InsaneJournal

Current mood:	blah
Current music:	Strict Machine - Goldfrapp

HAY LOOK MOAR BB/L FIC.
Today I want to write as many of these as possible, so you may experience multiple posts in a row. SORRY!

Title: Trial and Error
Author/Artist: temptationwaits
Fandom: Death Note/Another Note
Pairing: Beyond Birthday/L
List and #: Alternate #3 - trial and error
Rating: MA (semi-graphic gore, profanity, sexual innuendo)
Disclaimer: Death Note, L, etc. © Ooba Tsugumi, Obata Takeshi, etc. Beyond Birthday, Another Note, etc. © Ishin Nishio. Song lyrics used are from "Failed Experiment" by My Insanity.
A/N: Spoilers for L (like, I'm talking BIG spoilers), B and Another Note. B's little experiment made absolutely no sense to me, no matter how much I read and re-read the translations and whatnot. So if it doesn't make any sense--not my fault. IT DIDN'T MAKE ANY SENSE TO BEGIN WITH (to me, at least).

There had been two tests. Both initiated by him. Admittedly, perhaps he was too hopeful, claiming victory before they were over. Was that the sign of a true warrior? To believe you will win in the end, no matter what? Or does a true warrior believe in themselves, but yet keep the possibility of losing a likely chance in their minds?

B wasn't a warrior. Far from it. So such things were irrelevant. B was a genius, he was strong, but he was, ultimately and without shame, egotistical. But so was his rival, so was his enemy, so was the man he was performing this hare and tortuous race with. B didn't need to copy these qualities from L as he all ready had them as well.

The first experiment hadn't gone exactly as planned. Initially, it was just a trial, a way of quenching his curiosity. It didn't really apply to the scheme of things. It was a mere battle in the midst of a heavy war. You see, B prided himself (as it was obvious) on being original--or at least, as original as he could get while pretending to be someone else entirely. But so far, all his murders had been done in a very typical, cliche fashion. Strangulation with a rope, bludgeoned head with a baseball bat. Why not have a little fun this time around?

Of course this would take some time, but he had all the time in the world. No one knew where he was, what he could possibly be doing; there were no links between his previous two victims, so any person of any age of any race were prime suspects. B was able to move comfortably with his killings because no one could detect his trails. (Maybe L, but L's not here yet. Not yet, no.)

Using ropes and a strong drug, B tied down Bottomslash to leave her unconscious form completely immobile, the drug strong enough to tighten and knot her muscles and shut down her brain without actually killing her. As B slipped the knife out from his bag of supplies, he couldn't help but think about L. What if this girl were L instead?

L, unconscious, helpless, bound and at his mercy. B couldn't help but lick his lips at such an image. Maybe L shouldn't be unconscious, B humored, maybe he should be awake and fully alert, so he can watch his death come slowly and painfully. But no, no, in the end, B wouldn't be the one to kill him--not unless he managed to make it out of this alive and be around just long enough to be the one to thrust the knife in L's heart years to come, as his eyes had predicted.

But still, what an interesting little fantasy. B couldn't help but push up Backyard's shirt, to expose her tanned belly. In his mind, this was still L, and this peachy stomach was pallor, more built than this tiny slender one. His fingers danced around his (her) bellybutton, feeling the slight bumps of protruding ribs against his (her) stomach, moving in soft up and down strokes. He (She) was comfortable if he (she) was breathing so calmly. Soon, L (Backyard) would be writhing in pure agony. How wonderful!

Of course, the chances of this experiment proving positive would be in the low percentile, but there was no harm in trying--at least, not to him.

B propped up Backyard's arm--in his mind, this was L's long, skinny one, and it would be so funny if it was still holding onto a cupcake or lollipop--and placed the sharp side of the blade against her wrist. Then, with a little bite on his tongue for concentration and welling strength, he sliced the blade through her skin, slow and smoothly, as if peeling an apple. Sometimes the flesh would be stubborn and he'd regretfully have to saw through it so crudely, so messily, ruining his clean cut. The skin rolled off, a little like pencil shavings, before flopping over the side of the arm and hanging there, dripping blood and torn vessels.

Blood poured down the arm like waterfalls, sometimes in huge gushes or just little spills. B could easily see L now--all humans, all animals, they had the same pretty pink and red muscle and wires under their thick hide. Oh, and L (Backyard) had such beautiful bright red tissue.

B had sliced the skin off clear to Backyard's shoulder. The entire arm was just drenched with blood, shredded and torn. Backyard's face was drained of color. B had to work faster now. He carelessly thrust the knife into Backyard's shoulder, where he had finished the cutting. Blood bubbled and poured from around the knife a few inches into her skin, wedged right against a bone.

B cracked his knuckles. Even more now he was seeing L, beautiful, bleeding, slowly dying L. Crack, crack, crack, his knuckles tightened as he curled a fist. With that, he began beating the raw muscle and tissue, punching it over and over again, splattering blood against his shirt, against his face. He ground his teeth as he smiled, beating, beating, beating. He wouldn't hurt or maim L (Backyard) any further if he could kill him (her) by merely doing this, without actually having to pierce any vital organs.

Surprisingly, L (Backyard) would go into convulsions, would twitch and writhe in his (her) bindings, despite the massive amount of drugs pumped into her system. B was not quite expecting that. The arm continued to fill with more and more blood, turning the red into purple and blue. But...

In the end, the experiment had failed. She had died of internal hemorrhaging rather than by his own brute force and destruction of her muscles and flesh. Though Backyard had died, B couldn't bring himself to see L dying in this vision. Strange, since he could easily see everything else happening.

Either way, though he had failed (and really, he expected it, but still gave hopes up anyway), he had at least entertained himself for a little while.

His second test, however, had been foiled as well. The trial had been going smoothly, but its one error was Misora Naomi. He had not expected too much from her; he knew she was a worthy opponent, a worthy adversary, but yet she was not L, and she would not solve the puzzle in time. He didn't even expect L to solve it in time, either.

And though it hurt like fucking Hell drenched in flames, and although he knew he was killing himself over a matter of pride and other superficial feelings, he couldn't help but laugh and smile the entire time as his skin started to rot and burn from his muscles and bones (just like her, in a way.) The idea of beating L, succeeding L, dominating L was so pleasant. How he would love if spirits could visit the living at least once, just once, so he could visit L and laugh in his face as he held him down and forced himself and his victory onto him. Dig his fingernails into his pale skin, force his legs open, shove himself deep inside until L was sobbing uncharacteristically like a blubbering baby.

Kiss your reputation goodbye, B would cackle into his ear, kiss everything you've ever worked up to be goodbye. I've destroyed it, as I've destroyed you. I hope the remaining two years of your life are haunted by your failure. I'll see you in time, number 75231362 and for the rest of eternity, I'll be there to gloat and fuck you over and over and over again.

But then, the dream had shattered and only a few days later, tried and convicted, B found himself sitting in the asylum's hospital wing, wrapped up in bandages to hide his disfigured and badly burnt skin. His entire body ached, he couldn't stop shaking, it hurt to breath, it hurt to move, it hurt to blink. It only felt good when he felt nothing, pumped up on his drugs. There was no need to restrain him since he could barely move an inch.

He would spend many days, many nights in his hospital room, locked in with bars on his window, wrapped in bandages, high on morphine, staring out into the sky or at the ceiling above. B had nothing better to do than think, and besides the occasional wheelchair ride through the asylum or its grounds outside, it was the only thing he could do.

B had failed. His two trials, Backyard and L, both failed. One night, out of nowhere, B remembered what he had been thinking as he went up in flames. About wanting to face L one more time before moving onto Hell or the afterlife or darkness or nothing at all. To kiss everything goodbye.

But now he wondered--had that been L's voice speaking to him instead?

Kiss your reputation goodbye, L had whispered into the dark edges of his mind, kiss everything you've ever worked up to be goodbye. I've destroyed it, as I've destroyed you. I hope the remaining two years of your life are haunted by your failure. I'll see you in time, number... and for the rest of eternity, I'll be there to gloat and fuck you over and over and over again.

B smirked. What was his death date anyway? Curiously, he looked to the date on the calendar across the room.

Funny, but tomorrow, January 21st, sounded ominous.