Los Angeles.
The City of Angels.
The irony was almost too much for L. He felt as if he were in a bad novel, or some kind of soap opera. L had had cases in the Los Angeles area before, but never had he stayed in the city itself. And now here he was, in the penthouse suite of some expensive hotel that he didn't know the name of, expecting an arrival any minute now. An arrival that might change everything. There was a deep fear in his heart, congealing in the pit of his stomach. He did not understand the irrationality that he knew the boy would have. He wished that he did not have to meet him. But the guilt was slowly eating him alive, and he knew he could never rest until he finally came to terms with this.
B arrived late at night. It was perhaps not the best decision for his recovery to disrupt his sleep, but from his doctors' reports, it appeared that he rarely slept anyway, so L assumed there was very little harm done. An assumption that had a high probability of being incorrect. That did not matter to L.
B's hands were handcuffed together when he was led into the room. L didn't look around; he stood at the glass windows, staring out at the expanse of gray concrete and skyscrapers that made up the Los Angeles skyline. The mountains in the distance were not visible in the darkness, which was a shame, because L always liked the way they created a horizon in the distance. One of the more beautiful things in the world.
Wammy accompanied B into the room. He had a gun with him, because he did not trust B, not at all. The boy was too smart. B didn't even struggle; he moved slowly because of the burns, but other than that he was completely cooperative, except that there was a grin on his face and he snickered when he shouldn't and Wammy hated the child for it.
The old man sat B down on a couch, unlocked the handcuffs, then attached one end to the leg of a table set into in the ground, closing the other end on the boy's wrist again. B grinned up at him. "Thank you," said B, and his voice was dripping with venom.
Wammy retreated to the door, where he stood silently, waiting for the moment that he knew would come, when B would get violent and L would not react and he would have to protect the boy, once again.
It was a long, long time before L left the window and resumed his usual position on the armchair. B didn't say anything. B didn't even move. He refused to acknowledge the fact that he was impatient, or that he wanted L to address him. Unsurprising.
Finally, L crawled back to the armchair and pulled his legs in, sitting curled up, in a position that should have been uncomfortable but never was, for him. The second L did so, B copied him exactly, even putting a thumb to his mouth and looking up at L with bright, inquisitive eyes.
The movement could not have been easy for B – the burns on his skin would have made it difficult and painful to move in such ways, but he gave no indication that he was in pain. Indeed, his smile disappeared, but the gleeful look in his eyes did not.
L said, "It has been a long time."
"No it hasn't," said B. "It's been three years, ten months, two weeks and three days." B flashed a grin. "But who's counting?"
L did not smile. "I will not continue under the pretence that I understand why you devised this scheme, because I do not." A pause. "I want you to tell me why, Backup."
B let out a low hiss. He shuddered slightly. "Backup," he spat. "How dare you use that name. I am no longer the Backup. I was the Backup to the Alternate, in case that went wrong. It did go wrong. And I am no longer the Backup. I am now Beyond-"
"Yes, I understand what you choose to call yourself at the present," interrupted L. "The name was particularly useful in my quick evaluation of the murders you were committing."
"I murdered no one."
"You murdered three people."
"They were meant to die, see," sighed B, and he stopped copying L. He tried to lie down on the couch, but the handcuffs prevented him from doing so. He turned upside down, throwing his legs behind the back of the couch, hanging his head just above the floor. He stared up at L. "People have such a funny definition of murder. It's not murder if you poison someone at the exact moment they die of a heart attack, is it? It isn't murder if they were going to die right then and there, regardless of what-"
"You are completely delusional," muttered L thoughtfully, inspecting the boy. His eyes looked up, found the old man standing at the door. "Mr. Wammy," called L. "Please excuse us."
Wammy hesitated. "I must protest," he said. "It is irresponsible to leave you-"
"I can think of more irresponsible actions," remarked L, his dark eyes piercing the man. "Many of which pertain directly to the boy in front of me."
"Boy," hissed B. "You think of me as such a child."
L ignored him. Wammy finally broke his gaze. Then he approached the younger man, and he placed a gun on the arm of the seat L was resting in. "I am trusting you," said Wammy, and then the old man was gone.
L stared at the firearm for a moment, then looked up at B. "I detest guns," said L.
"Me too," said B. "We have so much in common."
The facetious nature of the comment was lost on L.
There was a silence.
And then B whispered, "You think I'm crazy."
"I think you are very much insane," said L shortly. "I think you were in a negative situation during your time at Wammy's House, especially considering the experimental nature of the program at that point, and much of your mind deteriorated very quickly after the death of A, whom I understand you had a very close relationship-"
"Don't!" hollered B, scrambling to sit upright again. "Don't you dare talk about A! Not with that blank face, not with those dry eyes! Don't you dare!"
Another pause. L stared at B.
Then L quietly said, "I cannot apologize for my lack of empathy. I did not know your friend, no matter what you may believe."
B said nothing, only eyed L warily.
"I am..." L trailed off, unable to say the words. Unable to come to terms with what he would be admitting, unable to believe that he was about to apologize to a killer. Absurd. If only his patrons could see him now. "I am sorry," he said finally, the words escaping his mouth before he could hold them back. "I am sorry for the death of your friend. I should have been more cognizant of the situation, considering the program was created because of me. I should have been more vocal and ensured that such a venture would not end in failure. I should have done many things. But I did not." L looked at the boy, and he felt such a terrible feeling of despair, it was difficult, for a moment, to breathe. "And this is why we are here tonight, with your burned skin and my guilty conscience."
B looked at him curiously, deeply.
"You blame yourself," he said finally, as if finally understanding what L was saying. "You take responsibility for his death. And for my insanity."
L didn't break eye contact. Slowly, he nodded.
B started to laugh.
Kya ha ha ha ha!
Kya ha ha ha ha ha!
L found himself half puzzled, half offended.
"L," said B, out of breath with laughter, "you may have influence and clout in the highest government sectors, but you are a fool if you believe that I have ended the lives of three people because of you."
L was taken aback. "I am-"
"Selfish!" trilled B, grinning. "Look at you! Selfish L, selfish L! This job you have, it's affected your brain. It's affected you so now you think everything is about you. You think everything is because of you."
A stony silence. L asked, "Why, then? If not a message to me – because of me – why would you become a killer? You were not raised that way. This is a conscious decision of yours to become everything you should despise. Why, B? Why?"
Nothing. B looked at his fingers, then around at the room.
"B."
"I will not respond," said the boy softly, "until you respect me enough to call me by my name."
L felt something like anger deep inside of him. Such insolence. L was unused to experiencing people who treated him like this.
"I want you to tell me why you murdered those people," said L lowly, "Beyond Birthday."
"Just Beyond is fine," sighed B. "But whichever you prefer." A pause. L stared at him, expecting an answer. B was going to give it to him, but he liked to know that he was irritating L, the famous, immovable L. His own personal torturer. What a fool. "I became a killer," said B gently, tenderly, "because I like how it feels."
L blinked.
"I used to do it to A you know," said B, inspecting his fingernails. "I used to paint all over his skin with his own blood. Oh, he had such sweet blood. I once cut him so deep that this red mess of blood and flesh covered my hands. The next morning I covered my hands with jam the same way his body had done so. You should have seen his face when he saw me licking my fingers, L. It was glorious. Glorious."
L stared.
B laughed again. "You think you killed A," he said. "You think you killed A! It's almost endearing, poor L. Poor wittle L, desperate to shoulder some responsibility for something that could not have been anyone's fault. You truly are cute, L, my dear."
An expression flickered across L's face, but disappeared.
"Did you ever see A's body, after his death? Did you even read the reports?"
No. L hadn't. The guilt had stopped him, had quenched his normally heightened curiosity.
"Scarred. Cut up. Mutilated."
There was something wrong about the way the younger man was speaking now.
"A was completely unaffected by what they were raising him to be. It was the way the blade loved him, the way my teeth could scrape their way along his skin. Delicious. The girl, the child I killed, she tasted almost the same. So fresh. So sweet. So-"
"Stop."
"A died because I told him to," said B, his voice stronger than ever. "I told him to by licking his wounds, by laughing at his pain, by urging him to join me when I caressed the slits in his body." B laughed. "And you have the nerve to claim that I do my killings for you. Look at you. A megalomaniac. An ego-obsessed fool with a god complex."
"I hardly believe-"
"Protest, L," hissed B. "I dare you."
Nothing. L refused to play his game.
"When my tool was dead," said B quietly. "I had to find someone else. But I couldn't keep them for long. One, two, three. It's a shame that that was all I could get. Unfortunately none of them were quite as perfect as my little A was. That was why I had to join him." B grinned. His lips cracked at the wideness of the smile, and a drop of blood trickling down from his lips, past his chin. "I thought you might like to witness the ride. You tortured yourself over one death; wouldn't it be sweet to see you cry over mine?"
B looked at the gun sitting on the armrest of L's chair.
"If I were you," said B, "that gun would be at my head right now."
L stared at B.
"A died because I told him to," repeated B. "Now let me show that I am smarter than you are, because I know how to carry out the perfect killing." B paused, staring straight at L. "Do it, L. It's very easy to die. I know it is. I know everything there is to know about death."
L looked at B. And then he looked down at the gun beside him. He took his hand away from his mouth and he placed it on the gun. How he hated the cold, metallic feel of the thing.
"Yes," purred B. "That's it. So simple. So easy. So beautiful."
L slid a finger across the barrel of the gun. Terrifying.
B stared at him.
And then B started laughing once again.
Kya ha ha ha ha!
"I haven't lost my touch! Beautiful!"
L looked back up at B, and revulsion mixed with outrage in every fibre of his being. But he restrained himself. He spared nothing but a passing glance for the killer in front of him, and then he called, "Mr. Wammy."
Of course Wammy had been waiting just outside the door; he entered instantly, and before he did anything he walked right forward and took the gun, and L did not protest. In fact, without even saying anything, L had made it very, very clear that that was what he wished Wammy to do first of all.
L watched silently as Wammy handcuffed the boy again and led him out of the room. The laughter stayed, reverberating against the glass panels of the wall. L stood and pressed a hand to the cool glass. Below him, Los Angeles was illuminated with the lights of the night, streetlights forming crisscrossing patterns across the city, the headlights of cars darting down the streets, like tiny insects crawling along the floor.
The life of the city had an eerie effect on L. The man felt anxious, like someone was watching him, judging him. He went back to the armchair and curled up in an attempt to escape this damning feeling.
Los Angeles, he thought, before he drifted into the sweet relief that is sleep.
The City of Angels.
B and L are so innnnnteresting.