mary is the girl that I wanna kiss
she's got big red eyes and big red lips
.
Japan is, well, different than England.
With that astute reflection, BB proceeds to roll her eyes. Inside the pockets of her coat, she feels her hands itch, for jam, red and sticky – like blood.
(her plane ride is long, tedious, enough that she comes up with forty-nine different ways to kill the man in the seat next to hers, while the voice whispers sweet, painful, ways to torture the woman in the seat in front)
In one of those street stalls, she finds skewered balls of dough that they call dango, coated with sweet syrup that is meant to taste like strawberries.
It's not jam, but it satisfies the odd craving she has for a minute, so she orders four more and pays the elder woman with a wad of bills that isn't hers, just like the coat she wears.
Now, Japan is beautiful, in its own way. There's a buzz in the air, the lights, the people.
But BB is not here to enjoy the sights (and here, the voice teases, with just a hint of deranged, that she truly is no fun, and that here, in no man's land, no one knows her, no one suspects her and it would be so easy to find a pretty little thing and lure –)
It's tempting, and Beyond has already considered it three, no, four times since she left the airport. But there will be plenty of time for that later. She is not in Japan to see the sights, no, she's here to find –
Mello calls her all the time, these days (Wammy's is painfully quiet since you left, B, and she'll hear teeth in hard chocolate, and just a bit of nonchalance to conceal the fact that he misses her).
There are only three people in this vast world who know how to reach her. The first simply doesn't bother. The second one calls every once in a while, out of guilt or responsibility or fondness, maybe all three, making sure she's still alive. The third is Mello and Mello calls her all the time.
Her tongue swirls around another piece of dango and some of the syrup drips down her chin, falls into the scarf wrapped around her neck. She doesn't bother to wipe it.
She's in the middle of – hands, coated with blood, a smear of red, at the corner of her mouth, copper and metal on her tongue and she smiles, delighted, as she watched life drain – when Mello calls. He calls whenever he wants, whenever he thinks he has some piece of information that will entertain her. He knows how she is and she humours him because it's funny to see him try.
But Mello calls while she's in the middle of – please, please, please – and she answers the phone with slippery fingers, the motion staining her cheek crimson. She doesn't bother asking who it is, Mello is the only one who calls, and asks what he wants.
He doesn't comment on her shallow breaths, on the noises in the background, on the fact that he's very much aware he's disturbed her in the middle of – tears mix with blood, iron and salt – and says that L has taken on a new case.
Kira.
Contrary to popular belief, BB does not live under a rock and knows how to operate a television. Kira, this serial killer slash mass murderer that dishes out heart attacks, this almost supernatural being that operates with a name and a face.
No, she isn't even remotely surprised that L picked up the case, just like she isn't surprised when she hears the hope in Mello's voice.
"It's not that I care about some maniac killing criminals." Mello said, fourteen-years-old and already so tainted by the world – Wammy's is many, many things, but a place for children it is not. "But maybe you should watch your back."
BB had blinked, the victim tied to chair forgotten for an instant – he'd be dead soon anyways, she had pierced a few too many arteries.
"That's awfully sweet of you, Mihael." There'd been a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. "But I don't technically exist, none of us do, you know that."
"Yeah, I know." He'd grumbled out and Beyond had sighed, because her play thing had died. "But, maybe, Kira has a way of finding out."
And she'd blink, because, well, maybe it wasn't that farfetched. They lived in a world where voices whispered about the future, where criminals dropped dead of heart attacks, where there was a manor, hidden in the country side of England, filled with genius orphans to solve murder mysteries.
"True, there might be a way." She'd agreed. "The answer is, why should I care?" Really, Beyond doesn't fear death. If anything, she'd just be a bit miffed that her cause of death would be a heart attack. She'd thought about it many times, she'd hope for something a little more grandiose.
"You shouldn't care about Kira." And Mihael, sweet, tainted, and clever, Mihael. "But if L were to lose to him, wouldn't you care about that?" But he'd already known the answer and Beyond had –
– one day, she'd carve him open, to see if he tasted like chocolate on the inside too. She preferred the sweetness of strawberries, but she would make an exception, just for him.
Beyond had to concede that Mello had played her. He couldn't witness the battle of the century and he'd decided that she would witness it for him. And they thought Near was the one who enjoyed playing chess.
She throws away four bamboo skewers in a nearby trashcan, licks the corners of her lips and then her fingers, where some of the strawberry-like syrup has coated the digits. She keeps one of the sharp sticks in her pocket, plays with it.
(the voice conjures up pretty images, skewered eyes, nerves wrapped around it, a lot like dango, soft and squishy)
A group of pretty boys lingers on the street, next to some cheap looking karaoke bars, the structure clearly having seen better days. She imagines following them up the stairs, into one of those tiny rooms, taking off her coat, the red splashes black in the fluorescent light and she'd grin, the microphone in her hand ready –
But she only smiles as she passes them, blinks her crimson eyes prettily, almost daring them to follow her. She almost hopes they do, but then decides that fun can wait.
She has a detective to find (the voice agrees, telling her the same tales for the millionth time, tales about pretty boys with deadly notebooks, bored Death Gods and the balance of right and wrong and how none of it matters as long as there is entertainment to be had).