A/N: forgive me, i just wanted to see if i could. PG-13 for now; rating has the potential of going up later. Expect (in future chapters): language, deviance, my inability to write B properly, rampant BxNaomi, LxNaomi, and even a smattering of LxB (or BxL, depending how you spin it). This is just the prelude leading into a much bigger, more intricately-woven mess. Please r&r, and as always, enjoy.

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The Charlatans of Burbank Avenue

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"What is the difference between love and obsession? Didn't both make you stay up all night, wandering the streets, a victim of your own imagination, your own heartbeat? Didn't you fall into both, headfirst into quicksand? Wasn't every man a fool and every woman a slave?

Love was like rain: it turned to ice, or it disappeared. Now you saw it, now you couldn't find it no matter how hard you might search. Love evaporated, obsession was realer; it hurt, like a pin in your bottom, an stone in your shoe. A morning phone call filled with regret. A letter that said 'Dear you, goodbye from me'. Obsession tasted like something familiar. Something you'd known your whole life. It settled and lurked; it stayed with you."

- Alice Hoffman

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.prologue.

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Atascadero State Hospital was maximum security forensic facility, which was basically a fancy way of saying that it was a mental hospital for the clinically insane. Its population was composed entirely of males, and had a holding capacity of up to 1,001 inmates. The facility housed a mixture of criminals, from mentally disordered offenders to sexual violent predators. Despite the wide range of crimes, and varying degrees of insanity within the population, Atascadero State Hospital remained peaceful, orderly. There were lots of success stories that were borne out of imprisonment here - scores of patients who had been considered successfully treated, successfully "reformed." The hospice's expert staff prided themselves in their ability to restore order in people's lives - to change them, mold them into model citizens that are eventually able to be released back into society.

Beyond Birthday was one of those people.

On paper, anyway. He had a nice little folder that had been thoroughly reviewed, and then stamped with a shiny seal of approval. B was considered "cured" - declared perfectly sane and fit to be reintroduced back into the outside world, after years of intensive therapy. The doctors had been impressed with his progress, elated by it, convinced of their own brilliance and their science.

B had showed feelings of intense remorse in his later years of hospitalization, feelings of regret - he had grieved over the innocent lives he had taken away, had mourned. This was a positive thing, in the eyes of the panel of psychiatrists, and ultimately the thing that assured him his freedom, in the end; the thing that had given them the conviction they needed in order to release him.

After the announcement had been made to B, he felt euphoric, dizzy with delight. He had thanked his team of psychiatrists eagerly and earnestly, shaking and re-shaking their hands as he beamed at them through the scarred lines of his face. Freedom. He thought the day would never come. He spent the next few days in a dazed but excited stupor, eagerly awaiting his dismissal from that dismal place.

And finally, the day had arrived. October 31st.

L's birthday, B thought, and he had to bite back the smile of maniacal glee that threatened to overtake his features. A trace of it must have lingered, however, as the pretty little nurse escorting him down the hospital glanced back at him and smiled, clearly getting the wrong impression.

"Excited?" she asked him, as the two of them waited at a bus stop where B was to be picked up from.

"Oh, very," he purred back at her, his hands clasped in front of him in a portrait of boyhood innocence. That nurse soaked it right up, just the way B had expected her to. Ever since his admittance into the facility, she had proved to be his biggest supporter, easily charmed by his carefully articulated mannerisms. He appreciated her patronage, however misguided it may have been - truly, it was her adamance that B genuinely was a good person - deep down within himself - that led to this glorious moment, his re-immersion back into society. He supposed he owed a lot to her, which was partially what prompted him to say what he did next, as the bus rumbled up to the curb:

"Cassandra Watson," he said, gathering her hands up in his own and smiling down at her. "Thank you for all you've done for me. Take good care of yourself, okay? And do be especially careful on November fourteenth, will you?"

She nodded, appearing mildly confused as she did so. B knew that the warning would do her no good; the numbers that were scrawled above her head were permanent and unyielding in their red brilliance - death could not be deterred, no matter what B tried. Still, he felt lighter on his feet; felt as though he done his part, his "civic duty", if you will. Satisfied with his endeavor, he gathered up his belongings and waved back to the nurse as stepped inside the bus.

As B stared contentedly out the window, watching the scenic hillsides go rushing gently past, he thought of his mentor, his rival, his obsession. Happy birthday, L, he thought fondly. By this time next year I promise I'll have something truly spectacular to give you as a present. Something you won't ever forget.

And B had to stifle his giggle into the sleeve of his coat, in order to prevent himself from being overheard.