Chapter Text
Light saw a lot of assorted media before he ever met the Prince in person. Honestly, he’s kind of hard to escape. Movies, songs, books, comics… he’s etched into popular culture. But, after a thousand years, anyone would be, you know?
The first thing Light remembers computing as ‘The Prince’ was a statue outside the national library when he was five years old. His mother pulled him up onto the podium, Sayu in the baby stroller next to them, and let him gape up at the stone face of the generically handsome man. He was imposing in that moment, larger than life. Sword and shield ready to face down the grandest of all nightmares.
Princes have been around forever. Like witches, princesses and assorted other paraphernalia. And they all get their legends, their street cred, but there’s only one prince who really matters. The Prince (and he worked for that ‘the’, to be sure).
Nowadays Light doesn’t dream of becoming a prince himself, though he’s still on the national watchlist. But his magic came in at fourteen and it’s been bubbling hotter and hotter along his spine ever since.
Princes don’t really have magic. Not inside themselves. That’s purely the domain of supernatural creatures; witches, fae, monsters, villains… Princes get magic swords from oracles and gods, but people like Light have a spark inside their gut. There was a fire born inside Light, beating alongside his heart, and when it goes out so will he.
Today, after his university classes, Light walks to the station with a care package for his father from his mother. She doesn’t expect Dad will be home for dinner tonight and he needs a clean shirt if nothing else.
The station is busy today but everyone recognizes Light so they have no concerns letting him past security and sending him up to the fourth floor to deliver supplies to his father.
Light waves at Ukita as he passes, and gets cornered by Matsuda as he crosses another hallway.
“Hey Light! Looking good, I haven’t seen you in ages.” Matsuda greets, inherently friendly.
“Busy. School, you know?” Light laughs. “Everyone here seems really busy today too, is everything okay?”
“Yeah, something’s going on,” Matsuda admits, “but no one tells me anything!”
They share a grin, and Light defers, “well I better get this to Dad, and you must be busy so—”
“Yeah, of course, have a great day, Light.”
“Thanks Matsuda.” Light waves him off, heading past another security check point to the fourth floor offices. The NPA director and chiefs are all on this floor. It’s not easy for most people to get up here but Light is the son of the deputy director and most of the upper officers have seen him in school photos or at staff parties for years.
It also helps that Light walks with the casual certainty of someone who is supposed to be here.
But—
Ba-thump
Light lurches to a halt mid step.
What’s that sound?
Light hesitates, lifting his chin a little higher.
It sounds…
Like a heartbeat…?
Light glances to the door directly beside him.
A quick scan of the empty hallway assures him he’s alone so—
Light tests the door, twisting the handle unapologetically.
Inside Light is hit with an oppressive gloom. A dark room, the screens of ten monitors hooked up along the walls and across a large desk which dominates the room. A dark desk chair. An empty teacup. The buzz of computers.
“Can I help you?”
Light freezes.
The desk chair pivots and a queer, dark eyed, man blinks reptilian at him. His legs tucked to his chest his bare toes wiggle on the seat.
“S-sorry,” Light defaults to a sheepish laugh, “I’m just looking for my Dad. I got a little lost.”
“You don’t look lost,” the man counters, tone unnervingly level.
Light lets himself fluster, tucking his hair behind his ear. He’s got a cute face and he uses it to his advantage regularly. So he’ll play dumb this time, helpless.
“Better to beg forgiveness than ask for permission, right?” Light jokes.
“Absolutely,” the man nods solemnly. “A good policy. You are?”
“Light Yagami, Deputy—"
“Soichiro Yagami’s son,” the man supplies. “I read about you in his personnel file.”
“Oh, I’m famous then,” Light snickers.
“Well, if you’re going to stick your nose into suspicious rooms,” the man rues, “would you like to see what I’m working on?”
“Yes, please.” Light declares, pulling the door shut gently behind himself.
This is inherently dangerous.
But Light trusts the strength of his invisible teeth.
The man shuffles his chair to one side and Light comes to stand before the desk beside him. Grasping the mouse, the man clicks up various feeds on the monitors.
“There have been various supernatural disturbances in Japan of late.”
Light blinks over the screen. “Omens?”
“Yes, exactly.” The man nods. “What do you suppose that means?”
“Nothing good,” Light rues.
“Quite.” The man snorts.
“Are you on a taskforce?” Light wonders. “I don’t recognize you.”
“Well, I didn’t attend the last staff party, that’s for sure,” the man drawls, inspecting his empty teacup.
“You’ve got an accent,” Light points out.
“You’re nosy.” The man smirks up at him.
“Just curious.”
“Haven’t you heard curiosity is bad for you?”
“Just cats,” Light counters, winking.
The man’s grin reaches his eyes.
“I read the reports, about the omens,” the man reveals, “so I’ve come aboard to consult from Interpol and the Royals Mews.”
“Mews?” Light repeats, “that’s the international league of Princes, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not.” The man grunts.
“Yes, it is.”
“Then why did you ask?” The man teases.
Light laughs, despite himself. “You don’t look like a prince, if I can say so.”
“You’ve already said so, anyway,” the man shrugs. “I can hardly do anything about it now, can I?”
Light glances over the screens one final time. “Should I let you get back to work, Mister Prince?”
“Have you gotten what you wanted then?”
“Some juicy gossip, yeah,” Light laughs playfully.
But he’s gotten much more than that.
Even if this prince doesn’t realize it yet.
The man’s expression softens, amused, half fond.
He’s doesn’t look so much older than Light.
“Be careful sticking your noses in suspicious rooms, Light.” The Prince chides. “You’ll worry your poor, upstanding, father.”
“I can’t make any promises,” Light grins, pivoting around and heading out of the room. “Happy hunting, Mister Prince.”
The man picks up his empty teacup again, scowling at it, and as Light heads out the door he reaches for a small cell phone.
Light continues his relaxed pace through the building.
Omens, huh?
Little villains usually don’t summon omens. That means there must be a big fish in the water. A villain, a monster maybe. Something grand and fearsome. Light should keep his head down for a little while.
Light is marked as wicked, he knows that, but wicked things get stronger with age. A prince is in his prime from fourteen to thirty. But a villain often doesn’t fully bloom till forty. So Light has plenty of time to grow and play pleasant. There’s no need to rush. He can keep his head down for whatever this is.
Let the NPA, Interpol and the Royal Mews handle this one.
Light has dreams sometimes. Doesn’t everyone? Well…. The problem is Light only ever dreams when its ominous. No middling dreams about exams, no happy dreams about girls, no silly dreams about cats… Just foreboding visions of an eldritch hellscape lurching and writhing.
Light’s not sure about his designation.
At night, with his personal curse shield rune glowing red on the back of laptop screen he likes to think he’s a tech witch. Versatile and open to multiple possibilities. He could be part of someone’s supporting cast. Maybe redeemed? Or morally grey? He could be in a heist story!
Then Light catches himself effortlessly manipulating the swirling hordes of people around him, charisma maxed our but heart totally unaffected, and he suspects he’s a villain in the making. Just on the cusp of his own origin story before he truly goes black and red and some kid somewhere gets ready to take him out. At this rate he might as well go into economics or politics. He’d probably excel and running an evil laboratory is profitable work.
But then Light has these dreams…
A deep, dark, pit.
An ancient jungle of deep space horrors writhing around his much bigger body while a multitude of stars pass overhead, glittering coldly.
‘Wake up!’ They whisper to him. ‘Wake up Old One!’
And Light feels it, some part of himself, lurking at the edge of his awareness but he pushes it down and sinks back down into pretending to be normal for a little longer.
That’s what worries him.
He’s not building an origin story.
There’s not enough drama in his family.
He’s in stasis, waiting to awaken.
He’s a monster dreaming.
And one day he’ll break free of his skin and ripple into his full form. They’ll say ‘oh it looked human!’ or ‘it was a strange child but we never suspected—’ while Light rips the sun out of the sky. He knows that makes him powerful, very powerful, but he’s not sure where that leaves him.
Villains have goals, motivations.
Witches have character growth.
Monsters?
Monsters are terrifying, unfathomable, but they exist within their own instincts to eat and hunt and kill. Whether that’s eating children or eating planets. It’s irrelevant. Monsters just want to exist. And its very hard to make a world where Light, the real Light, will fit.
In other news, the omens are getting worse.
They’ve started making the public news now. They can’t be suppressed or ignored any longer. A hot spring in Fukushima turns to blood. A woman gives birth to kittens in Matsuyama. Astrologers and geologists, people involved in everything from weather tracking to disaster prevention, are starting to perceive weirdness. Foreshadowing.
Light sits, chin in hand, and reads the subtitles on the news report. The TV in the coffee shop is small and his mocha is getting cold, but Light feels restless today.
“How many omens have been registered with the NPA exactly?” The news broadcaster asks.
“I’m not at liberty to disclose that—” A representative tries to soften the blow.
“But more than have made the news?”
“A considerable amount of activity has been observed in Japan. That’s all I can say.”
“Going back how many months, exactly?” The interviewer needles.
“Activity like this is a natural part of life. With modern technology we’re aware of a great number of omens. Not all of them are connected to the same villain or monster. It’s not a hard science to attribute these things.”
“And Minister how would you respond to suggestions this is related to the growing evidence for an International Threat?”
“I don’t represent Interpol, I just follow the most current advice from their agency.”
“So you don’t know if this is connected or not?”
“Interpol has not made a statement to that effect.” The Minister replies, tiptoeing the line.
“Have they disclosed anything to you or the NPA?” The interviewer probes brazenly.
“If they have, that would be classified information.”
“We have sources that suggest the Royal Mews have withdrawn princes from stations in Japan and deployed the Prince, himself, to Tokyo. Is there any truth to this?”
“You would have to ask his office.” The Minister deflects again, clumsily.
“If the Prince is in Japan, Minister, you would know. Isn’t that fair to say?”
“Even if he was in Japan, I might not be at liberty to disclose that.”
“So he is in Japan?” The interviewer concludes.
The Minister, who is becoming increasingly uncomfortable, panics. “This interview is over,” he declares, standing up and tugging off his microphone.
The news crew scramble on the set of the live broadcast.
Light sips his mocha.
“Here’s trouble.”
Light blinks at the voice, glancing up.
The prince from the NPA office, looms over him, a coffee in hand. Something frozen with a healthy mound of whipped cream and caramel syrup. He pops the straw into his mouth and sips.
Light snorts. “Have you been watching the news?”
“No,” the prince replies, “have you?”
“Not much else to do when you’re a background character.” Light shrugs.
“Hm, permission to doubt that.”
“Permission denied.” Light smirks.
The prince’s expression falters, twitching into a grin of his own. “Can I join you Light Yagami?”
Light stretches his arms out in front of him and pats the opposite side of the table invitingly.
The prince sinks into the opposite seat, pulling himself into a contorted and uncomfortable position.
“That’s…” Light tilts his head.
“I know,” the prince sips his drink. “I don’t like to sit like this, I assure you. It’s helps me think clearly is all.”
“It’s just—” Light laughs. “Not very attractive for a prince, you know?”
“You’ve be amazed what princesses are attracted to these days,” the man shrugs, almost despairing in the confession.
Light bites his lip to stop himself laughing harder.
“I must ask,” the prince grunts, “what does life undercover entail?”
“I’m just filing in the scenery.” Light maintains. “University, part time jobs… Big stories need a big supporting cast, right? Lots of extras.”
“I suppose…” the prince replies, obviously unconvinced. “I’ve never really subscribed to the idea there are people with stories and people without. I think some stories are just louder and more obnoxious than others.”
“Well…” Light considers the café. “Some people are more obnoxious than others.”
The prince hums his agreement.
He’s a little bitter for a prince.
“So you’ve slayed your dragon?” Light asks.
“You’re guessing?”
“Peak for a prince is, what? Twenty? You’re mid to late twenties, so you’ve probably already got a princess tucked up somewhere.”
“Interesting theory.” The man tuts.
Light frowns. “You’ve got to give me something.”
“I’m Hamlet.” The prince sips his straw.
“A psycho kidnapped by pirates?” Light teases.
“A tragedy.”
“Ah,” Light murmurs. “Unfortunate.”
“Better aesthetics.” The prince smirks.
Light snickers.
For a weirdo this guy is kind of fun.
“How’s work on all the omens going?” Light asks, digging softly.
It’s in his nature to snoop.
“Omens themselves are fairly harmless,” the prince replies. “They just tell you where to wait for the real show to start. I’ve never seen much sense in particular omens predicting particular things so… I’m just waiting for the big bad to rear their head.”
“Is killing it your job?”
“Usually.” The prince grunts.
“You must be good.”
“Good is subjective. I’m efficient.”
Light picks up his mocha to sip. “That’s strange, I thought tragedies failed their missions?”
“There are plenty of ways to fail, Light.”
Light sighs, “so are you going to give me name?”
“Sure, whose name do you want?”
“Yours, obviously.” Light laughs.
The prince snorts, teasing. “I go by L.”
“That’s it? A letter?”
“The other letters became unnecessary.” L declares. “So I retired them.”
“The prince formerly known as Lawrence,” Light teases, smirking.
“Laurent, Loir, or Ludacris. All options.”
Light smiles into his cup.
“You have a nice laugh,” L sips, unravelling from his chair. “You better be careful, flaunting a sound like that around, Light. Someone will try to steal it.”
Light wants to say three things, all at once.
But laughing, for real, is precious.
“You’re leaving?” Light realizes.
“No rest of the wicked,” L rues. “But princes have a way of running into interesting people repeatedly so I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”
“Hey,” Light snorts, slouching back and folding his arms. “Don’t rope me into your narrative. Maybe I’m happy on the side-lines? And it sounds like you’re involved in something dangerous.”
“Maybe, maybe…” L nods, shuffling away with his fluffy whipped cream drink. “Later Light!” He waves over his shoulder, drifting away.