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I don’t know if I can open up, been opened enough.
I don’t know if I can open up, I’m not a birthday present.
Beyond Birthday’s red eyes were distanced as he looked in the mirror yet again. He knew it was soon, he couldn’t accept it for some reason. His private room was darkened, and the lone mirror seemed to be his only friend in this darkness. He looked at the mirror with great distaste, his charred flesh, his long black hair that toppled onto his shoulders, his red eyes, and of course those awful, glowing numbers which swirled like bees on a summer day, his name atop it. He could not accept that it was soon. He knew the guards were coming to bring him off to the therapist, the old woman with her kind, matronly smiles and soft clothing, her perfume that smelled of lavender. He didn’t want to tell her his secrets. He made things up about himself purposely to avoid her from knowing the truth of what his Mother had always called, “ his special gift.” He remembered how proud she was of it, and how her pride could often shift abruptly, till he believed that his mother was two different people. He remembered her incessant begging to know what numbers were above her, and he remembered how much she cried when he told her them, days before they would come. He saw his Father's date of death the night his mother killed him. He remembered seeing her rip him apart with the kitchen knife, only to cry over his dead body later on. The names and numbers were never a gift. They were a curse. The therapist would never understand that. Yet at the same time, he wanted to tell her everything, to open up and just let all of his emotions out, falling onto the floor like a toy from a box waiting to be opened.
I’m aggressive regressive, the past is over.
An’ now passive seems, so pathetic.
There was nothing to fix what had been done as the sun beated down the prisoners, pushing the dark asphalt, making the fence that held them all captive a mirage in the humidity of the noonday sun. The punch landed on the man’s face with ease, and he couldn’t help but wonder how Naomi Misora would have dealt with such a situation. It probably wouldn’t have ended in a fight like this, though Beyond never quite minded fighting. No, not fighting, rather, aggressive competition. As the blow from the smiling man across him landed, he couldn't help but remember Naomi. The past was over, it was as simple as that. Beyond could not atone for his sins, he could not fix the broken shards of his childhood, and he could not sew up the bodies which he’d ripped apart as a message to someone who would never fully give him his attention again. L was always so passive, sugarcoating his words as though the sweets he ate went down to his very core, coating his soul with their sickening falseness. L was pathetic. He was there merely to be trampled over, and for someone to rise from the ashes of an investigation which he left behind. Yet this man before him seemed directly wishing to fight him, and he had not seen him around the compound before. That was quite common, there was a new murderer found every day. But this one was different. When the fight had begun, the world around them had gone silent, almost as though it was turned off. Beyond couldn’t even remember what the fight was about. The man went down easily, he pinned him, and the man smiled at him.
“ Beyond, my disciple. Would you relinquish all sense of redemption to become a demon in your death, to live for eternity?” The man's smile was almost mocking, and Beyond landed a harsh jab to his cheek. His face reminded him of L. Of Naomi. Of his Mother. Everything he hated in life. How one man could be so infuriating was beyond him, yet his question pierced through his mind, blurring his senses. In the next second, the man was atop him, changing from a man to something else. Beyond couldn’t comprehend it, almost like his eyes refused to see it. This made him scared, for the first time in his life. His heart pounded. “K-keep talking.”
Are we fated, faithful, or fatal?
Are we fated, faithful, or fatal?
“ After death, you shall become a demon. But only if you wish is upon yourself.”
“ W-why me?” Beyond’s eyes were clenched closed, and the pure darkness seemed to prevade him, seeping into his being.
“ For what you did. For who you are. Your eyes are valuable to us. We need those like you, Beyond Birthday.”
“ Who are you?”
“ I am Mephistopheles. Beyond Birthday, do you agree to this pact, by which you will become one of us.”
“ I-I do.”
I’m feelin’ stoned and alone like a heretic and I’m ready to meet my maker.
I’m feelin’ stoned and alone like a heretic, I’m ready to meet my maker.
When the fight was over, Beyond gasped, his eyes opening. He was laying spread eagle on his bed, in his cell. He had no idea what had just happened to him. He sat up, feeling dazed and almost giddy, his eyes glossing and distorting their vision for a few moments after he’d sat up. Surveying the room, he noticed that he was now alone in it, and the silence was there again. He laid back down on the bed, wanting more answers than what he’d been given. Though, with this odd encounter, this dream he supposed-he wanted to meet the being in the dream again. He was ready to die. The date no longer felt so far away, it felt so close, so delicious on his tongue, almost like the strawberry jam that he longed for.
Lazarus got no dirt on me,
Lazarus got no dirt on me,
And I’ll rise to every occasion,
I’m the Mephistopheles of Los Angeles,
Of Los Angeles.
The congregation of convicts gathered around Beyond on the courtyard again. It was not as hot as he remembered, although the convicts seemed to see it that way, wiping the sweat off of their brows, looking at him intently. His shadow loomed darkly on the sidewalk as he walked towards them, the silence in this current gathering almost that of waiting, and the sound of other convicts in the distance seemed muffled by the humidity. They watched too, partially with concern for those looming in front of Beyond, staring at him. This group of convicts...he knew their names, yet somehow to use them seemed irrelevant. Yet their faces were familiar. Beyond had a talent of always remember names and dates, he never knew why. It wasn't as though it truly mattered to him. The convicts gathered around him daily, asking questions, occasionally touching him with a particular curiosity. He would give them answers, no matter how menial or deep the question was. They followed him wherever and whenever they had the chance. It was almost as though they worshipped him. BB wondered in the back of his mind if this was how L felt, people always looking to him for answers, revering him, wanting to eventually be him. But it didn’t matter. L wasn’t important anymore, L was irrelevant. He was defeated, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to switch back the clocks and fix it. There was no salvation for him, there was nothing to resurrect him from his failure. What was important was that dream, what he’d met, and now apparently who he was. In a way, he didn’t even feel like Beyond Birthday anymore. Of course he never let the convicts know any of this, for it simply wasn't important to them. He only let them know the answers to their questions, with the knowledge and thought processes that had dragged him through the hell that was Whammy’s, and perhaps with something bestowed on him during the dream. He simply rose to the occasion of being worshipped, nothing more and nothing less.
Don’t know if I can open up,
I’ve been opened too much.
Double-crossed glossed over in my pathos.
Beyond laid in his bed, his eyes exploring the cracked ceiling, his hands fumbling over the orange jumpsuit he wore. The therapist had asked him about the murders, his regard for those whom had caught him. Beyond had refused to comply, as he usually did. He couldn't help but smile over the fact that she was becoming annoyed with him. It wasn't her fault after all, it was her fault as much as it was his. He didn’t feel like he could properly vent his feelings to someone who could never understand what he’d gone through in life. He had not expected Naomi Misora, he had not felt she was important in the game between him and L. In a way, he’d expected her to comply with the game until it’s very end, and in a way, he felt cheated. Cheated by the way that it had ended, double-crossed by someone who was not on either team in the game between him and L. Beyond did not like to pity himself, but he supposed that in that moment he was. He shifted onto his side, looking at the wall, and closed his eyes in an attempt to force himself asleep. He hated self-pity, it tasted so sweet and artificial. In reality, the only sweet thing he liked was strawberry jam, occasionally raspberry jam. He liked bitter, sour things, like coffee. It had pained him to make it and drown it with sugar each time, but that was to act the part. He knew that was how L liked his coffee. He wished to taste jam on his tongue again, it had seemed to burn itself there, it's texture, it's taste. But it would never be there.
Are we fated, faithful, or fatal?
Are we fated, faithful, or fatal?
Beyond Birthday had a visitor. The visitor was a cheeky boy whom wore leather from head to toe, always eating a chocolate bar. He knew his name, he knew everyone’s name. He knew Mihael Keehl as a rebellious orphan, one that made Beyond smile a bit whenever his name and face came to mind. Yet this older Mihael Keehl had turned into what Beyond had figured, a serious, no nonsense type person whom had a sooner-than-you’d-think death date. He was asking Beyond questions of his failure, what he thought about it. He was like the therapist, but more goth and crass. Ultimately, whatever Mihael had planned, Beyond could care less. He would be dead soon, what did it matter to him? So, he answered his questions, much like the convicts that gathered around him whenever it was allowed. Beyond tilted his head at Mihael, crossing his arms. He smiled slightly, and Mihael seemed confused by this, his eyes narrowing. “ Mello,” Beyond asked, with a small nod of his head. “ Do you think we are fated, predestined?”
“ I’m an atheist, sir,” Mihael said with almost a mocking tone in his voice. “ Why would I believe in any of that stuff? There’s no logic to back it up for the most part.” Beyond’s eyes flew to the metal rosary around his neck. Perhaps it was just an aesthetic, or perhaps it was a breech in a lie. Either way, what Mihael said was irrelevant.
“ Oh, I see.” Beyond shifted, leaning forwards on the table, resting his chin on his prompt hand. He looked into Mihael’s eyes, something that unnerved most people. But he did not waver, he stared back, almost in a cocky sort of way. Beyond liked that, in fact, he admired it slightly. If he was happy to see any visitor, that visitor was Mihael, whom insisted on being called Mello. “ Do you believe that you could kill someone, knowing that they would go no where, that you’d simply end them?”
Mihael shifted, averting his glance and for once, placing the wrapper near the chocolate, setting it down. “ I would if it meant the end of the case. For instance, people like Kira. If I found that bastard, I’d prove the case, then shoot him.”
“ Even if that meant Kira would be erased forever in this world?”
“ Yes,” Mihael did not waver in the slightest.
“ Then you’re more like me than you think,” Beyond mused, tilting his head.
“ How so,” Mihael almost seemed disgusted by this, which made Beyond smirk.
“ We’re not evil. We’re not good. We’re just in the middle, you know?”
“ I would consider you evil sir,” Mihael scoffed dismissively.
“ Ah yes, you would. But under what pretense does my evil matter? I won’t be punished for it more than this if what you said is true. So aren’t we all neutral in the end? If there is no fate then-”
“ You have no right to ask me questions!” Mihael barked, his voice commanding.
“ Oh,” Beyond laughed, his voice filling the tense air on both sides of the glass in the light of the noonday sun, his laugh making Mello seemingly rather uncomfortable. “ I do.”
I’m feeling stoned and alone like a heretic and I’m ready to meet my maker.
I’m feeling stoned and alone like a heretic and I’m ready to meet my maker.
Lazarus got no dirt on me,
Lazarus got no dirt on me.
And I’ll rise to every occasion,
I’m the Mephistopheles of Los Angeles.
Of Los Angeles.
Of Los Angeles.
The day had come. He knew it was coming, he had felt sick and achy earlier. Now, he was in his cell, waiting. Waiting for the end, waiting to see what the dream meant. If there was something, if there was anything, it would answer his questions. And in a way, that made him feel excited, more excited than he’d been while making the elaborate plan against L. It almost made him feel high in a way, too giddy and happy for the fact that the end was almost near.
And Beyond Birthday died, with an almost joking smile on his face.
Beyond Birthday loomed over his own dead body, looking down at it with a slight distaste. He wished he could wipe that stupid, idiotic grin off of his face. He felt more vivid now, more alive than he had been. He almost felt, not like he had died, but rather, he had been reborn into this wonderful newness while still maintaining his old self. It was refreshing in a way, to know that no bars in the Los Angeles prison could hold him. To know he was free from any ticking clock, any mortal time constraints. And he tested his new power of levitation, leaving the cell, his new body passing through the brick wall as though it was a gust of thin air. He opened his arms opened wide before him, the night air tingling his skin, the city lights and noise below him, distanced, the people below him, so powerless to him, so mortal. And he wondered what he would do now with his powers, with all of this glorious lack of restrictions he had. He was truly free of L. He was truly free from everything.
Are we fated, faithful, or fatal?
Are we fated, faithful, fatal?
I’m feelin’ stoned and alone like a heretic an’ I’m ready to meet my maker.
I’m feelin’ stoned and alone like a heretic AND I’M READY TO MEET MY MAKER.
Lazarus got no dirt on me,
Lazarus got no dirt on me.
An’ I’ll rise to every occasion,
I’m the Mephistopheles, of Los Angeles.
I’m the Mephistopheles
Of Los Angeles.
The alleyway was dark, and the long, thick hooded jacket he wore easily covered both sides of his marred face, protecting him from the rain. His footsteps sounded on the wet pavement, and the night air was thick with the smell of the newly fallen rain and city smog. At the end of the alleyway was the man in his dream, almost too good to be real. Beyond’s heart gave a familiar pound, and he looked up at his maker, smiling softly. “ So,” Beyond said. “ What is it like down there?”
The man, no, the demon gave a smile, one which made Beyond more comforted now than anything else. Demons were always different to each other than they were to humans. He held out his hand, and Beyond shook it, their cold flesh meeting and mingling to create a sort of weak warmth. When Beyond let it go, he looked up. The moon was just barely visible beyond the clouds, shining bright in the sky, like a newly born soul. “ You’ll know soon enough,” the demon Mephistopheles said. “ How was the resurrection?”
“ Better than Lazarus’s,” Beyond said with a small smirk. “ And I think I might have gotten some souls on the way.”
“ Oh?”
“ Convicts, I didn't think I would ever go back there. That was, until, I was filled with my strawberry jam and still felt empty. They used to adore me...almost like their god.” Beyond sighed softly, “ I rose to their summons, I’m quite content that I did.”
“ You seem confident, almost like you run this city,” Mephistopheles smiled, leaning on the wall.
“ I do. I’m the Mephistopheles of Los Angeles,” Beyond’s smirk lingered on his pale, marred features. “ And this is my city now. I intend to stay in it. Plus, if I'm correct, hell does not have jam. Just tortured souls screaming for our mercy.” He laughed at his own joke, and Mephistopheles smirked.
“ Well,” Mephistopheles said, laughing softly. “ I suppose I can’t stop you. And I'm quite flattered by your title.”
“ No,” The Mephistopheles of Los Angeles said, a contented, at peace look on his face. “ No one can, and no one ever will convince me to leave this city. That is my revenge for what happened to me, my revenge against myself for what I have done. Because Beyond Birthday is still me, and I am him through and through. And Beyond Birthday lost once, the taste of defeat was bitter, and lead to his end. I refuse to hunt down Kira despite the fact he killed me.” Beyond shrugged, “Let humans deal with their own problems. Because as the Mephistopheles of Los Angeles, the title means he will win whatever battle he enters, whether it be against L or any mortal. No one will ever stop me now, and no one ever will.” Beyond closed his eyes, wanting to hear the words, those glorious words, on his lips again, sweeter than the taste of any strawberry jam. “ Because I am the Mephistopheles of Los Angeles.”