These eyes

These scarlet, glossy eyes

A gift?

A curse?

A precious treasure?

Gods power to see the symbols

Letters and numbers that seem to float in the air

It's stuck in my skull.

Six, Five, Four...

Why was I chosen to truly see?

A thrill

intoxication

The color as you dwindle down to zero

Three, Two, One...

Existence evaporating

settling the score

I shall dye this flesh to match the orbs

A lustrous, tainted crimson.

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Beyond Birthday:

Crimson Eyes

Chapter:0

'Prolog with matches'

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A songbird in a cage. Its chirped tunes so sweet and subtle, reciting day by day lyrics of fantasized vengeance. It was fearless, beautiful, eccentric, preening scarlet liquid from its feathers until nothing but white remained. So careful to mask the intentions beneath its haunting call, it smiled and laughed at the world. That is, until the night the curtain began to rise, and the macabre opera would play for the final time. The chirping, so lovely, become shrill, pained squawks, fluttering against the bars that engulfed everything. Dancing about, its white feathers were tangled and plucked from the skin, adrenalin seeping from the gashes.

"How dreadful," he said, putting his free hand to his chest, the other occupied by a red, half-empty canister. He held it once more above his head, drenching his unruly black locks in the pungent liquid, making sure it was emptied of contents before casting it aside.

Everything was perfect. Fingerprints gone, sprinklers smashed, door locked, doll nailed to the wall and that foolish woman, waiting in vain upstairs, hadn't the faintest clue what he was about to do. Perfect.

Now, if only his hands weren't shaking.

He could feel the bird smack at his rib cage, protesting, screeching incessantly. It hurt.

He could only have imagined that the embrace of death was dreadful, perhaps even scathing to the touch. Having seen it so many times before, he could guess what it was like. But, to actually feel disconnection of the limbs . . . hearing your own flesh be torn apart by a set of frozen hands . . . To see the gossamer colors of suffocation blanket your eyes . . .

It was something Beyond Birthday had never really lingered on. He didn't need to. He always looked his prey in the face, seeing their numbers dwindle to nothing, hitting zero and evaporating into thin air. They turned into nothing before him. No name, no ticking clock, no proof of the life they once lived. A worthless husk of a human, only meant for the flies.

Just like he was.

Just like they were.

Everyone.

Blackberry Brown, Backyard Bottomslash, Quarter Queen...

His father, his mother, his brother...

His brother?

No. Not that, anything but that term. It implied things, lovely sentiments that no longer existed between them. Joy, love, understanding... acceptance... No.

That man... that man was not his brother. Not now.

Now he was an opponent, an obstacle, an enemy.

Something to surpass and strike fear in.

To win against at all costs.

Any cost.

This is why Beyond had gone this far. Killing those people was just a strategy, a plan woven together using discarded hopes and pulled, singed strings of fate. Eventually he realized that this particular game was a game in which you lost the moment you started to play. In order not to be defeated, you must make it impossible for the other to win. You have to sew your shadow to the opponents blind spot, make them always feel like something is lurking behind them, but you can never allow them to find what is chasing them. If you are found, it's over. Breath and a heart beat gave you away, therefor...

"If you're alive, you lose," he whispered, and forced his hands in his pockets. Drenched and sticky with gasoline, it took some maneuvering to grab hold of the last component in the plan. Drawing his hand out once again, Beyond held the dampened object up to the light, its glossy surface reflecting the blue-green glow...

A box of matches, begging to be opened.

He stroked the sandpaper siding with one spindly finger, eventually working to the opposite side and pushing the paper drawer midway out. The faint aroma of sulfur and wood lingered in the air, joining with the sharp scent already soaked into his clothes. He cocked his head, studying the sulfur-coated sticks, the dark powder circles under his eyes merging with the gasoline dripping down his cheek. B plucked one from its place. His friend, he decided. Something very precious to him. A second red treasure, glistening in the brilliance of the Los Angeles lights. He grinned as he brought his ally close, listening as the friction took form and flickered at his fingertips. He watched it dance and slowly eat away at itself, leaving the end black and charred, making its way toward the slick white fingers that cradled it.

The seconds passed.

The birds calls went mute.

Red kissed white.

"I win... L."

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A/N:

Hi everybody! This is my first fanfiction ever :D

Mostly put it up here so that I could get some constructive criticism so I can get better at this :3

There so aren't enough BB-fics out there, so I wanted to make one to spread the love.

This story will be about: How B got the eyes, B's childhood, B and L going to Wammy's house and generally why BB is so, well... BB-ish.

BxL fans, I'm one of you, but I just had to put a twist to this story... It might not be obvious, but L and B have a VERY long history in this... ya. XP

Please review! I really think my writing skills could use A LOT of improvement!

I'll work on this more over summer break. :D