all according to keikaiku

((translator's note: keikaiku means plan))

As of the 12th of September, Dirk Strider has the blood of approximately 250 people on his hands. The catch is, is that he's never been face to face with any of these people, and yet they've all died by his hand. Oh--oh, shit wait. 251. He's killed 251 people now, and the number just keeps on growing with each name he scribbles in an unassuming little notebook. It wasn't like he was doing anything /bad/--are people condemned because they called an exterminator to get rid of pests? No, of course not. All he was doing was a little cleaning up, shooing the vermin away and ushering in a cleaner world.

A green, clawed hand slowly reached forward, its fingers inching towards the notebook. Dirk slapped it away, briefly pausing his scribbling (252 killed, now) so he could spin around in his chair and send a blank, unimpressed look over at the pitiful monster now in front of him. The monster, green, lanky, and hulking, with a face like a skull's and little red spots on his cheeks, glared. They were like this for a good minute, both staring each other, before Dirk finally broke the silence.

"I distinctly remember it being you yourself that told me once the book hit the ground, it was part of this world. Not only that, but, you said--and these are /your/ words, not mine--that when I put my 'perverted Dorito dust covered fingers' on the book that it became mine. Not yours, brotato chip. /Mine/." Dirk said, his voice sharp and, admittedly, tired. This obviously wasn't the first time the monster had tried this.

Speaking of the monster, he balled up his fists, like he was about to punch the living daylights out of Dirk. Except, he couldn't, so he was stuck standing there like a jackass. The monster spoke next, its grating voice making poor Dirk consider that maybe he should buy earplugs.

"It's my Death Note," He began, screaming at the top of his lungs like he always did when he began his tangents. Poor guy had to keep taking a brief pause between shouts to breathe. "And all I did was drop it. I thought humans were supposed to be polite. And value kindness. The Golden Rule as I've heard. Except you. With your stupid pointy eye-wear. And your moronic goals to achieve perfection. You do not follow the Golden Rule."

Dirk, if possible, felt just a bit more exhausted. This wasn't good--his 5 Hour Energy stores were getting low, and he wasn't sure he had the cash to stock up again. Rationing would have to do until he paid again, because he couldn't afford falling asleep now. He had a god of death bothering him, a notebook that could people, and a mission. But before he could continue with that mission, he had to deal with the god of death that didn't know how to shut up.

"Well, Caliborn, let me tell you a little secret: the Golden Rule means jack shit." Dirk said, reaching behind him to grab the notebook. He opened it up and flipped a few pages, looking for a some names. "Thomas Brooks, a murderer. Joyce Griffin, a thief. Edward Gray, an adulterer." He closed the book, right as Caliborn made a grab for it again. "Obviously, these guys followed the Golden Rule just as closely as I followed compulsory heterosexuality. Which is to say, we did not follow these things. It means nothing. The book is mine now, and you said that you've got four hundred years left on your lifespan before you need to keep writing names again. I'll be dead by the time you /really/ need this thing. So, please, just shut your mouth and go back to...'drawing'."

While Caliborn looked even angrier, he simply muttered something about 'showing Dirk the proper fine arts' before shuffling over to the printer and grabbing a few bits of paper and a pencil. He went back to his little corner of Dirk's dorm, and began making his 'fine art'. Convinced that he wouldn't get interrupted again, Dirk continued on with his work. 253, 254, 255...

He hadn't expected his week would end with him hastily writing down the names of as many criminals as he could in some little black notebook, but then again, he hadn't expected /anything/ interesting to happen this week anyway. And to think, he'd gotten so much done in just five days!

Dirk had only been going to this university for a month now, a freshman settling into a new lifetime of freedom and opportunity. He had always been a smart kid, the one that would make kids lean over their desks trying to get a glimpse of his paper. He was one of the douchebags that was in T.A.G., always going on fun field trips to Wonder Works or the zoo. He was valedictorian, graduating high school with twelve credit hours and enough scholarships to keep him from stressing out about loans or debt. Then, when he /finally/ got to college in the fall after, he was lucky enough to get an empty dorm.

He had been planning on sailing smoothly through these next four years, going day to day with little to no change in routine. Then, a curve ball came in the form of a notebook falling from the sky and landing right next to him as he was walking to Physics. Scrawled on the front were the words 'Aviso de Muerte', or 'Death Note' in Spanish--later, he would learn that the reason for the random Spanish was because Caliborn only knew two other languages besides his first: English and Spanish, the latter being a language he was far better at speaking.

Inside the book was a list of rules, once again all in Spanish, detailing the various rules of the Death Note. Thank God he knew Spanish, because reading this thing would have been pretty difficult otherwise. Well, it was already difficult regardless. The handwriting was one of the shittiest he'd ever seen, jagged and terrible. But with most things, he dealt with it, and when he brought the notebook home he spent an hour deciphering the nonsense written inside.

"'Whoever's name is written in this book shall die'...Sounds fake, but okay." Dirk had said to himself, tapping the end of a pencil against his desk. He was no stranger to chain mails, and this seemed like the real-life version of one. Sure, it fell from the sky, but someone /obviously/ could have thrown it out a window. Despite the fact that the nearest building was too far for someone to throw it so close to him, and that it just...dropped. Like someone was in a helicopter and dropped it straight down, that kind of dropped.

He was planning on throwing it away soon after dismissing it, only to hear some kind of shuffling right outside his dorm. Frowning, he got up from his desk and peeked through the peephole. Outside was this big, burly dude who probably chugged protein shakes the same way Dirk did caffeine. He was holding a much less brawny kid by his throat up against a wall, growling something in his ear. John recognized the two. Kyle Lowe (big dude) and Tom Graham (little dude). Kyle was reportedly being put on academic probation because he kept stealing shit (essays, money, what have you) from Tom.

Dirk's hand was hovering on the door handle, about to go out there and beat ass for the greater good, before he paused. The notebook...As stupid as it sounded, he wanted to try it out. It wouldn't work, he knew, but he wanted to anyway. It said if he didn't write down a cause, whoever's name he wrote would die of a heart attack in forty seconds. As much as he wanted to make sure Tom would be alright, he decided to test the damn chain mail notebook out. So, he took his pencil, and wrote down Kyle's name in the book. He'd go out and help once he made sure this was bullshit.

Forty seconds later, Kyle clutched his chest, convulsed, and was on the ground dead. Dirk instantly paled, reeling back from the peephole and tripping over something on the ground. The Death Note was held in his fingers with a vice-like grip, dark skinned knuckles almost turning white. This wasn't good. He just killed a guy, holy /fuck/ he just killed a guy. He just killed an awful...guy.  He killed a guy who stole and cheated, a guy who was about to beat up an innocent for the mistakes that he himself made. Kyle was about to strangle Tom. Dirk just prevented a full-on beating.

It didn't take him too long to calm down after that, after he convinced himself that all he did was rid the world of a bad egg. An hour later, after he sat in his desk, staring blankly at the hastily written 'Kyle Lowe' in the book, he decided that he was going to keep ridding the world of more bad eggs. It was such a waste, he decided, locking criminals up in prisons. They would just get out and commit crimes again, and get sent right back after. Either that, or they'd just never be caught, free to roam and cause chaos. With this unassuming little notebook, Dirk could create a new world. A better world. Free of crime, chaos, and filled with only the good. He would be the judge, and the executioner.

By the time Caliborn came to him, screeching about wanting his book back, Dirk had already killed 124 criminals.