Oh, what's this now? A prequel to The King's Note? Huh -- who'da thunk it, yeah?

Anyone who looks at my profile would've...

Anyway, I rated this M for a reason. First off, the main characters are Al, Pat, Don, and Katherine. Yeah. Profanity. And lots of it.
Also, there will be LOTS of violence. Blood, gore, violence, the works. You know it. Because I'm deranged like that.
But seriously, since the story is based around murder, yeah. And not Kira-heart-attack murder. I'm talking fucked up shiz. You've been warned -- don't read it if you can't deal with it.

What is the purpose of this story? Well, originally, it was to establish a number of things about my King's Note OC's. For instance:
What caused Pat to want to learn so much about breaking into and out of shit?
How did Katherine decide on her name if she never had one to begin with?
How did Al, Don, Pat, and Katherine all actually meet?
Who the fuck is Al, and how is he important if Comma killed him off in the beginning of the original story?
Why was Al wanted for murder in the first place?
Where did Don first meet Jose Cuervo?
How did Pat develop his skills at spotting whiskey from a mile off?
How did Katherine end up smart enough to border on L-like?
Did Don have a younger brother that I never mentioned in King's Note because he was a raving lunatic that Don didn't claim anymore?
Was Pat seriously a tech nerd when he was in his early teens or am I just shittin' ya?
What actually got my OC criminals involved in the Kira case in the first place?

Now, though, I have managed to inflect Death Note like aspects into it, and it has become its own fanfiction with the same characters.

It's sort of a prequel, but not really - the storylines are completely different.

Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note. Wish I did. I'd be a fecking millionaire. That'd be feckin' grand.

Well, I've been researching a bunch of rather colorful Irish slang lately to use in the story. I don't think I used much of it in this chapter, but if I did and anyone doesn't recognize a word, just let me know in your review and I shall translate for you.

This first chapter is PURELY original characters - it explains how everyone met, basically. It's more of a prologue than anything, as I'll be getting into the actual storyline in the next chapter. But, as I really wanted to write this in the first place to clarify some things about the OCs in King's Note, this chapter was necessary for me.

As an initial warning: The actual Death Note aspects of the story don't begin until chapter 4. It is a fanfiction -- the first three chapters are entirely original, and the fourth inducts it into the world of fanfiction.

Though it was a rather beautiful autumn day, it still wasn't a particularly pleasant one, not for Mark Alfred Mitchell. Ten years old and alone in the slums wasn't pleasant for anyone at all. It was this or the local orphanage, however, and he would rather live alone, begging passing strangers for spare change, than be subjected to that sort of torture. He had seen the caretaker of the place, a mean-looking woman with eyes like a hawk's and a stern, hard face. She wasn't the sort of person he wanted to answer to, or would have answered to, for that matter. He felt better off alone, nicking food from unsuspecting store owners and putting on a pitiful act in front of anyone with a kind face to get a bit of cash when he needed it. He had the look of a poor, innocent little boy forced to live life in the streets, and it could generally get him what he wanted. He had no desire or need to live in an orphanage.

When Al had fled from his so-called home, when he had first seen that orphanage, the idea of it had been a tempting one. That had been eight months ago, when he had become stuck in the cold air of early February, longing for the warmth of indoors but not willing to go back to his foster parents to receive it. His first few weeks had been spent wondering if he would even live to see the age of ten, and the thought was still in his subconscious for months after, until September rolled around. His birthday had passed by him without so much as a wave hello – he had spent a week being ten years old without even knowing it until he asked an old woman he had managed to charm a bit of cash out of what the date was. Mentioning then that he had bee ten for eight days without knowing it had caused a tear to fall down the frail woman's wrinkled cheekbone, and had also gotten Al another ten pounds to "buy himself a birthday present." He had gotten the hint there; he played the I-didn't-even-know-it-was-my-birthday card for most of the day after that and had come out about a hundred pounds richer.

If eight months on the streets had taught him anything, it was that people had a tendency to pity homeless children more than homeless adults. It had also taught him to stay out of back alleys, but that was besides the point.

Al gazed across the street from the sidewalk he had taken a seat upon a few minutes ago. It wasn't the most pleasant thing in the world, living out here, but it was really a choice. However, he had made it for the past eight months, and he had done just fine so far. Whenever he found himself glaring enviously at children gripping their parents' hands as they happily skipped their way down the road, he simply reminded himself that he could have easily been in a much worse predicament. His foster parents had been absolute hell, he thought with a grimace. This was better than that. He couldn't have stood them for any longer. His foster father had been a drunken maniac, and his foster mother, as kind a woman as she was, was too timid for her own good. She refused to stand up to the man, and so he generally beat her half to death at least twice a week and would round on Al from time to time. He couldn't stand it, watching her cower in the corner while he screamed at her and kicked her like a dog, hiding behind locked doors himself to avoid the man as often as possible. Five years of that had been more than enough for him. He had a better chance of surviving alone on the streets than he would have if he had stayed there.

He had enough of an education to know what was what, though it hadn't been a particularly good one, frankly. He had simply managed to befriend children with good families who went to school and learned what he could from them. He could read and write fine, and he knew what was considered basic math for his age. History was idiotic anyway, in his opinion; what use did he have in knowing about the past when he was busy trying to fend for himself as he was now? He had never liked history when he was in school anyway. Science had always seemed fairly useless to him as well – if early civilization had survived without it, then he could, too. He knew how to read signs, he knew how to talk, and he could count money. That was more than enough for him. If he ever needed to know anything else, he would simply grab a few schoolbooks from one of his better-off friends and look through them.

He gave a sigh as he gazed around disinterestedly. He would have never guessed that this sort of life could get dull. It didn't seem like it was supposed to be – just the thought of living on the streets brought on an excited, fearful rush of adrenaline for onlookers who lived in houses and flats and had decent lives and good families, even if they didn't wish to admit it. Anyone with a sense of adventure felt it. After a few weeks of actually living out there, however, the adrenaline would begin to wear off. After survival was confirmed, things toned down. Decisions linked to adrenaline that seemed as though they might have meant life or death earlier on could be solved through logical thinking now, through a thing known commonly as "street smarts." After those first couple of weeks, possibly the first few months, the adrenaline rush mostly went away.

Even so, little surprises were still beheld every so often.

Al watched with raised eyebrows as a woman walked quickly down the sidewalk he was sitting upon and up to the front steps of an apartment building. There she set a bundle of cloths on the doorstep and stuck a small, folded piece of paper inside the cloth. The woman herself had drab, dark red hair that looked like it hadn't been brushed or washed in quite some time. Al scoffed to himself – even living on the streets, he was managing to keep decent hygiene. Her clothes were practically rags hanging off of her: a tattered, dirty white shirt, a grayish skirt that could have been denim or might not have been, and a pair of old tennis shoes. She was tall and skinny, far too skinny to be healthy. Beneath the eyes set into her gaunt face, he saw as she walked away from the apartment, were heavy bags, so dark that they could have been mistaken for smudged mascara. Al looked away and rolled his eyes. She was a drug addict, no doubt. There were more than enough of them around this area of the town. It wasn't a huge surprise.

He looked back up when a shadow passed behind him and he looked to his left to see the woman walking away from that apartment complex swiftly, her head held low, matted hair screening her face from the view of any possible onlookers. He watched as she turned a corner and hurried out of sight, though she turned her head and made eye contact with him for a split second before – her eyes were red, but she looked perfectly sober. She was crying….

But then – then he heard it, issuing from that same apartment building, from just outside it… on its doorstep? He could hear the sound of a crying baby.

Al looked over his shoulder to see that the bundle of blankets was now moving. Curiosity piqued quickly enough, and before he had a say in the manner, his legs had stood him up and begun to move him towards the source of the racket. He stopped just before the top step that led up to the front door of the apartment building, where the bundle lay. Sure enough, poking out through the top was a small, rather frustrated face of an infant, and a very young one from the looks of it. Between the baby and the cloth was a folded piece of paper. Al bent down and retrieved it, then sat down on the stairs as he unfolded it to read the words scrawled upon the tearstained paper.

Arthur, you rat bastard,

I thought you might want this back. You gave it to me in

the first place and left, after all, you feckless piece of shit.

She was born yesterday. I can't take care of her, and I

don't give a damn anyway. I'll let you name her, I don't

care what it is, and I'll kill you if you come looking for me

to give the damn thing back, it's not like I wanted it in

the first place.

Have a nice life, fuckface.

Abigail

Al refolded the letter, breathing out a heavy sigh of air, and set it down by the bundle. He looked down at the baby. To have been born yesterday, she was quite alert – as he read, she had stopped crying and begun looking up at him with wide, curious turquoise eyes. He looked back down at her, turning slightly to the side.

"Wha' d'ye think yer lookin' at, aye?" That curious look was his only response. With a sigh, he tucked the letter back into her wrap. "Sorry, lass, but it's not my job to be takin' care yeh."

She watched him again as he stood, and he turned away to walk off. After a few steps away from the stairs, the crying started again. Al flinched and turned around to look back at the bundle from where he stood. It truly wasn't any of his business, and he was only ten – that was hardly an age suited to care for a baby, much less a newborn one. But as he took a step back, his stomach turned miserably. He gave a groan, rolling his eyes skyward – morals had to be the most hateful of all human personality traits. She would have a better chance of surviving if he did something than she would if she was left here in nothing but a few blankets on a doorstep in slums like these. But what could he do?

His feet seemed entirely apathetic about what he could do, as they were gladly carrying him back over to the baby anyway. When she took sight of him, she stopped crying again. Now she was reduced pitifully to pouting and a few pitiful sobs. Al looked down at her, then up at the sky. "This is bloody great…" he mumbled under his breath, before reaching down and lifting her up. "Bloody pest, yeh are, yeh know that?" he said with a sig. "What'm I supposed to do with yeh?" As though to answer him, the sounds of yelling children suddenly erupted from a few streets over. The sound was faint, but just loud enough for him to hear it. He looked up at the apartment building, though what he saw was far beyond. "No, I can' do that… I mean, surely yeh'd stand a be'er chance there'n yeh would here, but…." He sighed and looked down. "Wha d'yeh think?" He received a few blinks in response, and another hiccup. "I haven't got any other ideas. How about if I promise ter visit yeh every day? That should do, yeah?" She only stared blinkingly up at him now. "I guess tha' could be a yes…. All righ' then tha's good. Wouldn't want ter leave yeh here, I know what goes on 'round this place. Not a good place at all for little lasses like yerself. Not to say that helljole is good for yeh, but it's better'n this, eh?" He paused and shook his had, taking a step off the stairs. "What am I talkin' to yeh for? Jaysus, I'm goin' mad…" He shook his head once more and continued away from the apartment complex.

It had been nearly ten years since that day, but he still found himself pondering over it as he looked down at his reflection in a pint glass. He had changed a lot in that time. Al was nineteen years old now, soon to be twenty. His preferred identity was Alvin McManerberry – Alvin for his preferred name, as Alfred just sounded a bit too dorky; and McManerberry from the name of a town he had heard in an animated comedy series about an uptight Texan, as it sounded Irish enough and it had a nice ring to it. Perhaps the only thing that had changed about him physically was his height and his age. He was still a redhead, still had an annoying smattering of freckles over his face, and still hated it. The childish innocence was gone from his face without a trace, had been fading since he hit the age of twelve or thirteen, probably, but it had been replaced with a deceivingly trustworthy smile and pair of gray-green eyes.

Perhaps his physique had changed from the gangly preteen he had once been as well. He had grown into his height after a while, and had added a bit of muscle upon getting a job bartending at Mac's Tavern – if he ever needed to throw any unruly customers, then he had to be fit enough to fight them, so it was only practical. He hadn't lost a single fight since he had started working there almost two years ago. The owner of the pub, Mr. McKinley – old Mac himself – was quite proud of the work Al had done and generally left him in charge of the pub any time he needed to leave town.

Now that he was of age, he also had a flat down the road from the pub, one he had gotten just before the job. He didn't particularly need a job; it was more a hobby than anything. He couldn't get away with begging quite as much anymore since he was old enough now to be out on his own, but a combination of good acting skills, a smile that almost anyone would trust without question, and a good dosage of street smarts had done him quite well over the years. He was good enough at making fake IDs now, and had started drinking himself when he was around fifteen, though he had started his "career," as he liked to call it, as a con artist earlier than that. He was well known by quite a few big time crooks at this point, and he had plenty of friends also in the business. His job at this pub was ideal for him, as he could spot a fake ID from a mile off and the owner could hardly tell a picture pasted on a piece of cardboard with a bit of writing on it from the real thing. He could also smoke on the job and fleece a pint or two when Mac wasn't around, and he got discounts there when he wasn't working. He only worked there because he enjoyed it, and it only further improved his people skills. He didn't need the money, not at all; he had enough credit card scams running to make Bill Gates look poverty-stricken.

He was at the heyday of his career as a con artist, high up enough that he got calls from top of the line business owners and executives, detectives and even police officers, looking for him to work for them in bringing others down or finding out things. When he did accept jobs, it wasn't out of a need for the money offered to him as a prize, but was more out of how fun the job sounded. He did occasionally need the cash, and in that case, he would just pick the most interesting job offered to him over the course of a few days to a few weeks, depending on just how badly he needed money. Usually, though, credit cards could get him by without a problem.

"Oi, 'ow about yeh quit drinkin' on the job and get us a pint?"

Al looked up with raised eyebrows from his glass of rum and coke, half inquisitively and half in surprise – he was normally fairly alert when customers sat at the bar, particularly directly in front of him. He had zoned a little, something he would have to avoid doing again. The inquisition in the look, however, was aimed at the most likely underage teenager who had just set a five pound note on the bar. He saw this sort of thing often enough, and didn't generally bother attempting to be intimidating unless the kid in question decided to be an idiot.

"''Ow about yeh show me some ID an' I'll think aboot it?" He kept his tone amiable enough, and the boy produced a wallet from his pocket a moment later, pulled what appeared to be a driver's license from it, and laid it upon the counter on top of the money. Al flipped it around to look at it. "Huh. I'll be damned." He put his hand down on the ID to hold it in place when the boy, who was "Darrell Marcus" according to the ID and had been eighteen for about eight months. "This is far better an attempt than most come in with." He slid the money and the ID back across the counter to the boy and smiled at the surprised look he received in response to the action. "Not that I couldn't make anything just as good or better, meself. It might've actually fooled me if I'd been 'avin' an off day, but I'm not very easy to fool. It could probably get yeh anythin' at another other pub around here." He looked over at the other two that had apparently walked in with the brunette. Both looked younger; the older of the two had straight black hair about to his shoulders and favored the one with the fake ID; probably brothers. The third had lighter brown hair and was younger yet. Al would have placed them him at about twelve, the back haired one at fourteen or fifteen, and the older of the three at fifteen or sixteen at the most. "I'm guessing no one else wants to give it a try now?"

"Damn…" the first one said, taking the money and ID and putting it back in his wallet. He looked back up after, grinning – he was going to take another shot at it, almost definitely. "Well, yeh seem agreeable enough, aye? 'Ow about yeh jus' pretend it fooled yeh? Yeh'll jus' be losing business to McCaffery's 'cross the street otherwise. Would yer boss think it was a fake?"

"I doubt it. Tha's par' of why 'e hired me." He looked disappointed again. "But," Al continued slowly, "as yeh said, business is business." He looked back up hopefully. "Ah, why not. Yeh made a good effort. I'll even give yeh one on the 'ouse fer the quality of the ID, been a while since I've seen one that could've fooled me."

The boy ended up admitting he was a sixteen year old that went by the name of Don. He and his brother Sean – who was indeed the one with the black hair – had left home a couple years ago. The other boy was Pat, who lived with his strict grandmother and was basically hanging around with the brothers for the excitement of life on the streets without actually having to live on the streets. Don had been working endlessly at perfecting making fake IDs for the past couple of years, and this had been the first place he had tried it.

"Bad luck there," Al said with a laugh, lighting up a cigarette after listening to the story. "Yeh could fool most police with tha', no doubt."

"Then 'ow the hell did you manage to pick it out?"

"I told yeh already, it's no better than anythin' I could make meself," he said, grabbing an ashtray from under his side of the bar. "But I've 'ad almost ten years at it, so no worries, yeh'll get be'er at it."

"Ten years?" Pat inquired. "When did yeh start, then?"

"Well, frankly, it's more along the lines of nearly seven years, as I didn't have to start worryin' aboot that until I was thirteen. From ten until nearly fourteen, I jus' got by on beggin' an' actin' helpless. Then I had to start aging, pain in the arse, ter be completely honest, but I'd 'ad a few years to work up enough common sense to come up with some new ideas, an' tha' was about when I started lookin' into fake identities an' credit card scams, all tha', yeh know."

"Hey…" Don said speculatively, "yer name's not Alvin McManerberry, by any chance?"

"Heavens, no," Al said. "I'd never release me real name to the public, that's jus' my preferred alias."

"Oh, fecking brilliant," Don said with a laugh. "I walk into a random pub to test me craftsmanship in fake identification out and the barkeep jus' happens ter be the most bloody renowned con artist in the country."

"It's jus' like I said, mate; bad luck there."

As I said, entirely OC.

I'll be getting into the storyline in the next chapter. It'll be entirely OC for a few chapters still, not counting the shinigami, but L will be in the story, and he will be important.