She blames the people who named her Beyond Birthday (and the voices in her head). Death does not cure crazy, it makes it worst. fem!BB-SI

I should probably warn you this is dark and it's also a bit gruesome. I know this is Death Note, but tread carefully and you've been warned (I do not own Death Note or it's characters).

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Bastille

| come, as you are, as you were, as i want you to be |

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Japan is, well, not England.

With that astute reflection made, BB proceeds not to roll her eyes at herself. Her hands itch inside the pockets of her coat for some type of jam-lie substance.

(the plane ride is tedious enough that she comes up with forty-nine different ways to kill the man in the seat next to hers, while the voice in her head comes up with new ways to torture the woman in the front).

In one of those street stalls, she finds sticky 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 woman with a wad of bills that isn't hers to begin with (not that the vendor needs to know that).

Now, Japan is, well, Japan.

BB is not here to see the sights (the voice in her head teases that she really is no fun and points out that no one knows her here, so it would be dreadfully easy to follow someone home, lock the door and have a bit of –)

It's not so much that she's in Japan because it's Japan. It's that, in Japan, there is the one she seeks (hide and seek is not her favourite game as a child, she never hides, always seeks and she always finds and where's the fun in that).

It's something to do with Mello, but, nowadays, everything has to do with Mello (blonde, quirky, with a penchant for leather pants and chocolate candy bars and a dislike for white haired albino boys).

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.

Mello calls (there are three people in this world that know how to reach her – only three and he just happens to be one of those three), but Mello calls all the time (Wammy is painfully quiet since you left, B, he says with a bored voice that is meant to be devoid of emotions and fails).

She is the middle of an activity (the voice in her head let's out a noise, a mix between a snort and a cackle of fondness at the memory, blood, so much blood, can you not hear the pitter-patter) and B picks up, because, well, there are only three people in the world who know how to reach her and when they call they usually have a good reason.

(One contacts her daily, the second only reaches out to make sure she takes her medication – she doesn't, it makes her brain fuzzy and slows her movements, but she always has a bottle, force of habit, and the third –

It just seems ridiculous to hide from someone who could find you anyways, if he really wanted to, not that he wants to, but he could).

But, Mello calls while she's in the middle of an activity and, for once, makes no threat that he'll have to arrest her one day (it's a sort of joke between them, not that anyone expects the famous detective to keel over and die anytime soon) and talks for an hour.

Mello calls while she's in the middle of one of her activities and makes no offhand comment about the fact that she probably has someone tied up somewhere and talks for an hour.

About Kira.

Contrary to popular belief, BB does not live under a rock and knows how to operate a television. So, this Kira, this serial killer slash mass murderer that needs a name and a face to end his victims with a heart attack.

She isn't remotely surprised that the great detective picked up the case (or that Mello, with his voice that wavers because of the munching of his favorite chocolate bar sounds almost hopeful).

"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 isn't exactly a place for children, even it masquerades as an orphanage). "It's just that I don't want you to end up as one of his victims."

BB had blinked, the victim tied to chair forgotten for an instant (he'd be dead in a few seconds anyways, she had pierced a few too many essential arteries).

"That's awfully sweet of you, Mihael." There'd been a sharp intake of breath. "But I don't technically exist, none of us do, you know that."

"I know that." The blonde had grumbled out, just as she wiped the edge of her knife on faded blue jeans and ticked when she noticed that the victim was now very much dead (time, the voice hollered at her, time is a cheating bitch).

"But, maybe, you could check it out." And she'd blinked again, out of surprise most likely, because everyone knew what happened the last time Beyond Birthday had crashed one of the great detective's cases (it's not that incident that removes her permanently from the running, but it does explain a lot).

"I could." She agreed. "But, the real question is, why would I?" And Mihael, sweet and tainted and bitter Mihael, who knows her a bit too well, had answered;

"This is the one B; the one where L loses. Surely, you wouldn't want to miss that." Just the memory of it makes her brain swerve left – that clever little boy, one day she would cut him up and 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.

But that would be another time (she licks her lips and thinks of a scalpel, only the best for her little pet) and BB is certainly not the type to dwell and be bitter.

Mello had played her. He couldn't have front row seats to the battle of the century so, instead, he'd sent her to keep track of the score (Kira is rumored to be smart, she'll be the judge of that).

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 her digits.

She keeps one of the sharpened sticks in her pocket, just for the heck of it (the voice in her head nags at her, like a child who wants attention, offers insight that one would not possess on their own).

It's awfully tempting to follow the gang of pretty boys she encounters on the streets, next to some cheap looking karaoke bars (eyeballs are soft, one should treat them with care), but only smiles and makes sure to blink her deep scarlet eyes at them.

Fun can wait, she has a detective to find first (for once, the voice agrees, but it always did have a soft spot when it came to him).

a/n: I always write apathetic characters, so, I thought I'd delve inside insanity. Um, so, what did you think? And more importantly, would you like more? Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed and let me know!