Before I send you to the bottom for the author's note, I will let you all know that there is such thing as a slingshot that shoots machetes.

... YES. JUST YES.

Beyond Revenge: The Story Of L's Copy

Chapter Two: Habits

"Beyond? That's certainly an odd name," Watari voiced his thoughts absently, then recoiled slightly at the boy's angry expression.

"Quillish is just as odd," he pointed out, a small scowl developing along his mouth, as he settled himself down onto the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees in a defensive pose.

"Okay... So you are here because you are an orphan, no?" Trying to move the conversation away from potential hostility, Watari spoke again, leaning down to the boy's level.

"Yes, but I'm mostly here because Darrell caught me and carried me here, saying I needed a 'psychotic examination.'"

"You talk strangely well for a young boy," Watari commented, choosing to ignore the child's red eyes yet again, instead settling for noting the clipped vowels and expansive vocabulary.

"Darrell gave me a written test of sorts. For schooling."

"How did you do?"

"I am a genius." This was said flatly, in a tone that was neither self-deprecating nor arrogant.

"Oh?" Watari's brows furrowed as he studied the pale face, searching for evidence of lies. Finding none, he began to take notes furiously, which prompted the little boy to leap up and try to peek.

"No, Beyond." The elderly man snatched his paper away.

The phrase- "No, Beyond," became commonplace during that month. Watari, in a state of worry, had called dozens of orphanages in England, some of them even founded by himself but run by others, and inquired if they had schools or at least facilities that would suit a seven-year old genius. None of them seemed to be willing or able, and Watari was getting more and more aggravated. Beyond had been staying at the Social Services department, with regular visits from administrators, to entertain and educate him.

"How about we play cards?"

"No."

"What about Snakes and Ladders?"

"No."

"Twenty Questions? Mother May I? Football? ANYTHING?"

"No."

Beyond was a difficult child, stubborn and quiet, taking and touching things he was not supposed to and never taking suggestions on how to complete tasks. He was an astoundingly picky eater, too; playing with his food halfheartedly and never quite ingesting it. Hours later, the social workers with midnight shifts would come into the kitchen to find him sitting on the table, knees drawn up to his chest in a crouch, fingers and lips stained red as he dug eagerly into a jar of strawberry jam.

"Oh," Beyond tugged on Watari's sleeve as they passed a large department store. "That's pretty. It interests me."

He was pointing to a giant silver knife in a display case. Slightly disturbed by this, the man hastened his charge along, to get home and possibly get his mind off the weapon he seemed to be so fascinated by.

But the jam-sneaking habits, love of sharp things, and stubborn behavior were nothing compared to the fits of insanity Beyond would experience about twice a week.

Coleen, the motherly and kindly old woman in charge of three of the nearby homeless shelters, had come into Beyond's room to change his dusty curtains in the middle of the night, and found the seven-year-old curled in a ball, emitting a shrill scream. His hands were clenched tight over his ears and he was rocking quickly back and forth, beating his head against his bed-frame rather forcefully. "NOOOOOO!" was the only coherent word he ever spoke; the rest of the shrieks were inhuman and terrifying, and as heartbreaking as a wounded baby crying. No amount of rocking could calm him, Coleen quickly learned, and the only thing that seemed to work slightly had been wrapping the sheet around him tightly and providing a safe haven of sorts for him in the bed. Exactly thirty minutes later, B came out of his trancelike state, clueless and scared of what had happened, bumps covering his poor little forehead, his throat and lungs worn out, his voice hoarse and tiny whenever he spoke aloud.

The only good thing about these "psychotic" outbursts, as Darrell put it dryly one visit, was that they only happened from precisely three a.m. to four a.m., on Wednesdays and Fridays. The rest of the week, Beyond was quite docile in comparison and slept mostly well. The staff had learned to pad Beyond's headboard with soft materials and bury their heads in their pillows during this time, and by the end of the month, the kids of the social workers were all picking on him and calling him Psycho Boy.

"There's no other choice." Watari was now speaking into the phone, as his most trusted assistant, Roger, sighed on the other end.

"Fine. Then it's Wammy's House for him."

I'm sorry. The real world's a bitch and love is a bitch but it's inevitable and impossible to fall out of, and also family crap, which is a pain but y'gotta love 'em. And school registrations and music stuff and feh and this summer's been hectic. I've been to so many random places and random events and so many people matter so much in my life and they all suddenly mattered more at once- it's insane. 0_o

WARNING. School is death. Updating will not be often on current stories. Sorry, but it's life. ACADEMIC DEATHYNESS is inevitable.

It's 12:29 AM. Goodness, I start stuff at times ending with 9 all the time. I'll stop whining now.

The link to the machete slingshot is in my profile, just sayin'.