#sheepalicious

Beyond sat up slowly, grimacing at the familiar, aching tightness in his grafted skin. From the moment Naomi Misora’s handcuffs had closed around his raw, damaged wrists, his body had been his most humiliating prison, and the pain of his burns had never truly left him. Though he was as healed as he ever would be, he was far from whole, defined forever by what he had lost—and what he had not. His abortive blaze of glory had cost him his eyelids, his freedom, four fingers, his hair, and rather large swaths of his skin, but it had not cost him his sight. The doctor called that a miracle. Beyond Birthday called that a joke.

Ah, well. As the wise man said, fire, water, and government know nothing of mercy.

He joined Stephens at the window, scratching his neck. “What is it?”

“Don’t know. They just carried someone out in a bag. I can’t tell which cell.” Stephens’s eyes were eager. “Do you think it’s Kira?”

“That would be jumping to conclusions. Plenty of people on this cell block want each other dead.”

“If there was a fight, we would have heard it.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Okay, okay. But it would be cool if it were Kira, don’t you think?”

Beyond had no eyebrows left to raise, but he did his best. “No.”

“Oh, come on. The guy’s incredible. Even you have to admit that.”

No, I don’t. Beyond’s cellmate was around his age, but seemed far younger, his freckled face and irrepressible cheeriness an odd contrast with his lengthy rap sheet. Though they had been cellmates for several months, Beyond couldn’t muster anything but indifference for the boy. The red numbers dwindling implacably to naughts above Stephens’s head, on the other hand—those fascinated him. A year left, maybe two. He won’t leave this prison alive. Beyond felt no pangs at the knowledge, but he wondered how long Stephens’ optimism would last if he knew.

“He’s an odd choice to swoon over,” Beyond said. “Doesn’t it frighten you?”

“Nah, I’m a nobody. He’s after the homicides. Not me.”

I’m a homicide. “He’ll get to carjackers, too. Give him time.”

“Relax, Barb. They’ll catch him any day now, you’ll see. Pity he won’t end up here, though.”

“Why?”

“Curiosity, mostly. They say he’s got superpowers, that he’s some sort of mutant. That he can kill people with his mind.”

“Only Alvarez says that. And he’s an idiot.” Beyond’s voice dripped disdain. “A superstitious idiot.”

“I guess. Still. I’d just like to see him for myself, you know?” Stephens pulled back from the window with a sigh. “I wonder what he looks like.”

“A human being.”

“Be serious.”

“I am. We murderers aren’t a distinct breed. Most of us look no different from anybody else.”

Stephens raised an eyebrow, grinning. “You don’t.”

“I am not most.”

“Neither is Kira. Come on, Barb. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

Yes. It had shocked him, truly, the first time he heard the name L from another inmate’s lips. Now, that name was everywhere, alongside the name which had brought L’s to the forefront. The inmates spoke of Kira in hushed, reverent tones—as mice might speak of a hawk, or primitive men of their gods. L’s nemesis, they call him. Him, not me. Beyond had half a mind to cheer the man on, whoever he was. The other half wanted to scream. Kira. L’s new project.

L’s new me.

“What he looks like makes no difference. I’m more interested in what he does.” Beyond sat back down on his bunk. “And how he kills.”

“You’re afraid of him, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Come on.”

The killer spread his arms, palms upward. “Do I look like a man who intended to live this long?”

“I guess not.” His cellmate looked him over, thoughtful. “Do you think he’ll kill you?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. It makes no difference to me, either way.”

“You must feel something.”

Many things. Fire had rendered Beyond’s expressions nearly unreadable, but his emotions still boiled under the skin: fury, denial, despair. Pain, whenever he moved. Numb resignation, whenever he didn’t. Horror, when people looked at him with pity. Satisfaction, when people looked at him with fear. Regret, when he thought of Misora. Humiliation, when he thought of L. And on the increasingly common occasions when he thought of Kira, jealousy, amusement, and dismay.

But no fear, though. Never that.

Voices outside the cell drew Stephens’s interest, and Beyond let his arms drop, relieved. “What is it now?”

“I can’t tell. No, wait. That’s Evans.” The boy sounded startled. “They’re taking Evans out of his cell.”

“Not Donovan?”

“No. Only Evans. Which means—”

“Donovan is the corpse.”

“Yes.”

Beyond shook his head. “That isn’t possible. You must be seeing someone else.”

“I’m telling you, that’s Evans. No one else walks with that weird limp.”

“No. It isn’t Donovan. I’m certain of that.”

“Why not?”

Because I’ve seen him. Two days ago. Donovan’s numbers had been declining, of course, but not one of them had yet reached zero. Most weren’t anywhere close. For Donovan to be dead, something had to be wrong-either with Beyond’s eyes, or with the world. The former possibility disturbed him. The latter disturbed him far more.

It amused him, too.

Fire, water, government.

And now Kira.

Beyond’s name flickered red and numberless in the mirror, just as it always had. With a low chuckle, he pressed his knuckles to the mattress. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“What?”