The Request Room is waiting, as it always is -- black walls, ceiling, and floor, spotlights, small golden table. On the table is a stack of thick cream-colored cards made of heavy cotton rag paper, a small stand holding a dip pen and black ink (in a red, apple-shaped inkwell), a silver bowl, and one larger placard, covered with elegant script and
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Comments 14
I'd like you to heal the version of Light Yagami that seems to be from my world, and that was shot in the wrist recently. In exchange, I am willing to give up my memories for as long as you feel would be appropriate.
She's thought a lot about the payment, and about other deals she's heard people make. Memories seems to be a common one, and she's too tired to be inventive. She reads the card over, then walks over to the spotlight and reads it out loud, shakily.
Last but not least, she folds it neatly in half and drops it in the bowl. Her eyes close tight; she's expecting fireworks, explosions, the heavens to move.*
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Who do you think 'we' are?
Why do you think we would heal him?
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*She asks the room at large, before deciding to play it safe and pick up a pen.
I don't have the faintest idea who you are. The anthropomorphized mansion, maybe? A being powerful enough to bring us all here? God, temporarily at least?
I'm hoping you'll heal him because I- need someone to help me, and you're all I have. I'll do anything you ask in return, I'll help you however I can. Please. I can't imagine why you would because, like I said, I don't even know who you are, so speculating about your motives is really pointless, but I hope you can find it in your heart to do so, or I can offer you something good enough in return.*
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We do not need your help.
Sweeten the deal. Memories are standard currency.
Are you willing to take for yourself some of what is being taken from him?
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*When it clears, which happens quickly, Light will be able to see writing on the top card, in ornate, spidery script.*
Are you sure about this?
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At the table, he stands in the spotlight, casts a thin glance over the placard, then takes one of the heavy cards from the stack and turns it over and over. Thinking about writing something, maybe? His eyes and lips pinch inward, annoyed; the room irks him merely by existing. He's got questions he wants answered, badly, but - not here, and not today.
Replacing the card on the stack, he turns to leave. Quiet, brisk footsteps echo behind him. He'll be back.]
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