Author's Note: And the plot thickens. Somewhat. In any case, this chapter contains considerable adult content and should DEFINITELY be read with warnings. This is definitely one of the darkest chapters, content-wise. So if you can handle this, you'll be good.
Warnings: Torture/Mutilation/Murder/Sadism, Bondage/Dubious Consent (not of OC), profanity, angst. Wow. I think that's all of it.
I did some expanding on B's character for the purpose of this , so I hope you like it.
It's also come to my attention that I should put a disclaimer in here, which I have been forgetting to do. So I don't own Death Note. There's your disclaimer, I guess.
Chapter 4: Two Shriveled Hearts
Though he would never verbally admit to loving anything, B had to be honest with himself: he loved the smell of blood.
He loved how the metallic scent clung to the inside of his nostrils, and how it seemed to somehow taint everything it touched.
It was irresistible.
Of course, he hadn't always thought that. He hadn't always been "deranged," as many of the authority figures in his life so often mused behind his back. He had always been impulsive, to be certain, and obsessive to a degree—but he did not become a murderer (as some may call him) until he met him.
L. That bastard. B hated him with everything in his blackened, shriveled heart—and yet, he still could not bring himself to completely abandon his old goal of becoming just like him.
No, not like him—better. B knew he was better than L—and he knew he could make everyone else see it, too. By the time he was finished, everyone on Earth would know the name Beyond Birthday. Or he would die trying, and take down anyone who got in his way.
With a new surge of excitement coursing through his veins, B turned away from the closed window, absentmindedly closing the blinds to prevent any unwanted viewers from watching his work.
Los Angeles had once been a very crowded place—the multitudes of abandoned skyscrapers and urban clubs B could see out the window were a testament to that. He wouldn't be surprised if someone, even one of those sickos, happened to wander by outside.
He yanked his protective plastic mask down over his face, once again seeing the world through a filmy screen. The mask bothered him; after many experiments, he had found that part of the raw enjoyment from a fresh kill stemmed directly from watching it happen with one's own eyes, and having the person know your face as they slipped away. The mask took some of that thrill away from him.
Oh, well, he thought with a shrug of his shoulders, It will have to do for now, until I can find a healthy kill…
B sauntered over to the dining room table in the kitchen, and looked with renewed vigor at the writhing form lying sprawled across the wood. He stepped closer, coming to stand by the person's side.
It was a woman, most likely in her late twenties. She was strawberry blonde, with intense bloodshot blue eyes that seemed to constantly dart angrily around the room, looking for something to focus her hate on. Her eyes came to rest on B's hidden face. She growled, a deep guttural sound, as her teeth strained against the gag he had placed in her mouth. Her arms and legs were bound forcefully to the table with strips of cloth, making it incredibly troublesome to escape. B had told her so many times, but his attempts at communication seemed to fall on deaf ears.
The position of her body vaguely reminded B of an ancient Aztec ritual sacrifice—a practice he had learned about in Wammy's House long ago. However, B had no plans to rip her heart out of her chest—at least, not while she was alive.
The scraggly man took some time to survey her face and body. She was actually quite attractive, even in her twisted state. B was very much looking forward to seeing what her insides looked like as well.
Will her blood burn as hot as her eyes?
He hoped her insides were exquisite. It would be a shame if they weren't.
His only regret was that she was one of the infected; her anger wasn't nearly as alluring as he knew her fear would be. A person's fear was delicious and sweet—anger was bitter, and left a bad taste in B's mouth. He didn't want his experiments to be angry with him; it made him uncomfortable. He was, after all, trying to help them.
This world, B believed, was as good for these people as a rotting corpse: it was more tailored to the flies and vermin. L was hailed as a hero for saving the kind of heart and locking up those whom society viewed as evil. B used to admire him for it as well, and strived to be just like him.
It had taken him a long time to realize what L couldn't: the bad guys were the ones who deserved to live their lives on this hunk of rock, not the innocents. By wiping their lives off of this filthy planet, B was doing the people he killed a favor. So far, he had killed six: three back home—a man, a woman, and a young child—and three of the infected.
He had saved them.
The way he did it was just insignificant detail—experiments, if you will. It was something that stimulated his curiosity and made him feel good. He did deserve some reward for his efforts, didn't he?
Of course he did.
Sighing, B carefully pulled on a pair of hospital-grade latex gloves from the small suitcase on the floor. It was a necessary precaution from contaminants. He quickly snapped the gloves on his wrist and began humming a tune; he then picked up the large kitchen knife he had placed on the counter beforehand. He ran his fingers gingerly over the smooth sides, admiring the handiwork.
As soon as the woman's eyes landed on the knife, her whole body seemed to shrink and deflate. Her pupils dilated further, her face now contorting with absolute terror. Her body, despite the impossibility, tried desperately to flop away from B as he held the knife close to her arm. A surge of warmth shot through his veins at the look in her eyes.
"Hmmmm…" he murmured softly. "That's better."
He inched the knife a bit closer to her face, and she shook her head rapidly in response, as if to beg him to stop.
B smiled under the mask. He always enjoyed this part the most.
With one deft movement, B sliced her upper arm open, causing her skin to burst open like a dam. The muffled scream almost caused B's ears to perk up, and to him they were as seductive as moans of pleasure, urging him to go on.
So he did.
He sliced cuts all over her chest, arms, and legs—even her cheeks did not escape his notice. Some were gushing blood, others only trickled a bit—but every slice still sent a jolt of increasing bodily pleasure through B's body. His face was hot, the nearly orgasmic sensations causing his whole body to throb. He moaned on the twelfth cut, his legs shaking and his breath haggard.
My, my, he thought cheekily. The girl is quite a sight.
Indeed she was. She was whimpering softly now, while tear tracks cut through the blood that stained her face. Every exposed inch of skin had scarlet on it, taunting B with its austere beauty. Rivulets of blood were running down the woman's body, pooling on the table around her and dripping silently to the floor.
He didn't think she would last much longer. Her breath was becoming shallower, her well-defined chest rising and falling gently and with less frequency. It looked as if she were in deep sleep.
It was time to end it.
Carefully, as if performing a rite of passage, B held the point of the dagger directly over the left side of her chest, placing his empty hand over his clenched fist. With one quick thrust, so as not to disturb the woman further, B plunged the knife into her heart.
Her body gave one small jerk, and was still. Her face and muscles instantly relaxed, just as B's body exploded with a sensation of pure ecstasy. Gasping wildly, his face a bright red, he bent over her still form. He traced the edges of her face delicately with his gloved fingertips. How he yearned to feel her skin…but no, it was too risky. He couldn't underestimate the possibility of getting sick; he needed time to carry out his plan.
As the amazing feelings subsided, B once again reached into his suitcase, pulling out a dropper pipet and a small tray of glass vials. Three of them were already filled.
Sticking the dropper into the fresh blood that had pooled on the ground, B salvaged enough infected blood to fill up an entire vial; he carefully resealed the cap and placed the vial back into its rightful stand.
Four down, sixteen to go.
Once all of his utensils were back in the suitcase, B found himself staring back at the woman's closed eyelids. One more look wouldn't hurt…
Later...
B felt cheap and deflated as he sat on the blue loveseat in the living room. A pair of disembodied blue eyes stared back at him from the coffee table, serving as a temporary companion during his afterglow.
The unnamed woman's eyeless corpse still lay butchered in the kitchen, her suffering and anguish lost to the emptiness of the dying city. B was satisfied—but only barely. While he still derived immense pleasure from killing her, it was not nearly as intense as he had hoped it would be. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life killing those who were already dying at the hands of a much more potent murderer (or savior, as he liked to believe) than he.
Perhaps he would have time to kill someone healthy when he was done carrying out his plan…
Sighing in contentment from the results of his future actions, B stood up, gathering his meager items and exiting the apartment.
He had more work to do.
The radio was broken again.
The nervous goof of a bartender—Matsuda was his name—had dropped it for the third time that month, causing the batteries to go skidding all over the floor.
Lana, who had been sitting at the bar drinking a glass of aged brandy when he dropped the thing, had helped him put them back in; but now, no matter how they turned the on/off knob, it wouldn't play.
"Oh no…Jeez…" Matsuda stuttered in anxiety, absently playing with his hair.
Lana slapped the side of the contraption in frustration. "Are you freakin' kidding me?" she growled, twisting the volume module. "I want to listen to Stripes."
Lana was unashamed to admit that she had become accustomed to listening to the quirky radio host, with his sardonic wit and upbeat attitude when talking about how fucked everyone was. It somehow made everything seem a little less grim. Not to mention the fact that she had grown to harbor an acute fondness for the old music he played—the thought of which, at the moment, only fueled her annoyance with Matsuda.
"I'm sorry, Em." Matsuda's nickname certainly did not raise her spirits—though it did make her feel guilty for snapping at him.
Sighing, she set the broken radio back down on the bar. "It's okay, Matsuda. Nix'll fix it—hey, Nix!" Lana yelled over her shoulder at the hunched form of a woman who was currently playing poker with a group of customers. They were rough guys, from the looks of it, hoping to catch a few fights and win free admission while they were at it. What they didn't know was that the woman they were playing against could cheat at poker like nobody's business.
Nix turned around twitchily, her bald wrinkled head pulled out of its calculations. "Gimme a sec, boys," she rasped out, pocketing her cards and coming over to the bar. "What?" she snapped rudely, staring blankly at Lana and the nervous barman.
"Matsuda broke the radio. Mind taking a look at it?" Lana asked hopefully.
The dull gray eyes blinked once at the machine, and then crinkled up with a smile that showed Nix's two remaining teeth. "Nah, I'll give it a look. Got a screwdriver?" she asked of Lana.
"Nope," the scarred woman answered. "All I got is a baggie with some paper clips and a switchblade."
The bald woman then turned to Matsuda, who gulped audibly; he was scared of Nix. Of course, she did have a history of violently stabbing certain "rude" customers, so Lana could empathize with his fears. The only reason she was allowed to handle tools at all was because she was remarkably handy (disregarding the history of her fondness for crystal meth).
Needless to say, she was no longer allowed to fight in the ring.
Matsuda reluctantly reached into a drawer behind the counter, pulling out a screwdriver and handing it to the skinny woman. Lana noticed his hand resting shakily on a small pistol as well.
Lana watched Nix work for a few minutes, noting how she carefully unscrewed the front of the plastic contraption and inspected the volume knob. With a grunt that Lana hoped was positive, Nix did something to the radio that caused a dull popping sound. Then, she screwed the front back on, placing it and the tool back down on the bar. "There." With a moist burp, Nix went back to suckering the guys she was playing against.
Matsuda's posture relaxed. "That woman. Doesn't she, I dunno, give you the creeps?"
"Not really," Lana replied, reaching for the radio and turning it on. "She's just like everyone else once you've been hearing her snore all night long. She does fix the radio every other day, after all."
"Yeah…" Matsuda began timidly, but Lana cranked the volume all the way up to high, drowning out all the background noise. Stripes was talking in a loud, clear voice.
"…In slightly worse news, many of the fences that were put up to separate quarantine zones at the time of the initial outbreak have weakened in Reseda, Van Nuys, and the more urban Los Angeles areas…if you're listening and you live in or near those regions, stay safe and be careful—a bunch of half-dead sickies may be roaming about. Was that insensitive?"
At that last statement, the voice faded slightly; it sounded as if the guy was talking to someone else.
Lana's skin crawled, as if small bugs were burrowing underneath her skin. Crazies…infected people…had escaped from the camps?
Well…it had been seven years since the outbreak, and any guards who had been taking care of those who fell ill must have long since died or abandoned their posts. Lana couldn't fathom how the infected prisoners had not all simply starved to death. That is, unless they had found…alternative food sources. Lana shuddered internally, images of diseased lunatics tearing the living flesh from the bones of others rattling around in her brain. After seven years in captivity, would it be normal to act so depraved, even without a devastating neurological illness?
Lana hoped not.
Taking a large swig of brandy and relishing in the liquid burning her throat, Lana opted to listen to the music that was now playing. The lyrics were unfamiliar, but the tune had the distinct quality of a song not from this decade. The music was heavy and low, wistful in a sort of benign way.
Ooooh, you cannot reach me now….
Ooooh, no matter how you try…
Goodbye, cruel world, it's over
Walk on by…
Sitting in a bunker, here behind my wall,
Waiting for the worms to come…
Whoever Stripes was, he clearly enjoyed bringing people down.
Or maybe he was just being honest.
Some time later, Lana nearly jumped out of her skin in response to the unnecessarily loud sound of a plastic tray being slapped on the counter.
"Matsu!" a high-pitched voice sing-songed. "Can I get three shots of whiskey, please?"
Jesus Christ, Lana thought, gulping down the rest of her brandy as a distraction from the request of the upbeat waitress beside her. Her name was, Lana believed, Misa Amane—though everyone there only called her by Amane, her surname. Lana was convinced that she was, hands down, one of the most insufferably positive people in the known universe. Her cheerful attitude and naivety would have given Lana an aneurism long ago were it not for the spark of jealousy she harbored for Misa's inexplicable happiness. How the girl even managed to keep a smile on her petite blonde face was a mystery.
"Sure thing, Miss Amane," Matsuda said happily, revealing himself to be just as unbearably cheerful; Misa was just more obvious. He quickly refilled the shot glasses on the tray. "Uh…are you sure they can pay for those?"
"Yep! They said they'd pay for the whole night—they even gave Light an entire gallon of water right in front of my eyeballs!"
Matsuda's eyes bugged. "Really? That's amazing!"
In reality, it wasn't—but it would be enough to keep everyone from dying of dehydration if their current stock ran out.
"I know, right? They sure seem confident in that poker game…" With that, Misa picked up the tray and swayed seductively over to the table where Nix sat with the men. She leaned over the table, setting the tray down in such a way that the men could see right down her shirt.
Lana was creeped out by the hungry stare one of the men gave her. She had seen that look before; she knew what followed, and it was not a memory she hoped to relive. Ever.
Out of the corner of her eye, Lana noticed that Light was watching the rat-faced man's display of interest with an expression akin to thoughtfulness. As soon as Misa came back to sit at the bar next to Lana, Light made his way over to the pervert, and the two began conversing. Lana had a bad feeling about this for Misa. She turned to the girl and was about to tell her so when out of nowhere, Lana felt a presence behind them.
"Excuse us, Amane." It was Light, with the rat standing next to him, gaping at Misa like a wolf at a sheep. "This is Higuchi. He seems…interested in getting to know you better. Perhaps you could offer to show him some of your…unique talents?"
Shit.
Lana glanced at Misa, who reminded her oddly of a deer caught in headlights. Then, all of a sudden, her face broke out into a huge grin. "Of course, Light!" she squealed. "Anything you want!"
Lana held in a gagging noise (as well as an exclamation of outrage) at Misa's unwavering devotion to the man who was basically her pimp. She was clearly infatuated with Light, and tended to do whatever he asked without question—even if it meant having sex with total strangers.
Of course, am I really one to talk? Is there anyone here who wouldn't do what Light asked of them?
Light smiled at Misa, and Lana swore she could see the small girl melting. "Then why don't you go show him upstairs?"
"Okay, Light!"
Misa took Higuchi's hand, leading him towards the stairs with a sway of her petite hips. Higuchi was watching her ass as they walked away. Lana swallowed the verbal (and physical) thrashing she wanted to give Light, instead taking another rather large gulp of liquor. She was drinking too much.
"Don't look so angry, Emerson," Light commented with a massive shit-eating grin on his face. Evidently she wasn't hiding her emotions well. "You should be thankful I'm not putting you up for grabs anymore. Ever since Amane's gotten here, no one's looked twice at your scar tissue." The grin grew wider. "At least not without a look of disgust."
One day, I will squeeze the life out of you, you cocky, cowardly piece of shit.
Thirty minutes later...
Lana was pulled out of her stupor by Light's aggravated exhale.
"Emerson, why don't you go upstairs and check on Higuchi and Amane? His boys are becoming more…adventurous with their bets, and I certainly don't want him getting anything more than he bargained for."
The dark-haired girl rolled her eyes. Of course that's why he would be concerned. Not for Misa's safety, but for the fact that he could be overusing one of his precious tools. All Light saw when he looked at anyone was an object to be used, not a person with morals and emotions.
She was digressing. "Sure thing, Yagami." Lana leapt out of the chair, glancing at the two men still trying to beat Nix at the poker table. (On an unrelated note, Lana glanced at Nix's cards as she swept by; there was no way either of them were going to best her.)
The staircase was unsurprisingly empty, seeing as whenever business was slow the fighters all shacked up in bed until someone came around. Itzel hadn't even gotten up to pee this morning.
Given the circumstances, one thing Lana did not expect, nor want, to hear was a rhythmic pounding above her head.
Jesus, are they still going at it? She was about to turn around and go back downstairs when she heard something that made her heart clench: A loud, pained moan.
Lana bolted up the stairs, nearly sprinting the second flight before she burst headlong into the hallway. Misa's moans had turned into scared, pained yelps that were emanating from the room to Lana's left. Pissed off and fuming angrily, Lana tried the doorknob; it was unlocked.
"Listen here, asshole—" the angry woman started, about to reprimand Higuchi for being too rough.
But the scene before her stole the breath from her lungs.
Misa was bound to the bed by her neck, Higuchi's trousers wrapped tightly around her throat and tied to the headboard like some sort of morbid noose. His beefy hands pinned her to the mattress, holding her arms steady so that she could not thrash.
Yet an even more ungodly sight than that was causing Lana's brain to nearly sizzle out of her ears.
Higuchi was stark naked, his pimply buttocks pounding into the frail girl mercilessly. Her spread legs were limp, and her thighs were stained red with blood. Tears and mascara rolled down her cheeks.
The both of them seemed to be oblivious to Lana's presence.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" Lana screamed loud enough for the entire building to hear her.
Before the rat could even stop his violent thrusts, Lana was on him. She grabbed him by the roots of his hair and jerked his hair back.
"Ow!" he yelled in protest, his eyes landing on the enraged woman standing above him. He blanched, his face turning from red to white in less than three seconds. "What are—"
He was cut off midsentence as Lana wrapped her forearm around his throat, grabbing her own bicep so she had him in a choke hold. She dragged him off the now-stained mattress, slamming him down on the dirty carpet.
"Oof! You crazy bitch!" Higuchi was bare-assed on his hands and knees, tenderly rubbing his throat. "What the hell is your—"
He was silenced once again as Lana savagely kicked him in the liver. Breath whooshed out of the man's lungs as he rolled to his side, clenching his abdomen in agony. "What are you—"
She delivered another hard kick to his gut. "Shut the fuck up!" She kicked him again.
And again. And again, until the man was completely curled into himself—a pathetic naked mess lying in a heap on the floor. He was groaning. Lana only faintly heard the echoing footsteps running upstairs as she went over to the bed and loosened Misa's bindings. The poor girl was pretty banged up—she was sporting a busted lip, and her pale thighs were obscenely stained. Her small breasts were marked with bright red fingerprints that the other woman knew would bruise by tomorrow.
The blonde girl sniffled as Lana helped her sit up, a small smile of gratitude gracing her lips. "Thank you," she squeaked. "I knew he was a pervert."
Lana was, quite frankly, horrified. How the hell is she smiling right now? Still, she tried her best to be reassuring. "Don't worry, Amane. That asshole's gonna pay."
Oh, the things she wanted to do to him…
Misa squealed as Light and Aizawa burst into the room, nearly knocking the door off its hinges as it slammed into the wall. Lana hurriedly grabbed the bed sheets, covering Misa's battered form before the two men could see her.
"What the hell's going on?" Light was staring angrily at everyone in the room; his eyes fell on the still-immobilized Higuchi, while Aizawa was merely gaping open-mouthed at Misa's shrouded body. His expression was stiff.
"Fuckface here decided to get rough with Amane. So I got a little rough with him, too."
Light's face was beyond menacing. It looked completely passive, yet dauntingly evil at the same time, as though he were envisioning the clinical process of peeling off Higuchi's skin. "Damaging one of my employees, Higuchi? I really expected better out of you." No you didn't. "You should understand that I do not take these sorts of offences lightly. Aizawa," Light motioned to the bushy-haired man, "collect his things. See if he has anything valuable. Get Mogi, and make sure you do the same with his friends downstairs. On second thought…bring them all up here afterwards, why don't you?"
Aizawa nodded hesitantly. "Yes, sir."
"Emerson, take Amane to her room. There are some antibacterial wipes and pills there. Make sure she takes one immediately."
Lana clenched her jaw, trying to be gentle as she helped Misa stand up with the sheet still wrapped tightly around her tiny frame. The girl was no longer crying; her tears had dried seemingly as soon as Light had come in. Or maybe she was just in shock.
"And as for you, sir. I'm afraid I cannot forgive someone for damaging one of my commodities."
"Come on, man! The bitch is fine!"
Lana growled, spinning to face him again, and Light shot her a look of warning.
"Go, Emerson. I will take care of him."
The scarred girl obeyed with reluctance, leading a quaking Misa to the door.
The only sounds she heard after the door had closed behind her were Higuchi's pleads for mercy, a single gunshot, and then…silence.
"Come on, Amane. You've got to take it."
Misa held the small white pill in the curved palm of her hand, hesitation written all over her face. "But I always bleed so much afterwards. Do I have to?"
Lana held in a groan. "I know you don't like it, but you don't want to get pregnant, do you?"
Misa looked distraught, yet she still managed to crack a small smile. "Maybe I should! Then Light wouldn't make me do that gross stuff anymore…maybe he'd even help me!"
Lana restrained herself from grabbing the girl and shaking some sense into her. Was she blind? Or just hopelessly devoted to the notion that Light would one day love her? Either way, she was damn sure that it wasn't going to happen.
She shook her head sadly. "No, Misa. If you got pregnant, Light would kill you and the baby—if he didn't try to push you down a flight of stairs first. Besides, even if you did happen to survive Light's wrath, he would sure as hell kick you out of here. You'd either starve or get killed, and if by some miracle you didn't, how long do you think you can take care of a baby in this hellhole?" A mental image of crazies tearing apart a newborn flashed in her mind's eye, making her shudder. "It would be better off dead. So just…just take the goddamned pill, okay?"
Lana turned away, but she still saw the girl meekly swallow the pill out of the corner of her eye. "We have to go get more of those soon," she whispered softly. "I'll let Aizawa know. You gonna stay up here?"
Misa nodded silently, a few fat tears falling from her eyes.
Lana couldn't get out of there fast enough—especially since her body was still coursing with pent-up adrenaline and shock from what she had just seen. Despite her empathy for the girl, she still felt out of her depth when confronted with Misa's tears. Lana had never been a particularly emotional person, especially with others around. And after all the shit she had seen in the past seven years, it seemed she had become even more emotionally constipated than she already was. Why bother trying to help anyone through their problems now? Nothing is ever going to change, Lana thought. They were all stuck here on this godforsaken continent, and no amount of declarations of sympathy or I'm here for yous or We'll get through this! would change that fact.
You just had to learn to deal with what you've got, as Lana's father had once told her. Or you would kill yourself. Don't waste time wishing that things could be different.
Ironically, Lana had even begun to feel as though things were becoming somewhat…mundane around Waterfront. Sure, she still had recurring nightmares of her old life (as well as vivid dreams of slitting Yagami's throat), but those things were never going to happen; Lana had become very good at prioritizing over the past few years, and had deduced that her number one goal was to stay alive as long as possible.
Returning to the past was impossible, and while killing her boss was tempting, living on the diseased and shit-infested streets was most definitely not conducive to survival.
Let's play the survival game…
Lana traipsed down the stairs, a loud yawn reminding her of her lack of sleep.
All traces of tiredness vanished as soon as she got back downstairs, however.
Standing in front of the bar and talking avidly to a very flustered Matsuda was…a woman.
She was lithe, with long dark hair and a professional air about her. She provided the perfect contradictory appearance: her frigid facial expression and proud demeanor contrasted sharply with her rumpled gray slacks and dress shirt.
Lana approached her curiously. "Um…can I help you?" she said offhandedly.
The woman turned to her, her eyes barely revealing the faintest hint of surprise at Lana's appearance before reverting back to their businesslike aura.
"My name is Naomi Misora. Who runs this establishment?"
The lyrics for the song that Stripes played are from "Waiting for the Worms" by Pink Floyd, circa 1979.
First of all, let me say I don't hate Misa's character. I actually feel bad for her, even if I would never make the choices she did.
I am going to try to put most of the canon characters in this story, and don't worry-L is going to make his debut next chapter, so be on the lookout for that. I usually update once a week.
Anyway, thank you for reading and please drop a review if you have anything to say. I apologize if anyone is offended by this chapter.
-Vicious Ventriloquist
