Four:
13 B

"Matt, are you listening?"

"Uh-huh."

Mello rolled his blue eyes, doubting that Matt had been listening. He bit off a piece of chocolate from his chocolate bar, and shot back, "Then what did I just say?"

"L's missing, someone escaped from prison, you want more chocolate, Roger's an ass, and you're posing for Playboy soon," Matt said boredly, not looking up from his game. He struggled not to smile as Mello spluttered indignantly at him. Mello made it too easy sometimes. It was all in the haircut, really—or, that's what Matt told himself; fact was, he didn't want to tell Mello he'd spent the first week of knowing him thinking he was a girl. The humor covered up the continued embarrassment easily.

Honestly, though, Mello had been ranting and chattering about L being missing for the last day or so. The only reason Matt hadn't decked him yet was because they hadn't spent more than a couple hours together the day before. If Mello kept distracting him from his game, Matt was throwing something at him and that was the end of it.

Huffing in annoyance, Mello turned away and finished his chocolate bar. He was a little surprised Matt actually had been listening to him (well, except for the Playboy part; he'd never said that). Mello could never really tell, what with the nonstop gaming.

"Do you even care that L's gone?" Mello queried, the faintest hint of a whine in his voice.

Matt paused his game and looked up at his best friend. For once, there was absolute seriousness in the gamer's eyes even if he was wearing a half-smile on his lips. "I care about L, but you said Roger and Watari are working on it. What can we do, anyway?"

The question was meant to be rhetorical and so Matt lowered his head back over his game controller and resumed playing.

Mello, however, had actually been thinking over a similar question. What could they do? They couldn't just sit there. They had to do something!

"We could find L," he said, unwrapping another chocolate bar as he looked down at Matt's be-goggled head.

The auburn-haired boy froze and a couple seconds later the "game over" screen popped up over their tiny tv. "Mello…how, and I'm humoring you here, how do you think we could find L?"

Mello's eyes narrowed in determination and he took a large bite out of his chocolate bar. "I have a plan."

When one of the corrections officers told him he had a visitor, Digit assumed it was someone from his family. He didn't expect to be brought into the warden's office to speak with a man in a leather trench coat and strange hat.

"Is this him?" the stranger asked Warden Diaz.

The warden nodded once, the stern look never fading from his slightly pudgy face. "That's him; Mr. Shaun Lucas. He witnessed everything."

Digit had the bad feeling that this was all to do with his former cellmate. He refused to show that concern, though, not even when Diaz was excused from the room with only a gesture from the stranger.

"Mr. Lucas," the stranger began as soon as they were alone.

"I' 's Digit, man," the teenager interrupted. Something about people who were all proper and shit rubbed him the wrong way. Especially when he couldn't see their faces.

"Digit, then," the man amended, putting extra emphasis on the street name. "I am Watari. I understand you witnessed your cellmate's suicide attempt?"

"Suicide?" Digit echoed with a snort. "Watari, right? I'll tell you what I told the warden. Thirteen ain't never been suicidal since I met him. Batshit crazy? Yeah. Not suicidal."

"Why do you say so?" Watari asked. He didn't sit down across from Digit, but neither did he reprimand him when Digit lit the cigarette he had been keeping tucked behind his ear.

Digit hesitated. "You met this kid?" When Watari nodded his confirmation, Digit continued, "Look, some days Thirteen was a'ight. Some days he was a whack job. But if any fool tried to take him out, Thirteen fought back. He…was real optimistic he was gonna get out. Like…he didn't really know he was never gonna go home. Like it was a game."

"Are you aware he tried to kill himself before?"

"Yeah, man. Tried to set his punk ass on fire, right? It was in the papers. Ain't never said or did nothin' like that since we was bunked together."

"Until the day he escaped?"

"Yeah," Digit muttered after a second, looking awkward. He was only cooperating to try and get his sentence shortened after juvie, but…it felt weird. Wrong. Like he wasn't supposed to be doing it. Plus, with how Thirteen reacted to people acting against him, he didn't want word of him helping the cops out to get back to the kid. He wasn't a snitch.

Watari was silent for so long that Digit actually wondered if he'd been forgotten about. He couldn't help but wonder who Watari really was and what his connection to Thirteen might be. Forget about it; 's not your concern. Just stay the fuck away from these freaks when you can.

"I understand your cell was preserved as it was on the day of your cellmate's escape," Watari said after a few long moments. "Would it trouble you to let me see them?"

Digit shrugged. "Whatever you want, man; I don't care."

They were escorted back to Digit's cell by four officers. Watari stood in the door of the cell when they arrived, not moving or saying anything. Slowly, he insinuated himself into the room. The presence of the one they called "Thirteen" lurked in every corner. Despite the apparent suicide attempt, there was no blood in the room. Watari was directed to where the boy had kept most of his belongings and began rifling through them. The precise neatness of the cabinet was verging on obsessive: clothes folded perfectly, papers and a tatty notebook stacked without a single one being out of place or wrinkled. A clean plastic jam jar full of multi-coloured pens was tucked in back on top of a very thin stack of letters.

There was nothing else in the cabinet.

As Watari removed the papers, notebook, and letters, he added to Digit, "You said he would fight those against him, is that what happened to your hand?"

Digit looked down at his left hand's missing ring finger. "Naw. That's been like that for years."

The elderly man decided not to ask more about it as he pocketed the personal documents to peruse in private.

"Was anything…different about him that day?"

Digit shook his head. "No, he was—" He broke off as though remembering something. "He kinda freaked when he saw that article."

"Which article are you referring to?"

"Here." Digit went over to the other cabinet and looked through a messy stack of newspapers before pulling one out.

Watari felt a prickle of anticipation run through him. He hadn't read his obituary when the papers had released it, but things were starting to make sense. Of course it would have bothered him to see that one of the men who raised him was dead, but…what Watari didn't understand why the article would have encouraged the boy to break out of juvenile hall. He must have seen through it and realized the implications.

The elderly gentleman wrapped things up as quickly as he could, wanting to look through the notebook and see if his assumptions were correct. It wasn't until he was back in his normal clothes, preparing to board a plane so he could return to Winchester, that he was free to look through the papers he'd retrieved.

If the handwriting style hadn't matched, Watari would have thought the notebook had been written in by several different people. Each page had been written on with several layers of text and colour; large, black, angry words had been gouged deeply into each page, outlining furious bouts of rage, and were mixed in with light, almost delicate words of apology and fear. Between these conflicting messages were multi-coloured bits of logic, puzzles with an almost maddening level of difficulty, and strange bits of reasoning and sense written in incredibly tiny letters. None of it made sense…or, it wouldn't have made sense to anyone unfamiliar with the writer. But Watari knew him and his style. Watari had known him since he was a child.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Roger as he turned a page in the notebook. The phone took its time ringing, probably due to the time difference between LA and the UK, and Watari carefully studied the next page: it was a crudely drawn sketch, ripped to pieces and then taped back together carefully.

"Hello?" a sleep-addled voice murmured from the other end of the receiver.

"Roger, it's Watari."

"Watari?" Roger sounded far more awake now and there was a rustling from Roger's end that indicated he was getting out of bed. "Did you find something?"

"Yes. If what I've found is correct…Beyond Birthday has L."

The silence on Roger's end seemed to last an eternity. "Then we'll be lucky to find either of them."

"You don't look happy to see me, Lawliet."

Déjà vu was painful and it dragged L under as though he was stuck beneath a speeding truck. His reflection was sitting across from him, staring at him with dark, hollow eyes from under a shock of messy black hair. B…. The parallels between now and the last time they'd met were not lost on him. The helplessness, the frustration, the humiliation. Same emotions, different situation.

It had been over two years since they had last spoken. At that time, B had been in the hospital; young, angry, and burned half to hell. There was no way L could help him justify killing three people or attempting to set himself on fire. (Actually, there'd been no "attempting" about it; B had set the fire…it just hadn't affected him on the scale he'd intended it to.) L hadn't even tried to help him sort it out. At the time, things had been very cut and dry: B had killed people, B had challenged L, and B had gotten caught and was going to prison. But now…B's last words to him rang through his mind. "You see nothing, Lawliet."

But that was years ago. They had both grown up since then.

Looking at B now, L could easily see how he'd failed to recognize him in Japan. Sure, his hair and eyes were the same, but B was too pale and his face was thinner. He was no longer the scrawny, gangly boy from the Wammy's House; he'd filled in quite a bit, wiry muscles widening his shoulders and giving him a more self-possessed air. L also had the slightly annoying feeling that B was probably actually taller than him now. But the bags under his eyes were no longer created by make up and the imitation of L's favored sitting pose had never looked more like the pose of broken down doll.

"I should have known it was you," L told him quietly, pretending he'd never considered B as a possibility to appeal to B's ego. The entire Los Angeles BB murder case had been B trying to exert his dominance over L. L could use that. B might see through it, but L could still try it.

"L knew it was B, but didn't admit it to himself because he didn't want to admit he had failed to keep B locked away."

Okay; maybe I'll give him that one. As usual, B's odd speech pattern both unsettled him and grated on his nerves. Still, it was better to let B get this over and done with, and, as such, it was strange when B didn't continue speaking.

Several minutes seemed to pass, and, growing both irritated and a little bored, L lazily glanced up at where his right hand had been bolted to the wall by his head. It was a simple enough affair—metal cuff, handcuff-like lock, clearly detachable—and L was sure, given enough time, he could pick the lock and get out. The key was getting the time to do so. B was staring at him with that unnervingly piercing glare that seemed to miss nothing he did. The second L tried to get out, he was sure B would try to stop him. And, despite how satisfying it would be to kick B in the face, it wouldn't help anything. Not to mention L could tell by the lethargic, tingly feeling in his body and brain that he'd gotten another unhealthy dose of sedative before he'd actually woken up. L felt his head tilt slightly, and involuntarily, as he tried to piece together how long he'd been asleep and, therefore, how long the sedatives kept him sleeping. If he could figure that out….

B frowned, narrowing his too-dark eyes at the man he'd spent his entire life attempting to emulate and surpass. "You just thought something," he decided, jolting L out of his thoughts. Looking far too intrigued to foretell anything good, B shifted seamlessly from crouching to a smooth, cat-like crawl. He didn't stop until he was nearly seated in L's lap, his eyes searching the other's expression intently. "B can't read thoughts…what did you think?"

"I was trying to decide," L replied evenly, keeping as much emotion out of his voice as possible as he tried to make his reasoning sound like he'd given it more than five seconds of thought, "why B would kidnap me. Taking me out of the game would only make it too easy for you to win; all the challenge would be gone."

L expected B to give him a mysterious, answer-less answer. He expected B to expertly dance around L's statement as he had when L had asked who he was. He did not, however, expect for B's pupils to dilate as an almost boy-ish excitement crept into his expression.

"No, no, no, no. Not taking Lawliet out of the game; changing the game entirely. Please understand: as long as L is L, B will never be L. B will always be Backup. But…if L cannot be L, and no one knows, then B can be L." B smiled a creepy, slightly sadistic smile at him. "B will, by jam, make sure to be as good an L, or better, than Lawliet."

"You're delusional, B."

B finally sat down, putting a surprisingly large amount of weight on one of L's legs, and said quite rationally, "No, I'm not hallucinating at all."

If L hadn't been staring incredulously at B before, he certainly was now. Are you sure? "Watari, Roger, everyone else…no one will believe that you're me, B. They'll be looking for us both by now. Watari will know the difference."

"And that's why B brought us here," B replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. In a way, perhaps it was.

"The only way you'll ever pass for me is if everyone who knows me is dead. Including me."

For the first time in his memory, a truly human expression came over B.B.'s face, darkening his morbid enthusiasm with a thin veil of frustration and concern. "Lawliet will not die. Your life…you have too much time left. If I tried, you would not die. It is better to keep you safely here until that time runs out."

B's mad third-person referrals may have been the most grammatically frustrating thing since Misa-Misa, but even L had to admit that the sudden switch to such a cold, collected, normal voice disturbed him. The utter seriousness in his tone left nothing to the imagination about what B had in mind to do once whatever "time" B was referring to ran out.

Though everything about the gesture seemed foreign and awkward to him, B reached out and gently placed his scarred hand on L's neck and rested his forehead against L's. "But, until B can be L, Lawliet shouldn't worry. B will take good care of L."

So why did it feel like a death sentence?

AN: I gotta admit, B's a blast to write. I can be as creepy as I want to, and...I really think it works. I could be wrong. ("No, I'm not hallucinating at all" is probably my favorite line in this fic, by the way...) Also, say good bye to Digit; he won't be appearing in the fic anymore. Also: please, please, please review! All this radio silence has me concerned that this is a sucky story, and I put a lot of effort and time into it. As usual, thanks to everyone reading.