B: Ah, I shall to do my best to do this for you~ Hugs shouldn't be hard to remember~~
Indeed, there would need to be a lot of headphones to sort Beyond out... I mean, just look at him in this chapter. o-o;
Ohh, I really like Harry Potter~ And I used to just love the Warriors series. Mine, interesting? No...not really. ^^; Yeahhh, I suppose Nate is similar to Natalie. *sigh*
I have to say...that last sentence of your review amused me so greatly, I brought it up to the real-life nieces. At last my reviewers are coming to realize how terrible I can be to the characters I write about... xD Oops...

Mrs. Lawliet: Ah, I love waking people forcefully sometimes. uvu
Oh god...and Natalie wouldn't even be able to move to get out of the way if it decided to dangle down right in front of her. And then that would be the thing that got her confession instead of Mello. Yep.

Long chapter is long. .-. Sorry?

Well, um, I guess warning for general creepiness in this chapter?

I hope you enjoy anyhow. .3.

Mikami was unaware of all that unfolded that day. It was as I was lying on that floor, unmoving; as Light was hugged by a tearful Anna; as Matt finally decided to just take out a cigarette and smoke because he couldn't do anything else…. It was soon after that that Mikami emerged from his hiding place to buy his food. He dressed himself up in his personal favorite pair of clothes, the nice suit I'd gotten him that Thursday so long ago, in March, when Mikami had first gotten out of jail at that big breakout. Perhaps he'd liked it so much because it was the first real piece of clothing to wear outside of prison. And it had felt so nice to get out of the thing he had to wear in jail and into something nice…. Something cleaner, somehow. And he had missed the familiar feel of a suit rather than those horrible clothes of the jail cell.

The day was relatively warm and sunny; the rainclouds had finally seemed to go away. It was so bright compared to the somehow dim lighting of the main room of the old Kira Task Force headquarters, the gloom of the dark basement I lay in, or even the artificial white light of SPK headquarters. It was warm, happy, and natural. It almost seemed normal. Mikami always tried to go to different places when he got his food; it was a cycle of different stores that he followed perfectly. Today he would be shopping at a store about a half a block away. He would buy some bread; he was low on that. Perhaps he would get a bit of rice for the next day, which was a Friday. He usually got rice for Fridays… no, he always got rice for Fridays. He was falling into a pattern again, and it made him feel good. He liked living in a pattern; going through a routine; having everything organized. That was just how he was.

Ryuk hovered behind him, grinning as always just as Mikami would ignore him, as he typically did in public. The night before, he had come to Mikami and given him two notebooks. One, the shinigami said, was Light's, and the other was Natalie's. Mine. They were in much better shape than the partially burned copy he had, though neither of them had the label of Death Note on its cover, nor did they have the rules printed on its inside. He had asked the shinigami about this, and he had replied that he just hadn't written on it because he didn't need to. Mikami gathered that shinigami – or at least Ryuk – were rather lazy. He came to dislike them.

He entered the store with a ding from the bell that always greeted him at this particular shop, and he made his way through the isles to grab his rice and his bread. Ryuk reminded Mikami from behind not to forget the apples, and so Mikami silently headed to get some apples as well. He eyed the man that ran the store as he walked out of a door beside the area for the fruits – the door where only employees were allowed. There were a few papers in one arm, and an uneaten sandwich in the opposite hand. Perhaps the sandwich was a slightly late lunch. He went behind the counter and pinned up a few of the papers on the bulletin board before heading back into the door marked '社員のみ,' or rather, Shain Nomi. Employees Only, in English. Mikami's eyes flicked back to the papers; sometimes they showed worthwhile criminals to kill. His narrow-eyed gaze widened slightly when he saw his face on one of the papers. WANTED. For murder. He could see his name floating above the photograph in slightly disfigured letters. Mikami Teru. But he was killing for Kira, and that was all he'd ever done that involved murder, unless you counted those he had placed on death row as a prosecutor. No, that wasn't right…. His eyes narrowed again, and he frowned. Closed his eyes. Ryuk had noticed the picture, and was snickering that amused cackle of his. He was talking to Mikami, but he wasn't listening. Saying something about God and L, or Near. Asking what Mikami would do about it. Mikami only walked swiftly down a different isle and snatched a few canned goods; only three or four small things. He didn't have much money with him. He went to the counter with his arms full, and a young man came to take care of him. His name was Kei Tsukino. To be precise, the kanji above his head read Tsukino Kei. He hadn't seen the wanted sign yet; the manager had just put it up. He paid for his things, got it bagged, and left quickly.

He strode back to his hideaway, knowing he wouldn't be able to leave it again for a long while. He would take his food and eat the things that could spoil first. He had already started a collection of canned goods in case something like this happened (and in a way, it was almost inevitable), so he would put the canned goods there with the other things. He would be able to live off of this for months, if he had to. Yes, he'd be fine. He was prepared. The grocery shopping would have to be omitted from his routine, but that would be fine, he would be fine, and Mikami would not get caught; not unless someone specifically searched that house. Yes, he did believe he was handling things relatively well.

B's eyes were closed. His hands were pressed against the cool smoothness of the sink before him as he leaned forward there. His tired, narrow eyes opened and gazed into the old mirror before him. Red, ghostly letters floated above his head. Beyond Birthday. There were no numbers. His grey eyes seemed dull. He could remember looking in the mirror and seeing sharpness, but now they seemed deader somehow. They were… well, dull. He remembered catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror out of the corner of his eye as a child, and had stopped short to look because the look in his eyes had scared him. You know there's something wrong when you catch yourself in the mirror and are afraid of the look in your eyes, he had thought, and laughed. It was a loud burst of meaningless laughter. His mother had come rushing in, but he was fine. He forgot how to laugh not all that long after that, now that he thought about it.

For right now, though, the look in his eyes held none of that lethal sharpness that had scared him when he was four. The wounds on his flesh seemed sharper, really, though perhaps that was because the red stood out in contrast to his pale skin. In the mirror he could see the gouges on his chest, still red and bloody, though not raw, that he had made himself the night that Sophia died. It had been on impulse at the time, and when he asked himself why he had found his not-so-sharp nails digging into his chest and scooping out his own flesh, his blood oozing from the wounds, he found that he wasn't quite sure. He supposed it was because he couldn't stand being ripped apart inside in that moment that it had happened, and he just had to do something. But now he wasn't in that phase and the thought of the flesh stuck beneath his nails and the crimson running down his bare flesh and the pain was not appealing.

There was also another wound he could see in the mirror as he gazed dully at his shirtless self, as though assessing what shape he was in. He was his own doctor. There was the stab wound that Annalisa had given him at his side. She had just missed the kidney. Thank you, human anatomy, for having the left kidney higher than the right. It was currently covered in a patch of gauze, which was kept there with surgical tape. He carefully peeled off the tape and assessed the puncture wound with almost absent care. The injury was messy; the girl's attack had not been smooth or swift or direct. For all he knew, she had actually meant to kill him, but had missed her mark by… by a lot, really. The injury was a line of red that looked rather angry. Because of her untidy imprecision, he could see the inside of his skin within, puffy and red and raw. It almost looked like it would leak out, but he knew it wouldn't. Well, Doctor Birthday, what do you think? Why, I have a diagnosis, Beyond: you are alive.

He groped for the washcloth he had hung on the little metal rack and turned on some cold water, soaking the washcloth in it and then wringing it out so it no longer dripped. He dabbed at the wound in silence, then went for more gauze and more surgical tape to cover the wound again. He would do this with his wound whenever he was in the calm. When he was wading through the fog…. It was almost liquid. All was thick, and he often seemed to respond slowly. There were three phases to him, he realized now. There were phases after he lost half of him, just like the phases of the moon. There was the thick, liquid, dull fog he was in now, where his eyes were dull and things were slow and thoughts were almost fuzzy. No… foggy. It was the Fog, yes, that's what it was. It was the Fog. Then there was the opposite side; the phase of him where he was shaking and jittery and restless and even clumsy. He'd caught himself in a reflection one of these times, and he saw his eyes, and to him he looked like a victim of his who had snapped, his eyes wide and the pupils quivering because I don't want to die; I don't want to die; good God have mercy on me don't kill me please don't kill me I don't want to die! Only one of his victims had been like that, and it had been the only victim who had been really awake while he had killed him. It was different with Beyond, though, because instead he was already dead; half-dead, at least. He could almost say he looked like a madman. Yes, he almost looked insane. He didn't have a name for this phase yet, but he wouldn't dare clean and re-bandage his wound in this phase because he would be shaking, and would likely jab at it and just scream like he had the night it had happened and his hands had slipped when he'd tried to bandage it. Then, of course, there was the phase of Nothingness. The New Moon. Dark and empty and cold. He would not tend to himself at those times either, only because he simply could not be bothered with such things, and instead made sure everything was together for his final kill. He often thought that perhaps that would be the main him, if he were to survive past that Sunday. It was Thursday night. Not much time left, he mused, eyes distant, and he wandered away from the mirror and to the door as he slipped back into a shirt. His feet were placed in shoes.

The night was clear and cool, but nowhere near cold. B glanced at the blank stone that marked Sophia's grave and paused. He changed direction and stopped before her makeshift tombstone, staring at the grave for awhile. He said nothing. Then he left. He didn't quite know where he was going, but he sometimes just walked for a bit to… well, just to do it, he guessed. Though sometimes it would clear his head and the Nothingness would creep in, blowing the Fog away into cold clarity. Or perhaps it was the shaking; the restless jittering that it forced away. The Nothingness was a phase that seemed to be coming around more and more often. He wasn't quite sure whether he liked the feeling or not, but he could get his job done well in this phase, so he supposed it was good. It didn't matter anyway; he'd be dead in a matter of days, whether or not he could see the numbers in the mirror.

'Daddy, I have a question.'

His footsteps were light; absently careful.

'What do the numbers mean?'

"One, two, buckle my shoe; three, four, shut the door," he said absently, rubbing his arm. "This old man, he played one, he played knick-knack on my thumb…. This old man, he played two, he played kick-knack on my shoe." He tilted his head as he walked. His voice was flat. It did not sing. "What a to-do, to die today, at a minute or two till two. A thing distinctly hard to say yet harder still to do." His mouth twitched. "Eggs, cheese, butter, bread; stick, stock, stone dead; hang him up; hang him down, on his father's living ground. Mother, Mother, I am sick, send for the doctor, quick, quick, quick. Apples, peaches, pumpkin pie; how many years before I die?" He cracked into a grin, and his hand flexed. He was shaking as he walked down the empty sidewalk. "There was a little man, who had a little gun; up the chimney he did run! The worms crawl in; the worms crawl out; they crawl in thin and they crawl out stout; Yo ho ho, how happy we will be! Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall DOWN!" He cackled.

"Sleep baby dear; sleep without fear; Mother is here; mother is here. Sleep baby dear; sleep without fear; mother is here for you FOREVER!" He laughed wildly. "Hush little baby, don't say a word, mama's gonna buy you a MOCKINGBIRD! And if that mockingbird don't sing 'cause it won't it won't sing it will kill and it will DIE it will DIE, it will DIE just like YOU, boy-o!" He laughed and laughed and laughed until he couldn't breathe and he was by the mirror again with his mother wondering if maybe her son was going insane, but he wasn't, it was just death, death, DEATH, Mommy, there's death everywhere and you're going to DIE tomorrow, Mommy; don't go on that train!

He eventually found himself leaning his head on an alley wall, taking deep breaths. His eyes were dull again. Catatonic schizophrenia, he thought. Hahaha. He didn't smile, nor did he laugh. Why had he been laughing? It seemed like such a stupid thing to do now. A lot of those rhymes he hadn't heard since he was four years old or younger…. Yes, that had been that nameless phase. He'd slipped into it without even noticing. It was the Full Moon, yes, where the odd things happened and the tides came in, and everything out of place happened on the full moon, didn't it?

He stood, leaning on the alley wall, and shuffled towards nowhere. Maybe he'd just sleep in the first place he found. He found himself heading deeper into the city, his index finger still tap-tap-tapping at his side. He headed deeper, yes; not too deep, but where people would notice if he was laughing hysterically or crying out morbid nursery rhymes like some crazed Kindergarten teacher. He gazed with blank interest at a pocket of darkness he spotted as he made his slow way along Momiji Street. An abandoned home. Yes. He'd take it. He made his way there, his hands shoved in his pockets in a slouching, almost L-like way. Before entering the place, he leaned against the wall of it. Eyed a rock at his feet. Kicked it.

"Who's there?"

If Beyond were in that Full Moon nameless phase, he would have jumped. But he just stared at nothing for a second before turning his head to the door. There stood a man with a flashlight. He'd probably watched him approach. I'm just a trespasser on abandoned property; please ignore me, said that part of the brain; the Nothingness that almost surfaced but didn't. I'm just on a walk, and wanted to stop. To be honest, I heard this place was haunted and wanted to check it out. But he just stared at him, not responding. He still couldn't see his face.

"You don't have a lifespan," said the man.

A part of B realized that this man had the sight that B had…. This man was working for Kira. The Nothingness began cutting through the fog again.

"You're working for God," he said, "aren't you? You have a Death Note."

He didn't answer. It seemed the Nothingness wasn't strong tonight. Perhaps the fog was too thick, or the moon was too bright.

"…Come in," he said, and B watched him walk in. For a moment, he just stood there. Then he followed. The place was lit by a few candles, that was all. That, and the man's flashlight. "I thought I couldn't see your lifespan, but I had to be sure," the man explained. "Did God… or rather… did Kira send you here?"

He wasn't sure what to say to that. He figured it was better to tell the truth rather than a lie, there. "No," he said. His voice didn't sound right to his ears.

"Could you shut the door behind you?"

Three, four, shut the door. It closed smoothly, surprisingly lacking a creak. There was a soft click as if it were letting B know that it was shut. Thank you for telling me, door. You're so informative. Quiet, too. Are you shy? Or hiding something? Oh, that's right, you conceal a Kira, don't you? You do, don't you?

"Thank you. I suppose it's good I found you. What were you—?"

"You don't have a lifespan either," Beyond remarked, practically disregarding what he was saying. And he could see his face now. His narrow, serious eyes; with what he thought was black hair…. It was hard to tell in the candlelight. Above his head read Mikami Teru. No numbers. Apples, peaches, pumpkin pie; how many years before I die?

Mikami eyed him appraisingly. "Yes…. I own a notebook now."

So that's what that means? Huh. The thought was drowned in the Fog, to be found again when the Nothingness came back around. His eyes wandered past Mikami and to the wall beyond him. "Oh," he said, not even glancing at him.

"Are you alright?"

"Mm…," he responded, not looking at him. "Oh; oh, yes; sure…." Mother, Mother, I am sick; send for the doctor; quick, quick, quick.

Mikami eyed him again; disbelieving. He knew that look. He'd seen it before, back when he was still a prosecutor. It wasn't quite the same, but it was similar. "Would you like to stay here tonight? I have room."

Sleep baby dear; sleep without fear; Mother is here; Mother is here. "Nope," he said aloud to the thought, then shook his head. He addressed Mikami, then. "Oh. I don't know…."

Mikami was still eyeing him. "You'll stay here, alright? Are you hungry or thirsty at all?"

He swayed gently on his feet as he processed this, and thought on it. Mulled over it. Food? Was he hungry? He was aware he hadn't eaten any dinner. Or lunch, for that matter…. Had he eaten that morning? He was pretty sure he had…. He should probably eat, then, though, yes…. "Hungry…," he told Mikami. "I'm hungry." He felt almost like a young child now, being asked what it was he wanted. Haha, he wasn't a child at all, not at all, not with his mind, his eyes, his being. What a funny thought; him a child….

Mikami looked him up and down one last time, then grabbed his flashlight off of the table with the candles and turned. "Follow me, then." He began to leave, and B watched him. Then he followed slowly. "I don't have very many foods that can spoil, and I apologize for that."

"Eggs, cheese, butter, bread," B seemed to agree. Stick, stock, stone dead; hang him up; hang him down, on his father's living ground. He laughed flatly. Hahahahaha.

The presumably black-haired man nodded. "Yes. I mostly have canned goods stored here…." He shone the light of the flashlight to a neatly stacked pile of canned goods as they entered a room in the back. There were no candles here.

"Strawberry jam," B said flatly.

"Pardon me?"

"Strawberry jam…. Do you have that?"

He gave him that odd look again. "I have a half a jar left…. And I do have some bread, if you'd like it."

"No, just jam is fine…," B said, staring blankly at the neatly stacked pile of canned goods.

"Are you sure?"

"…Yes…." Why wouldn't he be sure? He just didn't know B's habits yet, that was right. B's mouth twitched at the memory of Naomi Misora's face when she'd first seen him scooping out the jam in handfuls and sucking it off his hand like Winnie the Pooh. Those were good days indeed. He hadn't even died yet, though he wasn't at the final stage…. He was going to win against L, and… and he'd been better then. More whole. It was odd, how it worked, though…. He once lived just fine without his Bond, even up to the point near the end, when they both died in the In-Between. But after that it was like putting two things together with superglue. You could rip them apart, but one couldn't go without taking pieces of the other half with them. So technically there was less of him than before he'd found Sophia in that alley all those years ago….

The man named Mikami led him into another room, with an old broken window at the back wall with the city lights and the moonlight shining through. There was an old, sagging bed situated against the left wall. Mikami went over to it, gripped the mattress, and hoisted it out of its broken bed frame to drag it out to the right, where there wasn't a window and where there wasn't a broken bed frame beneath it. "You can sleep here," he said, and looked at him, his eyes glinting in the light from the window. "Now don't move; I'll bring you your jam."

B nodded absently, and was vaguely aware of him leaving the room. At one point he came back in with a half a jar of jam and a sheet and pillow. He left soon after, leaving Beyond alone in the dimly lit room with his jam and his last-minute made bed. Before the man left, he'd told B something, but he wasn't listening anymore. He said something about a notebook, and something about the morning, and something about explaining. B supposed he would figure it out the next day, because for now, he didn't care. He was satisfied with staring at nothing and sinking deeper into his mind. Eventually he would eat his jam idly as he sunk, Mikami always keeping an eye on him discreetly. Even later, and he would even lie down and slowly drift to nowhere….

Somewhere else, earlier on, I lay on the cement ground and wondered idly whether I still wanted to scream. I decided I didn't anymore, not now. No, now I was only tired and didn't want to move. And I hadn't moved since we first came back to life hours before. What time was it? Yes, that was a good question…. Near told us (well, Light, really) that it was late, and that Light should probably be getting to sleep to rest. The SPK members had actually wanted to take Light to the hospital, but Light didn't want to go and eventually Near intervened and said he could stay. At his word, the argument was immediately over. Besides, Near said, the only thing they could do was put him to sleep after having had a heart attack that never happened; having died a death that was erased. That, he said, was something they could do for Light anyway, and that was what they had said they would do if they weren't taking him to the hospital. Light had frowned, but had agreed to this compromise. We supposed we would think about dying when left alone anyhow, and we didn't want to think that; we didn't quite want to remember.

I had noticed a lot earlier that it was eerily quiet; that Mello was no longer speaking and neither was Sierra or Matt, but I hadn't felt like responding to this silence. Now, I was gaining my curiosity back slowly, but still didn't feel the need to speak. I didn't feel like interaction; except, perhaps, with Light. I breathed a little sigh and sat up slowly, curling up and hugging my stomach. So that's what it had felt like to die.

Don't think about it, remember. I don't want you up all night while I get the drugs this time.

But I knew what he meant to say before he said it, so really it was only the beginning of a thought; a small reminder. I had to finish it for you only because you do not have this connection and wouldn't know what he had meant unless I'd told you….

I tried not to think about it, and stood. I thought of Near, and how fluffy his hair looked. I thought of Gevanni, and how amusing he was in general. I thought of Matsuda, and how he was probably worrying about me, and how I missed him….

"You alive?"

A jolt of fear ran through me at the voice cutting through the silence, but I did not jump. I just frowned at the camera. It was Matt's voice. I still didn't feel like speaking, but I supposed I had to. "No, I'm a zombie," I told him quietly but with some humor, and shuffled to my mattress-bed in the corner.

"It's the same thing that happened to Near, right?" he asked.

I nodded. "Uh-huh…."

"Right…. You're not gonna freak out like he did, right?"

I thought about it. I thought I would while I was… while I was dying; while I was dead, but no; no, I didn't think I'd freak out. "No," I replied. "It's over. It was…" – I searched for the word – "…erased. It never happened. We're fine now."

"Can you tell me how you got out of that chair?" he asked me.

I only shrugged. "I don't know. I guess it's because I was only half here."

"That makes sense…."

Something occurred to us as I sat down on my mattress. I looked up at the camera. "Matt, where are Mello and Sierra? Are they there?"

There was silence for a moment. "…We're here," said Mello. He seemed much calmer than he had been, but then, I did make him angry; angry enough for him to kill Light….

"Oh, okay…. You're very quiet…." I breathed a heavy sigh. I was tired. Time for sleep, I guess.

"We are," Mello agreed, "but… there's nothing to say."

"Maybe 'sorry for killing you'?"

"You're not dead."

"Oh, we died…." I frowned, and shook my head. "Never mind. I'm going to sleep. Put me in that chair again if you want; you can interrogate me tomorrow. I am sleeping."

"Yes, we'll sleep… eventually too," Mello responded. He spoke almost haltingly.

There was an almost inaudible, "You sure you're okay, Mels?" from Matt.

"We're perfectly fine, Matt," he seemed to scowl. I began drifting off, not really listening to anything else.

"Just... getting used to it, that's all," came Sierra's voice.

"Right… goodnight Sierra…," I mumbled, and slept just as Light grudgingly allowed Halle to inject him with an unneeded sedative. Light was escorted to his room, by then already beginning to be affected by the drug. And we slept.

Matt was eyeing the two before him, neither of them quite eyeing him back. "How're you guys doing, then?" he asked them after an uncomfortable silence. Well, it was for Matt. It didn't seem to be uncomfortable to Mello or Sierra. Mello's hand was still on hers. Matt had remarked upon it earlier, but they were still unresponsive at the time, so he was talking to nothing. And that wasn't as fun as having them glaring daggers at him, or even slapping him across the face, or even punching him. All of this was better then just waiting for a response that wouldn't come. He had been talking to vegetables, and he'd quickly discovered this.

"We're fine," they answered smoothly, both of them looking to him.

He frowned slightly. That was just unnerving. "Okay, you're not going to be like the creepy twins, are you?"

Sierra laughed. Mello didn't. That was familiar, at least, though Matt could see Mello was smiling ever so slightly.

Matt raised his eyebrows. "You smiling there, Mels?" He was bringing back his old nickname for him. He'd used it back when they were but children at Wammy's, but it annoyed Mello greatly. It didn't seem to irk him as much now.

He twitched. "No," he frowned, and Sierra laughed more.

Matt smiled crookedly. Okay, he could adjust to this. Slowly but surely. Now to ease them back to reality, right? "Are we interrogating her again tomorrow?"

"Yes…," said Mello. "She came out of… her chair…." Every so often, if the sentence was long enough, he would still pause, as if he were trying to keep his thoughts together; in one place.

"And what about what you did to her and Light? She had a heart attack, right?"

"Yes," Sierra confirmed. She shrugged. "She can deal with it."

Matt squinted. Right. This thing probably balanced out their views, too, didn't it? This mind sync…. He wasn't so sure he liked this final stage. Not that he could do anything about it. "What exactly is going on in your heads, guys?" he asked them, and took a drag of his cigarette.

Sierra winced; Mello looked ever so slightly irritated. "You need to stop smoking," said Sierra.

"A lot is going on in our head. Our heads," said Mello, after Sierra had made her remark. "You don't have the mind sync so it's… harder to explain…."

"It's a lot and a little at the same time, but now we're whole, so we're better," Sierra explained vaguely, and Matt looked at her oddly.

"It's contradictory," said Mello. "We're gaining the other's views, memories; all of that…. But you're also being minimized into a… a half of a whole."

Matt thought over this, then nodded. "Okay, I think I get the concept. And the reason you were spacing out on me for hours?"

"We have to sort it out," said Sierra.

"The thoughts get mixed at first, and it… it's even hard to tell who's who," Mello added.

Matt furrowed his brow. Unable to even identify who was Mello and who was Sierra? "And… this isn't creepy to you?"

"No," Mello answered.

"It… fits," added Sierra, and she laughed slightly. "We guess Natalie was right."

"Well," said Matt, and breathed out a stream of smoke, "I guess it would make sense, from your point of view. Like something happening behind the scenes, but everyone else can only see the curtain."

"Yeah…," Sierra agreed. "I'm tired. I think I'm going to sleep."

"You do that," Matt agreed. "I… might sleep eventually." He shrugged.

"Okay," she said, and stood, slipping her hand out from beneath Mello's. The day was winding down at last.

That door Beyond was talking to? They should totally get married.

Fun Fact: That scene with BB and the whole weird chanting of nursery rhymes is one of my favorite scenes... Yet...
I don't remember writing it.
I was incredibly tired when I wrote it and, when I read it the next day, I wondered what the hell I had written. ^^

Review? For...uh...crazed Kindergarten teachers!