It was late. The dead of night, as one might say. Silence and darkness both hung heavily in the ornate hotel suite, abandoned in favor of sleep by all but one. The tv screen displayed static fuzz, casting a dimly glowing light over L's ruminant countenance where a thumb rested pensively against his lips. It had been nearly a week since the broadcast on Sakura T.V., and after Soichiro Yagami had confiscated the tapes by crashing an armored truck directly into the television studio, L and the Taskforce had agreed not to comply with Kira's demands. But something just wasn't sitting right with the brilliantly keen detective...

The broadcast felt wrong. It was too bold, too careless. The meticulous, cunning Kira would never make such an audacious move, especially after the incident with Lind L. Tailor. It was not uncommon for a serial killer to attract the admiration of a copycat, and L was convinced that this was the case with whomever had sent those tapes to Sakura T.V. However, as they had all witnessed, this imposter, this Second Kira, seemed to possess whatever ability the original Kira did, with one exception: They could kill without being informed of the victim's name. Ukita had died with his face exposed, but the killer would have had no way of learning his name so quickly. Therefore, L could only deduce that the Second Kira's ability differed from the original's in that regard.

And so now, there were two Kiras, and L was certain that, if they hadn't made contact with one another yet, they would soon do so. The Second Kira quite clearly worshiped the original, and Kira himself would be sure to seek out one so irresponsibly using his power and claiming his title as their own.

Thinking of all this led L to once again come to the conclusion that this case just might be his greatest yet, and the one for which he would be remembered. Like a mark or an imprint, it would surely stand out among the rest, like...

"...like color on black and white."

L's gaze drifted to the coffee table. Like the grainy footage of an old home video, a memory flickered in his mind.

It had been only a few days before Christmas, and the year was 1997...

It was snowing outside, but the London hotel suite was warm and lavish with comfort.

"What are you doing?"

At the sound of L's inquiry, Anya turned her head. She was sitting upside-down with the top of her head on the floor and her ankles crossed atop the back of the couch. She shrugged before looking back to where she was scratching something into the underside of the coffee table with the tip of a ballpoint pen."Misbehaving," she answered cheekily, her Russian tongue gliding over the word and accenting each syllable.

The eighteen-year-old detective stood with his hands pocketed, his greyish eyes only faintly reflecting his curiosity. She was an odd one... and that was something to be said, given his own peculiarities. But whereas L's quirks were a testament to his introversion, Anya's were just the opposite. She was bold and bright, like the snap of a flame or a burst of light; but it was in such a way that it was alluring and soothing and not unlike the welcoming radiance of a hearth fire. Warm... bright... comforting... and a force to be reckoned with if not handled with care.

The top of Anya's head rotated again as her slender blue eyes glanced over at Detective Bennett with a smile. Her short and unevenly-cut chestnut hair spilled onto the carpet, and her cheeks were dusted in red from being upside-down. "Come see," she invited.

L unpocketed one hand to scratch the back of his head as he shuffled his bare feet over to her. Anya's hand patted the couch, and he sighed. Sitting down, he then rotated and flipped upside-down, bringing his ankles beside hers against the top edge of the couch's back. Shifting his shoulders a bit, he looked to see where she was scratching the letters A.S.P. into the soft wood. Oddly enough, his hands returned to his pockets.

"A.S.P.?" He turned his head to look at her, and she did the same, their faces close together with their shoulders nearly touching.

Anya grinned impishly. "My initials." She looked back to her graffiti, keeping her face tilted toward his. "Now, there will always be proof that I was here."

"Well that's highly unnecessary," L said dryly. "Your fingerprints are all over this room, as well as things like hair and skin... not to mention surveillance footage and hotel records."

Anya laughed, and L wondered why. She reached out and traced the letters with her fingertip. "But I put this here," she stubbornly pointed out. "I left a mark... made an impression. Willingly and purposefully."

L watched her finger move over the little carving, and his eyes stayed on the letters when she pulled her hand back again. "And... that is important to you?"

"I suppose so."

"I see." But he didn't see.

Anya looked at him again, and he looked back. "I am very weird, I know." Her shoulders lightly jolted in a softly delighted snicker, then she bit her bottom lip in a grin. "People tell me this. That I am weird. But I like weird... and different... and quirky." Her accent tripped over the last word a bit.

"I do not mind it," L said plainly. "I am very weird too."

"I know." Anya grinned even more. "It is... osvezhayushchiy, um-" She moved her hand in a rotating motion, trying to think of the right word in English.

"Refreshing?" L asked, understanding her language. She insisted on using English, though, for practice.

"Yes, refreshing," she said, nodding and gesturing toward him. "Like... color on black and white."

"I'm not very colorful."

Anya looked at him again her hands resting on her stomach with her ankles still crossed atop the back of the couch. "Don't say this. You are very colorful."

L looked at her and earned a smile by doing so. She looked different like this... all close-up and upside-down. But it was .

"Colorful, like..." Anya went on slowly, thinking. "...like not blending in."

"Weird," L put in.

"Yes." Anya's grin widened again. "And as I say before... I like weird."

L didn't know what to say to that. He brought the tip of his thumb to the corner of his mouth and nipped at it with his teeth...

...and L did the same now as he sat alone in a dark and empty room. His gaze remained on the coffee table, but his mind's eye was looking at Anya... leaving an impression in her own upside-down and wonderfully weird way.

There were times that L regretted sending her away... of course, he hadn't known about the existence of their child at the time, and neither had she. He could only assume (and correctly so) that she'd had no way to get back in touch with him, the alias Cayde Bennett forever stricken from all records and banished from existence. News of the renowned L had continued to circulate the globe, surely appearing in newspapers throughout Moscow, but the only way to reach the elusive detective would have been to catch his interest with a case, and that was something Anya had had no way of doing. It was her belief that her son would never know his father, and it was her hope that he would find a loving home to grow up in after she died.

It was all a mess, really. Looking back, L realized that he should have done things differently... allowed her to explain, listened to what she had to say, tried to see things from her perspective. But he hadn't. Hurt and betrayed and so very young, he'd turned her away, believing her reduced sentence to be more kindness than she deserved.

And Bennett Alexei Petrov, L's very own son, had thereafter been born in a prison clinic to a quirky street thief who had adored him to the end of her days.

"...Papa?"

The softly spoken address turned L's head.

Bennett stood in his hooded pajamas, his little shoulder swaying against the doorframe of the bedroom.

"What is it, Bean?"

"I can't sleep." The little boy tipped his messy-haired head as he tugged at the hem of his soft, cotton shirt with both hands.

"You need your sleep."

"You don't?"

"I-" L sighed. He outstretched his arm toward the boy and beckoned with his hand.

Bean didn't hesitate. He moved his little feet across the carpet and climbed up beside his papa on the couch. "What are you watching?" he asked as he settled in, L's long arm wrapping around him.

"Nothing," L responded plainly. "I was watching some tapes for the case, but... now I am just thinking."

"Thinking about what?" The follow-up question was inevitable from the ever-curious Bean.

L didn't answer right away, his eyes lost and unfocused on the TV static. When he did answer, his voice was quiet. "I was thinking about your mama."

"I do that a lot." Bean's reply was simply spoken, casual and childish.

L looked down at his son. ...at Anya's son. He saw so much of himself in the boy, but he saw her too. He saw her in Bennett's eyes, to be sure, but also in his soft yet playful demeanor and in his moments of mischief. The shape and movements of Bennett's mouth could be noticeably attributed to his papa, but the charming ease with which he smiled was a trait having belonged to his mama. The way that Bean saw the world, the way he delighted in things like music and color... that was all Anya. And the quirks, well... that was a little of both.

Bean snuggled up a little tighter and closed his eyes. The security he felt beneath his father's arm, the familiarity he sensed beside him... Sometimes, nearness was all he needed.

L looked back to the coffee table and then to the fuzzy screen again. His mind felt that way sometimes... millions of bits of information all jumbled together in a snowstorm of meaningless pixels and white noise. The answer was out there... the disconnected cable that would form a clear and intelligible picture once plugged in. Who Kira was. How he worked. How he could be stopped.

And L was so close... he could feel it. Taste it, even. But he feared that finding it would require measures more drastic than he'd ever taken before. This was no ordinary case, and this was no ordinary killer. This was his nemesis, his apex, his sigil... carved like initials into immortal history.

The luminous black and white static was mirrored in L's distantly contemplative eyes as he pondered it all. The room resumed its silence in the aftermath of his brief conversation with Bean, the two of them softly alight like a snowglobe in the dark.