POV: Maria Anderson / Misa Amane
Her death was unremarkable, a statistically predictable outcome given her socioeconomic conditions and lack of notable achievements. No dramatic crescendo, no heroic martyrdom—just a quiet termination of a life that aligned with its own mediocrity. Logically, she should find this symmetry satisfactory; a plain existence warrants a plain conclusion.
Contentment persists for approximately 2.5 seconds before an anomaly registers: a sensation mimicking unease. This is inconsistent with her deceased state—physical responses should be nullified. Perhaps it's a vestigial psychological echo, though the mechanism remains unclear.
A flicker of dissatisfaction emerges. Fairness is an arbitrary human metric, irrelevant to the indifferent mechanics of existence. Yet, one could hypothesize that a more narratively compelling demise might have been preferable, if only for aesthetic value—though such an outcome would defy probability.
The cause: a burglary turned lethal. Data suggests break-ins correlate with poverty-stricken areas, yet her minimal possessions rendered the effort futile—an irony not lost on her. Humming a tune upon entry indicated unawareness, elevating her risk profile. The scenario is mundane, predictable, and thus unremarkable.
She computes the neighbor's probable reaction: complaints about bloodstains disrupting the hallway's aesthetics. A logical extrapolation based on prior behavior patterns—emotional investment in the woman's ire is absent.
Death's onset involved fleeting terror and pain, then cessation. Epicurus argued, "When we exist, death is not; when death exists, we are not," suggesting death's irrelevance (Death Note echoes this in Ryuk's detached amusement at human mortality). Yet her lingering consciousness challenges this, hinting at a metaphysical irregularity she lacks the data to resolve. Philosophy held little appeal in life; pursuing it now, with her corpse elsewhere, seems an inefficient use of cognitive resources.
Sensory analysis follows: no tactile feedback from hair or skin, only the persistence of self-awareness. The identifier "Maria" fades in utility—she catalogs it as a relic of a prior state.
The timeline is precise: Maria Anderson, aged 29, expired at 23:57 on December 24, 2010, in isolation, consistent with her historical pattern. Hours later, Misa Amane emerges on December 25 of an unspecified year, her cries a physiological reflex misinterpreted by her new guardians. The transition lacks temporal overlap, suggesting a discrete shift in consciousness.
Cognitive limitations delayed recognition of rebirth—infantile neural capacity constrained her for months. By age four, she identifies her context: the Death Note universe, herself as Misa Amane. Denial proves unsustainable; the crimson lifespan numbers—visible solely to her—mirror the Shinigami eyes' function (Death Note, Episode 11: Misa trades half her life for this ability). Coincidence is statistically improbable.
At four, during a summer festival, she tests the numbers' meaning. Perched on her father's shoulders, gripping his hair for stability (fear of falling is irrelevant), she observes a girl in a yukata. The crowd anticipates fireworks; she tracks the digits above the girl's head. Adjacent, teenagers queue for confections—irrelevant noise. The numbers hit zero; the girl collapses. Correlation confirmed: these are lifespans, a countdown to expiration, as wielded by Rem in Death Note to protect Misa.
Her parents extract her, presuming trauma. She later feigns ignorance, retaining exact details—the girl's caramel-brown eyes, the precise moment of death. Emotional residue is minimal.
The irony is calculated: Death Note was a casual interest, not a favorite. Maria consumed its manga, anime, and novels for their tragic complexity—Light Yagami's descent into hubris, L's intellectual gambits (Death Note, Episode 25: Light's triumph over L is pyrrhic). Yet its appeal as fiction inverses its desirability as reality. Rebirth as a minor entity would optimize survival odds; instead, she inherits Misa Amane's volatile role.
Misa's profile is suboptimal: an obsessive devotee to Light, orphaned by a murderer, and armed with a Death Note for vengeance (Death Note, Episode 14: Misa's debut as the Second Kira). Her actions propel the narrative—halving her lifespan twice, binding herself to Light's fate. This trajectory is unacceptable; she opts for deviation.
Realization triggers a hysterical response—laughter morphing into sobs. A toddler's vocal range limits the outburst's coherence; her mother seeks medical intervention. The reaction is a rational response to absurdity, swiftly compartmentalized.
Adaptation follows. Yui and Takuma Amane's affection—unearned and unconditional—contrasts Maria's reclusive past. She quantifies their bond's resilience, expecting decay; it defies her projections, renewing daily. (Selfishness defines her; she acknowledges it without pretense.)
Ethically, occupying Misa's form could be construed as theft from her parents. Guilt registers faintly, overridden by pragmatic comfort: blankets, a family film unseen as Maria, a sense of security. Moral qualms are secondary to utility.
The Death Note threats loom—Shinigami, notebooks, Misa's canonical suicide after Light's demise (Death Note, Episode 37). Temporary reprieve is insufficient; strategic planning is required.