A/N: I was supposed to be writing a college admissions essay, but I wrote this instead. It's been awhile since I've written fanfiction, years in fact. So I really have no idea where the hell this came from. All I know is that it's the easiest time I've had of writing a story where the characters weren't my own.
Just a quick WARNING. This fic contains language, because I can't write Matt and Mello any other way, along with possible gore, Beyond Birthday being who he is. For the most part this will be L/Light, with hints of Matt/Mello and BB/Light, though I probably won't be writing anything explicit. If this changes, I'll let you guys know.
Depressing but true fact, the following characters are not my property.
He walked down the narrow corridor warily. His shoulder's gently brushing against the white walls. They were cold to the touch, drawing goose bumps along his flesh even through the thick fabric of his jacket. The steady clacking of his shoes against the tiled floor gave away none of his nervousness. From the exterior he appeared calm, his visage collected in an expression of determination. However, though the determination was no lie, the calmness was.
'Cowards,' he thought to himself with a grimace. The guards had given him the key to the door that lay at the end of the hallway. But they refused to go any further than the entrance to hall. The idiots had left him there, with nothing more than a countenance of fear and the knowledge that if anything should go wrong, there was a red button by the door he could push for help.
He chuckled darkly at the fact, knowing that if anything were to go wrong with this meeting, the guards wouldn't be able to reach him in time.
He stopped before the door. A small window was placed into its steel frame, allowing him to peer into the cubical. The thin frame of a man huddled in the corner, head lolled to the side, eyes looking directly at him.
With trembling hands he laid the key into the lock. With a turn, a series of clicks echoed down the hallway, louder than they actually should have been. Perhaps it was his ears augmenting the sound into a warning bell, his mind beseeching him to turn and run, run back, run far. Run away. Closing his eyes he exhaled softly and pushed the door open.
Carmel colored eyes glanced blurrily up at the woman approaching him. The young man responded to the dark figure with a grumble.
"Damn kid, you been working all night?" Naomi Misora chuckled at the sight of her long time friend and colleague, Light Yagami. She'd officially been working with the brilliant rookie for only a couple of months, the boy having just gotten out of college. But she'd known him longer than that, since the day he'd left Japan for America. She'd be lying if she said her heart hadn't adopted the boy as her kid brother.
The twenty one year old in question was currently sprawled in his desk chair, surrounded by the gently, flickering hum of two computer monitors and countless piles of folders, loose papers, vibrant, yellow legal pads, and computer print offs. Empty Starbucks cups littered the floor, the scent of stale coffee permeating the small, windowless office.
Rubbing his eyes, he nodded in affirmation. "Yeah, pretty much. There was a lot of superfluous information to go through. I don't know who the hell you've got working beneath you, but it is my suggestion that you fire them immediately."
"Oh don't be that way," she returned with a smile. "They're good people."
"Uh-huh," he scoffed in disbelief. "Now what are you doing here?"
"Its lunch time," was her only explanation before turning out of the office, expecting Light to follow.
Groaning, Light stretched languidly, eyes sweeping over the mess he'd made in the last twenty four hours. Seeking out the fruit of his labor, he spotted the thin, manila file, neatly placed beneath a pyramid of dilapidated, Styrofoam cups. Grumbling inaudibly he reached for the file and stood, grabbing his jacket and slinging it over his shoulder. Kicking the door to his office shut behind him, he walked swiftly for the elevator.
"Damn woman," he mumbled, jamming the button for the lobby of the FBI building. Coolly he leaned against the railing that lined the elevator, head resting against the back of the cold metal. Briefly he registered the ding of the door opening, admitting two more passengers.
The fatigue was hitting him. The lines sprouting across his face were beginning to make him look older than his twenty one years. Less than a year working with Naomi Misora and his soul was taking a toll on it. For every one man he assisted her in clamping the handcuffs on, there were three that got away. Hell that was putting it optimistically and Light wasn't an optimist. He wasn't about kidding himself. You couldn't spend every waking hour of the day going over the motives, thoughts, and reactions of notorious criminals by thinking that the eggs would always be sunny side up. Sometimes the eggs burned, even when you stood over the stove babysitting them for the ten minutes it took to fry them, some of them were beyond saving.
Great, he was comparing his job to poultry spawn. Yeah, the fatigue was hitting him. Once more, he placed the blame on Misora.
He wormed his way out from the back of the elevator and into the lobby. Setting a quick pace he pushed his way through the revolving glass door and onto the San Francisco City streets. Day light hit him unkindly, like a brass knuckle of sunshine straight to the eyes. Shielding his face from the harsh rays, Light grumbled to himself again, tracing the path to the restaurant he knew Misora would be waiting for him at. The salty air mixed against the chalky scent of concrete and marble around him. Breathing in the air, he had to admit it was a nice change from the re-filtered staleness he was constantly inhaling at his office. There was just something about the salt the cleansed his mind, helped him to think. He could do without the sun, but the sea air was a newfound comfort to him.
Turning right down Van Ness Avenue, Light headed towards the Indian restaurant on the corner of the block. Nann N Curry it was called. Figure Misora would pick a place to eat at that he hated.
Walking through the door and into the dimly lit establishment, he wove his way around an array of wooden screens and onto the dining floor. Misora was waiting for him in the back, a mocking smile on her tanned face.
"You know I don't like Indian food," he said curtly, pulling out the chair opposite her.
"Too bad, I ordered you the Lamb Palak Gosht. How did you know I'd be here anyway?" she asked, sipping a glass of water with a raised eyebrow.
"You had that look on your face when you barged into my office, the look that plainly said 'I want to make him suffer.' And this is the closest Indian place."
She laughed lightly at the comment. "Well we're not here for enjoyment, so just deal kiddo."
Light rolled his eyes at the taunt, more than used to her quips about his age, and handed the manila file to her. Delicately she opened it and scanned the contents.
"He's not insane," Light said, giving her a moment to pick out the finer details of his report. "At least not legally, which is all that matters to you."
She nodded her head with a gentle hum, eyes narrowing as she got to the bottom of the page.
"Although the lack of mutilation would suggest a lesser interest in the actual victims, and more of a curiosity towards taking the lives of others, he was clean. Obsessive Compulsive if anything else, always shooting and then washing the body with bleach, as you know," Light continued.
"Yes, but how does that not make him insane. You know me Light, all of them are psychos in my mind. I just want to know how I can take this one down." Misora placed the folder into her bag and folded her hands on top of the table, steel gaze appraising the younger man.
"It's simple really," Light supplied. "Booth's notes were the ones that caught my interest in particular. When you went in for the arrest he was standing five feet from what would have been the final victim, five feet. Out of breath, Booth said he'd chased him from the rooftop of a supermarket. The culprit ran for the victim, and tried to shoot them with a sniper rifle at point blank range. That was the first time he strayed from his usual methods, and it was in an attempt to kill that individual."
"But he didn't do it," Misora quipped, interrupting.
Light shot her a glare. Friend or not, he didn't like being interrupted. "Yes, I know that. He broke down. He couldn't kill when in close proximity to the victim. Most people who use guns do it for sport, or for efficiency. Your guy, he wasn't a sportsman, didn't toy with the prey at all, which leaves efficiency as the sole option. Each victim was left unattended for three minutes before they died. Again, the three minutes points towards OCD as there were never any deviations to that time span. They were shot from fifty feet away, straight through the head. When a killer uses a gun at that range, it's not because they enjoy taking out there targets, it's because they want it done fast, without pain, and most importantly, it's because they don't want to feel their victim die. That fear of feeling another person die shows he knew what he was doing was wrong."
Misora nodded, following the logic of Light's assessment.
"And if that wasn't enough, I pulled up his high school records. The man failed biology because he refused to dissect a frog. Claimed it was inhuman to do that to the creature while it could still breath, paralyzed or not."
Misora shot the boy a scolding look in face of his bad humor, but didn't comment as their food arrived, waiter carrying a tray of two dishes. Light's mouth thinned into a line at the sight of what was placed before him. Thinly cut lamb was artistically arranged across his plate, spinach garnishing the entrée, wilting at the tips of the leaves. What was worse was the thick fumes of pepper and green chili, tangling in his nostrils amidst the thick, unyielding cream of curry. The mixture sent his stomach into a barrel roll, noxious and grating.
Once more Light reiterated, "I don't like Indian food."
"Hush and eat," Misora commanded. "It won't kill you, plus you could benefit from a little variation in life. Man cannot live off of sushi alone."
"I don't just eat sushi," Light protested, but picked up his knife anyway, preparing to fight his gag reflex. "Now what else did you want to talk about? I know if all you'd wanted was my file you would have just taken it from my office without permission, not set up this whole afternoon debacle" he groused.
"Ah, but that's the beauty of having underlings," Misora said with a smile, savoring the flavors of cauliflower mixed with potatoes and tomatoes as well as the distasted that marred her companions face. She never said she wasn't a sadistic big sister. "You my dear, are my underling. But you are right; I did want to talk about something else."
Light sat up straighter, deciding that Misora's feelings weren't worth the stomach cramps the lamb would grace him with later, and set his plate to the side, nodding for the FBI agent to continue.
"L's grown interested in you."
Light's eyes widened without his permission, the statement catching him completely off guard. L, The World's Greatest Detective, was interested in him? Although Light was aware that Misora had worked with L in the past, most notably on the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases. In fact, Light's profiling of the case for one of his college papers had been what got him a position in the FBI as a Criminal Psychologist. Light was one of the few that knew Misora had worked as L's agent on that case, she'd told him herself. She also told him that working for the eccentric sleuth was a pain in her ass, and way too much of a hassle than was necessary. So really it wasn't that much different than working under her, Light noted. He only wished that one day he'd be able to tell her that fact without getting fired, or having his ass kicked.
"You know this how?" Light asked after a moment of silence.
She shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. But Light could tell she was concerned over the matter. "He keeps asking about you. Wanting to know more about you, how your input affects the outcome of a case."
Light blinked at her. The obnoxious scent of curry and lamb forgotten as he scrambled to review every detail offered to him. In the end he decided it didn't amount to much. If L really was all that interested in him, he'd call on him himself. Just as he'd contacted Naomi. For the moment he supposed his rap sheet, the thirty eight cases he's worked on in the few months he'd been at the Bureau, were remarkable for a rookie like himself. But he wasn't a field agent, wasn't even a detective. His job lied in riffling through the mind of a killer, playing around with it, and finding that one personality quirk that made them leap over the edge of socially acceptable actions. L was already adept at that, he wouldn't be the world's greatest detective if he weren't. What use could he possibly be to the man?
"Light," Naomi shook him out of his thoughts, drawing him out of his mind and back into the restaurant. "This isn't something I want you to brush off."
"Naomi," Light argued. "You're talking about one of the most powerful men in the world. If he wants me, it's not like I'm going to have much choice."
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of."
L munched solemnly on his cake. The flavors somehow seeming dull to his well trained pallet.
"Watari," the detective called. "Where is this cake from?"
Watari entered the living room of the Palace Hotel Suit they were currently situated in. "I acquired it from a place on the street level, Specialty's I believe it was called. Why?"
L glowered at the cake, mentally admonishing the offensive dessert for being less than satisfactory. "It's good, but it's not that good. The strawberries weren't in season."
"That would be because it is almost fall sir, you cannot fault the bakery for that," Watari chortled. "How about I bring you a chocolate, raspberry mousse?"
"And an M&M cookie, I would like one of those as well," L responded before turning back to his laptop.
The image on the screen was of an attractive, young man from Japan. He'd been living in San Francisco, and was currently employed as a Criminal Psychologist for the FBI. The boy, for that's all L could truly think of him as considering he was almost a decade older than him, had been working there for a matter of months, fresh out of college. But his accomplishments were impressive.
L scanned down the list of cases the boy had taken part in. Three of which had been cases L himself had assisted in, unknowing that the boy had played a crucial part in each of them until recently. Hence the detectives interest in the boy.
"Light Yagami," L whispered to himself, tasting the way the name fell across his tongue.
Top of his class. L noted a thirty four percent chance that the boy had a higher IQ than he did. That in itself sacred the detective. The only question that remained was whether or not the boy was brazen enough to work with. It was rare that L took an outsider into one of his investigations, but he couldn't help but think that the boy could be an asset. Hell, on three cases in the last year he'd already proven to be an asset.
'But he's a boy with a desk job,' L thought sulkily. 'What self respecting college student accepts a desk job at the FBI?' Most of them wanted field work, excitement. Post-college kids were adrenaline junkies, wanting to take life faster than it was coming to them. It made L think that Light Yagami possibly wasn't up to the task of investigation, risking his life on the facts that he uncovered through gut instinct.
L scrolled further down the boy's profile when something caught his eye.
Light Yagami gained acceptance into the Federal Bureau of Investigation for his exemplary profiling of notorious serial murdered, Beyond Birthday.
'Well that's interesting…'
Waving his finger across the laptop's mouse pad L clicked on the attached file and began reading through the profile, not even noticing as Watari deposited a new cake and cookie to his left.
The computer monitor sat alone on the desk in a darkened room. The swift, buzzing fan of the actual computer came from beneath the desk, keeping the room at a moderate temperature. A chat box blinked to life on the monitor screen, a single phrase illuminating the vacant room.
Beyond has escaped.
A/N: I know exactly where this is going. Whether or not I'll get there is another question entirely. I've a habit of starting fanfiction pieces and never finishing them. So we'll see how long my inspiration lasts.
Thank you for reading, I'd appreciate it if you reviewed.