Chapter Text
It had been 6 months and L made no contact with B after his arrest. He made no appearance at the trial; Misora, the useless, idiot girl responsible for B’s failure, had taken full responsibility for the heap of ashes they deemed guilty on all charges. She was rewarded for her heroism. It was a nightmare to witness the attorney’s presenting the evidence B had practically spoon fed her for the entire duration of their investigation together.
Most frustrating of all was the character L created for B. Anything to distance him from Wammy’s House. According to the faked documents presented at the trial, B was a lowlife with no family, no money, a college drop out and an ex-junkie. This was the kind of man he was framed to be, the kind of man L chose to portray him as.
The Locked Door Killer pleaded for the death penalty as an act of mercy. There was nothing left for him. The burns made him hideous and totally depleted his quality of life. He had become the very thing he’d been taught to fear; a criminal with no morals or values left. A criminal devoid of purpose and driven by violence. The jury spared him and granted him three life sentences instead. Beyond cried in the defense booth.
Prison wasn’t what Beyond had expected. It took a while to assert himself among the community but he had managed to guarder some respect from others. LABB was infamous, after all. His appearance alone was more than enough to keep others off his back. He kept to himself, minded his manners and only engaged in blood spilling when absolutely necessary. This was easier to achieve a few months in when his mobility returned to him.
He thought about killing himself. He thought of it often and in detail, how he would do it, when he would do it and where. How he should have have made amends to his errors before Naomi Misora could break into the hotel room he was found in. How he should have attacked her instead of writhing in charr and ash.
He thought if death so often, he was certain that the lifespans of nearly every inmate he encountered fell between the month of February and May of next year. What were the odds of such a phenomenon? But it wasn’t just these inmates, it also was the transfers from across the country and even the criminals announced on the news. Surely, it was the drugs. He was on heavy sedatives during the first few months, grappling to regain his motor function. Perhaps it was madness, thoughts clouded in vengeful rhetoric and plans that he could never execute.
But that wasn’t it. He was six months into his sentence and the numbers above his cell mate's head read the same as Carson Vermont, Holt Sarsburg, and Jesse Williams. This was no paranoid episode. This was a massacre in the making.
Something was going to happen on the 10th of February, 2003. Six of his fellow inmates would die seconds apart from each others. B secretly hoped to go with them. Beyond was a broken man. This strange massacre gave him something to fixate on. Something to think about to distract himself from the weight of his greatest failure.
He decided that if he was going to deduce what events would occur next year, he needed to prepare for it. He began to document lifespans in a journal. It was precise and organized alphabetically, allowing the patterns and information to piece together more clearly. Keeping busy at least kept his mind from rotting the way his body had. The library was good for this as well, but nothing held his attention long enough to drown out his thoughts.
The doctors told him he was lucky to have survived, he was lucky to have healed so quickly and with such ease. It was the last thing he wanted to hear, really. None of this would change the fact that he was forever hideous; scars that swelled and tarnished his skin, tugging at his left eyelid and the corner of his mouth, bleeding into his lips. They coursed all over his body, with the worst of it down below his waist where he’d dropped the match that fateful day. He was thankful when his hair started to grow back. Then at least he could start to begin to feel like himself again.
Today was like any other. The same repetitive routine.
6:00, wake up.
6:30, shower.
7:00, have breakfast.
7:40, return to cell.
8:30, exercise.
10:00, stand in the courtyard and collect data on lifespans.
11:00, headcount and inspections.
It was a routine inspection like all the rest. Beyond stood idly by, staring down at his shoes as they flipped his cot and raided his belongings. They took the books he stole from the library and his plastic silverware he melted down to make easier for his scarred fingers to hold. Nothing he couldn’t live without. His eyes raised when the warden appeared at his cell, striding in carelessly in his tan uniform, boots meeting the tile floors with a stomp.
He rubbed his stubbled chin.
“Making weapons?” He asked casually as he inspected the collection of items the officers were confiscating.
“No, sir. I made them for my hands.”
B received a glance up and down.
“They look like weapons to me. Give him a shot.”
B averted his eyes, brows twitching. He never received shots for bad behavior unless the warden was there to make things difficult. Warden Nelson seemed to hold a grudge toward him for reasons that were unknown to him.
“Whats this? You keeping a diary, Birthday?” The warden asked suddenly, and B glanced up to witness him flipping through the pages of his journal; its contents filled half way with names and dates and notes.
“It’s nothing. Nonsense and ramblings. I don’t use that notebook anymore, there’s no use in reading it.” That wasn’t going to cut it.
“Fucking hell. Sick bastard’s making plans to kill everyone.” Exclaimed the second officer from over his shoulder but the warden said nothing and turned through each page, painfully slow, taking it all in. Some time in solitary or the mental ward seemed reasonable enough as punishment, but B couldn’t have prepared for this. The warden, Garrett Nelson dead on September 14th, 2023, notably, began to read the pages out loud for the inmates to hear.
“Charles Davidson dead on February 23rd. Franz Farber dead on February 25th. Thomas Lopez dead on February 28th. Looks like the locked door killer is planning a massacre in this little journal here! And all your names are in it.” He announced to the inmates lined up beside their cells, holding the notebook pridefully and showing off the written-in pages. B felt a rush of fear when the eyes of his neighbors fixed on him and a low murmuring erupted.
“You all know who this is and what he did right? Beyond fucking Birthday. Killed a man, a woman and a child. Mutilated their bodies and made puzzles out of them. Beyond here thought he could best L, the FBI, and the police when he couldn’t even kill himself right. This motherfucker disguised himself as a PI. He met families of his victims, gave them false assurances. False hope. Yes, he’s one twisted bastard. Now he thinks he’s going to best all of you. We are a family! A threat to a few of us is a threat to all of us! Watch your backs and don’t let his looks deceive you. He’s a fuckin’ disease, and he’s waiting patiently to carve one of yous up.” Laughter echoed and the guards left his cell. Warden Nelson lowered his voice, turning to look B in the eyes and shoving the journal against his chest, letting him take it.
“It’s 2,000 to one, you got that?”
And with that, inspections continued.
B stood there a moment longer, knowing well what the warden had done. He may as well have pinned a target on his back. Even with his limited mobility, he could handle himself fine against a single person. But in groups, he didn’t stand a chance. He skipped dinner that evening and stayed put, hoping he would be safe enough in the confines of his cell. Word would spread quickly about Beyond’s notebook and the threats within it.
Sure enough, he was cornered by a group lead by Thomas Lopez in the showers the next morning, a group of three at his assistance as they roughed Beyond to the ground.
He was brought to his knees, the weight of his own body pulling too hard on the tight scar tissue, forcing the flesh to split. His hair was yanked back, and no resistance he managed could get him out of this position. He felt something sharp against his throat and opened his eyes, his blood boiling with anger.
“You really think you could kill me, Birthday?” Lopez spat in his face, bent over one knee with a small razor blade glued to a plastic knife. He could feel the blade pricking his skin, but Beyond felt no fear. He managed a breathless smile, “Well, it would be fairly easy in February.” He challenged and earned a sock to the face. He tasted blood in his mouth and spat it out.
“Those are big words, asshole. You gonna cut me up, turn me into a clock and nail a stupid doll to the wall? Is that what you write about in your diary?”
“No. You aren’t worth the effort.” B replied without hesitating. He chuckled mindlessly through another sock to the face. He could feel a black eye forming.
“Alright enough!” Lopez barked and lowered his voice into a growl. “We know about you, Birthday. We know you’re some super genius freak. And we know that you know things, things that the officers don’t.”
“What are you implying?”
“If you’re really planning this massacre, whatever it is, we know it’s because you’re planning an escape. Half the men in here are too dumb to do something as reckless as that. You’re an ugly fuck, but you’re smart, and we need smart if we’re going to get out of here.” He hissed.
Beyond raised his brows and let a bit of laughter bubble out of his throat. “You think… I’m planning an escape?” He rasped and leaned forwards, “Oh yes. We’ll be free. Come February, we’ll all start to drop like flies. I don’t know how. Not yet. All I know is that death is certain and unsparing. And you will go on February 29th. And you will die in April, and you will die in September.” He told each of Lopez’s friends, wild eyed, “We’re all gonna die. That is true freedom.”
Their surprised expressions and a fist to the face was the last thing B remembered before going unconscious.
Guards found him after breakfast an hour later, mumbling something incoherent to the tile floor, bloody and bruised.
He was treated for a concussion and his wounds were cleaned and bandaged. After that, he was back to his cell, hungry but refusing to eat. He finally decided to face the music and shuffled out of his cell towards the end of dinner. Everyone would be sent back to their cells soon, so B would have exactly 10 minutes to have something then return to the safety of his cell. He risked his life for the cups of jello they served as dessert. B simply couldn’t resist the artificial strawberry flavor that brought him some comfort. He was on his way back to his cell, jello in hand and a plastic spoon in his mouth when he suddenly felt a hand jerk him backwards. The jello spilled to the floor, but remained mostly intact within the cup. He exhaled sharply and turned to face the man who held his arm against his back, “That was my—“
In an instant, James Peterson, dead in July of next year, twisted his arm so hard it broke like a twig. B let out a yelp, his mouth swiftly covered. “How are you going to do it? How are you going to kill everyone, huh?” Peterson whispered to him, “Tell me and I’ll spare your other arm.”
This was just outrageous! He could understand why people would assume he’d be fantasizing about the killings documented in his book, but to actually believe he was capable of all that in his condition? B didn’t respond, just eyed his spilt jello on the floor. There were few pleasures in prison, and after the day he had, he deserved that fucking jello. Summoning some strength in his frustration, he slammed his now broken arm into Peterson’s face, spun around and lunged forwards, jamming his thumbs into his eyes with such force that they crushed upon impact. Warm blood filled his sockets and he let out a blood curdling scream, both hands to his face now. B snatched his jello off the floor and walked out, his broken arm hanging limply. Irritated, he returned to his cell and finished his jello as soon as he could. Guards appeared moments later, the Warden between them of course. He gave Beyond a foul grimace as he was yanked off of his bed and forced to stand. “Six months in solitary,” he spat and B didn’t object. “My arm is broken.” B remarked and the warden grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him forwards, “Did I hear you say something? Did you speak without being spoken to? If I hear one more word leave your mouth I will make it a year. Do you understand me?!”
B just stared at him, empty eyes wandering to the crowd behind him, Peterson’s screaming echoing from the nurses office. The commotion had certainly gotten everyone riled up. There was murder in their eyes. Perhaps solitary wouldn’t be so bad.
With handcuffs around his wrists, he was brought through the hallway, down a steep flight of stairs and into the cold basement where solitary confinement was held. Dim lights illuminated the grey walls, the small of piss and shit emanated from the stalls across from him. He winced and waited impatiently for them to free him into his own small cell. A slab of concrete for a bed and a nonfunctional toilet across from that. They left him with his handcuffs on and B finally protested. His arm was in enough pain as it was, but to leave these on meant he would be unable to treat his arm himself. “Take these off. Take them off!” He bolted toward the barred doors as they were shut and locked. He sat by the door, sighed and waited. At least he’d managed to have his jello.
Three days into his six month sentence, B had already lost touch with reality, dreaming up all of the incredible ways the inmates would die. He would sit there for hours and day dream, imagine them choking, imagine them squabbling on their knees, knowing Beyond Birthday was right. His warning had meant nothing to any of them. It wasn’t avoidable after all. Eventually, they’d all pay for his maltreatment. In the throws of his day dreams, he would imagine L, reading the news, hearing about the massacre, and B’s existence would manifest itself in L’s mind, perhaps only for a second. Maybe he would worry. Or maybe he would smile, knowing B was thrust into the chaos of a massacre, dying in the process most likely. The thought alone brought a smile to his lips, deep satisfaction lingering within him. To be recognized or simply thought of by L was more than B deserved.
Days went on slowly, and thankfully during their weekly showers, B was allowed to remove the handcuffs and be treated for his arm, only after it had swelled so much the cuffs had stopped the blood from circulating to his hands. He wore a splint and did all he could to avoid moving it. In the same day, B was brought a new change of clothes, which was unusual given that laundry day was four days from today. He changed into the orange jumpsuit and obeyed orders to stand with his hands up and his back to the door. He heard four sets of footsteps, two by the door and two approaching. They handled him with more care than the other guards, gently urging him to turn so they could pat him down. B quickly realized these were not prison guards. They were good looking men in good looking suits, badges around their necks and microphones on their ears.
“We’ve apprehended him. We’re bringing him to you now.” One of them said into the small microphone.
B just raised his eyebrow and obeyed accordingly. “Where are you taking me?” The question was futile. They didn’t acknowledge him speak. He was lead through a hallway he’d never been through before, up some steps and past the warden’s office. Nelson stood there, eyeing Beyond bitterly, his hands folded in front of him. All four of these men walked on either of his sides, forcing him to maintain a quick pace. B absently eyed the guns on their belts as he walked.
They reached a room isolated from the rest of the officers offices. Inside was a chair and a desk and a laptop with the screen turned off. B felt a rise of panic when he saw that familiar black screen.
“No no no no, wait. Don’t leave me in here. Take me back to my cell!” He started to resist as they brought him to the chair and forcefully sat him down. “Please, don’t do this!” He pleaded, jerking wildly in his seat. Me managed to stand but was instantly brought down again. He felt cold iron on his ankles and suddenly he was restrained to the floor, unable to move from his seat except for the pathetic tugging he as he attempted to flee. “Don’t go. I don’t want to talk to him! Please!” All four of them left the room and the door fell shut.
B’s jaw chattered as he stared at the door, failing to realize the black screen had turned white, and a solitary L hung heavy at the center. B’s breath got caught in his throat and his eyes slowly met the screen. His demeanor shifted and his blood ran cold. He eyed the screen apathetically.
“I thought you would be more pleased.”
The voice said, lacking the robotic voice changer B had expected. It was him. It was really him. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, a great sadness in his chest tightening his muscles. B didn’t know what to say. No words came to him so he did not speak.
“It’s been a long time, B. Or, I suppose you’re going by Beyond Birthday now. Or is it Rue Ryuzaki? I’m terrible with names.” L confessed, sounding humble but arrogant as he always did. Again, B said nothing, just shifted uncomfortably and moved on.
“What is this about? Are you going to scold me for my bad behavior?” His words burned like ice.
“No,” L sounded amused, “I’m sure you’ve had quite enough of that. Warden Nelson has kept me informed on your activity.“
“Why?” B snapped defensively.
“…”
Beyond furrowed his brows and lunged forwards, closer to the camera.
“What is it? Do you like to see me this way? Do you get off thinking about my arms breaking and my skin melting off? I always knew you were sadistic. I always knew you—!”
“No, that’s not it. I check in with the warden to make sure you’re safe and that your injuries are attended to. You aren’t barbaric and evil like they are. I have no desire to see you in pain.”
“Oh, L. You’re sadly mistaken. I’m the most barbaric and evil out of all of them! You heard what I did to Peterson, right? I gouged out his eyes and I ate them. I took pleasure in his screams, the metallic taste of his blood. I laughed when they beat me and now I lie awake imagining how I’ll strangle them when the time comes.”
“Beyond—”
“You don’t know me, L! You have no right to say my name. You have no clue what I’ve become. I’m devoid of every good quality I once had. I’m ugly and vulgar and my one desire is to watch the world burn!” B paused to catch his breath and L let out a sigh.
“…Are you done?”
B just bared his teeth and slumped back against his seat.
“Whoever you are, whatever you are, I like to imagine we were once friends. And for that reason, occasionally I receive updates from Nelson about your behavior. The notebook he found is interesting. I’d like to know what exactly you were planning on doing with it.”
B was quieter now, embarrassment rising in him as L was quick to reject his monstrous persona. A friend? Was that some kind of sick joke? L never let Beyond close enough to him to ever call him a friend. No, they weren’t friends. They were competitors. It was the way things had to be, Rodger would tell him.
“I’ve told you before. I can see death.” He said flatly.
“Yes. And names in tiny letters floating above their heads. You expect anyone to believe that? Tell me what you really hope to achieve with your long list of threats.”
“Don’t mock me, L. I’ve proved it to you before. Don’t you remember?” Beyond had attempted to warn Wammy’s staff about A’s smoldering lifespan. No one took him seriously and despite his own attempts to prevent his death, A killed himself anyway.
B heard L start to eat something and rolled his eyes. Of course such uncomfortable conversations called for sweets.
“I proved it again in Los Angeles; the names, the dates of their death. They weren’t for me to decide. And I can prove it to you again. On February 10th, criminals will start dying in this prison and in prisons across the country, starting with Jon Sandoval at 2:45am.”
He could imagine L contemplating, sucking whipped cream off of cupcakes, perched with his knees to his chest and his sticky fingers all over the keyboard. His stomach twisted.
“Alright. We will revisit this conversation on February 10th. If Jon Sandoval is dead by then as you say, I will finally believe you.”
“That’s it then? You went through all this trouble to call me just to get me to prove I’m not a liar?” B hissed, brows furrowed.
“There is one more thing… I’m afraid Warden Nelson has it out for you.”
B scoffed and smiled slyly. “No kidding. It probably has something to do with the fact that you force him to send you reports. Probably thinks I’m getting special treatment.”
“Yes, maybe so. I have made arrangements to lessen your solitary confinement sentence. Unfortunately, my jurisdiction cannot prevent Warden Nelson from transferring you to another facility. It seems he is planning your intake at ADX Florence in Colorado.”
B wasn’t really phased by this. He made no visible reaction. Prison was prison wherever he went, though he was aware of this particular prisons reputation.
“Why should I care? It can’t be must worse than this.” B fidgeted his arms behind his back, rattling his chains.
“Actually, it can. ADX Florence is know for its unethical rehabilitation practices. I’m… concerned that, with your disabilities, you—“
“You’re worried about me? Really?” B laughed and shook his head.
“You really expect me to believe you took time out of your busy schedule to tell me this out of the goodness of your heart? Because you care for me? Where was your sympathy four years ago, when Wammy deemed me unfit to succeed you? Where were you at my trial to tell the truth about who I am and where I came from? No. This isn’t selflessness. This isn’t the compensation you owe me. Your time means nothing to me. You mean nothing to me. You can take your self-righteous concern and shove it up your ass.”
B was breathing hard, his hands cold and numb from pulling on the restraints. He waited for an answer.
“…Goodbye, B.” Was all the voice said before the screen shut off. B’s expression softened and a wave of anxiety passed through him that he struggled to let go.
In came the four suited men who escorted Beyond to his cell. He was set free from his restraints once he was facing away from the door in his cell. They left him there and locked the door.
Beyond paced for a moment before he sat down on his cot and buried his head in his hands. He wept soft and low.