Welcome to the results of my ADD and complete inability to just devote myself to one project, wherein we take a trip through the unorthodox upbringing of L's successors!

WARNING: Will contain series spoilers, as well as scenes of a disturbing nature. Proceed at your own discretion.

DISCLAIMER: Death Note is the intellectual property of Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Ohbata. Please support the official release. Seriously- do it!

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Prologue Part I: Mihael Keehl

I am one of the few people who ever met L as L. When and how I met him...this is the single most valuable memory I have...

-Mello, Death Note: Another Note

...It's late, isn't it?

It must be. Everything is quiet outside, and the only light comes from the moon bouncing off the snowy ground.

(It's a full moon tonight. It's beautiful.)

Everything hurts. My body aches like I'm gonna die.

(But I won't die. Probably. It's not what they want. At least, it's not what they want right now.)

I'm sticky and I feel gross all over. The room smells horrid, like cigarettes and sweat. This man is snoring away beside me in the bed- he fell asleep as soon as he was done with me.

I half-fall off the bed onto the floor; the plush carpet is soft, but even this gentle touch sets my naked skin on fire.

I wanna throw the window open and scream at the heavens.

"Help me!" I want to cry out. "Somebody save me!"

"Somebody save me!"

Somebody save me...

Every part of me howls for me to crawl to the window and plead for help. But my limbs are lead, and my throat is dry; even if I made it to the window, I doubt I have the voice left to speak.

My eyes burn, and I cry bitter tears into the carpet that's causing me so much pain. I know I'm getting blood on the new white material, but surprisingly enough, I can't bring myself to care.

I grit my teeth, my body shrieking in protest when I get onto my knees and grope around in the dark for my clothes.

It's a hollow comfort, but I feel a fraction less vulnerable when I'm covered up.

Even though my legs are heavy and weak, I manage to stand up. I stumble to the window, pressing my hands against the cold glass and staring at that distant, uncaring moon that watches everything with detached disdain.

A growl makes its way out of my throat, and I glare daggers at that apathetic guardian.

Save me...somebody...anybody, save me...

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a moonbeam glinting off the barrel of a gun poking out from the corner of the pillow of that awful, disgusting man.

What a joke. Nobody's gonna save me.

It's heavier than I imagined it would be- I've never held a gun before.

It's easy to flick the safety off. Easier than it probably should be.

Nobody's gonna save me...

It's loud. Louder than I ever expected.

...So I guess I'll save myself.

The force of it throws me backward, sending me back onto the floor.

My ears ring violently. The realization of what I've done sends me into a panic.

The front door opens. I hear an angry voice that turns my blood to ice.

I have to run away.

I don't even make it to the end of the hall before I'm confronted by the livid face of nobody but my own father.

He yells things at me, but they don't register in my mind. Blindly, I lift the gun and shoot it once more.

I have to save myself. Nobody else will do it for me.

He collapses in a pathetic heap on the ground, cursing and shouting at me, but again the words don't reach my mind.

Some birthday this turned out to be.


The shrill sound of police sirens pierces the bitter night air, wailing steadily to announce the arrival of a fleet of police cars. They circle around the huge, foreboding house at the end of the street, officers emerging with their hands hovering over their guns.

They force their way through the front door, bursting into the empty foyer.

The silence is eerie, oppressive and deafening. The officers creep warily through the pitch-black halls, a pall of unease settling over them.

"Captain!"

The youngest officer is very pale. He gestures toward an open bedroom door.

A man-maybe fifty or so- lays dead in the huge bed. Blood and brain matter is splattered up the wall from the bullet hole in the back of his head.

That must've been the source of the gunshot the neighbors called about.

One officer hangs back to deal with the carnage while the others move forward. A low groaning sound becomes audible.

When the officers turn the corner, they're greeted by another horrid sight.

The white carpet is stained and soggy with blood. Another man lay writhing on the floor, moaning and cursing and clutching weakly at the wound in his abdomen.

Pressed against the wall, battered and covered in bruises and scarlet, is a very small, very frightened, wild-eyed little boy. Gun clutched in shaking hands, the boy is pressed flat against the wall, blue eyes darting from one officer to the next, knees knocking together with the force of his terror. He aims the gun at the approaching officers, breath growing ever more pitched and panicked.

"Stay away!" He demands, his voice quavering and shrill.

"Hey, it's okay kid," the lone female officer says, masking her own unease as best she could. "You're alright. It's okay. Look; I'm gonna put my gun down- we're all gonna put our guns down." She shoots a glance at her companions. "You put yours down too, okay?"

The child watches anxiously while the officers all gingerly put their weapons down. Once they're done, he does the same, those striking blue eyes fixated on them all the while.

"There- good boy."

Tears well up in midnight eyes, and the boy's knees give way underneath him. He collapses in a sobbing heap on the floor.

"...I didn't want to-" he chokes. "H-he was gonna...I didn't want to- I swear I didn't!"

The female officer creeps closer to him carefully.

"It's alright. You aren't in trouble. It's okay."

She crouches down and takes the boy's shaking hand. The child flinches at her touch, but he allows her to guide him away from the carnage in front of him.

"Come on. You should get out of here."


Ordinarily, this late at night the hospital corridors would be quiet, while nurses and the odd doctor or two shuffled around tending to their patients and doing whatever mundane task they hadn't yet gotten around to.

This night, however, was one of those nights where the air was tense, and the nurses talked with furrowed brows and worried tones. There's also the rather rare sight of a man who was neither a nurse or a doctor, joining in the conversation.

He's a rather old man, with gray hair and a gray mustache. He says he's a social worker, here to check in on the little patient that has the nurses so troubled.

There's a small problem, however-

"-He's barricaded himself in the north supply closet and we can't talk him out!"

"Oh dear, that's no good..."

"Would it be alright if I tried to talk to him?"

The red-haired nurse jumps a foot in the air at the sudden intruder on their conversation.

Seemingly materializing out of nowhere, a rather tall, very pale, unnaturally skinny boy appears from behind the old man. Pitch black eyes peer out from beneath a wild crop of pitch black hair, far too wide and far too knowing for someone his age. His hands are crammed deep into the pockets of a thick winter coat, well-worn jeans hanging loosely from spindly legs.

"W-what can you do?" The brunette nurse asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"I don't know." the boy says frankly. "But I'd like to see if I can help."

Before the nurse can process a response, the boy turns toward the old man with an unfathomable expression.

"Is that alright with you, Watari?"

"Do your best."

The boy pulls an almost skeletal hand from the recesses of his coat and knocks softly on the closet door.

"Mihael," he calls out, in that surprisingly deep voice for a child. "Are you alright?"

"Go away!" Comes the angry voice from the other side.

"Why are you hiding?" The boy asks persistently.

Silence from within the closet.

"Could you please open the door? You aren't in any trouble- I'd just like to talk to you."

"...Only if the adults leave!" Is the insistence from the other side. "I'm not talking to adults!"

The boy scratches the back of his neck, and turns toward the nurses.

"If you could please leave the room for a minute, I'd appreciate it- you too, Watari."

The nurses turn toward each other apprehensively, then toward Watari, wondering what he would decide.

"Yes, of course," the man answers. "You know what to do if you need me."

The adults vacate the hallway, the red-haired nurse casting one last worried look at that odd boy before turning the corner and following the others.

"They're gone, Mihael," the pale boy says, rapping on the closet door once more. "Could you open up now?"

The sound of heavy objects being moved around fills the quiet for a minute or two. The doorknob turns, then, after another pause, the door creeks open a fraction.

"The hell're you?" The child demands.

"You can call me L."

The door opens enough for the younger boy to peek out.

The child that peers at L from the closet is a sorry sight indeed. His blond hair is unkempt and filthy; his hospital gown hangs loosely off a body too small and too thin for his age. His fair skin is littered with bruises and gashes and cigarette burns, all looking angry and uncared for. His pretty face is fixed in an unflattering scowl, teeth bared like a small, frightened animal.

Soft and vulnerable, but vicious and unapproachable at the same time. Like a feral kitten.

Mihael's eyes are a dark, striking sort of blue that reminds L of deep ocean water. Though his shaking knees and trembling hands betray his fear, Mihael's eyes are sharp and focused, boring straight into L in a way that makes him profoundly uncomfortable.

"Why are you hiding?" L asks, gnawing on his thumbnail to vent his discomfort.

Mihael only responds with an impolite hand gesture. L ignores this.

"Are you worried someone is going to hurt you?"

The child's hands ball up into white-knuckled fists; his teeth clench so hard they might very well shatter.

"Shut up," he spits, bristling much like a cornered cat, retreating back into the closet.

L crouches down to be more on level with the child in front of him.

"Who are you worried is going to hurt you?"

"None of your fuckin' business!"

L narrowly dodges the mop bucket thrown at his head; this tiny blond boy has a surprising amount of strength within him. However, the older boy remains unruffled, and continues speaking as if nothing is wrong.

"You're going to be alright now," he says calmly. "You don't have to be afraid."

Perfect white teeth pierce Mihael's swollen bottom lip; a thin trail of blood finds its way down his chin.

"That's a pretty big promise," the boy hisses.

"I know that. But I think you'll find that I'm good at keeping my promises."

L's lips curl into a surprisingly genuine smile. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, and pulls out a lump of crumpled foil. He holds the lump out, gesturing for Mihael to take it from him. Hesitantly, the boy obeys, snatching it quickly before drawing away again.

The lump of foil turns out to be a wrapper; Mihael tugs on a loose corner to coax it open, revealing six squares of chocolate.

"One of the nurses mentioned you haven't been eating," L says, still in that perfectly matter-of-fact tone. "That's no good. You can't have a clear head when you're hungry."

Mihael glares at the chocolate like it's some sort of grave insult.

"I didn't do anything to it," L assures him.

Mihael glances at the older boy, then at the food offered to him. He brings the chocolate to his mouth and gingerly breaks off a square.

It melts on Mihael's tongue, the sweetness playing in the back of his throat even after he's swallowed it. He hesitates a moment more, then quickly devours the rest of the chocolate, finding himself suddenly ravenous after that first taste.

"There. Feel better?"

Mihael grumbles something that L takes as an affirmative.

"If you feel up to it, I'd like to talk to you about something."

He doesn't wait for Mihael to respond before he continues.

"Your father is going to prison for a very long time- forever, if I can help it." L's tone is dark and deadly serious. "That means you're going to need some place to go. I'm sure you understand that."

There is no answer from the boy, but there's a look of understanding on his face.

"As I understand it, you're a pretty bright kid. There's a special school I think you'd be a very good fit for. Do you think you'd be interested?"

Mihael furrows his brow.

"What happens if I say no?" He asks warily.

"Nothing much," L answers, with a shrug. "I would assume they'd send you to a foster family, and things would be out of my hands from there. It's up to you."

Those words bring confusion onto the child's pretty face, like the notion of having a say in anything was unthinkable to him.

"So...if I say no, you'll leave me alone?"

"That's right."

The boy pauses again, and L can see the gears turning in his mind as he considers the offer.

"What makes me so special?" He demands. "Why me?"

"Call it intuition," the older boy says, with a shrug.

Another painful stretch of wordless tension.

"I know leaving won't change what happened yesterday," L adds, mulling briefly over his words before he says them. "But maybe if you do, you can make sure your tomorrow is how you want it to be."

Those words light a spark in Mihael's eyes; his face lights up as though this is some great revelation.

I get to choose. I can make my own tomorrow...

"I'll go," he finally replies, with more certainty in his voice now.

"Good. I'll get everything sorted out for you, then. In the meantime- how about you get out of this dirty closet? It can't be good for you."

Black eyes briefly meet with blue- L quickly breaks the contact in favor of focusing on some point on Mihael's forehead. He holds out a hand, tilting his head and waiting.

After what feels like an eternity, Mihael takes that hand.

(L's hand is soft, and warm.)

His grip is uncertain. His legs are shaky and movements skittish when L leads him triumphantly out of his hiding place. He turns his head away when the nurses regard him with startled glances. He presses his tiny body close to L's, and doesn't say another word.

But Mihael's eyes are as sharp as ever.


Mihael is taken to another room to wait, while the old man with the mustache and L talk to various hospital staff in hushed voices. The tone of the staff is incredulous, sometimes angry- but Mihael can't make out what they're saying about him. He passes the time by pressing the bruises on his arm, watching them turn white before rapidly regaining their purple hue.

The clock's hour hand moves five notches before L and the old man finally return.

L hands him a bag full of what feels like clothes.

"You'd better get dressed- it's cold outside."

The clothes are nothing more than simple black pajamas, the shoes more like slippers than anything. But they're clean, comfortable and warm, so he doesn't complain.

He's led out the back entrance of the hospital, the winter air biting his cheeks and his nose. The old man ushers him and L into the back of a black car with black-tinted windows.

The exhaustion of the past days catches up with him all at once. His head lulls against L's shoulder, his eyes falling shut against his will.

L awkwardly pats Mihael's head while he falls asleep, watching the sun peek over the horizon beyond the car window.

"Merry Christmas, Mihael."