A Foreword
The Bleak House of Doctor Watari is utterly and shamelessly inspired by the rather excellent Gaslight Gothic and Scarlet Letter, both by the talented RobinRocks. Having read and thouroughly enjoyed both, and being both a Death Note enthusiast and a fan of the Victorian era and associated literature as a whole, I couldn't help but pay homage to (or 'steal', as the term is more commonly known) the concept.
The Bleak House of Doctor Watari is essentially another short piece that attempts to explore the characters of Nate Rivers, Mihael Keehl and Mikami Teru. It attempts to mimic some of the literature concerning orphans of the era, most notably Charles Dicken's own Oliver Twist, as well as perhaps attempting to emulate some of Oscar Wilde's own prose and style. It is, above all else, a study of the characters, rather than a more storyline-driven piece, and hopefully demonstrates much of what is universal to the characters, regardless of time, place, or circumstance.
Enough pretentious warbling from me. Enjoy the story.
Chapter One - L Lawliet, Our Mutual Friend
There was a silence in the stony hall of Doctor Watari's orphanage, broken only by the sharp, rhythmic crack of wood against wood.
Nate Rivers frowned, slightly, tilting his head. He flicked his wrist, sending the ball arcing up, and crashing into the rim of the cup. The wooden chime echoed in the empty hall.
The ball fell, hanging on its string. Nate flicked his wrist again, and again the ball bounced off the cup.
There was a stirring. Nate didn't look up. Mihael watched, silently.
The boy was lean, slender. Finely shaped cheek bones stood prominently on his face, framed by curtains of rebellious, angry orange hair. The colour of fire, and spices. He stared, silently for a moment more, and then coughed.
Nate didn't look up.
"How long are you going to do that?"
"Until I win," Nate said, quietly. The ball chimed against the cup's rim and fell away. Mihael snorted.
"I'm going."
Nate didn't look up. The heavy wooden door slammed behind Mihael as he left, letting a cold draft of icy wind ruffle Nate's hair. He flicked his wrist. The ball landed in the cup. He smiled, slightly, and put it on the stone floor.
Slowly, he began to gather wooden skittles from the floor. With careful precision, he lined them up on the floor.
He reached for the painted wooden ball. Held it in pale, reedy fingers. Raised it, unsteadily, and rolled.
It clattered into the stools stacked untidily in the corner of the hall.
Nate watched the ball come to a stop, blinking, and slowly reached for the next ball.
-
Mihael shivered in the cold.
He was angry. He was usually angry. Something about the quiet, pale child that sat without a word got to him. Something about the quiet, expressionless face that never smiled, never laughed, never cried, never got angry.
Mihael trudged in the snow-covered streets until his shoes began to give. He tailed an elderly gentleman lost in the slums of London for an hour or so, dogging his footsteps as they passed Whitechapel. The man stumbled, and Mihael was by his side, a firm hand gripping his elbow, steadying him. The other hand slipped into the man's thick overcoat, finding a wallet and slipping out again.
The man pushed him aside, wheezing, and clouted the fiery-headed urchin around the head with a drunken swing. Mihael watched as he staggered out into the snow.
Mihael inspected the find and pocketed the reward. He trudged on, smiling slightly now, warmed by one rebellious act, one show of defiance.
He was Mihael Keehl. He didn't play by Nate's rules. He made his own.
He slunk on, slipping into a side-alley and disappearing from the street.
