A/N: Hiya! I'm fairly new to Death Note, but after reading Death Note Another Note: The LABB Murder Cases, I've been hooked. So here I am, attempting a pre-cannon fic from BB's perspective of things. He's about ten or eleven years old in this chapter, and I'm taking a bit of creative license on his pre-psychologically insane personality.
This fic will be exploring BB's time in Wammy's, the struggles of the children (particularly A) and competition, among other things. Matt and Near will make appearances in the future. I hope you guys will enjoy reading this.
- Nyx
July 31, 1996
All the windows are always locked and bolted shut. The adults say it's to protect us. We all know that's a lie, but we don't go around complaining about it. It figures. We can't go against the adults around here. Their word is law. Heck, if they tell us to jump, we'll probably ask how high without thinking twice about it. That's how passive we're trained to be, kept all in line like— I don't know, dominoes or something.
I'm a piece in this game; I hate it.
Life's an ever changing schedule. Wake up at the crack of dawn. Listen to the PA system over breakfast. Sift through our daily schedule. Lessons, meals, homework. And if you're done before dusk and the weather's nice, you get to go outside a little. You get to have a breeze in your face, chase hoppers across the lawn and forget you were behind barred windows for a while.
Because barred windows make you feel less protected, and more caged in.
The windows are supposed to be locked and bolted shut. That's why everyone around just stops and stares when this over-dressed, snooty looking man— one of Mr. Wammy's esteemed guests, I think, with how he's entertaining him— I've never seen before, stops in the centre of the foyer. And then he complains about how stuffy it is, and demands a window open. If I had a hat, I'd tip it for him.
"Perhaps, Roger, we can have our tea outside?" Mr. Wammy inquires.
Roger waves him off. "Nonsense, Quillish. You know I'm allergic to that jungle you call a garden. We'll have in the library, and with a window open— if it isn't too much trouble. Your book collection is quite impressive, and I think I did see a few books that caught my eye."
Mr. Wammy takes a while to answer, looking like someone stepped on his pudding. "I suppose I can have the children leave so we can continue discuss matters peacefully."
"Just leave them," Roger says, though he doesn't seem to like his own suggestion much. "They're very well behaved, I think. Looking at your children, I honestly doubt they'd make any noise louder than a whisper."
After a little more back-and-forth bickering, Mr. Wammy resignedly takes Roger to the library. I quit pretending to read my textbook and finally allow myself to laugh. Usually, when Mr. Wammy invites a guest for tea, they have it someplace the kids aren't allowed to go to for the day. Looks like today there'll be a change of pace. A little hiccup in the system. Roger should come by more often.
"What're you sniggering about, BB?" K asks me loftily as she passes by me.
I scowl. K's a prissy, big-headed twat. She used to sit by me at dinner, only to steal my butter knives. K's trouble, and treats anyone who's got a higher grade than her like we stepped on her favourite brand of pudding.
"Nothing anyone of your brain capacity would understand," I say.
"Perhaps you're right," she says. "Why should I drag myself down to your level of thinking?"
"I doubt you could even if you tried," I shoot back. "You're right. Your brain capacity is astoundingly high, no doubt just filled of hot air, though."
K rolls her eyes, walking away without even replying. I turn to A with a grin. "Did you see that? She was speechless."
"Or she didn't deem your comeback worthy of a reply," A hums.
I jab him in the rib with my elbow. "Would it kill for you to be a little less cynical?"
"Not kill," A says, pocketing his hands. "Just deeply scar me."
We were supposed to go down the same corridor K went to, but A makes a swift turn. We go the opposite way, the one that leads to the library. I'm sixty-percent certain A is curious about Mr. Wammy and Roger's discussion, but this corridor also leads to the gardens. I assume we're allowed out now, and A does love the outdoors.
"Where are we heading?" I ask, just to be sure.
"The library," A says mildly. "I have the sudden urge to crack open a good book or two."
"Really?" I feign surprise. "Well coincidentally, I do too."
"I hear there's a window open there, mate," A says, his lips twitching. "Shall we sit by it? The view of the gardens from the library is just lovely."
(break)
As it turns out, old people talk about really boring things. Well, I knew that, considering the sore lack of awesomeness my middle-age lecturers have— but that's different. They're supposed to be boring. I thought Mr. Wammy would be mildly interesting, but it seems he's just like every other old man. Babbling and reminiscing about "the good ol' days" and about the lesson plans and our grades. But I know that last bit already. It only gets posted on about every single wall every two months or so.
Our grades are posted on the Ranking Sheet, a thing that was started just six years back. All the subjects we take are listed, and then our grades alongside our "names". And then our ranks— and they're two kinds of ranks. The ranks for the separate levels of education in this place, and then there's the Overall Ranking.
A's number one for both. Always has been. And I clap him on the back whenever I see the Ranking Sheet. All A does is nod and yawn. Ever the enthusiast. He says he's proud and all, but he'd rather know what we were all being ranked for to begin with. What a spoilsport.
In the Overall Ranking, I'm number two, by the way. And K's all the way down at number six, upped by me and A, and a bunch of six year olds. Maybe that's why she's so prissy. I'd be mad too if a bunch of kids their age beat me, never mind how dangerously bright they are.
A and I found two out of three of them in the library. They're sitting at the table we wanted, the one conveniently away from the view of the two old men, but still within earshot. I told the kids to scram, but my tone lacked the usual ammo I lace it with. I guess all this thinking just tired me right out.
"What do you mean you're busy?" I asked them earlier. "You're drawing crayons with crayon!"
Y frowned at his sketch thoughtfully. "It's supposed to be a rocket."
"You should add more fire to it," X chirped, bouncing in her seat. "Fire's good."
"The red crayon fell under the table," Y said, twiddling his thumbs. "I don't want to go down there."
"Hey— hey, kids! Back to the matter at hand here." I snapped my fingers once. "You see that window over there? We want to sit by it."
"Well, it's rotten luck for you that we were here first," X said.
A sighed. "Don't you kids see how pasty and lifeless I am? I need the sun, kids, and I have too little energy left to head outside to— photosynthesize."
Y smiled at A's dramatics. "Actually, I think you're here for the same reason we're here."
X matched my raised eyebrow with her signature cheeky grin. She tapped her crayon box and turned it to face us. We found that its interior was made of strategically placed mirrors. I realized that in its position earlier, they would've been able to spy on the old men with the tea without being too obvious.
"Here's the deal," X said, sounding as business-like as a six-year old can. "We'll let you sit with us if you help us with a— task later."
"You can't boss us around!" I said. "We're better than you."
The kids scowled.
But soon A and I find ourselves sitting with two little kids, bent over and pretending to be focused on our drawings. In reality, we're all hissing our thoughts to each other. Or at least, I am. They're all still listening to the near-endless conversation of the two men. About some girl they used to fight over in high-school.
Looking deadly bored, X starts to deliberately roll the crayons off the edge of the table. Once, twice.
"They're talking about girls," I say to them, sniggering. "This is so weird."
"You know what else is weird?" A says. "That you haven't yet gone quiet."
"You wound me, A."
"Not enough," A says smoothly. "If the wound were deeper you'd be quiet."
"Shh," Y says, his face red all of a sudden. "They've stopped talking about Matilda."
I look up from my "drawing". Z is in sight all of a sudden, walking to the old men. "What is he doing?" I hiss.
"Getting them back to their original discussion. And giving us leeway for our task later," X says quietly, looking relieved. She turns in her seat, locks eyes with Z, and then picks up the crayons she dropped. I guess they dropping them was the signal for Z.
"Excuse me, sirs," Z says. "But I'd just like to enquire if it is possible for the library hours to be slightly extended for just today? I have an assignment that needs more extensive material."
Mr. Wammy tilted his head. "Well, I suppose so. Go ahead and tell the librarian I say it's alright. But only until nine o-clock."
Z beams, thanks them and walks away.
I'm about to open my mouth but Y taps his crayon on the table. I watch Z disappear into the rows upon rows of bookshelves and shoves a book in place loudly. Y smiles. "He'll be joining us soon."
Well, I did say these kids are dangerously bright.
We focus on the conversation again. This time, Roger seems to be commenting on Z. "He seems… studious."
"He's one of the brightest in this House. And one of the most well-behaved as well. Number Four in the overall ranking," Mr. Wammy boasts.
Roger shakes his head. "Yes, but once the Fourth Generation is completed, will he stay number four?"
"He's stayed at that position ever since he was brought in a year ago," Mr. Wammy muses. "And Number One and Number Two have stayed in their positions for three-and-a-half Alphabets now. And they do deserve the honours and privileges given to them for their hard work, but I'm worried, Roger, that they're too content to truly compete against one another. I'm worried that should my Number One remain in his position, no one can compete with him."
"But is that so bad?" Roger asks. "They're children, for goodness sake. You're giving toddlers Advanced-level courses. They sky's the limit for them. For now, is it so wrong to let them live a little?"
"The sky is the limit," Mr. Wammy repeats. "That is exactly the problem. You see, L says that A is not what he is looking for. That he wants… more. And then I see A and I wonder if he is who we will have to rely on in the end. I wonder if he can handle the pressure that comes with taking such a title, what would happen if he realises that he is the best we have now. I look at that boy now and I see his brilliance, astute perfection. And still L wants more than what A can provide, but neither of us know what L is looking for! You say that the sky is the limit for them. L wants them to go— beyond. L wants someone better than Number One."
We all turn to A, but he is terrifyingly still. Grey eyes unseeing, he's blocked the world out now. Y's eyes flash with sympathy. X places her hand over A's pale one.
Roger says something neither of us pay attention to. He sounds just as mad as I feel, though, and I decide he's way better than Mr. Wammy ever was. The two men bicker, and argue, and argue. We barely even notice Z sliding onto the empty seat to tug weakly at my sleeve. He looks afraid. I'm afraid too. We have every reason to be.
Better than the best? Compete? Mr. Wammy would want us to be so driven by competition, hatred and dissatisfaction with ourselves? Because we're not good enough as we are? Because we're not good enough for this— L?
Who the hell is L to demand such a thing?
Who is L at all?
I've never once heard of him, but I believe I've never hated someone more in my entire life.
P.S. Many thanks to my wonderfully awesome beta, Let's Explode, for putting up with my badgering and allowing me to borrow her characters. Please send her virtual doughnuts. :D
And send me reviews, lovelies!
- Nyx, out