February 4th. That was, quite possibly, the most important day of my life. More important than the day I was born, the day my parents died, or even the day I met A or L, since I wouldn't have known them otherwise. It was the day I was saved.

I was surrounded by idiots. Of that I was sure, at least then.

I had been transferred into an orphanage after the death of my mother and sister, Lovely. It seemed that I was without any relatives that were fit to care for me – I had an Aunt somewhere in South America, but she was a druggie and couldn't be trusted with a child, and a grandfather in the Americas who didn't even know I existed and was in a senior home anyway – he would be dead before he even had the chance to try and take care of me, so going to him would be useless. The orphanage was a quaint little one in England. Quite shabby, really, but it was better than my old apartment in many ways. There were exactly 97 children when I first arrived at the place – I was the ninety eighth – but I decided not to keep counting as children were adopted and brought in almost every week.

And I was quite convinced that the entire orphanage was ridiculously stupid.

I wasn't rude or open about it, but it was what I thought. How could I not have? Of course, I was only partially right – most of them weren't stupid, they just weren't even close to being as smart as me; they were average, and I was brilliant beyond measure, especially for a five year old. All the other children ever did was play with stupid toys, cry for their already deceased parents, eat, and sleep. It seemed that they were completely unable to hold a good conversation, either, and after the second attempt I stopped trying. One of them, a little boy named Samuel, was even convinced that his parents were going to come back for him. He would brag that his parents still loved him, and when they returned they would come with riches and gifts and whisk him off to paradise. Everyone knew this wasn't true, especially me – I had seen his files. His parents had died in a car accident while he was at a slumber party two years ago. They were never coming back. He was foolish to think otherwise.

Even the adults at the orphanage were stupid. I couldn't even comprehend how ridiculous the entire ordeal was. I used vocabulary that confused my caretakers – they were all quite convinced I was being an 'arrogant little brat' when I corrected their mistakes on a regular basis. I wasn't – they just made a lot of stupid mistakes. It was hardly my fault they were idiots. They were idiots so much that they were convinced that I was "troubled." That this "troubled" feeling inside of me, caused more than likely in their mind by the death of my family, was what kept me from playing with the other children, that kept me in my room from dusk till dawn, reading huge thick books and eating jam instead of playing outside and chattering like squirrels.

So troubled, in fact that they sent me to a therapist. A therapist. As in a know-it-all adult with a pinched up face and a faux-soothing voice, who somehow convince people to throw large sums of money at them just so they could tell you what you already thought you knew – "this boy is not normal."

Janet Smith, as was my therapist's name, was exactly like that. She thought she knew everything. I would sit in that office for two hours, twice a week, and talk to her. That was pretty much all we did. I never lied to her because that wasn't something I was apparently allowed to do in a therapist's office. I answered each of her stupid questions with all of their obvious responses.

"I don't talk to other children, because their stupid and don't understand anything I say. I don't play outside because I don't like playing outside. I stay up late because I don't like sleeping much. I don't pay attention during the classes because I already know everything they are teaching. I don't eat because I don't like the food. I eat jam because I enjoy the taste of jam." And then my own question. "May I leave now?"

She told me I was having some sort of disorder. I don't remember what she called it, but whatever it was it was bullshitting. "You're acting this way because you're scared, Beyond. Frightened of rejection, right, Beyond? Because your parents are dead?"

No. That wasn't it at all. Didn't she hear my explanation?

But enough about that. Back to the point – if I had to stay in that orphanage another day, I was going to go truly insane. At least, more insane than I already was.

And then a man who called himself Watari showed up at the door, and saved me.

His name wasn't really Watari. It was Quillish, Quillish Wammy. I knew this because I could see the numbers, the scarlet red symbols that paraded like a taunt above his head, just like everyone else's. I remember the day he came in exactly, perfectly crystal clear in my mind.

I was outside, for once. One of the caretakers, Andrew Wilder, who would be dead thirty-two years from now unless his fate changed somehow (which it probably wouldn't), had forced me to go outside. I would have put up more of a fight, but the weather was strangely nice out that day. About 65 degrees, partly cloudy, but with just enough sunshine to warm you up; no annoying, chilly breeze, either. It was rare weather for England – it was always raining around here, I had discovered over the few weeks I had been residing in the country, so the sunshine was a pleasant surprise even for me.

There was a very nice but creaky swinging chair outside on the lawn that I particularly enjoyed. So did many of the other orphans, though. I had to race down the lawn to be the first to get to it, and had smirked with victory when a little girl named Victoria Young – she would live a long life, if you were wondering – pouted in complaint before tossing her hair and running after her friends. Friend's weren't something I had, unlike this Victoria girl, unless you counted my books. I had a lot of books. I collected them wherever I could get them, and despite being only five years of age – almost six, but still – I could read faster than most adults could. I could remember every word.

I was settled in with a particularly good book, Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare (I wasn't aware he was so famous at this age, mind you, so I was shocked and thrilled to find that he was such a complicated author at the time.) The giggling and squealing of the children around me was almost drowned out by the scene that had formed in my head, painted by the words on the page.

I had just reached the balcony scene when the car pulled in.

A car wasn't really that odd of a sight at the orphanage – it was a well known orphanage, really, and adopters and such showed at a pretty decent rate. But this visitor was unexpected and very, very flashy. The car was a black 1939 Ford Roadster, and in mint condition from the look of it. I peered over the side of the book to peek towards it, watching as the child-hoard almost simultaneously swerved around to get a better look at it, moving almost like a singular mass instead of 97diffrent children. Several ran up to get a closer look at the car, a few shamelessly pressing their hands on the smooth black metal of the vehicle, awe in huge eyes. A few of the older children tried to look indifferent and chilled, but they were staring at the car all the same when they thought no one was looking.

I wasn't interested in the car, though. What interested me enough to look up from my very enjoyable book was the man who climbed out of the car.

He was a bit more than middle aged, 53 to be more exact, but he was a pleasant looking man. He had salt-and-pepper hair, which would soon be completely white with age, combed back in an elegant fashion, his mildly aged face in a perpetual, glowing smile, revealing pleasant laugh-lines around his eyes and a set of amazingly white teeth. There were the beginnings of a mustache on his lip and very bushy eyebrows, a chiseled face. He was wearing a pair of thin-framed glasses on the crook of his nose, a suit that appeared to be expensive, and a quaint black hat sitting lopsided at the top of his head. The death date above his head was kind of miraculous – he would have lived, had his fate not been twisted by other worldly phenomenon's, to be 103.

What I noticed most about him were his eyes. They seemed to be constantly shut, though if you weren't looking for the feature you might not have noticed it. Shut when he smiled, shut when he frowned at the children leaving fingerprints on his rear windows, and closed when he started his waltz towards the doors. Odd.

It was as if he could sense me staring at him, because for a moment he did open his eyes. When they did, they were brown, and they were looking straight at me.

I stared back until he looked away; admittedly, I was intimidated. Most people didn't hold my gaze for more than a few seconds – I was not the most "cute" of children, what with the red eyes and what not. He didn't seem intimidated at all. Even stranger, he smiled when he saw me, in this knowing sort of way. The kind of way that, to me, made me think that he was there for me and me alone. Despite thinking that I knew that I was wrong, it still troubled me.

I was wrong about being wrong, if that makes any sense at all.

What I mean was that he was there for me. Quillish Wammy had come to set me on my path to L – a path that, though I didn't know it for certain at that delicate age, he knew for a fact I would never reach.

February 6thwas the daythat Beyond Birthday died.

Do not get me wrong – I didn't really die. If you looked up Beyond Birthday in a file, it would put this date as his death, but of course that was not the case. Beyond Birthday's death certificate said this date as well, but on February 6th said boy – me – or at least, his body, was still very much alive. He just became, in a way, a different person.

Beyond Birthday left that day, and was replaced by the second letter of the Wammy's alphabet. B – Backup. Backup to the almighty L, the greatest detective in the world - who also happened to be, at that time, a nine year old. But that was okay, since his backup was only six anyway.

August 8th. A is admitted to an orphanage in Brittan. He is five years old when the event happens, on January 17, which also happened to be around the time I was admitted to my first orphanage, which would set him apart from other children even more than before.

The sun was glinting off of the large expanse of water, shining into the eyes of a gray haired boy squatted on the pier. The lake was a huge one, seeming to stretch off into forever in the smoky eyes of Aidan Aycott. He was fascinated by the scene, the way the clear water of the lake reflected the sky so perfectly, the cloudy blue of the atmosphere above rippling when he grazed his hand along it. It was like sky, and yet still water. Liquid sky.

Liquid sky. Aidan smiled at the idea, wiping his damp hand on his cargos and turning to sit on his knees, grabbing his backpack. He carried that backpack everywhere he went – it was a dark navy blue, with white trims and zippers, and was covered in buttons and iron-on patches. A person that ran the first orphanage he had been to, named Sandy or Sandra or something along those lines, had told him that it was his mother's. He told her that his mother died, that he had killed her (he had, indirectly); she had only smiled and said, "Your other mother."

He'd never asked what she meant.

Ripping the pack open he pulled out one of several notebooks from inside, along with his favorite mechanical pencil. He couldn't stand regular pencils – they always needed to be sharpened, and when you did it got shavings everywhere, and they were wood so they weren't any fun to grip, and they got short and hard to hold after a while, and even when they were perfectly sharp and new the marks they made would fray. Mechanical pencils were precise. Yes, if there was anything Aidan liked in that timid age of four and a half, it was a clean pencil mark. Writing was something he loved – he lived and breathed literature and poetry. He wrote everything – his thoughts in his journals, his poems in his poetry notebook, his observations in his scientific notebook; he went as far, sometimes, as plopping himself on a bench and scribbling down descriptions of the people who walked by, trying to guess where they were going, who they were, what they were like, just by a glimpse. There were, by approximate, about 2,000 people with their name and description in a notebook, along with observation and theory that sounded as if it came from a skillful adult but was written by a five year old – and they weren't even aware of it.

That was another thing that fascinated Aidan – all the things you wouldn't ever know. For instance, Aidan would never know what the redheaded girl at the orphanage had meant by the weird look she gave him that first day, or exactly what week of the day the pencil he was writing on was made, or what kind of tree the paper he was scribbling upon used to be.

Speaking of paper, this notebook was almost full. He had just enough room on this one page, however, to finish his poem on "liquid sky" before shoving the now filled to the brink notebook back into his bag. After a moment of staring out over the water, the lake that reflected the clouds, he turned and made his leisurely pace back to the orphanage.

At least, Aidan had planned on going back to the orphanage. But he was, as he often was, distracted by something.

Not something so much as someone.

Said someone was sitting across from Aidan as he plodded down the street, on the park bench. Now, just any boy on a park bench might have been a pointless observation, except it wasn't just any boy – it was a very unique boy. So much so that Aidan slowed his pace and came to a stop a good distance away, pausing to stare despite knowing this was rude.

The boy, who looked to be about nine, was sitting in an odd way, his shoe-less feet placed firmly at the edge of the bench, hands on his knees, hunched over so that his chest was pressed against his legs, sitting poised as if to pounce. He had jet black hair that was obscenely messy and brushed mostly to one side, along with largely pronounced panda-eyes. Aidan noticed with a startle that he didn't have eyebrows, either. He was, in Aidan's eyes, odd. And yet there was something about him, this weird older child sitting on the bench, that fascinated him. He felt drawn to him, in a sense, an overwhelming urge to approach him taking hold.

But Aidan was not the confrontational type, especially not with strangers. So he did what he did best. He wrote.

Sitting on a tree stump across the way he settled into his own sitting position – which was sitting with his feet tucked under him – and pulled out his red notebook. This notebook was thick and full of a lot of paper, with big black sharpie-letters across the front. "OBSERVATIONS."

And observe he did. He wrote at top speed – but still with expertly neat handwriting, mind you – leaning forward gradually as he wrote and glancing up at the boy every few moments as he did, for more observation. I read and memorized this observation book, and he had several pages about this particular boy; a grin was slowly forming on his face as he wrote.

Boy – about 8-10 years of age – sitting on park bench outside West Ave. – sitting in odd crouch-to-pounce position. Black under eyes – is he isnomatic, or is it eye shadow? He's being very quiet about it, but he's observing too, I think – he's not looking at me, but he's watching a woman. He's not attracted to her or not hitting on her at least – he's looking at her face and her paperwork, not her body. Dark ebony eyes, dark hair, very pale skin. No shoes, neither on his feet nor on the bench beside him, though there is no dirt on his feet. He keeps wiggling his toes. Is he one of those strange people who can write with their toes, I wonder? He's not smiled the entire time he has been sitting there. Is he sad? I don't think so. He seems intelligent. He's eating candy from a bag. Skittles. No, M&M's – there are no blue skittles. It's strange – he's eating them in specific order. Red, Orange, Brown, Blue, Green, Yellow. Over and over again – is he doing it on propose? I think he must be. He keeps glancing down the street, but not at me, at the road. Guess: he's waiting for someone, perhaps a parental figure. He seems impatient. He keeps chewing his thumb – nervous habit, or being thoughtful? Guess: he's smart. Guess: he's quiet? Maybe. He's either quiet or loud, I can't decide. He seems very odd, though, definitely.

Aidan was just getting ready to go into description on his clothing when suddenly the boy jumped out of his chair. He landed with almost cat-like grace as he did, which surprised the gray-haired boy immensely, and he quickly scribbled it down before standing up himself in response. Graceful, quick on his feet, unexpectedly strengthful poise despite slump in shoulders/back area. The strange boy was plodding off in the other direction, head swinging slightly back and forth as he glanced around to observe the area around him as he walked, but never once looking behind him as Aidan swung his backpack over his shoulder and followed.

Stalking was not something a five-year-old Aidan did, ever. His observations almost never followed one person for more than a few minutes, and he never pursuit them like this. But he found himself craving more information on this boy – he had this feeling about him that said that he was a mysterious kind of person. That he wouldn't see him again after this. And he had to know more. Probably foreign, not British from what I can tell. Can't tell his ethnic, though he's got white skin. He wrote as he walked something he was skilled at, ignoring the other people he passed but never running into them.

He seems socially inept, he wrote thoughtfully, in observation that he walked in such a stoic way that he didn't even seem to notice that people were trying to get past him. A woman tried to approach him as Aidan watched, but he dodged to the side in a very obvious way to avoid her, shoving his hands in his pockets. Doesn't seem to like people much. Keeps hands in pockets. At first glance he seems just shy, but he acts very certain about himself somehow. Guess: He spends a lot of time alone.

Suddenly, to Aidan's surprise, the raven-haired man swerved to the left, ducking into an alleyway. It was an unexpected, jerky movement, and it was obvious by the way he did it – at least for A it was obvious that is – that he was meaning to not be followed.

Meaning that Aidan should not follow. Meaning that it was private, whatever that boy was doing, and possibly dangerous. This odd boy could be a serial killer or a child prostitute for all he knew – he shouldn't be following him around.

Aidan's curiosity, however, won over his logic as it usually did. Gathering up his nerves he hurried after the other, glancing nervously behind him for just an instant to see if he were being followed just as this boy he was stalking was. As far as he could tell, he wasn't, so he took off down the alleyway. He was met, however, only by disappointment.

The raven-haired child was nowhere to be found, the shadowed alleyway eerily silent and empty, save for a dumpster and the usual alleyway junk. Aidan couldn't contain the extreme displeasure at this discovery, shoulders slumping slightly as he took a few more tentative steps down the alleyway, eyes scanning the space for the boy he was following. His fingers tightened on his pencil like a weapon on instinct, the pointless feeling of being cornered despite being seemingly alone in the shady alley kicking in from the back of his young mind.

Aidan sighed, disgruntled, lingering in the alleyway and glancing down at his paper. Not bothering to leave the passage beforehand, he began writing. I lost him. He ducked into an alleyway, and I hesitated before following him, so I don't know where he is now. Guess: he definitely didn't want to be followed. Was he EXPECTING to be followed? Guess: He's here for something not exactly legal. Or perhaps something government related? He's too young for that, though, isn't he? He's only nine or something.

The gray-haired boy hesitated, his pencil lingering over the page. Why did he keep thinking that this boy was something special? He could very well be just another weirdo from around the city – it wouldn't be that unusual. Sure, he sat funny and acted strange, but that didn't make him spectacular. And yet Aidan couldn't shake the feeling that the panda-eyed boy he'd spotted was something to be awed over. Blankly, Aidan started to chew the eraser on his pencil, staring at the entry in his hand.

After a while of standing there Aidan sighed, pulling his backpack off of his shoulder and shoving the still-opened notebook back into it without bothering to close it. He was being ridiculous – it was just some kid. Who cares? Not him.

He quickly contradicted himself when he turned around and was immediately met with a quizzical face, inches from his own.

"Mercy!" Aidan screeched in surprise, jumping backwards and nearly stumbling completely over in his effort to get away from the surprising proximity, heart leaping in his chest. The raven-haired man, who had seemingly appeared out of the blue over his shoulder, now stood over him, giving him a curious look. Aidan watched, frozen in place by the ebony stare of the young boy in front of him, who happened to be chewing his thumb in that thoughtful manner again.

After a long time, the boy spoke. "You were following me." It wasn't a question.

Aidan blinked, a bit perplexed by the straight-to-the-point nature of the boy, but not surprised really. It was what he had expected after the observation. Still, the bluntness from the other boy caused a blush to scatter across the gray-haired boy's cheeks, gaze darting to his shoes.

The other boy didn't give him time to reply, speaking again, the smaller boy's reaction an answer enough for him. "Stalking is illegal, you know," he told him in a scolding way. Aidan looked up at him with huge gray-blue eyes, blinking several times in surprise.

"Wot?" he stammered, looking upset by the accusation, hugging his backpack to his chest. "I was not stalking you. I was simply observing you," he explained in a defensive way, trying to act unintimidated by the coal black eyes staring at him.

The dark-haired boy's mouth opened slightly, as if to make a remark, then frowned and closed it again. Quickly realizing that he really didn't have any clever retort for that one. Thinking about it for a second before replying, he tapped his finger to his lips, watching the gray-harierd boy as he squirmed. Aidan was never good at staying still, wavering from one foot to the other as he stood, consistently reaching up to brush his shaggy bangs out of his eyes.

After a minute, Aidan gathered up his nerves and looked up again, an air of hopeful boldness in his eyes. "I'm Aidan. Who're you?" he asked, tentatively puling his notebook out again without a second thought, still open to the other boy's page.

The dark haired boy blinked, peering at the notebook curiously, only to have Aidan move it away from his eye-range. He frowned, annoyed by the gray-haired boy's reluctance to show him – he was the type of boy who was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it.

"My name's Luka," he lied breezily, reaching out to grab the notebook once again. But Aidan huffed and took another hop backwards, avoiding the attempt at the snatching.

And then, to the older boy's upmost surprise, Aidan called him out. "You're a liar," he accused angrily, nose scrunching up in irritation. "That's not your name."

The boy stared at him incredulously, blinking a very slow blink, doing an internal double-take. "How did you know?" he asked curiously, going over the moment in his mind. He hadn't looked to the left or right, as liars tend to do, nor had his voice changed in pitch.

Aidan smiled despite himself, the tiniest twinge of pride going through him, his British accent thick in his voice as he replied, "You don't look like a Luka. Besides, you hesitated before replying. Also, you've been acting secretive the entire time I followed you – you wouldn't give me your name that easily, would you?"

The boy's eyes flickered in surprise, shuffling his bare feet against the dirty ground below, thoughtful as he stared at the gray haired boy. Suddenly Aidan, on a rush of nerve, shot his hand forward into the space between there, letting a wavering but friendly smile spread across his face.

The dark-haired male stared at his hand as if it were an alien object. Aidan laughed uneasily when he had no other reaction, resisting the urge to lower his hand again. "It's a hand," he half-joked. "You shake it."

"Oh, I see. Thank you for explaining," the other boy replied, as if Aidan weren't joking at all –perhaps he didn't think that he was, it was hard to be certain – and reached out to take it, wrapping his spidery fingers around Aidan's uncertainly. He was a bit shaken when the younger boy's hand tightened around his, firmly shaking his arm up and down in a friendly yet unsettlingly awkward fashion.

"I'm Aidan," he repeated, more insistently, still holding onto L's hand as if he were unsure of what to do with it. "Who are you, really?"

For a long moment, the dark haired boy simply stared at him, the ancient-seeming panda-eyes positioned on the young ivory face gazing straight into the eyes of the other, as if reading his soul just with that look. As if he was peeking into his heart, to check if he could trust him, just with a glance. Aidan steeled himself over, or tried to, struggling to keep the bold smile on his face, desperately trying not to appear weak in front of the strange boy.

Finally, the other boy smiled his creepy little smile. And as he did, he spoke the words that would change the life of Aidan Aycott forever.

"I am L."

A/N: Huzzah. This was a lame chapter, sorry XD before you give me weird questions, because of Another Note, yes, that was ACTUALLY L. Not B in disguise (obviously, since B was at an orphanage in England at the time, remember? Besides, their only, like, toddlers pretty much. Super genius toddlers, but toddlers none the less.) Do you like my version of A..?

REVIEW! :C Beyond Birthday demands it!