Misa Amane was screaming at the top of her lungs.
They weren't fake screams, either, like those loud, exaggerated ones that she'd forced out of her mouth during the filming of that horror movie she'd starred in a few months ago. They weren't even like the screams that had rung in her ears the night she'd watched her parents die—those had been horrified and grieved, wailing, mournful shrieks brought about by loss.
These screams were very real, and very terrified, a natural response to a threat to her life. They were panicked, shrill, desperate, meant to attract attention from anyone nearby.
"Help me! Oh god, please, anyone, help me!"
Help me, help me, call the police, stop him, save me, please—
Wasn't that how it had gone in the movie? She had, her character had, been saved at the last minute by the sound of sirens and the pounding footsteps of a whole squad of police rushing to her rescue, and then everything had been okay, the villain had died and she had been able to sit in the ambulance wrapped in a blanket and breathe a deep sigh of relief.
But this wasn't a movie. She wasn't running on a closed set from another actor in heavy makeup holding a fake knife—this was real. There were no lines, no set ending, no indication as to what she should do, and there wasn't anyone there to answer her screams.
She was alone save for him, the monster chasing her through unfamiliar, twisting alleyways with a very real blade in his hand and insane laughter bubbling out of his mouth.
"I've written you so many letters!" he shouted at her, his footsteps heavy and fast against the wet ground. "But you never answered, Misa! Why didn't you answer?!"
"Help me!" she shrieked. "Help!"
But no one did, not even Kira, the all-seeing, blessed Saint Kira who she had worshipped so much. He killed the criminals, the murderers and rapists who preyed unchecked upon the innocent every day like bloodthirsty animals—he protected the victims, made it so that no one could hurt anyone anymore.
But yet, he wasn't protecting her.
"Why, Misa?!" the man, the monster, was still demanding, and oh god, his footsteps were getting louder and louder and louder—
And then his hands were on her, his fingers vises around her arms and the knife pressing into the material of her shirt, tearing and ripping until it sunk into her skin.
She struggled, writhing and kicking and scratching, raking her nails across his face and slamming the heel of her boot into his shin.
He grunted, his grip loosening, and she twisted away and began running again, her hair stuck to the tear tracks on her face and blood dripping from her arm.
But she was blinded by the panic, frantic and directionless and tired, so very tired, her legs heavy and her heart feeling like it was going to explode in her chest. He had caught up within a matter of seconds, and this time, he just stabbed.
Once, twice, three, four, five six seven eight nine ten eleven again and again and again, the sharp metal sliding into her back over and over, bringing a new burst of agony with it each time. Then she was limp, the rigidity going out of her limbs and sending her crashing to the ground, where she lay motionless, one last long, rasping scream working its way out of her mouth as he continued bringing the knife down onto her chest and stomach.
Then, however, as he raised it once again, aiming this time for her throat, something happened.
He froze, his eyes going wide, and dropped it. It fell, splashing in her blood, and soon he followed it, collapsing slowly to the ground with his hands gripping his chest.
He fought for air with short, quick gasps that terminated in a long, high hiss as he died, his eyes becoming lifeless and empty.
She stared into them deeply, unthinkingly, even as her vision blurred and darkened, the pain fading and the heat seeping out of her along with her blood.
She died thinking that maybe, Kira hadn't abandoned her after all.
--
Prison life was a lot like life in an orphanage: hard, structured, and boring.
It made Beyond Birthday feel like he was suffocating, most of the time. Sometimes he would wake up in the middle of the night, sweating and panting, feeling like he wanted to writhe out of his own skin, scratch all the scars away and make himself bleed.
Other times he would pace, back and forth and back and forth again and again nonstop for days, the restless energy in his body and mind channeled down into his feet.
He usually thought about L then, about what he might've been doing, what inferior criminal was taking up his time. No one told him anything anymore, and he certainly had no connection to the outside world, no way to keep up to date on anything—his world had been reduced to the sterile white hospital bed he slept on and the equally sterile white walls of the long-term ward of the prison hospital. There wasn't even a window, though he knew that there wasn't much to see outside, just a long stretch of water and dirt and tall wire fencing punctuated by guard towers and spotlights.
Occasionally, once a week, he was allowed to go outside and get a nice, thirty minute long look at all of it, his doctors having declared that fresh air was good for his skin. B personally found the wet draft off of the water irritating against his raw flesh, but he never spoke to them about it—after all, while he didn't enjoy being outside, he did enjoy watching the young guard who was assigned to escort him squirm, always careful to keep his eyes down and to the side, away from his burnt, twisted face.
Today he was even worse than usual, his shotgun held in a death grip and sweat beading on his brow. B assumed it had something to do with what he'd mentioned to him last time, about how he only had five years left.
"Left?" he asked.
"To live," he'd clarified.
Of course, as far as the guard was concerned, there was no way B could actually be sure of that. However, that didn't stop him from putting a large amount of distance between them, standing tensed and ready off in a corner of the private little garden as B wandered around, gazing off at the water.
L was somewhere off on the other side of that water, probably holed up in a hotel room with a dish of candy, hiding behind a computer screen and a voice modifier like a coward.
B longed to draw him out, to force him to give up all of his security, to rip him out of his safe, isolated world where he was invincible, untouchable.
He wanted to drag L back down to earth, to have him bleeding and broken on the ground before him, suffering like he had suffered.
But that was impossible. Even the cat and mouse game they had played could no longer be continued with the water and the fences and the white sterile walls separating him from the rest of the world.
And so he was left to stare out at the water, wondering idly what it would feel like to drown. Occasionally, he turned his gaze upwards, watching the birds fly by in little black groups.
Then he noticed one bird that was by itself.
And falling, very rapidly, twisting as it did so.
That was when he realized that it wasn't a bird—it was flat and rectangular, like a—
A book. A book that fell from the sky and landed roughly in a rosebush, its cover staring up at him between the crimson red flowers and thorns.
There was writing across it, not English, so it took him a moment to place the language and understand what it said:
Death Note.
_
_
Author's Note: I've been itching to write a Death Note fic for awhile now. And, since I sincerely believe Misa ruined the entire series, I've always wondered what it would be like if B got the second Death Note instead. So, yeah.
(It was so satisfying killing Misa, you don't even know.)
Expect Rem, a daring prison escape, and gratuitous consumption of sweets in the next chapter!
Anna