My Typical Angel

Chapter One

August 14, 2002.

This date probably means nothing at all to most, unless it just so happened that a certain individual was born on this day of the calendar. August is the eighth month in the year, originally called Sextilis during the time of Latin roots, having then been the sixth month of the Roman calendar. With the addition of January and February, Sextilis thus became Augustus and the numerical count altered.

In the Finnish language, the word for August -elokuu- has a literal meaning of 'month of life'. The birthstone: peridot. The flower: poppy.

I wondered what Backyard Bottomslash would make of this.

To the modern Mandarin-speaking Chinese, the number 14 -said as 'shi shi'- resembles the sound of 'more/deep thinking'. As musical sounds, 14 is pronounced 'dou fa', which articulates exactly as 'all have fortunes'. It is considered a lucky number.

For the Chinese, in opposition, the meaning is drastically dissident. That same 'shi shi' way of speaking of the Mandarin translates to something along the lines of 'ten die'. Now, separate the two single digits: 1 and 4. 'Yao' and 'si'. 'Yao si'. 'Wants to die'. A string of unlucky connotations.

Take the Cantonese as another example: fourteen: 'sat say': 'sure death'. Now who's the luckiest number? What would Backyard Bottomslash have to say about this? I wondered which culture she would side with.

Backyard Bottomslash. Yes, that was, in fact, her real name.

Was.

Backyard Bottomslash, the 28-year-old bank worker. The third of Beyond Birthday's victims over the course of Los Angeles's BB Murder cases, also know as the Wara Ningyo Murders or the L.A. Serial Locked Room Killings; whichever suits your particular preference. I'm sure Backyard Bottomslash wouldn't mind which name you were to call it by: the outcome would still remain the same, no matter how ghastly the title. But to Backyard Bottomslash, it didn't matter one bit. Backyard Bottomslash had no right leg or left arm. Those limbs had been hacked off during her murder.

Murder. Death. She was dead. She is dead. And so were two others - Believe Bridesmaid and Quarter Queen. Believe Bridesmaid was the first victim, the freelance writer's last breath taken on July 31, 2002. Cause of death: asphyxiation with a rope. And then followed by post-mortem mutilation - slashed across the chest and clothing re-dressed over the wounds. Why? It was a good question. Why? Why had the 13-year-old Quarter Queen been murdered on August fourth, four days after the first of the homicide strings? Why was her skull traumatized with enough blunt force to kill? Why were her eyes gouged into her head after she had already become a cadaver? Why?

Why could police come to the assumption that each of the crude crimes had been commited by the same criminal? The answer was in the second and third of the three headlining references for this pattern of killings. Did you need to look back up? Did you take your eyes off this train of thought to glance back at the irrelevance above?

Bang. You're dead. Some petty detective you turned out to be.

The Wara Ningyo Murders. Wara ningyo - a straw doll used as a form of voodoo-like cursing, mainly in Japan. Did that mean that the degenerate was of Japanese origin? No. Did that mean that the victims were all of Japanese origin? Obviously not. No theory could gain any prominence.

Why?

The wara ningyo were of a predominately cheap variety, effortlessly purchased in a toy-shop on a child's allowance of three dollars. Believe Briadesmaid was given a parting gift of four dolls, each nailed to a separate wall of his bedroom. The door had been locked, his corpse lying on the bed in an endless sleep. Quarter Queen sufficed with three, her body face down on the bedroom floor she and her mother shared in a cramped apartment. The door locked. Backyard Bottomslash, in turn, was granted but two, right leg found abandoned in the (locked) bathroom and left arm never regained. It had fled the scene. Or been taken. Why?

The Wara Ningyo Murders. The L.A. Serial Locked Room Murders. And now it all makes sense.

So then, were the wara ningyo left blatantly at each scene a sign of similarily?

Apparently.

And the locked doors?

Apparently.

There was no certainty until there was a successful prosecution.

However, the similarity of the three cases were undeniable: each left with crucified dolls, rare and foreign to these United States. Each of the departed left hidden behind manually locked doors, a general sign of suicide. Coincidence? It was possible. Linked? It was probable.

Never certain.

There were a few rather polar differences between the lands of Winchester, England and Los Angeles, California. Mainly in the population, landscapes, air qualities, natural vegetation, atmospheres - well, when put this way into words, it seemed like there weren't any similarities at all. California was a beautiful state, the largest city Los Angeles envied by the rest of the country for the climate and star quality. But I was quicker to see its faults. Thousands of people crouding the streets (mainly tourists), cemented roads and cramped shopping centers, smog infested breaths, jam-packed beaches and fenced off trees the only original source of natural land and the 24/7 bustle of the city life. It was something I had never gotten fully used to, even after the years that had past since my departure from across the Atlantic. I missed England more than anything, but maybe that just had something to do with the company.

These Americans had lost the sense of appreciating nature and I saw it as the perfect opportunity to help them regain that feeling - for a price. But flowers were too old-fashioned. They wanted the look and color for special occasions, but not the short burst of life. Americans like food. Unhealthy food. So then, take an unhealthy food and mix it with something wholesome for the body, but still flashy, and thus you have Edible Arrangements. Chocolate-covered fruit displayed as a bouquet of flowers. A perfect compromise.

But I should have stayed in England with that idea.

10:26 PM.

My lips curled downward at the numbers shining bright on my coffee machine, knowing I was setting yet another record for late home comings. Bjork weaved himself between my legs - or rather, attempted the feat. It was quite difficult for a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound dog to do, especially when his back was too tall to fit below my hip. The Rhodesian Ridgeback whimpered, licking and nipping blunderishly at my fingers in a greeting. I pat him briefly on the head, resting a hand to his back and absent-mindedly tracing the line of wrong-way hairs trailing along his spine. The poor animal must have been half starved by now.

He escorted me into the compact kitchen, enthusiastically making a bee-line to the lower cupboard holding his canine chow. He made the task of grabbing up the bag and pouring it into his bowl far more challenging than it should have been, sticking his nose and monstrous head into every movement I made.

I disregarded his blatant, slurping inhale, maneuvering around his magnate form and getting my own form of a meal prepared.

The only thing I had to do was pick up a phone. Delivery take-out was truly an extraordinary invention.

Unfortunately for me, the telephone was hooked up to a charging dock on my bed-side table. Not normally much of a gruelling journey, but inconvenient so close to midnight after a trying day.

Sylas sat perfectly poised at the foot of my bed, genetically engineered dwarfted legs resting pointedly beneath her feline body. She watched me with faultless saffron orbs, eyes seeming to give off the impression of humanistic intellect as she cast my sauntering pace a chillingly knowing stare. I sometimes found myself wondering just how much, exactly, she understood of the world around her. An expected trait in the typical cat, I had found.

My legs locked in place, surceasing my advance after entering a hair's width into the room. I saw it as I made a connection with Sylas's unblinking gaze. The atypical scarlet reflecting from her eyes. Something was not right.

Something was very wrong here.

The answering machine was blinking. Why on earth would the device be blinking? It had never blinked before. No, blinking was the wrong word - too personifying. The inanimate object simply flashed red. I approached the gadget cautiously, lowering myself down to its level in a squat and curling my finger to the edge of the table, careful no to get too close, much less touch the contraption causing this all of this ruckus. I scrutinized the irksome repetitive lights coming from a boxed screen, a number one built from two digital bars. Pulling my brows together I lifted a hand, hesitant and debating in whether not I should continue on with this audatious action. My marveling of the objet d'art reacted on behalf of my brain, leaving me no choice but to jam an index finger briskly into the button directly below the screen, that too emitting an alarming glow from a minescule circular shape on the upper left corner. My limb shot back just as quickly as it had darted forward, weary of the possible imperilment.

There was but a simple beep in response to the action, leaving the atmosphere eerily still in its wake. I sunk further down in my position, shoulders raising up to cover my ears as my neck hunched down. Sylas made her way up the pillows and to my parallel side, the bed and posture giving us equal heights as we exchanged a glance. A new noise caugth both of our attentions, both human and animal snapping back to the technological mechanism at precisely the same moment.

"You have one new message," an automatonic voice articulated far too clearly, feminine seeming in pitch (could one really put a gender to an inert contraption?). I blinked. Of course. I had know that. But who had left it? Who was it that had such a vital topic as to call for this? I had this land line installed for only one reason - because I was never home. Any person who was obligated to speak with me knew of this fact well enough to disregard any attempts. That was what the mobile phone was for. Cellular phone - business. The home phone was more ritual than anything, restricted for personal conversations only. I believe the number was handed to five individuals, at maximum. It hadn't been used as a source of incoming calls for years.

"First message," the robot continued with no-nonsense. I heard the faint clicking sound of the machine pulling forth the recording from its memory, an only slightly more intelligible clank signalling completion. The caller identification lit up, presenting me with the identification of my rara avis.

My eyes widened to their extent.

Lawliet.

Lawliet?

Lawliet...

"Margot," another synthetic tone crackled over the line, this time sounding male. I didn't need to pay attention to pitch to solve it this time. "This is L. I trust even those who are currently unconnected to the FBI and legal systems like yourself will know of whom I speak of. I offer my regards for borrowing the name of your close friend, but this was the least risky and troublesome means of contact. And now for my business."

He paused there, my circulation frozen in its cycle.

"I would like to request your services in assisting my team and I in a certain string of murders centered in the L.A. area. I expect of you to know the basics of this case that were released into the public already, likely more based on your own impeccable comprehension. If you are willing to discuss your participation, please meet another associate of mine at the Nota Integravite Della Morte [1]restaurant tomorrow evening at 6:00 PM. Reservations will be under the name 'Rue Ryuzaki'. Whether you chose to meet my partner at this time or not, I must ask it of you to destroy this messaging machine within 24 hours time. I hope to speak with you again soon."

The voice mail was cut off there with a final solid beep, leaving me breathless. L. The notorious detective L. He had gone through the trouble of tracking me down to request my help. Help in a high-ranked serial killing case. I was a chef by trade. What could he possibly have in mind to use me for? He had used the name of the one person he knew I couldn't refuse. He lived up to his reputation, of course. But...

Did he think of me to be an idiot?

L. Ryuga Hideki. Eraldo Coil. Danuve. Lawliet. And now, Rue Ryuzaki? Did he really see me as so dense that I would not be able to put the same face to each of these names? Eraldo Coil and Danuve were acquired in a story all their own, but the bottom line was that the titles were attained victoriously by Lawliet in the end. But I knew of that. I, apparently, knew far more of it than he had anticipated. I was nearly disappointed. Had he thought I would have just dropped everything behind? Irrational. I had followed him through every step of his success. Did those specialized agents of his really not notice? Now I was disappointed. A disapppointing reunion.

"Lawliet..." I mumbled, voice wavering. I still considered myself in a state of shock. I couldn't add up all of this data at once. I wanted to throw the contraption that had caused all of this internal dilemma out of the window and forget all of its words. "What should I do?"

I sighed deeply, settling my tensed limbs and turning my head to the side. I peeked upwards, finding another's steady oculars. Sylas was so sure. She had all the answers. All the reassurences. All of the advice.

Sylas had vanquished my thoughts. Sylas had made up my mind. I couldn't be entrusted with the decision. It was Sylas.

I acted on impulse. Food erased from my thoughts entirely, I had attempted to climb into bed and sleep, hopefully to wake up with all questions fantastically resolved.

The answering machine mocked me. I felt its jeers on my back at all moments.

I couldn't stand it.

I threw it out the window and into the street. L had told me to destroy it within 24 hours. How else was I to accomplish that?

I went back to bed, expecting soothed nerves.

But the tape wasn't damaged.

I knew the tape wouldn't be damaged. The enforcing plastic protecting all of the precious programs and microchips would be shattered, but the tape would remain intact. A passerby could pick it up on their walk, curious as to the crumbled sight. They could bring home the tape, place it into their own technology and play it. They would discover L's message and my name. They would be criminals. They would come after me for information on L. I would be murdered.

I ran outside in my pajamas at exactly 2:43 AM.

I shifted through the ruins, managing to scavenge the prize even in the dim street lighting. I quickly past a glance over each of my shoulders, ensuring I had no eavesdroppers before scurrying back into the home like a stalked rodent.

I tripped. But that's completely irrelevant.

The slam of the door behind my back was an instant means of celebration. Mission accomplished.

Or not. I still to be ridded of the recording and destroy any hope of resurrection.

I immediately cursed the fact that I hadn't installed a wood-burning stove. Why on earth would I be missing one in my home?

Oh, yes. Of course. Because of fire. The fire stove would emit a spark and set the modest home ablaze. I would be sleeping. The toxic fumes and smoke would kill me before any alarm could even consider waking me in alert.

Cringing, I managed to produce a flame on the stove top crammed into the corner of the culinary room. Prying the recorded tape from the aegis shell, I thoughtlessly tossed it atop the heat source.

And screamed. The blaze burst with tripled life, odor chemically combusting from the incinerated tape.

The things I would endure for a friend.

It was well into the next day by the time I settled back into my sheets - 3:47 AM by the glowing red numerals on my cordless telephone's screen.

I scowled towards the baneful technological object. My consolation was the fact that it would soon enough die without its power dock.

Sylas settled into my side, purring softly and urging my attention to redirect. I complied, shifting my neck and granting her the contact between our sights. She regarded me carefully, thoughts translating with perfect point and accuracy.

Lawliet would be sure to get my constructive complaints over the course of our meal.

(A/N) This fanfiction will start off during and completely follow the time line of Nisioisin's AMAZING spin-off novel Death Note: Another Note. I probably won't go into the anime much at all - once I finish the novel's time line I might do a chapter or two from the anime/manga but skip right away into the L: Change the World film plot. I figured I'd switch it up a bit and make it a little more original than following the general time line, since it will be more interesting for me to write.

[1] My Italina isn't amazing, but I'm fairly sure that this would mean 'additional note of death'. Not the catchiest title for a diner, but a fun pun to play with :]

Disclaimer: ...Yeah, right. Do you think there is any possible way in the realistic world that I would have an ounce of the genius it took for Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi to morph the amazingly twisted and superiorly bomb-diggity series? Keep dreaming, 'cuz I know I will be :D A world where Matt and Mello and L will never die...

I also do not own Edible Arrangements. I tried looking up the rightful owners to give them credit, but I couldn't find much. Please don't sue me! I'm not sure if there'll be any real purpose for including the company in this, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Song: Disco Flight by Rin Toshite Shigure.