Heathens: Deleted and Rewritten Scene

Datelog: May 2018

“I’m not your pet,” he says, as he takes a seat across the kitchen island where A’s got their laptop open with several brown envelopes beside it. The oven’s heating something up and the blender’s whirring away in the background, so clearly, whatever they’re working on is easy enough for them to be multitasking. “I don’t need to be walked or entertained so I don’t destroy things. And tell the AI to stop using a whistle every time I need to be called down.”

A starts to say something, then thinks better of it and says, “You know I’m really glad I managed to talk Mr. Wammy down from getting you the shock collar instead.”

B presses his lips to a thin line. A sighs, goes to the blender to empty it out on two tall glasses before getting the tub of ice cream. 

“So?” he asks.

“So, figured you were bored,” they say, carefully putting the scoops on the milkshake. They head over back to him when they’re done to slide him his glass. “Thought you might want a case.”

Well, as far as distractions went, that’s a pretty good one, even if he’s not going to admit it. 

“Let me get this straight,” he starts, “You figured I, a known criminal, might want a case? A case specifically tossed aside by L to give to you, his protégé or what-the-hell-ever?”

“He doesn’t choose my cases, I choose them myself,” A says, through gritted teeth. Struck a nerve there.

“Uh-huh. How does the apprenticeship work?”

“It’s not an apprenticeship,” A says, fingers flicking over the keys of their laptop quickly in irritation. “It’s a job.”

“Apprenticeships can be jobs.”

“Can we stop talking about this, please?” A asks, “Do you want something to do around here aside from wasting away in your room or not?”

B looks at them for a moment, holding their stare. A defiantly doesn’t break away.

“Pass me a spoon,” he says instead, motioning with a hand. A rummages through the drawer and tosses him a teaspoon. He stabs it into the ice cream, unamused.

“You don’t need a job since you’re living here and have your expenses covered, obviously, but I thought you’d get bored eventually,” A says, back to their earlier, more cheerful self. “And don’t think I don’t know about your attempts to hack into the AI. MONIKA reports every incident to me, and more back to Wammy’s.”

“Okay, that electric shock was – ”

“She’s rigged to be paranoid,” A says, “Best to be very careful, B.”

He decides maybe just taking the entire scoop of ice cream off of his glass and eating it to freeze his teeth off would be the best course of action here. 

“Anyway.” A pushes the brown envelopes beside them over to him. “You’re not allowed to use a laptop, so I had to print these out. I think you’ll find the murder very…creative.”

He eyes the things dubiously and snorts. “This isn’t one of those cliché ‘to catch a murderer, you need the help of another murderer’ things, is it?”

A stares at him for a second. “And you think I wouldn’t be able to do that, if this was a situation like that?”

He – doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t like the implications either.

“And no, I can solve cases just fine without extra help, thank you very much. I’m just being nice here.”

B hums. He watches as they head over to the oven when it lets out a little ding! A carefully places the cake on the island before grabbing the frosting. 

The laptop beside them rings out a notification and they absentmindedly press the spacebar, still focused on beginning to decorate the cake while the voice call finally connects.

B eats his food and eyes the envelopes. Boredom is a dangerous thing, he supposes.

-

He can see what A meant by ‘creative’.

In his case, as loathe as he is to think about it because it hadn’t turned out as planned, the positioning and the mutilation had partly been because he needed a shock factor. It’s a way of redirecting attention, see. When one needs to conceal something significant, something very specifically meant to hint at something or to speak at one person, a distraction is needed. Fine details, or big explosions. A lot of times, many people see the big explosions and just stand in the shockwave of it, too shaken to even notice something else, something just as obvious, but is overshadowed by how horrible the distraction seems to be. They say the devil is in the details, but B would rather present everything in full view and make people think he hasn’t. It’s funnier to watch them run around trying to find some secret they’ve already been shown.

But he’s currently finding a bit of a kinship between him and the LA police, being on the receiving end of a case file that seems to be six types of strange and fucked up, and he wonders how A’s managed to slide it over to him with such a straight face (and a bit of an amused smile, if he remembers correctly), because this case, this goddamn case is –

“Eels,” he says, throwing the folder down at the coffee table where A’s currently setting yogurt cups while waiting for their laptop to download whatever footage is being sent to them.

“Ah,” they say, smiling up at him and motioning for him to sit on the floor across them. He does. “Do you like it?”

“A, how bored do you think I am?”

“Out of your mind?” A asks, “I mean, it’s kind of funny.”

“A – ” B takes a deep breath, pinches the bridge of his nose, and can’t believe he’s the one exasperated here. “There were eels. Down the victims’ throat. And up his ass.”

“And it’s an ingenious murder method, don’t you think?”

He lifts a finger as if to demonstrate a point, and then puts it down and looks away. “You know, sometimes, I don’t even want to imagine what would have happened had your disposition been just a smidge closer to mine.”

“Wouldn’t be wara ningyos nailed to walls, I assure you,” A says, too cheerfully. “Now, since you can’t go to the scene personally, I’ve asked MONIKA for a bit of leniency.”

He raises an eyebrow.

A looks unamused. “Not too much leniency, don’t get too hopeful. And your laptop’s not arriving until tomorrow, so you’re stuck using your television.”

“My television?”

“It’s compatible with the internet and streaming, being used as a computer, really, but the AI’s limited your access to cases and cases only, and what you can access has to be approved by me, and then by Mr. Wammy.”

“Of course,” he says. Well, so much for that, but he could probably find a way around this one. The more leniency given, the more possible loopholes he can exploit. 

“You’ll have contacts, but all of that’s also monitored by the AI, and me, and the whole cavalry, as you have no doubt expected,” they say, “And don’t terrify them too badly, won’t you? I did present you as an associate.”

He blinks. “An associate?”

“They’re not going to trust people easily, they’re not idiots,” A says, then shoos him off. “Good luck with your eels. Ask MONIKA to turn on the television if you need to see anything outside of the files.”

He doesn’t get up for a while, just looks at them as they finally start typing away at their laptop again as he tries to sort everything out in his head. He’s getting a laptop tomorrow, A’s gotten the AI to be a bit lenient, he’s going to have outside contact.

And he’s just been told good luck with the eels. He’d rather never hear that sentence again.

He gets up and snatches one of the unopened yogurt cups along with his folder, ignoring A’s protest, and rips the top off of the thing, stopping by the kitchen to grab a spoon. Considering he’s really expected to work at this, and he’s got nothing better to do, he might as well get his sugar fix to get things going.

Strawberry flavor, he thinks as he gets a spoonful in his mouth. A has good taste, at least.

He throws the folder onto the couch as soon as he gets in his living room. The television, A had told him. He turns to face the flatscreen mounted on the wall, just  across him. He couldn’t access anything aside from what was relevant to the case and all of that would had to be approved by A and Wammy. If he finds new information, they’d have to expand his choices a little if it’s needed, so if he manages to convince them he needs further access.

Well, he’ll have to see. A is no idiot. Neither is Wammy. Maybe he can get past one but not the other and he doubts they’re actually going to be the only ones checking his records. Maybe not L, no, because the man’s probably already forgotten about him, but some of the students at Wammy’s maybe. As a test, or something. Or maybe a few of them as interested enough to break through security to see exactly what’s going on, if they’ve been informed of the situation.

He pauses. The children. Now that’s an idea. If he can somehow get them to sympathize, he might have some use for them in the future. Best to keep contingency plans, after all.

“MONIKA,” he says, and feels the cameras in the corners of the room turn to focus on him, “Be a dear and turn on the television for me, will you? A said you could let me contact whoever will be my field agents for this case?”

The television turns on almost automatically, and he sees the word MONIKA in white across the black screen as the AI loads and establishes connections. Seconds later, he’s gifted with a list of people, and all of their credentials.

B grins. He can work with this.

-

MONIKA rings out for a fifth time, in that pleasant, yet robotic voice, “You do not have permission to use the name ANARCHY.”

B frowns. He’s been at this for hours already and the AI’s been telling him he can’t use the premade names on the list, despite how cool they seemed to be. Okay, maybe his standard for aliases is that low, but he’s working on a case with an AI here, so he might as well as make this as fun as possible. And besides, ANARCHY is a cool name.

He hears a knock on his door. “B, stop trying to use my names.”

Ah, hell, of course they got alerted of him trying to use one of their aliases for this. “What else am I supposed to use? You already have a set reputation with these people.”

“Exactly, so get your own,” A says. “MONIKA, love, would you open the door for me please?”

All twelve electronic locks on the door click open. B pouts and glares at the nearest camera ha can find as A gets inside. Figures.

They shut the door behind them and pad over to him, sitting down and mournfully picking up the now-empty yogurt cup he’s dragged up here. “Stop stealing my things.”

“I haven’t even gotten at least one of your names,” he says, “Why do you even have so many of them?”

“Because I like having a lot of them, and they’re good for contingencies,” A says, “So just make your own, like Bananasplit or something.”

On the screen, MONIKA flashes the word ‘BANANASPLIT’ with a smaller ‘CONFIRM?’ below it.

A laughs.

“Very funny,” B says, “Can’t I even have ANON?”

“You do not have permission to use the name ANON.”

“I got that the ninth time, thank you,” B says to the ceiling. 

“No,” A says, “So like I said, choose something else.”

He tries not to sigh. “ARCANA?”

The AI lets out another negative.

“B, please, it’s not that hard to come up with your own alias, is it?” A pulls their knees up so they can rest their elbows on them and place their palms on their cheeks, very entertained. “Try Barney.”

The name displays on the screen.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Of course I am, it’s funny.”

“PERSEPHONE doesn’t even start with an A, what about that?”

“No.”

The AI agrees.

He steeples his hands together in an attempt to be patient. It doesn’t quite work. “I’m loathe to use Hades.”

“Bakunawa.”

He blinks as the name replaces the one on the screen.

“Baku – how dare you.”

“What?” A shrugs, “It’s a dragon, Ryuzaki.”

He falters for a moment. It’s been a while. 

A seems to sense his uncomfortable nostalgia and pats his shoulder gently. “Easy there, fire boy, don’t space out on me now.”

He frowns, but the touch does bring him back completely. He pulls A’s hand off of him carefully. “I’m not.”

“Good,” they say, “But really – moon-eating sea serpent whose name starts with a B? Can’t get cooler than that.”

“Still.”

“Fine, what do you want, something more known like Jormungandr?” 

“You would have made mythological motifs, wouldn’t you? Had you been just a tad bit more murderous?” he asks, grinning a bit. 

A chuckles and shrugs again. “Maybe, maybe not, but mythological motifs are so overdone, don’t you think?” They turn to the screen and wave a hand at it. “Baby bop.”

B groans. “I prefer the dragon to that one.”

“Beatrice. Wait no – Beatrice Baudelaire. She’s a BB isn’t she?”

He actually has to think about that for a moment. “You had to point that out, didn’t you?”

“I’m still glad you kept my books of it. I always forgot to buy new copies,” they say, then snap their fingers. “Lemony Snicket.”

He sighs. “Now you’re just making fun of this. And I’m pretty sure I would get killed if I even try that. By the AI maybe.”

A snickers, and then motions at the screen again. “MONIKA look up a list of cool words that start with B, would you?”

“Really?” he asks, moving so that he can lean back on the bottom of the couch. A moves along with him, stretching their legs out in front of him. “You’re really at ease even with this, aren’t you?”

They’re aware of the sort of freedom he can bargain even with this, and they know what sort of risk they’re taking. He doesn’t even know how they’ve managed to convince Wammy to let him do this, aside from maybe bullshitting hard about him being more dangerous when bored. A plea for him to make turn a new leaf wouldn’t fly, not at all, it never does for most inmates.

A looks like they’re going to shrug again, but settles for just turning their attention back to the television. “If you try anything, you’ll get shocked, and the room will lock down. I’d be dead, probably, if you’re fast enough, but so would you.”

His eyes flick to their numbers for a moment, and he has to tamp down the sudden, unexpected surge of panic in his chest. Their numbers are still high, still normal. He doesn’t know why he’s so focused on this.

He nods. “Yeah,” he says, “Guess it’d be stupid to do that, anyway.”

“Guess so,” A says.

“Are you really sure I can’t just nab one of your names?”

“No, Beyond. Hey, how about just use that – Beyond.”

He watches MONIKA minimize the browser for a moment to display his name on screen. He stares at it for a moment before shaking his head.

“No, too ridiculous.”