AU: Note that only the first four chapters are going to be short because that are merely meant to get the reader to identify with the character, create and sense of suspense, and introduce the basic plot. Also, in the reader does not fully read into the subtleties of the first four chapters, he/she will never understand the story.
Others
There were other children in Whammy's house. None as well developed for the position of L then Matt, Mello, and Near, but they were there all the same. They might not have become the world's greatest detective, but they did carve their way into the world. These are their stories.
COPPER
Colbert Goutier was a quiet boy. He spent many rainy afternoons sitting in the big window in the commons, which stretched almost to the very ceiling. The commons had been built to allow the resident children a place to socialize. However, because so many of the children aspired to become L, they were seldom found in places other then the learning labs, testing rooms, laboratories, or libraries found throughout the mansion. This was why Copper found this place so magical. It was untouched by the other children, to which he had always felt inferior. You see, Copper was not brilliant in the way the other children viewed brilliance. He could not make logical deductions from absolutely nothing. He could not do quadratic functions in his head. He could not read books upside down in Kurdish in less then ten minutes. He could do none of these things.
He could paint. He could paint beautiful landscapes more accurately then any picture. He could paint emotions with such vitality that the casual observer could be moved to blinding rage, or crushing sorrow, or light hearted laughter; all at the whim of the painter. He loved to paint. He loved it more then anything in the world. Well, almost anything.
There was a girl who played when it rained. She could be seen from this window. He watched her every day from his spot in the empty room. She would run, and jump, and spin, and make his heart flutter with her every movement. She was at once one with the splattering rain that soaked her long honey-colored hair and her odd mismatched clothing. There was no pattern to her movement; just like his paintings, which defied the logic to which most of the tenants clung to.
He could not paint her. He had gone through many canvases and paint tubes trying. He could never put his love on paper. He could not paint the spark in her green eyes when the lightning flashed. Nor could he capture whimsical way her hair moved in the harsh wind. He sighed. Tomorrow, he would try again, as he had the many days of the many weeks of the many months before.
He rose and climbed the marble stairs that led to dormitory. He entered his room, the eighth to the right, and went strait into the private bathroom. The bathrooms were quite fancy, though you would never know with the paint splatters. He brushed his teeth and his fiery orange hair, changed out of his smock and slipped into the 330 count silk sheets, which were also splattered with paint. He, for another night in so many that he could never count, dreamt of her.