A/N:

-SPECIAL AUTHOR ANNOUNCEMENT-

Hey guys. So, it's been a few years since I last worked on "Laurent." I've always felt kind of guilty of leaving all of you hanging like that, especially for this long. I know I hate it when fics I read never have conclusions. I even promised myself I wouldn't become that all-too-common author that leaves their fics on an unofficial, unfinished cliffhanger... so here I am, trying to avoid that terrible fate. Also, more than that, I have some exciting news for the people who enjoyed this fic!

But first, the bad news.

Though I have attempted it, I simply cannot continue this story. "Laurent" was written as I went, with crazy self-imposed deadlines and an incredibly fuzzy outline that I smeared and smudged every single step of the way. Right now, I think of this story as an unsalvageable mess.

BUT WAIT JUST ONE SECOND!

That doesn't mean that "Laurent" is gone for good. As I said before, I won't be the author that leaves you hanging. Instead of trying to repair this project, I decided to start afresh. This version will remain on the site for nostalgic purposes, but will be retitled "Laurent version 1" or something to that effect.

To all of my readers, thank you so much for your patience and support. I really appreciate it and I hardly deserve it.

Be sure to be on the lookout for the new and improved Laurent!

(Apparently it's against the rules to have a chapter dedicated to author's notes.)

A/N: Just wanted to say hello. This is my first story on this website, so I might as well make a good impression. Please, enjoy.

Chapter 1: Successor

Quillish Wammy never once thought about marrying. He was an inventor, an explorer, a discoverer… he simply had no time for romance. He had places to go, people to see, items to patent, a world to improve. A wife would simply complicate things. That's what he always thought, at least.

With his entire life ahead of him, he did as any other capable man would do. He traveled the globe. He learned many languages. He met countless wealthy and brilliant people. He educated himself in many handy skills, some of which involved gun handling, piloting, and gourmet cooking. He founded a school. He started a charity fund. He did anything and everything a successful philanthropist such as he could do. Yet… it never seemed like enough. Undeterred, he went on to more things, hoping to somehow, at the end of it all, feel completely satisfied.

He hardly noted the ticking of the clock, the passing of the years.

Then… a day came in which he realized something he never quite noted… he wasn't going to be around forever. It struck him one morning as he realized just how many gray hairs were on his head.

One day he would die, just like every other human. He wasn't above mortality.

When other people actually realize this in their own lives, they sometimes will begin to panic. These people will usually decide that all they have done in their lives was simply waste whatever precious time they had. These people will then begin doing crazy things to make up for all the lost time, all their lost youth. Quillish, however, was not like that. He didn't think that he wasted his life, not even for a moment… but he did begin to wonder…

Who was going to enjoy the fruits of his labor when he was gone?

Someone, he decided, ought to benefit from everything he had created, everything he gathered. After all, it was all going to go to waste otherwise when he passed away.

He wanted an heir.

Now, Quillish was a practical man, and as such, he figured that getting an heir with his blood was out of the question. At that point he was in his forties, so he considered himself too old to only toy with the idea of having a child. Besides, he still didn't quite like the thought of getting married… not that it really mattered. As far as he was concerned, his window of opportunity had left him while he was young.

A few years passed and Quillish kept the thought of a successor in his mind. The gray hairs upon his head steadily multiplied. His fortunes hardly dwindled. His lifespan was ticking away. One day, as he wandered the halls of his enormous yet empty house, he came to his conclusion. If he wanted an heir, he should adopt.

The more he thought about it, the more he felt satisfied with the decision. In adopting, he could find a suitable heir. Many fortunes were ruined by unfit successors, usually related by blood, in the past. Here, Quillish had the upper hand. He could hand-pick the perfect child for his fortune, not just leave it up to chance as so many others had done.

Many friends of his questioned his sanity, especially when they realized that Quillish was going to go around orphanages to find his successor. Many took him aside and questioned the logic in his search. Why an orphan? They're usually so traumatized and "messed up"… there's no way that one could possibly be put in charge of something so important.

His family also disapproved, saying that if he wanted a successor, he should just take one of his nieces or nephews as one. They said it was best to keep the money "within the family." What they meant was they wanted the money for themselves. Quillish paid them all no mind. His decision was made, whether or not they approved.

With his entire world opposing him, Quillish began his search to find the lucky child who would inherit it all.

He traveled the world in his search, from the freezing temperatures of Russia to the oppressive heat of Africa. He scoured Brazil, combed China and explored India. Wherever there was an orphanage, Quillish took a look around. He met thousands and thousands of children, from all walks of life, from all corners of the word… but no child stood out. No child seemed… right.

Quillish grew increasingly depressed at this fact. He stopped enjoying the search. Giving money to orphanages when he left them, "for their trouble," he would always explain, stopped being something he wanted to do and began feeling more like boring routine.

A couple years passed, but his search still bore no fruit. Quillish was beginning to give up hope, deciding that the perfect child that he wanted as a successor just didn't exist. He was too picky, he decided. Any one of the children he had found could have made a fitting heir. It was just his... stubbornness that kept him from selecting one.

It was then that he had gone to America, clinging to a shell of hope that maybe, just maybe, his search wasn't in vain and all of those years weren't wasted.

With that in mind, he stood in front of an old building that was worn quite heavily by the elements. Ivy that had been left unattended had almost completely covered the weather beaten bricks, the blanket seemed only broken by the presence of windows of a style long forgotten. Quillish looked up at the building and gave a sigh. This sight didn't give him any sort of thrill as it used to only a few years prior. The years of disappointment lay heavily on his heart, and every orphanage tinged with false hope seemed to only deepen his depression.

However, just as it always had, very small feeling in the back of his mind still spoke of optimism, that perhaps this next orphanage may hold the person who he had been missing.

Quillish decided to listen to the little feeling, no matter how faint it had become, and mounted the steps to the door. He paused at the entrance, gave another sigh, and rapped his knuckles smartly on the wood.

A low female voice cried out from within, "COMING!" Quillish simply stood, folding his hands behind his back in anticipation, or whatever feeling of it he had left. This scene was so familiar to him by now…

The door was opened a moment later by a tall woman with frizzy brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. Her clothes were rumpled but clean, and her eyes were bruised due to a lack of sleep but her gaze was bright. The woman slightly leaned out of the doorway, her hand resting on the frame. She looked rather tired and her breathing a little heavy. "Yes?" she asked between breaths.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. I am Quillish Wammy." Quillish said, taking off his hat and giving a polite bow.

"Sylvia Clark," the woman replied, nodding slightly in return.

"Miss Clark, am I under the correct impression that this is an orphanage?" Quillish asked politely.

"You are indeed, Sir. This is The Clarks' Home for Children," Sylvia said, straightening, her breathing returning to normal. "Take care of all the little ones with my sisters."

Quillish nodded, his expression was one of sincere respect, "Seems like a lot of work."

Sylvia gave a soft smile, "Yeah, it gets hard, but we don't mind it one bit." She looked the man over curiously. "So, Wammy, was it? What are you here for?"

Quillish looked at her with a smile, "I was wondering if any of the orphans were up for adoption."

Sylvia's calm expression changed to one of shock, then immediately to one of joy. "Really?" she asked, animatedly moving out of the doorway. "Come in, Sir."

Quillish walked into the foyer and hung his hat on the worn coatrack next to the door. He glanced at Sylvia. "You don't get offers often?" he asked.

Sylvia shook her head, "It's not like that, but I always get a little excited for my kids. They deserve so much more than what we can give them, you know? When one gets adopted, they get a chance at a better life." She gave a sad smile. "I'm always a little gloomy when I see them go, though."

Quillish took off his coat and hung it up next to his hat. "Now, I never guaranteed that I was going to adopt one." He said, looking at her, his face calm but his eyes warm, "…besides, how do you know I'm a good person? You've hardly met me. How do you even know I'm deserving of one of your children?"

Sylvia smiled, "I can tell just by looking at you that you're a good man, Mr. Wammy." Her smile then turned a little humorous, "Besides, what bad man would admit that he could be one?"

"A sneaky one," Quillish responded, half-jokingly.

Sylvia laughed. "Mr. Wammy, I can tell when someone has shady motives. You don't." she turned and walked a little bit into the building. "Come on, I'll show you the kids."

Quillish walked cautiously behind her. Sylvia seemed so terribly naïve… but there was something so… oddly powerful about her. She was different than most of the other orphanage keepers he had met. He wasn't sure what to call this woman.

"Here we are. This is the main living space." Sylvia said as she took Quillish into a large room decorated with worn furniture. In the corner of the room, children sat and watched the tiny television propped up on a small table. In other areas, children were playing with toys and board games that they had found in the other corners. The room had an unmistakable home-like feel to it… so comforting and calming.

All of the children in the room glanced up from whatever they were doing to take in the new visitor. "Everyone," Sylvia announced, "This is Mr. Wammy." She put out her hand as though he were on display.

"Hello, Mr. Wammy," the children chorused, and then they went back to doing what they had been before. Quillish looked around the room at the children, but again, none of them really stood out. He quietly cursed his high standards before turning to the woman beside him. "Miss Clark, is this everyone?"

Sylvia shook her head. She pointed at the window across the room. "Some of them are out playing," she said. "Others are probably in their rooms," she motioned to a door on the far left of the room, "and there's always at least one in the library…" she continued, pointing to a door on the right.

Quillish walked further into the room and looked at each of the children. No one seemed to jump out at him. Then again, he was being too hasty. He had to remind himself to be positive and not make snap judgments. It was very possible one of these children could be the very one he had been searching for… but he would never have known it if he didn't give him or her a chance. He looked out the window to see a group of children roughhousing, a football left forgotten in the weeds behind them. He smiled. Maybe one of those energetic youngsters would do well with what Quillish could give. He glanced casually to his right… and through the doorway of the library, a form caught his eye. It was a small boy, possibly four or five years old, curled up in a ratty easy chair, his dark eyes scanning the picture book in his hands eagerly.

Quillish wasn't sure what about the boy struck him. He had seen many other young bookworms in many other orphanages, and none of them had caught his attention. This boy seemed somehow different from the others… in a strange, unexplainable way.

"What's that one's name?" he asked.

"That one?" Sylvia asked, following the man's eyes to the young boy, "That one's Laurent."

"Laurent," Quillish repeated, his eyes not leaving the boy. The boy's eyes didn't stray from the book.

"He's a sweet boy," Sylvia said, "Strange… but very sweet."

"Strange?" Quillish asked, his eyes snapping to hers, "How so?"

"He prefers to be alone," Sylvia said with a sigh. "He's rather polite, he's not difficult to get along with, but he won't seek anyone out unless he has something to say." She waved her hand toward the child. "That's mostly all he does." Suddenly, Sylvia's face broke out into a nervous smile, "I-I mean, he's not emotionally unstable or anything… well, he does cry on occasion, but what kid doesn't?"

Laurent turned the page in his book.

"Do the other children ignore him?" Quillish asked.

"No, actually… they're fond of him. They will invite him to play on many occasions, but he usually declines. He prefers to watch." Sylvia folded her arms. "He actually just prefers talking to my sisters and me over talking to the other children."

"Does he go outside?" Quillish asked, noting the child's pale skin.

"Yes, but mostly just to wander around. He isn't usually interested in playing any sports with the others, if anything, he watches." Sylvia put her finger on her chin in thought. "He always watches…" she mumbled to herself.

Quillish turned to the woman and asked, "Could I go talk to him?"

"I don't see why not," Sylvia said with a shrug. "He just might not be up for talking. Don't take it the wrong way."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Quillish said with a smile. With that, he walked over to the library.

Quillish put his head in the doorway and looked around before going in. the "library" was in fact a rather small room with walls lined with old bookshelves. The smell of old, musty books lingered in the air, and the only real piece of furniture in the room was the chair the boy was sitting in.

As he approached, the boy glanced up from his book.

Quillish crouched down to meet the boy at eyelevel. "Hello." The man greeted with a smile.

Laurent regarded the stranger with an expression of curiosity and caution, "Hello." He said in reply. He looked the man over, trying to find something familiar about him, when nothing surfaced, he asked, "Who are you?"

The man laughed. "My name is Quillish Wammy."

"My name is Laurent." The boy said. His eyes drifted back to the book he was holding, but then snapped back up to the stranger. "Are you here to adopt someone?" he asked.

Quillish laughed. "Maybe." He responded.

Laurent nodded and looked back down at the book. "That's good. There's a lot of really good kids here." The little boy said quietly.

"Is that so?" Quillish asked.

Laurent nodded. "Billy is very good at football, and Harriet is really good at drawing. Charlie is a really nice kid and he never gets in trouble and…"

"What about you, Laurent?"

The little boy stopped talking. "Me?" he asked, looking up.

"Yes. Can you tell me about you?"

Laurent's small face brightened a little. "People say that I'm very smart."

Quillish blinked. Whenever children had told him that they fancied themselves smart, he always detected a bit of arrogance behind their words. To them, intelligence was just another thing to brag about. However, this child didn't simply say, "I'm smart," as so many others before him had said. Laurent had said "people say" that he was smart, almost as though he didn't quite believe them.

"Laurent, how would you like to be adopted?" Quillish asked. It was too soon to decide, but he was curious about what the boy would say.

The boy looked down at the book, a smile tugging at his lips. "You want to adopt me?" the boy asked quietly.

"Would you like me to?" Quillish asked.

The boy looked up, any traces he might have had of a smile had been carefully hidden away, "I don't know yet," the boy said. "You're a stranger. We're not supposed to go with strangers."

"Well, why don't we try to tell each other a little more about ourselves, then?" Quillish asked. "We won't be strangers after that, will we?"

Laurent gave a small shrug.

"I'll go first, then." Quillish said. "You know my name is Quillish Wammy. I'm an inventor."

"Really?" Laurent asked, "What sorts of things did you make?" the young boy's eyes were bright with curiosity.

"Top-secret things," Quillish said, putting his finger to his lips. "I'm not sure if I could trust you with this information until I know you better."

Laurent was silent, studying the pages before him. Silence persisted for a few seconds. "I read a lot… and I draw a little bit."

"Really? Are you a good artist?"

Laurent gave a shrug. "People say I am."

"Do you play sports?"

"Sometimes," Laurent said, he looked away, "Billy's the one that really likes sports…"

"Are you friends with Billy?" Quillish asked.

Laurent gave a small shrug. "I'm not sure." he responded. He lapsed into a state of silence again.

Quillish simply looked at the boy for a few seconds. When it was clear that the boy had made his point and was not going to discuss anything further, Quillish stretched out his arms. "Well," he said, standing up, "I must be going."

"Mister, you said that you would tell me some of your inventions when you knew me better," the boy said.

"That's right…" Quillish said, "I'll tell you one." He crouched low again. "I made a new battery that is better than all other ones on the market."

Laurent blinked. "That's not very special." His voice betrayed disappointment.

"The special ones come later." Quillish laughed. "It was very nice to meet you, Laurent."

"Nice to meet you too, Mister." Laurent said softly.

Quillish got up and walked out of the library.

"Well?" Sylvia asked as Quillish approached.

"Can I come back tomorrow?"

"Of course," Sylvia's face broke into a grin.