Of course, for my B~
Oh, Beyond was well aware that L had the scenes bugged top to bottom. It was why he bothered putting on half of the performance that he did; L was sure. Because throwing the proverbial cloth over Miss Misora's eyes wasn't exactly something that took much effort, he mused. He'd watched her while she was led along; coming to pseudo-revelations, following B's every word and suggestion like a puppet on a tightly-wound slip of twine, offering up suggestions only when he blatantly left the opening to do so, challenging his theories when he would purposely let something slip just a bit, giving her leeway to wonder…
B was brilliant. There was never any question in L's mind.
And, well. Some things just amused. Enough to almost -almost, mind you- make him chuckle as he leaned forward, watching the screen with curious, wide eyes. The way his doppelganger would go a little too far in some areas. (The jam, for instance. Now that was just grotesque.) The way he would hunch just a bit too much, spew something only a tad more eccentric than L would have phrased it. Subtleties that the detective knew were less of a series of slips and more of the overlying flavor of this entire challenge.
Look what I can do.
Like a child.
The appearance was off. Of course the appearance was off; it had been created from tidbits of information here and there that his ex-successor was able to gather from various sources. Taking a shattered puzzle and piecing it together. A hundred missing, jagged slots to be filled in by context, matching shades, edges of images and despite all of this, L had to admit that it wasn't half bad.
Though he was forced to wonder just how dense Miss Misora was at times. He had given her a great deal of credit, and it served L's own ego to hold on to this lingering hope that she was indeed an outstanding agent. To admit that she was anything less would have been to admit that he was wrong. No. Instead, L only decided that there was a reason that some people were simply agents, while others were world-class detectives.
This aside, the woman served as an adequate thoroughfare for silent communication. There were times in which Beyond would purposely create a spectacle just in view of the tiny, well-placed cameras. A hand in his pocket suggestively stroking over what L knew was nothing more than a simple blade, proximity to Misora far too close, given the nature of their encounter. B just behind her, listening quietly as she spoke aloud of possibilities and rattled off ridiculous ideas that he would shoot down with a sort of arrogance that could very well have come from L's own mouth. The tiniest glance just beyond the view of the lens. A slight upturn of pale lips.
Look what I can do. Come play with me.
And in all things, Beyond was precise. The positioning of bodies draped over a table, angle just out of view, showing only the briefest glimpse of long, pale legs wrapped around a denim-clad waist. Labored breathing stifled only by a hand (Mustn't wake the dead), attenuated keening and murmuring not meant for Misora at all, subtle gasps and the muted scraping of wooden table legs against filthy linoleum. Scuff marks around the bottom of the table that Misora, herself would later return to meticulously remove, lest they be found out.
Sexual intercourse at the scene. Highly unprofessional.
There was no limit to the games he would play, and L watched each and every one of them intently, waiting for that slip, that break in composure that would allow his proxy to catch on. And when she would come close; when her eyes would widen just a bit, when her brow would furrow, Beyond was always there to lead her astray once more. Down to an art, he had it. And L, if not anything else, was nothing less than impressed.
It would have been the perfect challenge, if L hadn't been on to it from the start. He would have rather enjoyed following the scattered, nonsensical clues; putting together things that were never really broken, and in the end, the detective would have enjoyed that win more than anything he'd been able to enjoy in quite a while.
Pity that ego and desperation were the two deciding factors. Pity that impatience had prevented any form of true game from being played. Pity that B had thrown his own victory in favor of self-indulgence and rebellion. Fire: literally going out in a blaze of glory; skin crackling beneath heat, panic overtaking what once were prideful eyes. Screams and flailing and in the end, it was so very tasteless. Like a half-finished painting suddenly splashed with horrid paint in muted colors. Vandalism in its greatest form.
Some games, L decided, were over before they even started.
Ah, well.