A/N: So this was supposed to be the last chapter, but events weren't meshing well together, and had I left it, the thing would have grown to over 30,000 words… Not cool. So I've divided it up. There should be one more chapter after this one. But I reserve the right to change my mind.
And, as always, I apologize for the wait on this chapter, but sometimes real life is just more important than fic. …Damn.
As always, thank you everyone who has read, reviewed, faved, and alerted this story. You're a large part of the reason I've made it this far! (huggle)
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Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, Lesley Gore, or From Hell, nor am I making any money off of this work.
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Chapter 20
This, L thought, leg muscles straining to keep him flying foreword, may not have been the brightest idea he'd ever had. Downright stupid, he suspected his current actions were. It wasn't the plan itself that he was labeling ridiculous. No, his plan was flawless, perfect, dangerous, but incredibly well thought out. What bothered him was that he was L. L. The Greatest Detective in the World. Laborious tasks like this were beneath him, and it wasn't arrogance at the helm of that statement, it was fact. He did not do field work. He did not do running away. Was he in shape, yes. His muscles were on fire with urgency, but his breathing remained level as he ran, even, in and out, not a hitch against his lungs. But he was L. There were supposed to be agents, proxies, shields who did this while he sat behind a computer screen eating cake and telling them to run faster.
The thoughts came irritably, alongside the satisfaction that Beyond had followed him, stayed on him, L, and away from Light, Matt, and the victim with that one clue. L knew he was the only person Beyond would have followed. He could have dangled Naomi Misora on a hook and the murderer would not have bitten, not even deigned to paw at the female agent. Necessary sacrifices, no one could ever say L didn't make them, but that didn't mean he was happy about putting his life on the line, and for Beyond Birthday of all individuals.
It was annoying.
Almost as annoying as the fact that B could keep up with him. He could hear the steady thump of Beyond's footfalls ringing out behind him. No, they didn't ring, in fact, they were dead silent. That was his own heartbeat he was hearing, the thunder of blood bashing against his ear drums, reminding him to stay ahead, stay alive. Get ahead. Get out. Get B shot. Simple.
Wasn't that a fucking lie.
Finger tips grazed the back of his neck, a brush of bitten out nails, and L dived foreword. His hands hit the ground, sliding across the dust and rubble, disallowing the traction of his palms as he propelled his foot back, catching B in the neck and sending him flying sideways. And further he slid, balance wavering, leaving his knees to crash against the floor. He could feel the contusions cracking against his knee caps, rocks cutting through denim as he scrambled up and took off at another run.
Beyond's own recovery took a minute longer. But it was enough for L. Rounding corners, he knew exactly where to go despite the blackness that blended into his eyes, and thanked his brain for its possession of a photographic memory. He gained distance, the adrenaline, and lack of injury where B had been inhaling dust and getting hit with rock, allowed for L to put more distance between himself and the serial killer.
He reached the exit and kicked, only to have his leg bend at the oddest, most uncomfortable angle it could manage before he fell against the floor. Locked. The door was locked. Why had he not accounted for that? Once more he rammed against it, only this time it was the cool metal of a Glock, which Watari hard forced him to bring, ramming against the double door. Calculating the one hundred and forty three seconds he would have to open the thing, he fired three quick shots into the steel. The metal hissed and groaned with a painful "pow" slicing through L's eardrums. The lock didn't unhinge, but the damage done was enough to weaken the bolt, and L rammed his foot against the seam of the door once more.
This time it flew open. The light shattered the darkness like a thousand bullets ripping through thick velvet drapery. It stung L's eyes, large orbs accustomed to the darkness, suddenly engulfed in the vivid grey of London cloud cover. He sprinted forth, rushing into the light with the irrational hope that B, being the psychotic ghoul he was, would stop at the threshold and go no further, shying from the light. Or maybe he'd just burst into flames the moment he moved out of the shadow of the arena. It'd be so much easier than running from the sound of hurried steps, heavy breathing, and sprinting behind him. He could practically feel Beyond's breath tickling against his neck, sprawling across his vertebrae. The sudden coolness of the outdoor air brought goose bumps beneath L's thin sweater, and the grip of B's hand, cuffing his wrist, made the diminutive nodes curdle.
He was wrenched backwards, B pulling L tightly against his chest. Thin, yet muscular arms, so much stronger than L's own, wound around the detective's waist. In that instant, the physical discrepancies between L and hid doppelganger became clear, and the tell did not work in L's favor. He was pulled back, stumbling against protruding limbs and soft fabric identical to the shirt he wore. Beyond's hands gripped at L unkindly, fingernails begging at the detective's skin, clawing against rumbled cotton to be let through, to pierce, make bleed, and then finger paint the pavement the two Wammy's stumbled over.
Watari's first shot couldn't have come at a more profound, beautiful, life altering moment. And if it had made contact with the monster clawing raggedly through L's body, it would have been all the more glorious.
The two men hit the ground, L writhing beneath B. Bits of gravel, soot, and grime collected against his fingers, staining his hands black as he struggled away. A kick, straight for Beyond's scarred over face, had the murderer rolling away, just enough for L to scramble. And he was racing down the street, pace measured, slow enough to give Watari a chance, fast enough to not fall prey to B. At least he hoped for as much.
The car, his getaway, was less than yards from him. It only took one leap and a skid against asphalt for L to wrench open the door and dive inside, turning the keys Light had left dangling in the ignition. Except, a foot jammed itself between the door and it's frame, and L couldn't pull the door closed any further. It was torn from his grasp and B loomed there, smiling down at L, teeth glinting like the big bad wolf, and L could have sworn the pieces of calcium came to a point.
His hand clutched the stick, and he slid it into drive, owl eyes unmoving from Beyond. Pale fingers clutched the steering wheel and he barely took his foot off of the accelerator before another dart whizzed through the air, the sound of needle plunging through flesh causing L to flinch as B buckled against the open car door. And L was in park again, reaching for Beyond's hunching form only to be thrown back into the car by a very, un-paralyzed, serial killer.
The tranquilizer pierced Beyond's neck, but it would only be effective if it stayed in B's neck.
It didn't.
The murderer wrenched it out, blood splattered against L's face as skin fell away from Beyond, cutting apart flesh as the dart was ripped out, yellow poison, a solution of sleep, dripping, acidic in both color and effect, from the metal tip.
That was when L started kicking in earnest. Watari would shoot another, if he could see the tumult occurring inside the vehicle, another dart would shatter through the glass. Maybe… L wasn't entirely sure darts could break through glass, but Beyond was already in the car, pulling the door shut behind him with a feral growl. L needed the dart to break glass. B had the other dart in his hand, legs gripping into L's sides and causing the detective's back to impale itself on the gear stick as he laid down the middle of the front seat, one hand grappling at the steering wheel in a mad attempt to pull himself up. The car horn blared as random limbs, belonging to both B and L, hit it, calling for attention and help. But there wasn't time for it. Even as L's thin fingers clawed into Beyond's eye sockets, pushed his face further away from his own, the quarters were too closed, he could barely move, and when he did, it was only to shift closer against Beyond, and that was the last thing L wanted.
His head ripped back as he pushed himself away, sliding roughly beneath B's weight, foot pressing against the driver's side window so he could move into the passenger seat. His hand clasped at the door handle behind him and yanked with enough force to rip the cool metal off its hinge. But it didn't budge. A cackling smile turned Beyond's eyes into slits, a python coiling around a lion, ready to swallow the other beast whole. And that's exactly what B did, his hands curled against the back of L's neck and the killer slinked forward, hovering above the detective. L pushed back, with legs, arms, hands, feet, he used everything and anything he could to push Beyond back. But confined to a locked sports car, it wasn't enough, and the tranquilizer plunged into L's chest, needle striking just above his heart, fluid leaking into his veins and pulling him towards paralysis.
B held the dart in place, gleeful, like a cat manipulating the mouse to catch the bird for him before swallowing both it and the mouse he'd manipulated. The expression was disgusting, anger inducing, but there was little L could do against it. His body went limp in the murderer's arms and the world extinguished.
3B
The girl couldn't walk. And really, "girl" was the best way to describe the child Beyond had taken. Despite her wardrobe, Light didn't even want to place her age above sixteen now that he could fully see her. She was the epitome of beautiful youth, yet that had been shattered. Torn to vicious shreds.
The three of them stumbled through the exit of the arena, nearly forty some odd minutes after L had sprinted off with B in tow, tripping over the too many feet and set of legs Light and Matt dragged along, both of them getting soaked through by the tears that didn't want to stop falling from the girl's eyes. It'd taken longer than anticipated to get out, to carry the girl through dilapidated walls while avoiding any more traps B had littered through the halls of the arena. But, finally reaching the exit, stepping into cool air not polluted with dust, the feeling was bloody magnificent and both were feeling the relief.
"So?" Matt huffed in an effort to keep the lightening mood light, "boyfriend?"
Light snorted in response but said nothing. L could answer that question seeing as he was the one spouting the fucking title right and left. Light didn't really think L understood the social implications the word 'boyfriend' implied, and if he did, then L could go fucking die. …that was if B hadn't already skinned him in the parking lot of the stupid arena. Already, he was glancing around for L and Watari, dragging the limp girl who might as well have been nothing more than a bag of sand, for all the help she supplied.
L wasn't there.
Watari, was absent as well, and Light found himself once more praying to a deity he didn't believe in. Where the fuck were they?
"Something wrong?" Matt asked, noticing the narrowed look in Light's eyes.
The Gran Turismo was absent, the entire block, for that matter, was void of all cars. Light honestly wasn't sure if that was good or not. Defiantly wasn't part of the plan, Watari was supposed to be there in L's ridiculous crepe truck with Beyond Birthday strapped to an autopsy table. That's how they'd planned it, and up until then, everything had gone, quite surprisingly, according to the halfcocked, delusional, idea L had plotted out after having sex on M&Ms.
Light was still waiting to be swept into a cute, little hand basket and shipped down to Lucifer's residence.
Said hand basket came with the turn of L's pink eye sore speeding down the road towards them. Rubble squelched against asphalt, burning and leaving a darker impression of black upon the graying pavement. But the scent of burning rubber wasn't anywhere near intense as the look of sheer panic Watari leveled at Light.
There was no need for words, because Light knew, and without a word he had the girl in his arms, bridal style. Her thin, dress riding up against the muscles of his arms as he leaped into the van, Matt following, his own understanding of the situation written across his face. The girl was deposited on the table roughly, Matt slamming the door shut behind him, bouncing on his feet as he watched Light sit the girl up and make her look him in the eye. Watari was already driving.
The girl was unresponsive. Her head lolled against Light's hand, which cupped her cheek gently, brushing back sweat and tear stained strands of hair. In his arms, she trembled, his comforting touch seeming to make her sobs come harder, tears leak faster. Despite the way he handled her, Light's amber gaze was anything but gentle. It was colder then steel and made Matt falter.
"What do we do?" He asked, hands slamming against the sides of the vehicle as Watari ran through a red light. But neither he nor Light seemed to want to offer an answer, and it had Matt thinking that maybe they didn't know what to do. "There's a clue right?" he snapped, wide eyes watching Light pat the girls cheek, trying to get something more from her than unintelligible syllables. "Something for us to go off of, right?"
The most Matt got was the squeal of tires as Watari headed out of the back roads and into heavy traffic. They seemed to be heading for the hotel head quarters, back to Near.
Light's attention was still fixed to the girl, quietly coaxing answers from her to no avail, completely ignoring Matt.
"Hey, hey," he shushed her with a low murmur that had all the consistency of honey. "It's okay, can you hear me? It's all right." Her hair was smoothed back some more, tears soaking into the sleeve of Light's shirt as he continued to whisper to her bawling countenance.
"Dude!" Matt snapped finally, grabbing Light's shoulder and wrenching his away. "She isn't going to say anything! She's freaking in shock. Now leave her and tell me what the fuck B's next clue is!"
Amber burned like glowing coal as Light glared at the pink haired teenager. The shouting had the girl turning into more of a puddle, and he kept a hand on her shoulder squeezing gently. He glared, though the heat of the stare wasn't wrought with anger, instead it was filed with urgency, something indecipherable beyond that description, but telling and completely foreign to Light Yagami's visage. "She is the next clue."
3B
"Get out."
Mello blinked, glancing up at the sudden storm that rolled on into the ballroom. Immediately, the idiots stood, flanking the blonde teenager protectively, tasers at the ready. It was a bit too Spock and McCoy for Mello's liking, but he appreciated the sentiment and stood, eye brows raised, as Beyond turned the gilded room into a darkened, depressing, vortex. And really, all the murderer was doing was standing there, panting, glaring, snarling, and the cloud of toxic dust and condensation churning through B's wild mane pulverized the air around him. It was a glare, open anger, and it turned the entire atmosphere of the room.
"Get out," Beyond repeated, taking a violent, jerking step forward.
He didn't know what to do. The Idiots were already making their way towards the door, but Mello wasn't moving. B's words, his actions, they did not compute, even if he'd fucked up whatever his "mission" from Darling had been. Confusion stirred at the back of Mello's throat and he said the first thing that came to mind. "I'm taking the leather," he snapped, glaring down the anorexic grizzle bear before him.
Eyes wide in disbelief, genuine surprise and possibly a touch of anxiety, B stared blankly at the blonde. "That's my leather!"
"So?" Mello snipped. "You gave it to me. The leather is mine, as is the chocolate! Number One, box the candy!"
The security guard glanced back and forth between hostage and assailant, probably more floored than he'd ever been before, but he complied and gathered the box of gourmet chocolate into his arms. He ended up using it as a shield though, practically throwing it at Beyond who was suddenly charging for Number One.
B tore the box out of the air, sending candy flying across the floor as he threw it sideways and sent a kick at Mello's Idiot. Yet neither he nor the teenager paid much attention to the guard, now wheezing on the marble floor. "You never even appreciated this stuff!"
"Gifts from a kidnapper tend to taste stale in my mouth."
"Then get your own fucking candy! Buy your own leather!"
"NO! This shit is mine, and if you want me to leave I'm taking it all WITH ME!" He was shouting. Mello had no idea why, but he was shouting bloody murder at a murderer, fists balled, hair buzzing with the electricity of his own frustration. Beyond was telling him to leave, get out, and it was pissing the blonde off. Stomping, he grabbed the leather pants and ripped off the black jeans he wore, replacing them with the buttery, tough as nails fabric. The rest of the wardrobe, pleather jackets, tight fitting tees, and everything else black, was tossed into the box before he started grabbing at the chocolate, piling the golden wrapped goodness into the cardboard after his clothes.
"Fuck you!" B snapped.
"I talked to your stupid Darling, I know what's going on!"
Bipolar. Such was the only way to describe the sudden shift in Beyond's demeanor. It was like some invisible hand had just flicked a switch in Beyond's brain, clapped on the sanity the way lights clapped on in an infomercial. The rage, which had screwed the ballroom over in its ferocity, raping the very air Mello breathed, extinguished. It was gone. No more. Mello couldn't even find a trace of it in any part of Beyond's figure. All he saw was the interest, the superiority, and the pride, that pulled itself over Beyond's lips, like a heavy, red lipstick. And considering B's own wardrobe of Lolita wear, it wouldn't surprise the blonde to find the killer wearing lipstick, unless he was more of a gloss man.
"You talked to Darling?" The words purred from smirking lips and Beyond stalked towards Mello, delight alight in his cheeks.
And suddenly, Mello was faltering. "Y-yeah. I called him."
"And?" Thin hands caressed the teen's pale cheek softly, the tips of B's finger's warmer than Mello had ever found them to be, almost as if he'd been soaking them in something torrid. The scent they carried was equally as off.
"And what?" Mello spat, not at all enjoying the physical contact but unable to pull himself away. He didn't want to leave, would refuse even if B physically threw himself from the hotel. Mello wasn't budging.
B's head tilted to the side, just as it always did, so much so that Mello had come to think of it as a nervous habit, something that wasn't derived from the stereotype of L. "Little Dear, what is your next move?" B's head fell, resting on Mello's shoulder, the man's other hand suddenly cupping at Mello's hip in an action so intimate the blonde was left drowning.
Stiff, unsure, he did nothing but answer. "I want to help."
"You don't even know what we're doing," B whispered back, nipping at Mello's ear. He could feel the boy shiver beneath his touch and the temptation to run a hand beneath the black tank, already stretched out from the abuse and wear Mello inflicted upon it, B gave in. Like tickling, fingers drumming, he breached the force field of fabric and slowly drew a nail up the side of the pale, youthful back. Terrible thoughts, naughty and perverse, ran rampant, practically rabid, through Beyond's already twisted mind. But those, they'd need to be saved for later. Much later.
But Mello was arching. Quite abruptly the minor became weak to the touch, the caress, which he'd never received, not for years, and even then, not in this manner. It was a bit less than glorious. Sex, Mello imagined, would be glorious. But the touch, bare skin in contact with calloused fingers and jagged, untrimmed nails, it was riveting. Already confused, there wasn't much else Mello had the capacity to do besides react, react the way his body dictated, the way the muscles beneath his skin commanded, already taking their cues from the synapses of the blonde's mind. And those thoughts, firing off with little sparks, transmitting through the cerebral cortex, they betrayed Mello. They betrayed him something fierce.
Yet, it worked to his favor.
"But I do know Uzhas. You've all but told me the intricate details of your asinine operation."
"Asinine?" B pulled back, not far enough to distance his face from Mello's, in fact, the two were millimeters apart, but the distance was enough that red could meet Mello's irises without effort. "You think so little of our plan?"
Mello growled, but he didn't move a muscle. "I think it's foolish and idiotic with no hope of success. The word suicide comes to mind."
Laughter, joyful and enraptured echoed around the empty ballroom. Mello hadn't noticed the two guards slip out, and that was probably for the best. His body was hurtled around and then there was spinning, the room dissolving into a blur of motion, Beyond being the only thing in focus. They were dancing, Mello realized, a waltz or something else equally as stifling, he didn't know, and never in his lifetime would he want to. But Beyond's hand still gripped into his back, the other appendage which had previously occupied Mello's face, now clutched the younger's hand, waving it through the air as their bodies weaved. This had to be the most disturbing thing Beyond had ever done to him. Once more, the word "bipolar" sprung to mind.
"So perhaps you do know what the grand plan is," B chortled, spinning Mello about the room with all the grace of a crazed ballerina. Sauntering, twirling, and all around throwing Mello's brain against his own skull via centripetal force, B danced. While B tittered away, psychotic delight possessing his feet to glide across marble like it was nothing more than ice, Mello felt ready to vomit. He'd eaten nothing but chocolate and he was beginning to feel the effects on his stomach lining, which seemed about ready to rip and unleash its entire contents. The spinning did not help, nor did the sudden stop.
No warning, because Beyond would never been one to offer such trifling things, and Mello hit the floor. There was no time to jump to his feet, and even if he had, B's weight would have pushed him back to the ground. The serial killer straddled his hostage's waist, wiggling slightly, hands caging Mello to the floor as the older male hovered over him, a piece of paper in his mouth. Mello didn't even remember seeing the paper materialize. How the fuck did the man even do that? It was creepy, and the way B's tongue poked out from just beneath the tiny slip was so incredibly wrong.
"Take it," B hissed, words muffled by the folds of the white, notebook sheet. Mello could see a slight dampness seeping from where Beyond's mouth clenched over the page, and it made the teen shiver. Disgust or something Mello didn't even want to begin to comprehend, he wasn't sure, but he reached a hand upwards anyway, intent on tearing the offensive note from B's mouth. And if all went accordingly, he'd rip out a few of the killer's teeth while he was at it.
The paper fell into his hand, B's jaw unclenching around it, and suddenly, the murderous monstrosity was off of him. But B didn't move away. Red eyes watched the blonde teenager, assessing. If ever there was a moment Mello would give away his true loyalties… well this wouldn't be it. B liked to think he'd taught his Little Dear better than that. Even in such a short amount of time.
Mello didn't unfold the note. "What is this?"
"Something from Darling," B shrugged, grinning softly, hands in his pockets, almost swaying back and forth on his feet. "Now go."
The teen stood, fingers rubbing the paper roughly, as if willing it to shred apart. "I told you, I'm not leaving."
Beyond laughed, his rocking motion growing in speed as he digested Mello's irate expression. "I never said you couldn't come back Little Dear. In fact, I fully expect you to."
Teeth grit, and not amused, Mello unfolded the paper, quickly, more than aware of Beyond and his swirling. In fact, the murderer was twirling again, orbiting Mello, arms flung out, twirling. Like a fucking planet, and Mello was his sun. It was unsettling, but then, so were the words written on the paper.
It was an address.
"I want a gun."
B wasn't spinning anymore. He stared, pouting slightly, at his young charge. "There have been a lot of guns lately. Pop popping, boom booming. It's rather unattractive in my opinion."
"Yes, but they have a way of gaining people's attention," Mello replied tersely as the plan snapped into place like a K'Nex set. "That's what I want."
"Oh Little Dear," B purred, reaching behind his back and pulling a sleek, slightly worn, revolver from the small of his back. "You'll never cease to gain people's attention. Especially if you keep with the leather."
The gun was passed into Mello's hands, and he took it, letting his hand fall to the side, heavy with the weight of the Colt Anaconda. It'd been used before, and Mello would have to check to see if there were actually any bullets inside the thing, but for now he let it hang in a loose grip, delicately touching the side of his leg. "Why do you do this?"
"Do what?" B asked in that caricature of innocence he was so good at.
"Play with people, lead them along to where you're told to take them, but in the most bat shit crazy manner possible?" There was no way, in Mello's mind, that Beyond had given him that little sheet of paper out of the goodness of his heart. Beyond Birthday didn't have a fucking heart, somewhere down the line of his youth he'd clawed it out from his chest and eaten it. The address was just another tie, a string looping around the teenager's wrist and pulling him along in the appropriate direction. But, Mello still felt he deserved to know why he was being pulled in that particular direction.
"Because," B remarked, once more twirling in circles, "Tortured souls are overrated."
3B
The child had left, finally. Mello wasn't in the hotel anymore. B couldn't help but wonder if that meant the boy wasn't his hostage any longer. And that really would be quite the tragedy. He liked having hostages. They made him feel powerful, a joyous tingly sensation that made his fingers and toes wiggle in excited delight. The Little Dear had that effect on him, Beyond just couldn't deny how reminiscent the teenager was of his Sweetie Jam…
"They are so alike," B purred, gliding down the stairway, fingers running lazily over the dusted collection of expensive wines. The very air of the cellar was tinged with grapes, B could fleck his tongue out and practically taste the liquefied fruit, crushed and bottled in pretty green glass. "And yet," B turned down the corridor of shelves, both hands now pushing dust off of bottles as he walked across the stone floor. "They're very different. Funny how that works, isn't it Mr. Twelve?"
Red eyes sparkled as Beyond turned out from the row of shelves to face his glorious conquest. It didn't hurt so much, to see his Little Dear fly the nest, join the big wide world of vultures as nothing but a baby chick, because he'd already replaced the boy with a hostage so much more valuable. His toes and fingers were in an electrified tizzy of elation, it was a landmark of a moment.
L gave no response. Tied to an empty, wooden shelf which was bolted into the black-grey rock that made up the walls and floor of the Langham's Wine cellar, the detective hung limply. Breathing wasn't difficult, there was nothing obstructing L's windpipes, disallowing them to take in the much needed oxygen. It was the stillness, the need to remain perfectly unmoving, that lent the detective issue. One small shudder and he'd bleed out, exactly as Beyond had planned it. Barbed wire was a nasty thing to tie someone up with, and Beyond hoped L appreciated the ingenuity. Cold, wired, twisting, perfection, it made the serial killer's smile grow to that of a child's at Christmas. Except, this was one gift B'd given himself, and it was sweeter like that. He admired the pale wrists, rusted barbs spearing into L's skin, causing blood to pool and leak like a drippy faucet. The wire wove several times around the detective before affixing him to the shelf, inches off the ground.
B stood directly before his mounted prize and poked L in the ribs. "You hid in a box," the murderer deadpanned, tilting his head downwards so as to look into L's wide, glazed eyes. And hopefully that was nothing but an act. L playing dead. "You hid in a tiny box and Sweetie Jam shoved you into a tank…. You hid in a box…I still can't get over the cowardice of that." And he poked the detective again.
L exhaled smoothly, breath casting over Beyond's face, but there was no other movement. He rejected the pain and just hung before B, staring right back at the doppelganger. There was a difference between watching B from afar, over camera, and then having him right there in front of him. It was like looking into a mirror, one that grabbed the reflection and pulled at it until it depicted wrongness, sharp, contrasting, wrongness. Fascinating, yet terrifying, and the latter far outweighed the other. "How did you know where we were?"
B smiled slightly, L's voice, rough from paralysis, triggering the muscles in his face to show off his delight. "I've always known where you were," B said, fingers reaching out to tickle down L's cheek. "Finding you was never the issue. It was getting you to come out and play, that's all I wanted."
"Not Watari."
The statement had B laughing, fingers gripping L's neck and squeezing, almost as if trying to break the collar bone with his bare hands. "You honestly think Wammy isn't going to come for you Twelve?"
L actually didn't think anything on the subject. If he did, he'd probably lash out and kick B in the forehead, which would result in his wrist twisting against the barbed wire and in turn he'd risk puncturing a vein. Thinking about Watari, the fact that the man no doubt would come for him, it was out of the question. L settled for knowing Watari would come, he settled for envisioning the elderly gentleman popping a bullet right through the area where B would have a heart. It wasn't something to fear, L knew his mentor was capable, accomplished, there was no lack of confidence between the two. It was the time it'd take for Watari to get to wherever the hell B had taken him that L wasn't too keen on calculating.
The detective watched as Beyond's fingers pulled at the collar of his shirt, jarring L's neck in a way that made his arms flex and the barbs cut. The movement drew a hiss from L as the cuffs of his sleeves soaked in more blood, skin tearing millimeters more, though the pain tickled like yard sticks poking his brain. The abrupt hiss made B's smile a winning one.
"I'm not stupid, Mr. Twelve," B intoned, fingers drifting over the pale bone protruding from L's neck before he twirled over a lock of soft, black hair and tugged, ripping the strands from L's scalp. "Far from it." The murderer ignored the grunt of pain that shuddered between L's teeth, backing away from his captive, eyes aflame with a desire that was anything but sexual. The hair he sprinkled across the floor.
Dangerous to mock the beast, especially when one was the speared squirrel dangling before it, but it wasn't in L's nature to just give in. He didn't submit. "You are stupid B. I know this because an intelligent being would release me." The burn in his wrist was dulling, the blood turning cold, but his last words weren't going to go unpunished… and that was the plan. Keep talking, keep Beyond engaged, keep conscious, don't die.
Simple enough.
And that's what L thought until he saw the barbed wire. More of it. B pulled it from his pocket, not slowly, but for L it might as well have been in an agonizing slow motion, the twelve gage metal slinking out of its denim confines. The barbs were sharp, practically cutting through the alcoholic air in much the same fashion they drew blood. The detective gave no reaction, silently watching as B wrapped the destructive wire around his left knuckle, simultaneously stepping back up to L, who couldn't help but tense.
B's smile had disappeared with the appearance of his… string… but L could sense the pleasure sparking just beneath Beyond's skin, and that destructive delight grew in tartness the moment the wire was strung behind L's neck. Weaving around the detective's body, B gently looped the wire over L's neck once more, treating it as if it were a string of the rarest pearls. To L it was like wearing dynamite, already lit, the fuse sending burning cinders to cascade across his neck. He stopped breathing, under B's gaze, caught in the tangles, his lungs stilled and his blood paused in its movement. The barbs scraped but didn't cut against L's neck, not until B wrapped the other end of the wire around his own knuckle and jerked his arms back, tight.
Each barb pierced, it slammed through L's skin as if hammered down into his bone. The skin ripped like tissue paper, unable to withstand the assault, and blood exploded. L gagged, eyes flaring wide, unable to comprehend anything but Beyond's twisting frown, splattered red. The blood bubbled out, seeping between metal and flesh to run slowly, like warm syrup, down L's back, shoulders, chest. It ran in rivulets, and every pore the blood clogged was irritated with the pressure of L's pain. It made him gasp, the heat that pulverized the nerves of his neck, for all L could feel the wire might as well have been lit on fire, set to glow a deathly orange. His teeth grit, and L knew they were sanding each other down, the bones chipping as he maintained his silence, his stillness, his lack of thought.
It was then that L realized he should have been breathing. It would have been in the best interest of both his mind and his body to have continued to process air, because with one tightened tug on the wire, B effectively robbed L of any ability to breathe. The metal crushed the lower respiratory tract as if it were a tin can beneath a truck tire. Involuntarily, muscles straining and shuddering, L gaped, mouth flying open in a scream empty of noise. His head hit the wood of the shelf and stars burst in a rainbow effect, framing B's face like a shoddy camera fun frame of blood and lights. It was a potent mixture of duress and lack of oxygen.
Nothing he could do.
Things had suddenly gone past L refusing to think to him flat out being unable to process coherent thought. The synapses were firing, but only with a mantra of 'painpainpainpainpainpain.' It was all L was capable of feeling. A blue, scalding fire cutting through his throat, damage almost irreparable, had the barbs been millimeters longer they'd have cut straight through L's throat. Or maybe if B pulled tighter… stopped controlling the strength with which he pulled. L would die. Or he'd bleed out. Didn't really matter in the end though, because there was no rhyme to articulate the sensation of barbed wire grating over skin, pressing into it, mutilating it. His wrists were shot, the thrashing tearing them to pieces as L's body tried, desperately, without conscious thought, to get away from the pull of the wire, away from B.
The blood wasn't seeping anymore, it was running down his throat, a gush, staining his shirt, creating a sticky adhesive that decorated B's own hands. Through the convulsions of his burning lungs L could see the redness, dark and warm, running down B's arms, the barbs equally cutting into the killer's hands. Yet the man's expression was one of serenity. Calmness. He took no issue to causing pain, to slicing through L's throat. He acted as if it was divinely planned, something that was supposed to happen. B with L's life in his hands, at the tip of his deadly string, L caught in Beyond Birthday's rusted web. Literally, not the figurative challenge of Los Angeles, but a literal translation of everything B wanted from the man he imitated.
The wire fell from Beyond's hands, falling in circling tangles to snag softly at L's jeans, but it didn't loosen. Blue was already tinting the detective's pallor, asphyxiation settling in as his throat surged against the wire, causing the metal to impale itself deeper into L's skin, the body betraying itself in its quest for air. That was until B pulled a pair of wire cutters from his other pocket and jammed them right against L's throat. It brought another gasping cry from the detective as the rusted cutters scraped against his abused trachea, massaging the revealed organ with all the softness of sandpaper.
The tremors wracking L's body didn't stop, and they may very well have been due to shock. But the barbs sprung free, releasing like a coiled spring, the wire jerked out of L's neck, flinging a fine spray of blood across the cellar and over B's arms. Blood gurgled through L's throat, the iron flavored liquid pooling in his mouth as he finally regained the ability to hack and cough, saliva and blood lubricating the dried interior of his mouth.
"Silent during torture," Beyond whispered thoughtfully. "You're a very good victim L." He wiped his hands down the front of his jeans, blood smearing away from the open punctures he'd inflicted upon himself.
"I'd have thought you wanted me to scream." The words were panted, muffled by the blood, but L forced his lungs to breath, the air to move down his wind pipe, if only so he could show Beyond he was not surrendering. He'd never surrender.
"No…" B purred, once more stepping back to watch L, twisting smile hinting at the sharp teeth hiding just behind his lips. "Accepting your fate and mocking me while doing it, that's a good victim. Though I did file the pointy parts on the wire down some… should have made it more comfortable for you, less chance of you dying."
"The probability of my bleeding out, right here, is a rough seventy three percent," L hacked, spitting more blood down to the floor at Beyond's feet. He could feel the liquid begin to slow, coagulating, epinephrine hard at work. "Though I appreciate the consideration you have taken into my own personal comfort. Quite hospitable of you."
"Yet you don't panic," B commented, the remark almost sounding as if he were commending the detective for his lack of vocalized pain. "It's all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows," B sung out slightly, adding a sway of the hips and tilt of his head to the words. "Is that how you truly feel when we're together?"
"I think disgust," L spat out more blood, voice growing ragged as his throat protested the use of vocal chords, "would be more apropos."
Beyond was on L in seconds, leaping up, feet jumping to the second level of the shelf, hands curling around the top, placing him in a position above L, a human cage straddling without touching. B's face hung low, blood splatter dripping like rain on his pale cheeks, falling off the murder's chin and onto L's face. This close, L could trace the burn lines, molted skin graphed back into place via hours of countless surgery, almost untraceable in the light of sun or the tinge of darkness. But up close, it was there, running in ragged, spiraling lines across flesh darker then L's own. The detective's blood clung to the scars, ran around them, and L could not help but notice it. Remember it.
He'd overseen the surgery himself, from the moment B was carted away from apartment 404 until the unfortunate young man ended up in a padded cell. L had watched like Beyond's own personal God, the Old Testament kind. But that had been from afar, countries sitting between their two locations. This was fucking close. Nose to nose, L's eyes caught against a pair almost as dark as his because he had nowhere else to turn, they were too fucking close.
A long finger, ending in a roughly bitten nail traced over the detective's cheek, pressing firmly against the clammy skin so as to drag it down, Beyond's blood marking the finger's trail. "You never cried as a child... did you Twelvesie?"
L fought the urge to flinch, he kept the bile rattling his stomach firmly in its place, the most he dared to move was the trembling that came with hypovolemia and a flattened fury. "Does that really matter?"
B smiled, a kind twist of his lips that would have sat better on a kindergarten teacher's visage, but on B it was downright lewd. "I'd say it matters. Big boys don't cry, they don't care, feel." The shelf began to rock, B forcing it to move inch by inch, despite being bolted directly into limestone. The metal screws screeched in protest, but B rocked the wood with his body, wrenching backwards then forwards, fingers and bare toes gathering splinters as they gripped the wooden storage unit. "Big boys do nothing but chirp like computers. Dull. Boring. Broken."
That was when the motion stopped, B slamming the shelf back against the wall on the final syllable of his statement. The force had L's head banging backwards again, this time scraping as more bursts of light hit his vision. The barbs were not reaching the bone of his wrists, Beyond's movements having caused the detective to toss against them, in them, a million pointed stings digging deeper down in the bound appendages.
It wasn't good enough for Beyond though.
With the sudden stillness of the shelf came the removal of a bottle from its neighbor. Covered in a layer of dust thick enough to have past as snow, B dropped to the floor with the bottle of wine. A flourish of his bleeding hand had the label uncovered, but L was in no state to read, comprehend, or even care about the antiquity of the liquid. Lambrusco or Rothschild Jeroboam, there'd be little difference in flavor when the liquid seared over his gaping throat, room temperature sweetness left to eat away every germ that had materialized over the open wounds.
By that point L was wavering, rocking in and out of focus, until B swung his arm and shattered the bottle against the shelf, missing L's shoulder by sheer inches. The sounds of cracking glass and the gush of wine, freed from its casing, barely registered in L's mind. The pain was dulling, the sheer agony retreating, but with it went his consciousness. Blood loss, trauma, his mind rebelled against the need to quit, give in, but L's body, still woefully human, said otherwise. Fuck, his body was shrieking otherwise. Flesh felt heavy, like it wanted to slide off of his muscles, which were currently straining in an effort to keep nonexistent blood pumping. His vision was the only thing in focus, riddled with sharp white spots of deliria, yet he could still make out Beyond and the concerned look the man was leveling at him.
Strong fingers gripped L's chin roughly, jerking the detective's gaze upwards and onto B, where technically, it had already been centered. "You okay in there Twelve? Or are you feeling a little… drunk?"
B laughed, L cursed himself.
"Or… better yet… are you coming back together? Has ripping you apart made your mentality sew itself up neatly? Rag Doll?"
L's limited ability to respond left him answering with nothing more than intense hatred in his eyes and a slow shake of the head.
B smiled softly, finger once more dragging up the detective's cheek. "Perhaps I can assist you in making those tear ducts work then."
The bottle replaced the finger, or more accurately, the jagged, broken tip of the bottle did. Green glass slid through the air and over L's cheek with care, the neck of it clenched in Beyond's fist. L followed the movements from the corner of his eyes until it came so close it filled his vision. The broken glass paused right at the inner corner of L's right eye, just below the tear duct, and B gave pressure to the tip.
It was a light sting at first, far more bearable than the strangulation had been, but it still cut, and as Beyond began to drag the broken shard down L's face, the deeper the cut became, until L was crying blood. At least, that was the image B created. Perverse, symbolic if one looked upon it hard enough, squinting their eyes, but still, B was making a mockery of L.
The alcohol, a light red, diluted the blood seeping from the deep cut and sent a sharp sting directly into L's eye. It smelt foul, heady and bittersweet, an uninspiring blend of ripened fruit and not enough age. It caused the detective to blink furiously as tears welled up in his eyes, attempting to protect his coronas from the broken bottle caressing his face and the odor it gave off.
"I really did want to meet you," Beyond purred, the sight of L, hanging, crying, sending electrified shivers down his vertebra. This was the most powerful man in the world, something little, misguided children aspired to become, and it writhed before Beyond, reacted to his ministrations in such volatile ways. The silence of L was a heavy thunder, speaking to B louder than finely articulated, Hitler speeches. Because L's reaction was his silence, the guarded defiance edging soulless irises, the pretty pout of pain mixing against the taste of death, all framed by pursed lips. It made B feel like Poe.
Of course, once the pain had ended, the moment society said one had to speak, it was only after that moment that L would respond.
"That's very flattering Beyond," L gasped, the words now spoken with a voice foreign to the detective's own ears, mutated by cuts of wire and glass, wine dripping into B's artful tear.
"You were always the one I was interested in," B acknowledged, carefully retracing the laceration, tipping the broken bottle so more remnants of alcohol would drip down against it. "Because really? Why would Wammy get a bunch of kids and try to make them into you? What made you so fucking special?"
The bottle finally pierced through L's flesh, so far into the detective's mouth that his tongue scratched against it. More blood, more nauseating iron flavor, filled his mouth, and suddenly L was vomiting it over the floor, B leaping back just in time to avoid getting hit with the surge of body fluid. Like he wasn't already covered in enough of the red liquid.
Hacking, sputtering, with a hole in his mouth, somehow L drew up the strength to answer. It was a vocal memorial to his own stubbornness, inability to back down, and desire to just fuck with Beyond in the only way he could, that gave L the ability to string syllables into words, even if there were muffled by splutters of blood, saliva, and shallow gasps for air. The need to defy B was greater than the torture, because it was how L tortured B.
"I'm a childish genius," the detective spat, head lolling forward, eyes bloodshot and unwavering. "I've conducted… solved… over four thousand of the world's most difficult cases. That's nearly twenty thousand degenerates being cared for by public tax dollars." Ragged breaths came then, piercing L's lungs as if B was stabbing through them with the bottle. "That's what makes me so… fucking… special."
Anger swept through Beyond at the end of L's declaration. It was a lie. Nothing made the man special. L was human, not a gothic font on a screen or a symbol of justice. L was dirty, rotten, a poison to the plate of kiddies all over. There was nothing special there, nothing more than misguided intellect.
"And where then, does that put the rest of us, L?" B asked coolly, his smile still in place, but frozen, frozen with the blood on his shirt and dripping from his hair. The predator had gone dangerously still. "Those of us who try so hard to mold against your statistics? Where are we?"
But the killer didn't want an answer. It was a rhetorical question, and if he left room for L to respond he might just end up killing him. More wire, more bottles, and L'd be dead if he answered.
So B just stepped back into the light of L's eyes, the firm, unwavering, blistering, abused gaze coming inches from his own. L needed to understand, and the only way to make it happen was to draw the parody out, the parody of L's copy, slinging the truth in the most toxic way possible.
"We are in the darkest region of the human brain," B said, thumb pressing against L's cheek, the clean one, unmarred by blood. "It's a radiant abyss where children go to find themselves, and come out empty because they couldn't find you. That place, that's hell L, you left us in hell."
3B
"Where are we going?" Matt demanded, finally sitting in the seat across from Light and the girl, who he'd maneuvered to rest in the booth instead of on its table. The pink haired teen stared out behind orange tinted goggles, the lenses were the only separation he had between himself and the reality that was running red lights in desperation, yet still idling in traffic every other light. There was only so much driving they could do.
"The hotel," Light said smoothly, voice unwavering. "We need to get the girl to the hotel."
"NO!"
Breaks slammed against the floor of the driver's compartment, tires screeching as Watari actually heeded to the order of the yellow bulb flashing into red above their heads, mainly due to the unexpected cry echoing from the victimized woman's throat, taking them all by surprise. She slammed into Light as the car came to a rapid halt, clinging to his shirt, eyes blurred by tears, wide and panicked.
"Mello… Mello will be there…" she stammered, voice teetering between the tones of unintelligible hysteria and the desperate need to be understood. Broken nails actually ripped through the fabric of Light's shirt with the pressure of her grip.
"What do you mean?" Matt demanded before Light could pull the girl off of him. The teenager was back on his feet, leaning over the table with an unintentional snarl that in no way calmed the poor girl. "Where's Mello?"
Whimpers filled the truck as Watari switched gears and once more had them barreling down the road, swerving in and out of cars, but the girl gave no response. Not that Light would have expected her to when an armed, bug eyed adolescent was breathing down her neck. The profiler shot a glare at Matt, the command to sit back down, rein in the rampant misguided anger, and cool off, burning in his eyes.
Pink hair huffed upwards as the boy plopped back down, glaring, wishing he could just reach down the blabbering woman's throat and pull out the answers he needed. They didn't have time to be consoling, to wait for her to sober up and be rational. Matt didn't have time himself to be rational, because they were so fucking close. She was the answer, the tool to end their pathetic standoff against B, and Matt was sure as hell going to use it. Anything to quell the terror, the plague of nightmares rapidly morphing into daydreams as his mind sickened itself with antagonizing worry.
"At the hotel…" the whisper was spoken softly against Light's chest, coming from the girl in response to the twenty year old's soothing pets and calm demeanor. Matt didn't know how he did it, fought back the tension and acted smooth as cream. But it only made Matt's lips thinner.
"What did B do to you?" the metallic voice rang through the van, causing each of them to start in surprise, forgetting the Near was even there, a disembodied presence, listening to the conversation. The alien monotone brought another wave of tears from the girl as she collapsed against Light once more, shivering uncontrollably, wailing, fearful visage whipping around the claustrophobic space, searching out what she couldn't see.
The irritation began to flash over Light as Watari hit a speed bump without slowing, and he pushed the girl back into her seat. "It's okay," he emphasized, calm façade slipping for all of two seconds before his face adopted it once more. "Relax, nothing's going to hurt you."
"He is right," Near drawled, perhaps in his own version of what he thought was comforting. "We only seek answers, things we need to know. Your assailant left clues on the other victims. Now Miss, tell me what he did to you."
It was the wrong thing to say. She fell apart, memories, the ghostly presence of Beyond still fresh in her mind, like a wound with its stitches tearing back open, fresh blood abandoning the body. And she fought against them, a scream that spoke of madness, abuse designed to unhinged, slapped across the four men as long arms and legs suddenly flailed. Light caught her as she slammed against the window, fingers clawing at it, tears, sweat, and crusted blood smearing over the glass, clawing to escape what she seemed to regard as a pink and white, mobile prison. But Light pulled her back, restraining her violent kicks and scratches until the sudden burst of adrenaline, stirred by the reality of what had happened to her, abated and she collapsed, breathing heavily, burning her face with more tears, rumpled and defeated in Light's arms.
The display answered Near's question perfectly, so clearly that no one wanted to breathe, wanted to ask for more details, because it all hinted, gave the perfect illustration, to what was and had happened to Mello and L.
Nimble fingers gently messaged across the woman's body, with clinical precision Light felt over the areas of covered skin, pressing on nerves and muscles, seeking a physical reaction from Beyond's victim. But she gave none, and that scared him all the more. The only physical injury was the trauma of the bruise on her scalp, the rope burns at her wrist, and the telling signs of being drugged. No other damaged existed.
"Did the man hurt you?" Light whispered, cradling the girl against his chest. "The man who kidnapped you, did he hurt you?"
She shook her head, gulping, trembling, but otherwise seemingly too suddenly exhausted to protest.
"What did he do?" Light pressed gently.
"Shoes…" Her legs shuddered at the word that normally made woman across the globe so very happy, yet she spat it out in revulsion. "He made me wear them."
Light glanced at her feet, and once more saw the overly large stilettos she'd been tripping over. If anything, they would have fit B more than the petite girl sitting in his lap.
Matt stared at the foot wear in an equal amount of incomprehension and plain antipathy. "He made her wear shoes?"
Phantom pains crept along Light's neck, dark reminders dragging the mangled corpse of Light's previous failure out into the center of his brain. He'd recovered his pride of course, but the physical damage far outweighed the mental. Reminders. Chilling, cold, and taunting just the way Beyond knew how to taunt. It was his twisted way of making the world think he was insane, the brilliant façade of crazy hiding so many messages, each designed to cut the intended receiver.
The girl fell from Light's lap as he moved over, suddenly opposed to physical contact. Despite the discomfort buzzing across his body, mingling with the remnants of pain, a souvenir of years ago, the hallucination of mangled flesh, Light pulled the collar of his shirt back to reveal the knotted imperfection. A scar he'd always possess.
Red brows disappeared beneath pink fringe, accompanied by gaping lips, ridged with tension.
"This," Light said deftly, "is what happens when you let beyond Birthday just a little too close to you."
"I read L's file regarding that incident." The lack of urgency in Near's voice contrasted against the blaring of car horns and screams as Watari channeled his inner demonic speed spirit, completely ignoring their conversation in his attempt to get to the hotel as fast as possible. But the three geniuses didn't pay any mind to the pedestrians or anything occurring outside the van. Sweat slicked hands clutched white leather, bracing against the violence Watari took at corners. And through the building tension, Near's voice cut like a hot knife. "He did it with a stiletto right?"
Light didn't answer, there was little point when Near already knew the answer and Matt was smart enough to figure it out. The unfading scar was quickly covered, the collar of Light's shirt shifted to hide the discolored skin, once more immaculate despite the tear stains, light splatters of blood, and the brown grey of powdered rubble. The girl however kept staring at the spot on his body where the branding scar had been revealed. Life had sparked back into the female's eyes, which had been duller than rain clouds only moments previously, but now, crying stopped, shacking minimal, she seemed curious.
Matt was also staring, openly, in horror he didn't even have the patience or aptitude to veil. "Wait, so he's - "
"Telling us Light is involved," Near interrupted smoothly. "Responsible for the girl."
"That's preposterous," Watari barked, finally adding to the conversation, though the focus of every little bead of sweat marching down his forehead was on the road. "Beyond's actions are entirely his own."
"No they're not," Near disagreed without pause. The superiority in his voice was startling; especially considering the boy's lilt was completely toneless. But he spoke faster than usual, indicative of his own internal turmoil and the weight of their situation. "We've already established there is someone else B is working with, the likely hood of him commandeering an entire Air Soft Arcade, singlehandedly, is what's preposterous. He had help."
"Well it wasn't Light!" Matt snapped back at the air. It was all idle chit chat in comparison to finding Beyond, and while logically the teen knew the discussion was necessary, he could not help the sheer frustration coursing through his veins. Sitting in the back of a van, talking, was simply not enough. "He was with L the entire night."
"Do you know that for sure?"
"Actually, I don't care!" the pink haired teen snapped. "So let's just handcuff Yagami to the tiny oven back there!" he gestured wildly to the back of the van, "and someone tell me what that fucking shoe has to do with Mello!"
"Nothing."
Matt rounded on Light, who's expression was pained, distant, and focused entirely on something the younger genius could not see. "What?"
"By now you should know, B likes taking the random things in life and using them to portray a deeper meaning. It's like his calling card. In L.A. it was Wara Ningyos, stealing body parts, and killing people in different ways. Relatively tame in comparison to his recent activities, but he wants to be noticed here. Not by the world, but by L, by us. And, as Near has stated, there is an outside benefactor. L and I had a hell of a time getting in here last night, and that was just loading guns and dropping him in a tank. B booby trapped the entire playing field, he had help."
"And the shoe, is him telling us that that help is you."
Near's underhanded agreement had Light scoffing. "May I remind you that B tried to murder me with a stiletto?"
Silence, met Light's statement, but the voice in his head wasn't so willing to be quiet. "You can't run from me Sweetie Jam, you don't want to."
Words of poison, sweetly perfumed with a noxious aftertaste. The truth in Beyond's accusation, made so many thousands of hours ago, was as much a lie as it was honest. Paradox. Because he couldn't run from B, even with an endless amount of jogging, sprinting, leaping through finish lines, B would always be at the end to trip him up, weight him down. A stray thought in the back of his mind that wasn't stray at all, but demanded every last reservoir of Light's attention. And he did want to run. He wanted to turn away, take a butcher knife to his neck, peel the flesh from bone and not care if he bled out from the trauma or actually freed himself.
Letting Beyond out had been a mistake, the equivalent of releasing a Black Widow from its diminutive glass box. Skilled, with invisible webs you could only see if sprayed with water, B crawled, danced, until the prey was all wrapped up. And then he was deadly. Yet, Light knew, B had told him, this dance was far from over. Letting B out of his pillows-for-walls cell all those years ago, B had maimed Light, gleefully, with a satin heel, only to run back into said confinement and wait for Light to go to him, wait for Light to confront B. The murderer didn't pounce on victims that weren't aware of the danger they face, that weren't aware of just how sticky that spider web was.
"B is now telling us," Light said, flinching as the blaring of car horns and screeching tires rang against his ears, "to come and get him."
"You mean Mello," Matt clarified, forever on that one train of thought.
Shoulder hitting the window as Watari took another sharp turn, Light jerked his attention back to the girl. "Where exactly did B say Mello would be?"
She blinked, chewing her lip, sucking the blood she tore from the appendage, before answering softly. "With Near."
The albino's sharp intake of air could be heard throughout the van. "Me?"
That was when Watari decided to take a short cut.
3B
Near hung up the connection, there wasn't any more useful information to gain from the conversation. Yagami had revealed his last card and he was still looking for an ace to play. Instead, the boy answered the phone that had been buzzing insistently the entire time L had been gone. He place the phone, permanently attached to L's computer, to his ear and waited for a voice to come over the other end.
"This is Naomi Misora."
Near paused, the name stirring multiple things in his mind. Hardly would it be coincidental for L's lead shield to call, when once more, L was in the midst of hunting down Beyond Birthday. The fact that L had just been kidnapped by said serial killer made things even more suspect. Either that, or Near really needed to start wearing tin foil hats.
"L?"
The female spoke again, and Near jarred his internal L into action. "What do you have for me Misora?"
"You wanted information on one of my agents, Light Yagami?"
Well that was sweet… The albino could hear the hesitation in the woman's voice. She didn't want to be giving this information away, which meant it was sensitive. "Yes."
"I'm sending you some recent information I dug up in regards to Mr. Yagami's personal life, mainly his family. I know you asked if he had any criminal ties beyond his work with Birthday. The email should contain everything."
Near blinked and quickly moved to L's other PC, booting it up and seamlessly moving through the first twelve passwords. It was far enough in to open email. Misora's web address blinked steadily in the inbox, highlighted in blue, and Near clicked without hesitation. Technically, he had yet to defy L's orders, and the detective hadn't said his own computer was off limits… and maybe hanging out with Matt was beginning to influence the albino negatively.
Images popped up on the multiple display screens, each one a different street cam angle of the same individual. Near recognized Yagami in the photo, it was taken the day Matt had disguised himself as a police agent to access the crime scene. However, the man beside Yagami seemed to be the main focus of every image.
It befuddled Near slightly as to why Misora would find this man to be of any importance. Clearly he was a criminal of some sort, Matt already had a wager on crime family. But the information never seemed to bother L, probably because he already knew and it was of no big deal. Frankly, L didn't like dealing in organized crime, he found the power play and politics boring. Near couldn't fault him for that. But the man, matched with none of the case files in L's database, nor was he an active Wammy Agent. Near had already memorized the faces and corresponding aliases of each living member of The House, he was not one of them.
"Who is this man?" Near asked cooly, hating to assume his time had been wasted. Allegedly there was a murderer on his way to no doubt dole harm upon Near's person, which meant he needed to find a way to tie Light to Beyond before something unfortunate happened to himself.
"We know him only by his alias, and the last name of a Yakuza crime family. Attach Junko."
Near's vision seemed to suddenly freeze over, mind pausing, rebelling, at the first two syllabus that exited Misora's mouth. Attach. He felt the cold chill only seconds before the excitement hit. Petite fingers flew across the keyboard of Matt's laptop, images of children, teenagers, and adults flying across the page in nanoseconds, but Near saw them all. Blank eyes wide, and for once, possessing emotion, because he had it. He sat there, unblinking, mouth a thin line of expectant success, dark eyes waiting for the picture to come up. His evidence. His proof…
He had it.
There on the screen, in shoddy, faded coloring, was the image of a boy, barely a teenager, scowling. The Asian ancestry spoke from the tilt of his eyes, the sharpness of his facial features, and it all matched up to the crappy street image Naomi Misora had acquired. Perhaps the woman wasn't such an idiot after all. Because there he was, a member of the undead by all legal appearances, A, L's original successor.
Suicide. Such a lie. A brilliant, twisting, lie that strung the entirety of this case up with a red string.
It was like hearing puzzle pieces snap together, the satisfaction of waving lines and jutting edges coming back into a whole, complete, picture. Beyond… L… A… Light… He had completed the puzzle. It all stood out clearly in his mind. The feeling was unlike anything, better than the starkness of an un-edged, blank puzzle nestled together, than the feel of dice, stacked in endless rows around him. This was real, intangible, but real. An actual case solved.
It all made sense.
He could hear Misora still chattering, uselessly on the other end of the phone, but without thought he cut the line. He didn't need her getting in the way, she'd been useful, now she was just a keen annoyance. L would take care of her later anyway, once they got him back from Beyond, which wouldn't be too difficult. Watari had all he needed to find L's location traveling in the van with him.
The game had become decidedly different with A's appearance. But Near didn't have time to care about it, think on it, or figure out the how. He needed to tell Watari. He needed to tell Watari before they lost it all.
The connection was humming through the computer, the word 'dialing' flashing across the screen repeatedly as the signal bounced through space, off L's own satellite, and towards the pink crepe truck. Near bounced in the seat, lock of hair twirling around his finger quickly, nibbling his bottom lip, willing the computer to connect him faster.
But it didn't move fast enough.
The door to the hotel room blasted open in a shower of breaking wood. Two gunshots, breaking the lock right off, along with half of the door itself, rammed against the albino's ears despite the silencer that muffled their bang, causing him to flinch, practically fall from the chair had he not grabbed for the desk in time. Another shot whizzed out, it's speed tickling white locks of hair, and L's monitors died, the computer hit head on, exploding in a flash of brilliant sparks and flailing wires. The boy spun wildly, blinking at the damage, erecting a calm visage over his face despite the hammering his heart had taken up against his rib cage. And what Near saw standing there, framed in the demolished doorway, was wholly unexpected.
"Hello N," Mello grinned sharply, boots crunching wood shards into the luxury carpet, completely at home with the gun in his hand and the less than sane glint in his eyes.
That was one puzzle piece that didn't fit. It wasn't even a part of the puzzle, not the one Near had been looking at. But the boy already knew what was about to take place. He saw it clearly written in the lucid, yet hysterically unhinged gloss of Mello's irises. He also observed the slight tremor of Mello's right hand which was clutching the gun tighter than necessary. But the small motion wasn't enough to betray the confidence brimming over Mello's demeanor.
"M," Near acknowledged, not even pausing at the letter usage. None of Mello's usual disgust towards the albino was present, so the formality didn't surprise Near. But it set his teeth on edge. The six feet of distance separating them might as well have been six inches. Near could feel Mello's breath hot on his face, it came with the dark grimace painted over the blonde's visage.
The only thing Mello's arrival told him was that Beyond had always known where they were, where L was. It backed up the evidence that would never reach L.
Silence hung out between them, the proverbial dust of Mello's dramatic entrance settling, and neither lost their cool. That was just how it was. No weakness, no emotion, nothing but a harsh acknowledgement that ran sour down both their throats.
"Drop your gun."
Mello snorted at the carefully stated command, keeping said firearm lowered to his side, tight in his grip. In the short span of time he'd been holding it, the matted metal had already become something of a security blanket, just more destructive than the grey, sheep he'd slept with as a child. "What?" he called back. "I'm not pointing it at you."
A lock of hair knotted around Near's thumb in vague agitation. "If you had no desire to point the weapon at me you wouldn't have felt the need to shoot the door down, or pulverize L's computers."
Grimace morphing back into a humoring smirk, Mello stood his ground. "You're right." And his arm rose. "I have a new goal now Near. I'm not a tool for anyone to use anymore, I'm not your opponent, I'm not your classmate. You're simply in the way."
"Watari is going to die," Near droned back at the boy, seemingly ignoring the flurry of Mello's explication. Really, his body was tensing all over, and he was sure Mello had noticed. But the child couldn't bring himself to care, there was little point to controlling his body's reactions now. "You'd allow him to do that?"
Near craved the pieces of Mello's puzzle, the knowledge of what was ticking underneath the other boy's skin, what kept his blood pumping. Before, Mello had always been a piece of the puzzle, and, as the volatile teen has just stated, a tool to solve it. But now, Mello was the puzzle. Near needed to figure it out, figure the extent of the elder's knowledge, his plan. Even if it was a futility.
"Sacrifices," Mello stated blandly, pulling the safety back with a dull click. "They need to be made. Watari's just a catalyst."
"You would use the deaths of others to further your own investigation?"
"You're just mad you don't get to solve it yourself."
And Mello pulled the trigger, because if he didn't do it then, he never would.
Matrix style slow motion, two pairs of eyes traced the trajectory before Near's crossed and the bullet went straight through his skull. The silencer prevented the noise of the shot from calling anyone's attention, but the sound of Near's brain fracturing, shattering, as blood burst out the back of the boy's skull, likening his head to nothing more than a water balloon, that had every last fiber of Mello's attention. Blood, red and fresh, splattered against the cracked, dead computer monitors. Brain matter blew across the surface of the finely polished table, dotted with tiny slivers of Near's skull. The albino teenager, for once, stood out to Mello in a vivid contrast of color. Sick, dark red running over white. Near's body slumped back in L's swivel chair, sprawling, limbs dangling, a hole of gaping brilliance shining out the back of his head while the front displayed only large, open eyes, and a single tear of blood winding down a soft nose, courtesy of the bullet hole occupying Near's forehead.
It was a difficult site to turn away from, one of those macabre, enticing, images that fucked both the mind and the soul at once. Forced the audience to keep viewing because of how keenly warped it was. The tremors, the fury, it was all suddenly internal, caught in Mello's mind, shoved to the back where it'd probably never be processed. Ever. He refused to clench his eyes shut, refused to blot the image out, for now it would be fresh.
Several minutes of staring at the newly created corpses passed until finally, Mello was able to turn away, sever the ties and walk out. It'd be a fresh gaping wound on Mello's anatomy, far larger than the pulverized skull he was moving away from, but it'd be ignored. Not forgotten. Just kicked under the rug and made into nothing more than a lump he'd trip over.
Stepping back out into the hotel hallway, leaving the double door to hang off of its hinges, he pulled a bar of chocolate from his pocket, gun already shoved down the front of his trousers to leave his hands free. Tearing the wrapper and snapping a bite Mello entered the private elevator, scowling despite the warmth of his addiction, incurable hatred brewing in the bowls of his stomach. "So much for the competition"