him, now?
For the first time, with bright enthusiastic eyes and a chipper pitch, joyful heart sparked with shine, Betsuni kept her eyes stern with him. It was scary to see such happiness erupt from a seemingly distraught and cold individual.
Mister Reporter, L is changing the world as we speak
