Beyond Birthday cannot remember a place before Whammy's House. He knows that there must have been another place, because he knows he has not always been here. A, with her spidery fingers and protruding collarbones and eyes that never quite focus on him, tells him so. She was the first to be brought to this place where they are to be molded, and she remembers when she was the only one.
She remembers waking up one night and hearing the breathing of another child, soft and rasping in the silence of their room. She tells him she does not know where he came from. But he's here now, with her, and isn't that enough?
He looks at her. He always looks. First at her fingers, like pale twitching spiders, then at her eyes, darting about like minnows, and finally, at the numbers and the name floating above her head in brilliant crimson.
Her name is Abigail Alan and her number is very small.
m̋͒͝҉̱̳̻̗̖͙͍̩̮͝e̮̥̮͒͗ͫ͝t̢ͦ͒̊̈͏͈̳̰̤̪̞̥̬͠eͭ̐̾ͩ̓̅ͤ͠͏͔̠m̢̻̟̗̦͛ͥ͗́ͯ͊̾͠p̵̶̨̦͈̂̑̅̍̏̚ͅs̫̭͉͐͗̈ͤͮ̇ͯ͢͜ͅy͂̀̃ͪ͏̙̭̼̝c͇̜̪͖̯͍̝̯̽ͤ͒ͫ̌̐̚h̷͛̃ͮ҉͉̣͔̗o̮͚̥͂ͮ̎ͮͬͩ͂́s̯̰͓̭̲͕ͫ̿ͯ́̀͡i̶̯̩̖̻̯̦͋ͮ̾͋̈̏s̪͙̥͉͇̤̯̬̽̆͛ͩ̇͌̀ͥ̅
They are both small, with short limbs and stubby fingers and baby fat still clinging to their frames the first time they meet L.
He's just a boy, this being before them, all sickly pale flesh and dark(too dark) eyes. There is a great weight on his hunched shoulders, they see it in the bruised skin beneath his ink-dark eyes, and in the worried flesh of his thumbs. He looks at them, with something too blank to be judgement, too intense to be disinterest and they feel as if their souls are laid bare.
After a moment Beyond's eyes dart to the space above L's head.
L Lawliet. This is the being in whose image they are to be crafted.
He wonders. What do they old men who brought them here, who feed them, and train them, and watch them hope to accomplish with this? Beyond can recognize the genius, the intellect of the being before him, but his eyes see so much more than just a name and a number.
There is an idea beneath L's skin. A drive and a will that burned away whatever flesh and blood that was there before and left only cold and empty space behind. There is something terrifying there, but Beyond is not afraid. Never that. There's something that hurts inside his chest, but it is not fear.
L isn't so much a person as the shell of a boy who might have been. Its written in the smooth skin and traces of baby fat clinging to his pale cheeks, his thin frame contorted into some grotesque approximation of comfort. He searches out truth and lies and facts that mean nothing in the end. It makes the old men(with the ghost of gunpowder and ash on their fingers), proud, but L is empty. He's a Mechanical Hound.
m̋͒͝҉̱̳̻̗̖͙͍̩̮͝e̮̥̮͒͗ͫ͝t̢ͦ͒̊̈͏͈̳̰̤̪̞̥̬͠eͭ̐̾ͩ̓̅ͤ͠͏͔̠m̢̻̟̗̦͛ͥ͗́ͯ͊̾͠p̵̶̨̦͈̂̑̅̍̏̚ͅs̫̭͉͐͗̈ͤͮ̇ͯ͢͜ͅy͂̀̃ͪ͏̙̭̼̝c͇̜̪͖̯͍̝̯̽ͤ͒ͫ̌̐̚h̷͛̃ͮ҉͉̣͔̗o̮͚̥͂ͮ̎ͮͬͩ͂́s̯̰͓̭̲͕ͫ̿ͯ́̀͡i̶̯̩̖̻̯̦͋ͮ̾͋̈̏s̪͙̥͉͇̤̯̬̽̆͛ͩ̇͌̀ͥ̅
A has always craved affection. Approval. Anything at all from the men who are the closest things they will ever have to fathers.
Beyond sees this and he knows it will not end well.
It doesn't.
m̋͒͝҉̱̳̻̗̖͙͍̩̮͝e̮̥̮͒͗ͫ͝t̢ͦ͒̊̈͏͈̳̰̤̪̞̥̬͠eͭ̐̾ͩ̓̅ͤ͠͏͔̠m̢̻̟̗̦͛ͥ͗́ͯ͊̾͠p̵̶̨̦͈̂̑̅̍̏̚ͅs̫̭͉͐͗̈ͤͮ̇ͯ͢͜ͅy͂̀̃ͪ͏̙̭̼̝c͇̜̪͖̯͍̝̯̽ͤ͒ͫ̌̐̚h̷͛̃ͮ҉͉̣͔̗o̮͚̥͂ͮ̎ͮͬͩ͂́s̯̰͓̭̲͕ͫ̿ͯ́̀͡i̶̯̩̖̻̯̦͋ͮ̾͋̈̏s̪͙̥͉͇̤̯̬̽̆͛ͩ̇͌̀ͥ̅
They do not see L again, not after that first time. But it is enough.
Beyond waits and he watches and he learns. They tell him he's a genius, that they both are, him and his A. They are taught, and crafted and molded into things bright and sharp and brimming with potential.
But never quite enough. Never enough like L.
Beyond watches as A tries and tries, and never quite succeeds. He suspects that they were never meant to.
Beyond is a genius, but as he watches his only friend break apart, bit by fragile bit, he finds he can do nothing. He was never taught how to be a person.
m̋͒͝҉̱̳̻̗̖͙͍̩̮͝e̮̥̮͒͗ͫ͝t̢ͦ͒̊̈͏͈̳̰̤̪̞̥̬͠eͭ̐̾ͩ̓̅ͤ͠͏͔̠m̢̻̟̗̦͛ͥ͗́ͯ͊̾͠p̵̶̨̦͈̂̑̅̍̏̚ͅs̫̭͉͐͗̈ͤͮ̇ͯ͢͜ͅy͂̀̃ͪ͏̙̭̼̝c͇̜̪͖̯͍̝̯̽ͤ͒ͫ̌̐̚h̷͛̃ͮ҉͉̣͔̗o̮͚̥͂ͮ̎ͮͬͩ͂́s̯̰͓̭̲͕ͫ̿ͯ́̀͡i̶̯̩̖̻̯̦͋ͮ̾͋̈̏s̪͙̥͉͇̤̯̬̽̆͛ͩ̇͌̀ͥ̅
A kills herself on a Sunday. There's so much red. It's dark and sticky and wrong, and there are no more bright numbers above her head. Just nothing and no more names.
m̋͒͝҉̱̳̻̗̖͙͍̩̮͝e̮̥̮͒͗ͫ͝t̢ͦ͒̊̈͏͈̳̰̤̪̞̥̬͠eͭ̐̾ͩ̓̅ͤ͠͏͔̠m̢̻̟̗̦͛ͥ͗́ͯ͊̾͠p̵̶̨̦͈̂̑̅̍̏̚ͅs̫̭͉͐͗̈ͤͮ̇ͯ͢͜ͅy͂̀̃ͪ͏̙̭̼̝c͇̜̪͖̯͍̝̯̽ͤ͒ͫ̌̐̚h̷͛̃ͮ҉͉̣͔̗o̮͚̥͂ͮ̎ͮͬͩ͂́s̯̰͓̭̲͕ͫ̿ͯ́̀͡i̶̯̩̖̻̯̦͋ͮ̾͋̈̏s̪͙̥͉͇̤̯̬̽̆͛ͩ̇͌̀ͥ̅
Beyond Birthday dreams of a girl without numbers.
There is only something dark, an absolute black like a tear in the fabric of reality where the digits should be. He can't stop staring at it.
Her features warp, twisting and blurring in and out of focus as he stares at her. One of her eyes is burning, a brilliant sulphurous flame, and the socket is black and charred. He watches, entranced as it drips a track of thick ichor down her cheek.
You have your Mother's eyes, she says, and then she laughs. It is not a laugh that one would expect from a little girl.
