Game, Set, Match

by Rennaia123

Cyber vigilantes are always in danger. Even though the world they work in is intangible, the risks are very, very real. The game they're playing- a high stakes game of chess, the entire world being their board. Kira and his supernatural abilities is the final ingredient to the Molotov Cocktail that is their life. (Warning: Mention of drugs, sex and violence.)

8. Scarred- Matt's Story

Matt's Story.

"Shhhhhh, Mel. It'll be okay. It's just Father."

The little auburn haired girl cowered into the corner of the room, hearing the cacophony of broken glass. She was yet far too young to understand exactly what was going on- she was just three. But the six year old Mail Jeevas understood perfectly well. His father was at it. Again.

Mail bent down protectively over his sister.

"Hide, Melanie. Under the bed. I'll come back for you and tell you when the coast is clear."

She didn't understand the words too well, but she got the gist of it. It was after all, routine. She nodded her consent and with a worried glance at her brother, crawled into the little space between the floor and the bed. The bed itself was rickety and bent- dangerously close to caving in, toppling the mattress onto the tiny girl, but one thing was for sure. It was a hell of a lot safer than out there.

Echoes bounced around the hallway.

"…CINDY. Where is that… little shit? We're out… money."

Mail was resigned. Everyday he hoped that the man he was forced to call his father would just forget about him and just drink himself into oblivion. But unfortunately, the God he was forced to believe in was never merciful. At least not to him, it seemed.

He winced at a soft, but discernable yelp from the direction of the living room. It was time for him to face today's horrors. For his sister's sake, and for his mother's sake.

Melanie, with wide eyes, watched him go, leaving the door swinging softly shut behind him. She was both fearful and in awe. It was always scary to see him with a new pattern of bruising and scarring every day. But it was also incredible. To her, he was like some sort of superhero- never shying away from the punches, crying out or making a sound. He'd always get back up, no complaints.

He was a hero. Her hero.

Mail went into the living room. He saw his mother sprawled on the cracked and dirtied linoleum, the count of cheap vodka bottles up by six. The man was tall and scraggly- balding with a few teeth missing. Not much in the strength department, but compared to a six year old boy, three year old girl and a twenty five year old anorexic street hooker addicted to crack, he was Hercules.

And Hercules was advancing. Cane in hand.

"Well, boy. Were you hiding again?"

His voice was slurred. Surprise, surprise. He was drunk. Which made him as dangerous to Mail as a sabretooth tiger in a ten square foot space. Mail, having good self-preservative instincts, lowered his eyes to the ground and quietly murmured. He had learned his lesson by now. To survive, submit. His punishment might just lessen.

"No, Sir."

The air whistled as the cane came down and a sharp crack lingered in the air as the wood met flesh. Reddish-brown hair fell into Mail's face, shadowing his eyes, which were screwed shut in pain. Yet, he showed no other reaction. He didn't expect the following kick to his back, which sent him flying into a metal chair, but that didn't elicit a grunt of pain either.

He just lay face down on the floor, sprawled. The man strode over to the boy and shoved his bony knee into Mail's neck.

"We're outta cash again kid. Why dontcha go get s'more."

It was getting incredibly difficult to breathe. Mail wanted to gasp for breath- his hand clenched a fistful of the cheap rug as if his life depended on it, knuckles going white. But his fear as always, was greater than his need to breathe.

"Joseph, let him go. You won't get any money if you kill him."

Mail was saved by his mother from further torture. The man promptly took his leg off the boy, who rolled over and as silently as he possibly could, sucked the sweet air into his burning lungs. Another yelp came from his mother as she was kicked once more in the ribs.

"'Cuz you're such a useless bitch. Pretty lil' mouth o' yours works its magic, but no cash. Slut, doin' for free eh? Or are they askin' for refunds?"

Another yelp and Mail winced again. He slowly stood up, testing his limbs to see if nothing was broken. Well, if nothing else was broken. He had a broken arm that was taped together with packaging tape and toe that was wrapped in a filthy crepe bandage and plaster.

The drunk slowly came back to him.

"Watcha waitin' for? Bring us back some money if ya want ta eat dinner t'night."

An infinite number of words no six year olds should know raced through his mind, partly due to his step-father's limited, yet colorful vocabulary and uncensored cable channels that was put on blaringly loud in the middle of the night just because the drunk bastard felt like it.

Motherfucking son-of-a-bitch. I'll get you money this time. But when I get older, you'll fucking see you pile of Scandinavian sheep shit. I'll show you fucking pain. I'll cut you, the way you cut me and Ma. I'll kill you, you asswipe. Just you fucking wait, dick. I'll fucking kill you.

No matter how many angry words flew through his mind, his face never betrayed it. And for that, he was grateful. It was the reason he was still alive.

The sad situation was that the drunk was the king of the castle. He beat his mother, stole her cash and beat her again saying that she didn't earn enough. Didn't 'fuck hard enough', in his own words. Mail couldn't bear to idly stand by and watch. That's when he began stealing. The money never appeased the man, but it ensured that he could afford to buy enough bottles to knock him out for a good seven hours, twelve if he was especially wasted.

Said drunk managed to somehow zig-zag and stumble into the kitchen, most likely deciding that his tidings for the day merited him a beer. Mail inched towards his fallen mother and helped her up the best he could with his good arm. She had a hazy look in her eyes, but nonetheless stroked his hair almost comfortingly.

"Does it hurt much, sweetie?"

The boy let a few tears slip, now that Joseph was gone. He nodded.

"Yeah. But I can take it though."

Cindy Jeevas ran her fingers through the mop of red hair on his head, muttering.

"Let's both take the medicine. It'll be better soon."

She dropped her hand and rummaged around in her bra for something and Mail was waiting almost eagerly. It was the one thing that made his life easier. His one out.

She pulled out a small white packet. Crack cocaine. Fishing out a long-expired credit card, she cut two lines- one thicker than the other. One more quick rootle round in the flesh of her boobs yielded a small straw. With shaky hands, she put the tube in one nostril, closed the other and sharply inhaled. Her head fell back as she took it all in.

With that, Cindy Jeevas handed the straw to her young son, who did the exact same thing.

A familiar tingling sensation permeated through his body, washing away his pain, making him feel… warmer. Safer. Happier.

With glassy eyes, his mother reached out for him, patting him goodbye.

Mail stood up on firmer legs, no longer able to feel the pain of his lacerations, broken arm or toe. He shoved his feet into his sneakers, put on his overlarge coat and stepped out, not feeling the bitter cold of the snow anymore.

His fingers ghosted upon the small, cheap smartphone that his stepfather had splurged on. But it wasn't an act of kindness- a gift out of the goodwill of his heart. Joseph simply knew a golden egg-laying goose when he saw one. Though Mail himself didn't know, Joseph Jeevas realized that the kid was not an ordinary one. Even in his perpetual drunken haze, he could tell that the kid was a genius of epic proportions.

Mail was the only one in the house who knew how to read. And he was six. Further proof was provided when the toddler managed to somehow work some voodoo magic with wires and get them cable TV.

Sloshing through the slushy snow in the streets, the boy made it to the library and walked inside. If anyone saw a beaten up looking child in a worn coat limping inside, no one mentioned it. He walked up to the computers, stacking a few books up to reach the keyboard. Taking out a battered charger cable from his jacket pocket, Mail plugged in the phone into the USB slot. The interface of the computer changed and the boy began typing, transferring money into his stepfather's account.

In other words, the boy at the age of six was hacking into the nearest Best Buy's POS system and transferring the money from the purchases made in the following ten minutes into Joseph's account. Mail settled into his chair and picked up a magazine. National Geographic.

Nearby, a man inconspicuously reading a newspaper straightened slightly, hearing his earpiece crackle.

"…Jenkins. It's happening. Best Buy on tenth street this time. IP address . Bounced across a couple servers, but came back to your location. Do you see anyone suspicious?"

Jenkins flipped out his mobile and spoke into it, pretending he was taking a call. He surveyed the surroundings. His eyes picked out an elderly man squinting at his monitor, a little street urchin-like child, a crisply dressed office woman and an Asian man, with a piercing in his eyebrow. The latter seemed the most suspicious, but his screen was clearly visible to him. He was on Facebook.

"No. Harley, sweetheart, you sure you have the right address?"

Translation: No one suspicious. Are you entirely sure this is where the hack initiated?

"Positive. I retraced. Check for laptops connected to an Ethernet port then."

Jenkins looked around. Casually standing, he walked over to the bookshelves and while absently pretending to stare at covers of… dictionaries… he scanned the room. Twelve people were on laptops, three connected to the library's only three free use Ethernet ports, the rest on dongles. He quietly walked behind all of them.

One was uploading pictures onto Instagram. A holiday in China, proudly waving a chicken drumstick in the camera.

The next was reading some online article about the Mitt Romney's campaign.

The third was technically 'hacking'. But then again, it wasn't the type of stuff he was after. He was bypassing the parental controls installed by using a different proxy. To watch hentai.

He spoke into the phone again.

"No dear, you don't have to cook for me tonight."

He could hear furious clicking of keys over his earpiece. Then a victorious shout.

"AHA! I have the exact location. Alright. The computer is… near the entrance. Go there and I'll try and increase the quality of the schematics to pinpoint it."

Jenkins frowned. The entrance. Only the desktops were there and they were the least suspicious of all the people in the library. But anyway, he complied.

"Alright. Can you give me the layout of what you see?"

He bit back a sigh. How he wished he didn't have to talk in code. Creativity was not his strong suit.

"Well, I was thinking. Maybe we should arrange five desks in a circle around the entrance y'know? So that the kids can play and have fun. Mm. We should also put vases on four of the tables, and leave one empty for snacks and stuff."

Harley, all the way back in Langley, got the message. Five desktops, four occupied. In a circle, so he couldn't see all of the screens at once- it was far too suspicious to go around the area. The perp could balk and run.

Then she had another idea.

"Are there cameras?"

Jenkins looked at the ceiling. He smiled and laughed as if he enjoyed talking to his wife.

"Why yes! Cameras are a great gift. Maybe a couple Cyber-Shots?"

Couple. Two.

"Okay. Hang on. I'm going to hack into the security feed and find where you are. Hold on…"

She bit her tongue and her fingers moved like lightning across the keys. She frowned and cursed. The security cameras were 'in maintenance' for the week. She couldn't tell if it was the perp jamming the feed, or if it really was busted for the day. She scratched her head thinking hard. And then her face cleared. Maybe…

She looked for the video feed and the IP addresses that accessed the Internet the week before. She scanned the log, trying to find a specific time at which only the IP address she had on her screen accessed the Internet. After a few frustrating minutes, she found it. Saturday, the 12th of May. 12:42 pm. Spinning her chair to yet another monitor, she pulled up the video feed in the archives for that day, at that time.

Only one computer was on, and a dumpy woman was picking at her nails, gazing at the screen, bored. It was the desktop between the two big bookshelves.

"JENKINS. The desktop you're looking for is between two bookshelves. Er. If you stand at the entrance… it'll be… the third one going anticlockwise."

Jenkins thought to himself. Got you, you son of a bitch. He didn't turn around yet- he wanted to act very calm so he didn't alert the thief to police presence. Well, FBI presence. Then, he slowly walked to the entrance and turned around.

He stared. And stared some more.

"Harley. Are you entirely sure?"

She frowned, her jubilant expression fading into irritation. Her pride was wounded.

"Of course I am. Go get the bastard."

Jenkins paused.

"Harley, it's a kid. A fucking tiny kid, barely out of diapers. He's our thief."

There was silence on the other end and the agent just rubbed his temples. This was what you called a plot twist. God dammit.

"Connect me to the Director."

Never taking his eyes off the miniscule redheaded figure, he spoke in a hushed tone over the phone, dropping all pretense of being a lovey-dovey spouse.

"Sir. We have a problem. Our perp is a child. Five maybe. Or younger. He looks abused as well. We can't take him into custody- no doubt he's being used. Sir, I propose we set a tail on the boy and find his family. According to Harley, all the money is going into a bank account in Chase. We wait until the boy's mother or father gets to the bank, and when he makes the withdrawal, apprehend him/her."

There was a pregnant pause and a resigned sigh.

"Fine. And call Child Protective Services. Get this mess cleaned up."

"Yes, Sir."

The line was cut off and he head a dial tone. Snapping his phone shut, he sank into the chair, letting the child steal some more money. Something told him he was more than the social workers would be able to handle.

A beeping noise came from the phone. A timer.

Mail quickly picked it up and triple pressed the home button. The phone's true interface appeared as he disengaged from the deep web. He pulled the cable from the USB port and the rolling hills of the Windows wallpaper appeared once more. The desktop was very outdated- but then again, this was Henderson. Not exactly the technological hub of the world.

He had jacked about six hundred dollars in total. That should keep the bastard busy for… assuming he bought cheap beer and the occasional bottle of toddy, maybe three weeks. He also had a nasty poker habit and coupled with his bad winning streak, it was a lethal combination.

Joseph would perhaps give them enough to buy a couple boxes of cereal and some milk bottles for Melanie. Vegetables and fruit were luxuries that they simply couldn't have- the children settled for grapes and whatever other small fruits Mail could stuff in his pockets when they went to the supermarket, for vitamins and minerals. He had to take care of his baby sister.

Turning off the computer and stuffing his phone and cable back into his coat, he hopped off his perch and replaced the books. Then, the little red haired boy walked out into the winter maelstrom, shivering from the cold, though he didn't feel it.

The boy sat crouched on the floor in front of his laptop, knees drawn to his check, arms circling his knees. His back was curved to a painful-looking extent and he stared into the screen with large, unblinking dark eyes.

Wammy sat on a chair, legs crossed, watching the young boy have a conversation with the Director of the FBI. He smiled to himself as he looked upon his protégé. L was a special boy. He had stumbled upon the young prodigy six years ago, when he was seven. Now, five years later, he was on the fast lane to becoming the world's greatest detective.

Not any old child spoke to the FBI Director so familiarly. Well, the FBI didn't know that he was a mere twelve-year-old. Not that it mattered. The gray matter inside that skull of his worked more efficiently than even the most elite detectives in the FBI, CIA, you name it. But Quillish Wammy could imagine the outrage of the police forces once they realize that the man they were beginning to know as the miracle worker, L, was not a man, but a child.

A mike was drawn up to the child's face, hidden by a crow's nest of messy hair as dark as pitch. His skin was made even paler than it really was by the artificial light of the monitor, which bore the FBI Director's visage on it. All the FBI saw of L was simply his name- a single gothic letter upon their screens. The mike distorted the boy's prepubescent voice.

L's thumb was a permanent fixture in his mouth and he wiggled his toes sporadically, his feet bare. He was thinking. His free hand gingerly pinched a fork, with which he stabbed a piece of coffee cheesecake- sweets being the only thing that he would bring in the vicinity of his mouth.

"Yes. Mm. I understand. Have you narrowed down on the father's name?"

The Director fiddled around with a sheaf of papers before he drew one with a flourish.

"Ah. Yes. According to the records, the money was transferred to a Joseph Jeevas. Unemployed. Married to a Cindy Liting."

L absently stuffed his mouth with a piece of cheesecake and swallowed it whole, like a snake engulfing a suckling pig.

"Very well. Keep a close eye on the bank and arrest on sight. But I do notice that the documents you sent me have no mention of any children. The boy being his son is simply an assumption, am I right?"

The Director began to look a little flustered. It was careless in the line of detective work, to assume.

"I suppose, although Cindy is confirmed to be a prostitute at a brothel in the city. She could have had the child out of wedlock."

The boy was stacking sugar cubes now and Wammy couldn't help but be intrigued. A child? What has a child got to do with this? When did a child even get into the picture? Maybe when he went out to get the cake out of the oven. L certainly was a high maintenance child. Not in the general sense, but for him to function, he needed sugar. A lot of it. Enough to short out anyone's pancreas.

"Mmmm. Yes. Well, I'd say the rest of it is clear cut. If you can't indict him with the theft, you certainly can for child abuse. In fact, with the latter, you could get him a longer sentence. Stealing seven thousand dollars is not such a huge crime when it comes down to it."

The Director nodded.

"Yes L. Anything else."

The boy's mind was working overtime.

"Yes, actually. Don't arrest the boy. In fact, if you would be so kind, bring him and his sibling over to the Riverfront Hotel. Leave them at the lobby. I'll handle the rest personally."

There was a pause, the Director looking quite puzzled. L took the opportunity to drink some of his tea. Which was not so much tea anymore. It was quite literally syrup. It never seized to wonder (and worry) Wammy.

"Sibling?"

L glanced up at the screen.

"Hm? Oh yes. I should perhaps explain. The man you have described is likely to be a compulsive drinker and gambler, sticking to the same routine for years. When the thefts began, every three weeks, about four hundred dollars were stolen. That was roughly five years ago. Yet, three years ago, the amount stolen increased by a third. Which in turn leads me to believe that there was an addition to the family. A sibling, who is most likely three."

Wammy smiled. Nothing ever the boy.

The FBI Director nodded, accepting the theory.

"Alright. Thank you, L. I shall let you know of how the arrest goes."

L scratched his head.

"Thank you, Director."

He abruptly cut off the line and the screen went blank. Clicking a button on the mike/voice distorter, L stiffly got up and climbed onto the couch, perching like an owl on a tree branch. Wammy, or rather, Watari, was he was known to the outside world figured that now would be a good time as any to know of the entirety of the case. The mentions of children in a hacking case intrigued him. His talent scout senses were a-tingle.

"L, am I to understand that there is a child involved?"

The boy was staring intently out of the window, but at the sound of his voice, turned around, coming out of his daze.

"Oh, hm. Yes. I was about to tell you, Watari. The hacker was in fact a child. According to Agent Jenkins, he was about five or six. I asked the police to bring him and his sibling here because there's a chance that he would be a good addition to the Wammy's House. In fact, I'm almost certain."

Wammy was infinitely glad to hear it.

He knew that L was the beginning of a new era. With the wealth that he had amassed and with L's help, expanded, he wanted to establish something that would preserve the sanctity of the world for generations to come- even after he was long gone. He was always on the look-out for a line of successors for L, a lineage of genius detectives who could solve puzzles that the police just didn't understand.

A barely-past-toddler who could stump the FBI for months? Wammy would have to test his temperament and character to determine if he was suited to follow in the path of justice. But it seemed like it was a very good place to start.

Quillish had already sought out a bunch of children. A seemed to be the most suited so far, but his anxiety and inferiority complex was proving to be a tough hurdle to jump. Beyond, or BB as he called himself was also almost equaling L in his intellectual prowess, but the boy had a malignant aura that Wammy just couldn't put his finger on. He was twisted. X, Y, and Z were capable, but not at L's level. They were geniuses in their own right, in different fields. Detective work was not for them.

"But I distinctly recall you asking the FBI to bring both children."

L turned his lamp-like eyes to Watari.

"Genius runs in the family. I'm lead to believe that the boy's sibling is his half-sibling. Perhaps his mother has a latent powerful gene. If his sibling proves to be intellectually superior, it could prove very advantageous. However, if he/she isn't, then only the boy comes to Wammy's House. His sibling must go to the foster care system."

It was the sad truth. Living amongst geniuses was difficult. Wammy and his associate, Roger, had tried to bring in ordinary children to live amongst the gifted. It was the start of many problems. Of the five that came in, three ran away, one begged to go back to the foster care system and the last killed himself because he always finished last in his exams. That's when it was decided that only children excelling in one way or another could enter the orphanage.

No exceptions.

"Of course. I'll go pick them up at three tomorrow."

L had predicted that the man would go to claim his money the first thing tomorrow. Assuming the arrest went well and that the bank opens as usual at eleven, giving an hour for the arrest, two hours to claim mother and children and get them treated for whatever injuries they had undoubtedly sustained, as well as to arrest the mother for child neglect, and another hour for the drive to Riverfront, Watari should be there at the right time.

The boy turned again to look at him with extra wide eyes, the dark circles ringing them even more pronounced than ever. He smiled a tiny smile. Watari sighed. He knew exactly what L was going to say next.

"Watari…"

He tapped the now-empty dish with his fork.

"… Cake please. Chocolate sponge this time. Extra chocolate, and maybe cherries."

The older man sighed. Though he's a detective, he was a child. Maybe, he'll grow out of this candy phase when he gets older. He looked over at L licking his fingers dutifully.

Though that's a very big maybe.

Mail wearily entered the house. His fingers were numb and he was beginning to feel cold. So cold. And hungry… but not so much for food. It was… like an itch inside his body that he just couldn't scratch no matter how hard he tried. Only Ma's medicine seemed to make it better. He wanted some more, but Ma said only once a day. So he had to wait.

He knocked on the door six times, with a two second pause between each two knocks. It was a message for his sister to come to the door and unlock it. He knew very well that his mother was passed out and his step-dad was either slumped over the kitchen table or sitting in front of the TV, mouth lolling open- in both instances, drunk out of his mindscape.

In about half a minute, he heard a twist of locks and grating of metal as his sister tugged at the various locks and bolts that shut the door against any of his step-dad's poker buddies and the occasional money lender coming for his due.

Her little face popped up as the door opened a crack and seeing him, she opened it all the way.

"Mail. You're home! I was so worried."

He bent down a little and patted her head.

"I'm okay Mellie. Now. Is Father sleeping?"

Her expression immediately turned fearful and she nodded slowly and carefully.

"Yea. He's in the kitch'n. Ma's in the life room."

Life room was Melanie-speak for living room. She was not quite as literate as Mail, although she was not slow. It was just that he was far too fast.

He stepped in quietly, motioning his sister to follow him. They slowly went upstairs so as to not rouse the dragon and once they made it to the small, dirty room they shared, Mail let out the breath he had been holding. He allowed a small smile to come over his face as he rummaged in his pockets. He had brought Melanie a gift.

Bringing out the small bar of candy, he presented it quietly to the younger one, who took it and grinned toothily at him.

"Wow, 'fanks Mail."

He smiled a little wider. He'd do anything to keep that smile on her face.

He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the slowly worsening pain in his guts. The itch was getting so bad. He wanted to get a cigarette- the ones his mother said would take away the itch. But of these, he was allowed only one a day. He had to save it for later, for when the pain would become too great to bear. He balled onto his side, but almost immediately rolled back. His rib was bruised.

He sighed softly and ignored the dull throb of pain. But his eyes shot open as something solid was poking at his lips.

Melanie was blinking innocently at him, having snapped her bar in two. She was putting half of her candy bar into his mouth. He shook his head.

"No, Mellie. That's yours. I got it for you."

She shook her head, pouting.

"No. Mail no eat, Mel no eat."

He breathed a sigh again. His sister was stubborn and it was endearing. But he knew that she was growing- she needed all the nutrition she could get. Never did it once cross his mind that he himself was a fast growing boy who needed much more energy than she did, given his gender and his mental capabilities. But such was his character.

He also knew that Mel wouldn't rest until he accepted the chocolate, so grudgingly, he took it. Only when he did put the piece in his mouth did she start nibbling at the corner of hers like a happy little ferret. It was downright adorable.

After that, he tapped into the cable TV network and managed to somehow get a cartoon show on for his sister so she could fall asleep. He couldn't though- he had to stay up until the drunk got up from his peaceful slumber. Tomorrow was the collection day- Mail had to tell him how much money he had stolen. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sat on the bed, holding up the phone so Mel could see the characters animatedly hopping up and down in glee.

In ten minutes, the girl was asleep. He arranged the blankets around her and kissed her head goodnight. Then, he moved to a chair and sat down, putting down the volume of the phone and switching the channel to HBO. Death Race was going on and he was greeted by a volley of swears and an explosion. His type of film.

He intently watched trucks wheeling over dunes, guns a-blaze. And then, a sound more horrifying to him than all the blood spurting out of an exploding skull on film. A slight stirring downstairs and the creak of a chair.

The drunkard had finally gotten himself off the table and he was most certainly coming his way to claim his spoils.

Turning off his phone, Mail stashed it in a drawer and went out of the room. No doubt he would get a beating- he didn't want his sister to be woken by the noise. Sucking in a breath, suffering from the pangs and itching inside his body for more of Ma's Marvelous Medicine, he stumbled downstairs. Each time his toe touched the ground, it felt like a gunshot through his foot. Fucking hell.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, silent and emotionless. Just then, the bloodshot eyes of a gin-soaked Joseph peered into the hallway, before the body of the man himself lurched around the corner.

"Ah. Boy. Ye back. How machavya got this time 'round?"

His drawl and foggy, disgusting breath made Mail's skin crawl and his already warring stomach to roil. He wanted to go and throw up in the corner, but that would probably earn him nothing but another broken bone. Maybe a cranial bone this time.

How he desperately wanted to say 'fuck you, you pile of worthless chicken shit.' He particularly liked that line- from Christine if his memory serves. And he thought it aptly described the pungent waste of space and air in front of him.

But, alas, he feared death. So he settled for a meek reply.

"Five hundred and sixty four dollars and seventy three cents."

He screwed his eyes shut, but uttered no sound as his ear was pinched in a vice grip. Even drunk, his fingers were like talons. A fucking drunk harpy.

"Tha's not enough, boy. I can't hurtcha too bad. But I can hurtcha Ma. You don' wan' that d'ya?"

Oh how he wanted to kill the man in front of him. How he wished he was taller and stronger so he could pound in the skull of that vile, pathetic excuse of a human being with the very ale bottle he drank from. He wanted to see his brains spattered across the linoleum. He'd go to jail until he dies to be rid of that abomination. But he couldn't kill him. His Ma said she loves him. She loves him.

"No, Sir."

The man blinked, woozy and stumbled twice to regain his balance.

"Hn. Good. Know your place, boy. Remember that if ya don' get 'bove s'en 'undred next time, ye ma'll get it. And no' in the way she likes."

With that, he struggled to the door, presumably to either shoot some pool or play poker with his buddies. Mail let out his bated breath. He was prepared for another beat down, but it was his lucky day that Joseph was far too drunk to do that. Now that he was no longer near-catatonic with fear, he felt that hunger reawaken. It was a good thing he saved his cigarette for now.

Finding his mother's glittery purse, he dug around until he found a bunch of loose cigarettes at the bottom. Hobbling to the stove, he stood on his tiptoes and lit it. Almost desperately, he took a deep drag and savored the burn of it down his throat and that itch just being appeased a little. Maybe he could sleep tonight. Just maybe.

He settled into the sofa, nearest to the bit of linoleum where his mother lay. It was now dark and they had no electricity. The only wink of light in the room was the glowing end of Mail's cigarette, but that too, after a few minutes, faded. The boy was asleep and the butt fell to the floor, extinguishing the last bit of smoke. It would be early morning before the tyrant would be remotely sober enough to recall his address.

For now, all was still. Dysfunctional, but calm.

"This is Jenkins, at the south east corner of Sunshine Boulevard."

The agent spoke quietly into his coat collar that was drawn up.

"Roger. Kate at north west."

Two more agents communicated amongst themselves, positioning themselves at all possible exits of Sunshine Boulevard. The closest Chase bank was here and that was where L predicted the man would go. L was never wrong- the word from the man in the shadows was an unspoken law.

Soon, all preparations were done. All there was to do was watch and wait.

Jenkins felt around for his gun, just to ensure that it was there. He couldn't remember the boy too clearly, but he if his memory serves, he seemed a bit too beaten up. He had been continually cursing himself for not taking notice of an abused child immediately and was determined to set things right. That man was violent and was subsequently a threat to society. He'd take him down.

It was 10:49 am. Eleven minutes or so until the bank opened and L was banking on him being one of the first customers. They had no physical description, but according to L's profile of the man, he was a compulsive drinker. And the rags the boy wore, as well as the relatively little amount of money he stole showed that they were most likely- if not completely- on the verge of destitution. The man would all in all look like a hobo.

If he was smarter, he'd try and clean himself up a bit, but a man can scrub up only so much. Four FBI agents could take him. It was all over for Joseph Jeevas.

The agent looked around cautiously. The boulevard was relatively empty- only the occasional tourist passed by this early in the morning. It helped greatly that the place only came alive at night. The man would stick out like a sore thumb. At least he hoped.

And sure enough, at 11:10, ten minutes after Chase opened its doors, a shifty eyed man in a patched grey coat walked up to it. He was balding and his eyes were baggy and bloodshot. Jenkins was not the type to immediately judge a book by its cover, but this man was an exception. He disgusted him and Jenkins was certain. He was a child abuser… in fact he might go even as far as saying 'child molester.'

Watching him walk into the bank, he quickly spoke into his mouthpiece.

"Suspect in sight. Visual confirmation. He has entered the bank. I'm moving in, back me up."

Hearing agreement from his peers, Jenkins moved in. Casually strolling into the bank, keeping a hand in the vicinity of his hip for his gun at all times, he went to the teller next to where Joseph was. He smiled widely at the girl at the counter, before subtly motioning her to act natural, slipping her his FBI ID card. A frightened look crossed her eyes, but then she nodded quietly and smiled.

"Good morning, Sir. What would you like to do this fine morning?"

The agent replied, eyes never leaving the asshole next to him.

"Ah, yes. I'd like to make a withdrawal please. My name is Jason Wiggam and here's my account number."

He slipped her a piece of paper telling her to go and wait in the back room until all of this finished, as well as a series of instructions for her to follow. She nodded and took it with a smile.

"I'll be right back, Sir with your withdrawal. Please wait here."

She scurried off. There was only one woman that Joseph could possibly take as hostage now and she was the one serving him. Still, Jenkins and his team could handle this situation. All they needed now was confirmation of his name and the account number. With that, they could have the bank details in a matter of seconds and have warrant for his arrest.

A pager beeped.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Sir. Please excuse me."

She looked down and her eyes widened slightly, but other than that, there was no visible reaction. She titled her head subtly in his direction to let him know that she knew who she was and that she understood what needed to be done. Helen- as her nametag read- turned back to Joseph, smile stuck on her face.

"Alright, Sir. May I please have your name and account number please?"

The wretch of a man was still having trouble being completely lucid, which was turning out to be an advantage.

"Eh. Joseph Jeevas. And 'ere."

He handed over the piece of paper. Helen pretended to squint. She couldn't hand over the paper to him without attracting the drunk's attention, so she improvised.

"Ah, Sir. I'm not entirely sure what to make of these numbers. The writing isn't very clear to me. Am I to understand that it is 278365109283?"

Joseph was stumbling, trying to recall whatever numbers she spouted off, while the tech analyst was now running the numbers through the system. As soon as he got the green light, the bastard would be in cuffs. Jenkins was almost happy.

"Agent Jenkins. I've got the details. You can make the arrest."

He didn't need any more telling. He whipped out his badge.

"FBI! JOSEPH JEEVAS, YOU'RE UNDER ARREST."

Joseph looked around with the expression of utmost panic, especially when three other agents came running in through the doors. His fearful expression quickly became something far more menacing- it became a twisted grimace. The man snarled like a cornered wildebeest.

Seemingly undaunted by the muzzle of the gun pointed at him, he pulled out a switchblade and held it up threateningly. The man lacked judgment, but that was now a moot point.

"Lemme go and I'll let y'all live."

Jenkins narrowed his gaze.

"Sir, put down the knife and come with us, or I'll be forced to shoot."

The lunatic raged and uttering a guttural scream, lunged.

The agents didn't hesitate in riddling him with bullet holes. Helen behind the counter screamed and clasped the sides of her head, sinking to her knees as the glass was rained upon with a red mist. Joseph Jeevas lay dead on the floor, the insane expression forever imprinted on his face. Guns were lowered and Jenkins spoke into his mic.

"Suspect is dead. I repeat, suspect is dead."

Mail was confused. There was a knock at the door. No moneylenders knew their address- the whole purpose of this hole-in-the-wall. It was also certainly not a poker buddy of his step-father's. He had no friends- just a bunch of tattooed jackasses who knew pushovers when they saw them. And none of them would knock, so much as break the door off its hinges.

"Mrs. Jeevas. FBI. Open up."

His eyes widened. FBI? The police?

He was jittery- but it wasn't from the lack of medicine. Well, not just from the lack of medicine. He felt something he had never felt. Hope. HOPE. Maybe the three of them would be free from the deep shit they were in after all this time.

Mail somehow walked to the door and fumbled with the plethora of locks before finally swinging the door open. He squinted into the sunlight to see about three squad cars parked on the dead weeds and barbed wire that they dubbed a 'lawn.' In fact, the place looked more like a meth lab from the outside. An agent stood in front of him, wearing shades and a vest emblazoned with three stark white letters. F.B.I.

It was real.

The man knelt down and he was soon aware of other agents present, some with their guns drawn. Mail began to feel threatened and immediately felt himself recede, his mind going blank with fear again. Were they going to die? It didn't stand to reason, but seeing the hollow in those guns made him irrational. The agent took off his sunglasses and put his hands up slightly.

"It's alright sonny, no one's going to hurt ya, alright? See? Here's my badge."

He flashed a white ID card at him and he caught the name Andrew Smithson. He then put the card back and held his hands up again.

"We just want to talk to your mama. Can we do that?"

Mail was suspicious and frankly worried, but he also knew that there was no out of this. Also, Bastard wasn't here either. Was the FBI after him? Or himself? After all, Mail stole the money from the people. He did it. He was going to be arrested and killed. Then what would happen to Mel? OH what-"

"Son?"

Mail blinked, coming out of his panic. He nodded curtly once and opened the door some more and let the officer in. Four more officers came in through the doors and spread into all the rooms of the house, two going into the kitchen, another two upstairs. He was worried, but he couldn't afford to panic. It wouldn't do anything good.

Andrew Smithson had seen a great many things, but never anything as heartbreaking as this. The kid was a mess- there was no other word that described him more accurately. He saw duct tape covering an arm. Was it broken and taped together? Jesus Almighty. The house itself was in shambles, the plaster threatening to fall off the ceiling, dipping horribly low at some points.

It smelled of sour piss, cheap ale and vomit. It was inhabitable by adults, yet alone children. Not just one, but two. He felt the urge to douse himself in Holy Water. Nevertheless, he followed the boy who lead him along a small corridor to an area where the smell just worsened. Something told him that the mother was far from Virgin Mary.

He saw her then. Passed out cold on the floor. And he knew enough junkies to know that she was conked out on some strong stuff. The boy shakily walked over and shook her shoulder.

"Ma… MA!"

He raised a small hand and slapped her right across the face. His face never changed- obviously it was a well-versed routine. Dealing with crack addicts was as natural to the boy as brushing his teeth- if not more, by the looks of things. The woman shot up with a gasp, bearing great resemblance to a zombie. He glittery top hung past her navel, completely exposing her chest. Her skirt bore little more material than a belt. She was a hooker.

She was bleary, not yet registering that the police was here.

"What is it, sweetie? Ya wancha med'cine now? Ookay. Imma take mine too."

She rootled around in her breast for her pipe and baggie before Mail could reply. Seeing her draw out a sachet of white powder that Andrew instantly knew was crack, he quickly ran forwards and grabbed the child from her. Medicine she called it? Dear God, was the child on cocaine? That explained the twitching. Not only was he on crack cocaine, but he was fucking addicted to it. Holy Mother of God, this was just beyond fucked up. This was a whole new level.

The whore finally seemed to notice that all was not right in the world and made an effort to open her eyes more. She squinted, and not recognizing the fuzzy outline she saw, burst out.

"The fuck are you?"

Andrew clipped his sentences, fearing that if he went to speak more, he'll lose his shit.

"FBI. Cindy Jeevas, you're under arrest for child neglect, child abuse, solicitation and the possession and consumption of controlled substances."

He quickly read out her rights and before she could articulate a single sentence, she was handcuffed and packed in the back of a cruiser. Mail yelled for his mother and started running behind the car.

"MA! MA! Where the fuck are you taking her you assholes? That's my MOTHER!"

The language threw Andrew a bit, but nonetheless, he kept a straight face and held the boy tightly, not letting him struggle and get away. He saw one of his colleagues bringing out a small girl of maybe three or four who was in a markedly better condition, clutching a small violet bunny plushie. She was crying and rubbing her eyes, but once she saw her brother, she ran from the agent's grip into his arms.

"I'm swo scared!"

The boy bit his lip in pain and he noticed him moving the duct taped arm slightly. Yep. Definitely broken. Andrew gritted his teeth. How could someone be so cruel to children? He quietly gave charge of the two kids- who obviously weren't going to talk to them here- to a female agent while he relayed the details to the Director.

Mail shivered in the cold, meanwhile. EMTs came and threw an orange blanket over him and his sister, who was still clinging to him so tightly that it was difficult for him to breathe. But he wouldn't have it any other way. He was livid. They took Ma. All because she was trying to give him his medicine. He needed it. Why didn't these fuckers understand?

He wanted to give the police a piece of his mind, but he was in the presence of his sister. She was already terrified enough. He just bit back his fury and hugged her even tighter to make sure she was arm enough. His arm was throbbing and his stomach was knotting up but the best he could do for now was to ignore it.

"Hello there, son. What's your name?"

He merely glanced at the blonde haired female agent who was smiling down at him with pity and what he suspected was false kindness. Though his face was blank, he was thinking. Why would they want his name? Shouldn't they know it by now? Just to be on the safe side, he should probably give a fake one. If they already knew his real name, what harm could giving a fake one do anyway?

"Tom. What do you fu-… care? And this is Karen, my sister."

He stopped himself from swearing, mindful again of Melanie, who had started shivering.

The woman just smiled again.

"Well, Tom, Karen. We're just going for a ride, okay? There's someone I want the both of you to meet. You'll both be well taken care of."

She knelt down and held her hand out to Melanie, whose small face was peeping out of the blanket. She didn't need her degree in Behavioral Studies to understand that the little girl was the sole reason the brother was keeping his cool and that she was also the key to making him cooperate. Luckily, the girl was more trusting of a smile. She extended her little hand to meet her own, grasping it.

"C'mon sweetie. It'll be okay."

She lead Karen- an name which she strongly suspected was fake- to the remaining cruiser. As she suspected the boy grudgingly followed. She helped the children into the back and spoke.

"Now, Tom, Karen. You both are going to the Riverfront Hotel in to meet a man, okay? Don't be afraid- although he'll be dressed a little scary. He's very nice. He'll take care of all three of you- that little guy included."

She pointed to the purple rabbit the girl was holding. Basic psychology. It elicited a shy giggle from the child and the agent smiled.

"Bye, now. Be good."

With that, the shutter was rolled back up and the car was on the move. Within five minutes, they were out of the five mile radius that they knew as their home, seeing the rest of the world for the very first time.

Watari stood in a supply closet. The children were not here yet.

He was pensive. No one had ever met L. None of the orphans- it was just himself and Roger who had ever seen the boy's face. And that's why he was currently safe. Someone nameless and faceless was very hard to kill. And Watari hoped to keep it that way.

He was taking the two children back to L's hotel, yes. But they had another room booked, surveillance cameras installed so L himself could see his hopefully future successors. Watari was going to give the kids the IQ test that L and himself had designed to test the incoming orphans, as well as a personality test- a new addition, given the failure of the first generation of successors.

The costume he was wearing was suffocating. But it was a necessary precaution. Oh how he fervently wished for the police to be more efficient with their dealings.

He watched his tablet, which was connected to the security feed of the Riverfront hotel lobby. And he was infinitely glad to see a black and white cruiser draw up to the front and two small children exiting the rear. A redheaded boy- and L, or Scott, as he was known in LA- was right, a younger sister.

"Quillish, old chap, good luck out there."

Wishing himself luck, Watari made his appearance to the lobby, walking up to the kids. The girl shied away from him as if he was the plague, which made him feel horribly terrible- he loved children with all his heart, but he supposed her fear was justified. All she saw was a man dressed head to toe in black, who wouldn't look out of place in a slasher flick.

Instead, he settled for making his voice as kindly as he humanly could.

"Hello, children. My name is Watari. I'm sorry for what you've been through, but I'm here to help you both. There will be tough times ahead, but you must be strong."

He was an advocate of comforting the children, but not of disillusioning them. No matter what their age, they shouldn't be shielded from the truth. Besides, seeing the duct taped limbs, matted hair, torn clothes and a patchwork of black and blue on the boy told him that these kids were not hidden from the cruelty of life. In fact, it was all they have ever known. And the thought made Watari's kind soul throw up a little.

The boy just stared listlessly, although defiance burned in his eyes. He knew that the male Jeevas was going to be a handful just as soon as he was separated from his sister. And he was a genius- the look in that boy's eyes was not something you see in that of any normal six year old. It was something L's eyes possessed- a look of fierce intelligence.

"Go on. He's a good guy, like us."

The cop nudged the children forward and they shuffled towards him. Watari held his hand out to the girl, who meekly accepted and he lead them both to a car he had waiting. They were beginning to receive odd looks from the guests at the hotel- ruffians at one of the most exclusive hotels? He wondered why Scott had chosen this place out of all places- but then again, there was a method to his madness.

Settling the kids into the back seat, Watari took the driver's seat.

The silence was palpable.

"So, what are your names?"

The boy jerked his head up, a look of questioning on his features. Watari already knew that they had called themselves Tom and Karen, but he doubted strongly that those were their real names. The reaction confirmed it, and he felt a sense of satisfaction when the boy lowered his head, accepting defeat. He was a smart one- it was no fluke. A six-year-old kid figured that he knew that the name he gave out was recognized as an alias. He was analytical. Excellent.

"Mail. This is Melanie."

The truth. He could sense the heaviness of voice.

"How old are you, Mail? And Melanie?"

He answered for both of them.

"I'm six. She's three."

Short and clipped sentences. Never giving more information away than necessary. Again, another very positive trait for what Watari had in mind. He glanced at the boy in the rearview mirror. He had a furrowed expression and was absently scratching his arm, rubbing his eyes from time to time, though it was obvious that he wasn't crying. He was sweating despite the cold.

Watari realized with shock. The FBI had failed to inform him of one very important detail. Mail was not just exposed to cocaine- no. He was an addict. Hook, line and sinker.

Roger would have the time of his life, he was sure.

Arriving at the Peninsula, Watari parked the car in an unnoticeable place and the three of them slinked around the hotel using corridors the staff didn't know about. In fact, he probably knew the schematics of the building better than the architect did. It was again one of the precautions he took to prevent L's whereabouts from being known.

Taking a crude service elevator and a couple of flights of stairs, they arrived on the sixteenth floor- three from the top. L's room was directly above theirs and had a live video feed showing the young detective the goings-on in their room.

Said detective straightened with apparent interest at the sight of the two younger children, never ceasing the nibbling at his thumb, not noticing that the fork he was poking repeatedly into his piece of strawberry sponge was slowly turning it into a goo of icing and crumbs that he would undoubtedly slurp like soup later on. The kids to him looked far younger than six and three- but then again, they were severely malnourished. He mused. This would certainly be interesting.

Watari turned to Mail, gently coaxing him away from Melanie. It was time for their test.

"Mail, I am going to tell you that there is nothing for you to worry about. We know what you did- but you are underage and you're not going to prison. Neither is Melanie- your father is the only one who was guilty and he's now dead."

The boy's eyes seemed to come alive a little, but he was a silent as a mute mouse. He didn't seem at all anxious- just relieved and maybe even… joyful? But then again, the yearning for revenge was natural. It didn't make the boy a vengeful sadist. Watari sincerely hoped so.

"Things are going to be different from now on. Your mother is also in jail for the possession of cocaine, so you will not be going home."

Mail's face contorted in rage and he opened his mouth to retort, but then he stopped himself. Melanie. Melanie was with him, so he couldn't lose it. For her sake. He bit his tongue to make sure that nothing escaped him. Nothing.

Watari could see anger- it was plain as day. But the way he held himself back- he really loved his sister and the testament to that was that she was scratch-free. It was nothing short of a miracle, being uninjured in that hovel. It would be difficult parting the two- he hoped that both were of the same caliber. Nonetheless, he continued.

"You'll be placed in the foster care system, and if that fails, you will be placed in an orphanage. You will have very good homes with nice families who will take care of you. But first… we need to know your talents and how much you have learned, so it is easier to match you both to a suitable family. For that, both of you will be taking a test."

Mail raised his eyebrows at that. A test? Never have they been to school. And Melanie was three for fuck's sake. She still stuttered out her sentences. This was ludicrous. But still, his tongue was clamped down on. He sharply nodded, consenting. He'd play their little game for now. It's not like he had a choice. If Mail had learned anything in his shitty life, it was to know when to quit. And he did, by Jesus, know when to quit.

Melanie quietly and shyly nodded too, looking up at her big brother to seek approval. A nod from him made her relax.

Watari too, relaxed. Breaking the news turned out better than he had thought. He opened his briefcase and pulled out two sheaves of paper. A standard one for Mail, and one that L had designed last night for Melanie. Easier, given her age and didn't require much writing, but would definitely reveal if she was of genius potential.

He lead the children further into the suite. Sitting Mail down at the desk, he handed him his paper and a pencil.

"Here you go, Mail. Your sister will be in the other room, taking her test too."

Mail frowned. He didn't want to let the girl go with a stranger in a creepy coat. But something told him that Watari was not the type to molest a girl who had pretty much just learned to walk. So, he watched him walk away from her.

"Fucking hell, Mail. What the fucking hell have you gotten into now? Fuck."

He hissed to himself and picked up the pencil to start writing. This was a right pain in the ass, but at least that beer-slugger was dead. He hoped he would burn in the eternal flames of Hell and get raped in the anus with Lucifer's pitchfork.

L's eyes widened.

"Mmm. That's certainly… unconventional."

He stuffed his mouth full of cake porridge and pondered. The child- Mail as it were- had a colorful vocabulary. No wonder he was mute during Watari's monologue. His eyes flickered to the other screen, showing a small girl struggling to hold her pencil remotely straight. Hm.

Meanwhile, Mail was writing. The first one was easy. Pick the odd one out of a list of vegetables. Tomato was the answer- it was a fruit. Thankfully, there didn't seem to be numbers in the test. There was only so much one could learn from stolen HBO, Cinemax and newspapers pilfered from the neighborhood that was used as toilet paper when push came to shove. Or light fires when the wood ran out.

The latter half of the paper were… pictures. Find the missing one.

He had no clue what to think, but his brain was instinctively drawn to certain pictures that he was positive were the correct answers. It only fazed him how he knew that they were right. There seemed no rhyme or rhythm to them. What sort of test was this? And suppose he failed? Would he, would Melanie, ever be adopted?

No. This was not helping. He didn't need a bunch of unanswerable questions adding to the rapidly growing list of problems he had to deal with. His arm was on fire- the splint the paramedics put on it was digging into his skin. Which lead to the next problem- the morphine shot they gave him had finally run out. Which in turn, lead to his third, and frankly most serious problem- the fuckers took him away before he could get his dose.

He tried the best he could to focus.

Twenty minutes later, he was almost done. The last question he had done was a right bitch- he had to twist the shapes in the vertical and parallel axes for the picture to make sense. He tapped his pencil against the table as he read through question 28. There were a lot of words- he was already bored. But for the love of adoption, he went through the motions.

Long ago, a king lived in a distant land. He was immensely wealthy, possessing a mountain of gold- the spoils of his victories against enemy armies. He wanted to get the gold jewelry melted down and recast into bricks. So he assigned ten blacksmiths to the task. Each one was to make one thousand gold bricks.

However, he gained intelligence that one man amongst the ten was a thief. He had taken the gold for himself and cast tin bricks identical in color and dimensions to the gold bricks cast by the other blacksmiths.

Unfortunately, the king enjoyed games more than he did a full store of gold and never missed an opportunity to indulge his sadistic side. So he arranged a game.

He called all ten of the men and the fruits of their labor into the room. In addition, he summoned a wise man. The wisest in all of Westeros. In front of the aging man, he placed a wooden executioner's block as well as a blade and said;

"One among these men is a thief. He has not made gold bricks, but tin- identical though. However, each tin brick is one kilogram lighter than a gold one. A gold one weighs two. You must find out who among them is the thief… but… you can only make a single measurement on that scale over there."

How would the wise man perform this act and save himself?

Mail groaned. The guy who made this paper was royally fucked up. A sadistic king who cared more about bringing misery to an entirely innocent man instead of weighing one brick from each until he found the guy with the lighter bricks. Lovely. But he had to admit. It was a good question, despite the flawed logic and practicality.

He read through it again. Was the scale a balance with the two pans? No, that's thinking too far. Just think of a normal scale. Numeric- digital. It had to give a definitive number- else there was just no way.

He tapped his temple. Ten minutes passed and then ten turned to fifteen. The more times he read through it and came to a dead end, the more frustrated he became and the more he wanted to solve the fucking puzzle. Damn it all!

And then, he got it. Excited, he drew his idea as a doodle on the side of the paper. The wise man picking up a brick. A wise man then hurling the brick at the king's head to "save himself". And the wise man running away from the now-dead king. It was in the wording. He did say "save himself." If it was sheer self-preservation, any human would try and fucking run.

Satisfied with his little artistic break, he sighed and scribbled down his real answer, leaving the pictogram for good measure and his own personal pleasure. Fuck the system.

Take ten bricks from the first man, nine from the next, eight from the next in line and so on. Put all bricks on the scale. Take reading. Then, calculate the mass the bricks should total (220kg). Compare to reading. If ten kilos are off, the first man is guilty. If nine, the second. So on.

It was sound logic and made complete and utter sense. Mail was done.

Kicking his feet up, he put his hands behind his head and lounged in his seat. With his one open eyes, he noticed a china plate on the table containing the most beautiful slice of cake he had ever seen. He had never had cake- only the occasional Twinkie from the supermarket. Using his foot to nudge the plate closer- it was difficult to rearrange himself without causing himself more pain- he got the fork with his good hand and poked off a large bite.

And he was in heaven. Nuts crunched in his mouth, the saltiness perfectly balanced by the sweetness of the white chocolate. And just like than, Watari went from being the current bane of his existence to the numero uno guy. No one who gives cake like this to a poor kid he just met can possibly be an asshole. Oh sweet cake.

L watched carefully, pouting slightly as he saw the kid eat a giant piece of cake. His cake. But he relaxed. More than half the kid's body mass was bone. Not that L himself was any better, but still. He himself wasn't starved to near-death on a regular basis. He gingerly reached for his cell phone and speed dialed Watari, pinching the phone, holding it to his ear.

"Mmm. Heeello. Mail is done with his test. Also. Could you please maybe get me some of the cake he's eating? It looks delicious."

He frowned a little at the chiding he received- eating so much sugar isn't good for you, L. You'll rot your teeth, L. You'll become a stunted dwarf and the Hunchback of Notre Dame, L. He'd heard it all before, so through experience knew that Watari would be here despite his protest within the next ten minutes with some of that delectable-looking cake.

Watari snapped his phone shut and sighed heavily. L… That boy sure was a handful. When he was a bit younger, whenever he caught a cold, he wouldn't accept a thermometer in his mouth unless it was coated in maple syrup, butterscotch or sugar crystals. But Watari had other things to attend to. The boy. He was done.

Striding with quick, yet calm steps, he entered the room where Mail had just finished his cake and was in the process of setting the empty plate down on the table. He smiled behind his mask. So L wasn't the only one who appreciated his baking mastery.

"Hello, Mail. I see you're done. I'll take that paper and have it evaluated and get back to you soon, okay? Your sister is done too, I'll bring her to you and both of you can go and watch TV in the other room until I come back."

The boy, of markedly better humor nodded.

"Whatever."

Watari smiled again, though no one could see. Testy little thing. He picked up the sheaf of papers and a quick glance told him that he had finished the paper. Walking out, he went to the other room, where the small girl was nibbling on a small pink fairy cake. She hadn't so much as finished but had completed her scribbling. Seeing him, she looked up with wide eyes.

"Pwease mwister. That was weally hard."

He knelt down and gently patted her head. He was saddened. Mail and his sister would most likely be separated- it couldn't be confirmed until L finished his assessment, but the chances didn't look good. But still, he comforted the girl.

"It's alright dear, it's alright. Now, why don't you take your cake and go to your brother in the other room? You both can watch cartoons until I come back okay?"

She rubbed her eye dry cutely and nodded, toddling off in the direction he pointed. Watari straightened, heaving a sigh. Going outside and into the elevator, he went up to L's floor and knocked thrice. The hunched boy opened the door and he walked inside.

"L, here are the tests."

The boy looked up at the older man unblinkingly.

"Oh mmm. Thank you."

He took the papers as he usually did and turned around abruptly, foregoing the couch for the coffee table, climbing on top of it and crouching like a gargoyle, hair falling into his face. He looked like a creature of some sort, yet undiscovered by the zoologists of the world.

He squinted and scanned through the thinner paper first. The letters were incredibly difficult to read- though large, they were terribly malformed. He puffed out a silent sigh. It was quite obvious- Melanie Jeevas was not a genius. She would have to be separated from the male sibling.

L then took the second paper. He was interested. It was boring being of such high IQ in such a mundane world and it wasn't often that he came across people who could remotely relate to him.

The pre-teen scanned the paper. The first ten questions, he barely spared a glance at. They were basic questions anyone with an IQ of about 100 could answer. Strictly average. Eleven and above were answerable by people usually with an IQ north of 120. Twenty eight was yet to be solved by anyone- an IQ of approximately 155 or 160 was needed.

He was becoming increasingly impressed. Hm. The little cake-eater was a cesspool of latent talent it seemed. Already up to an IQ of 140- so far all right. Ooh, lovely. 145. 150. Nice. He reached genius qualification- his place at Wammy's was guaranteed.

Although 150 qualified orphans a place at Wammy's, it was the last question that was the real test- to see if the child was of successor material. Lateral thinking. Seeing past the illogical.

Seeing the doodles, he was a bit disappointed although he did smile a little at the horribly crude drawings of a pirate-like fat king with a bashed-in skull with blood spurting out from his head like something from a bad Bollywood movie. The kid had spunk- L would give him that. Anyone given such an insane proposition in real life would probably run for his life as fast as his legs could carry him. But still. This was a test of logic, not practicality. And Mail had failed.

He idly turned the page and double-took. He was expecting a blank page- he made the test after all. But he found a neatly written paragraph within brackets. And he couldn't stop the smile that came over his face. Looks like he had found a potential successor, whom he hoped- unlike BB or the rest- wasn't bat-shit crazy.

Watari saw the boy smile and he knew that Mail had gotten the Wammy House Stamp of Approval. It was very rare for L to smile- he only did so when presented with anything of which two thirds of its dry mass was sugar, so he knew. He also knew at heart that Melanie didn't. Such a shame.

"Watari. Mail answered the last question correctly. He seems to have some violence about him but the drawings are rather crude. I believe he's either joking or perhaps wants to make a mockery out of the situation because he was rather bitter. He did complete the test before he saw the cake after all. His sister however… will have to be taken care of."

He was even more elated. He had found another successor. Dear Lord, don't let this one learn to sit like a hobo and start wearing makeup as well.

L instructed Watari as to what is to be done. They are both to be placed in the foster care system. Melanie will be put up for adoption- chances are she will be adopted within the first month itself. Mail will be there as a farce. Once Melanie is chosen by a couple, Watari would appeal to Mail's sense of goodwill towards his sister, urging him that she will be happier elsewhere. L was sure he'd agree. And L, as the world knew, was never wrong.

Watari sighed before going to meet brother and sister again, the bearer of bad news. This was the part he simply despised, but alas. What is to be done? He just hoped that he didn't go to Hell for separating Mail from the reason he lived his life for the six years he did.

Mail stared around the white room with disdain. He wasn't complaining- the cleanliness was lovely compared to the years' worth of cider bottles, dust and shingle debris he waded through in his old hovel of a home. But this… it was too clean. Almost to the point of unnatural. It made him feel less alive… as if he was a captive somewhere.

He and Melanie were in a foster group home/ hospital for the time being. Creepy Mask Dude With Awesome Cake- or Watari as he called himself had left the two of them here, saying that they would be safe until 'decisions could be made.'

He was in a particularly foul mood. Three tubes were connected to his arm, one to his left wrist. Apparently, he was hooked on cocaine. Three weeks ago, when they first came here, one of the nurses tried to gently tell him that the medicine his mother gave for the pain was cocaine. He vehemently denied it at first- his mother would never do such a thing. But then, the cops came in with a small plastic bag confiscated from his mother- his medicine packet- and told him that it was street cocaine.

He finally accepted it about a week ago when he went through pain so bad that he spent half his time curled over a toilet bowl, hurling out anything that went more than half his oesophagus. Yep. He had a coke problem. Well, fuck.

Since then, the nurses had been dosing him with crack in slowly decreasing amounts. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but the pain was gradually lessening. As was the itching. He still felt like he had a million miles to run, but he was getting somewhere. He was certain.

As if on cue, a wave of nausea and pain rippled through his chest and stomach and he yelled.

"FUCK! AAAAAHHH. Ahahahaaaaaa. Aaarh."

Panting, he caught his breath. His next dose wouldn't be until three. Two more hours. Bollocks. Tow more hours of suffering in pain. So much pain. Wincing, he maneuvered himself so that he could reach the morphine syringe and he upped the dosage to the maximum. He'd probably get chewed out by a nurse when she came to check on him- they didn't increase the dose because he'd move on from one addiction to the next. But frankly, he didn't give a flying shit right now. It hurt.

He could see his own reflection in the mirror. His reddish-brown hair was now chopped rather irregularly with scissors to sew shut lesions that he didn't even know he had. The bruises were fading- most had paled to a sickly yellow now. He had put on a bit more weight, though he could still easily be classified as a willow twig. All in all, he still looked like shit, but no longer was he the little boy from the Grudge. He looked human at the very least.

Mail didn't see very much of Melanie of late and it upset him. But he supposed distancing himself from her for now would be the best. He was conked on drugs and his mood swings were erratic. He didn't want her to be ashamed of him and he didn't want to hurt her in anyway. When he was given his dose, he saw her for a few minutes and they watched TV, but within half an hour, she was gone and he was left to his own devices and inner turmoil.

The door opened with a whoosh of air and Mail jerked his head up to see who it was. A nurse walked in, black ponytail swaying. She looked tired and merely glanced at the morphine syringe once, then back at him irately before turning the level down again. Oh well. It was worth a shot.

She didn't even bother this time with chastisement. She ruffled his hair a bit, which Mail disliked, but he didn't comment wisely. Nurses were demons from hell when tired and this one seemed to be on the edge. She surprised him though when she reached into her apron pocket and brought out a large lollipop.

"Here ya go Tom. I know it's hard, but focus on sucking that okay, and don't turn that level back up. It's for your own good."

She stuck the thing in his mouth before he could answer and ummm… Apple. She turned around and walked back out.

There was something fishy here. No one here knew him and Mel by their real names- only the aliases he gave the police. Watari had also told him not to tell. That in itself was strange. He had asked the masked man, but no definitive answer was given- he was only told that it would better the chances of adoption if they didn't bear names from families associated to drugs.

He hadn't seen said masked man since he came here. Come to think of it, who was he? A secret agent? A jacked-up version of Batman? Or someone who was just plain ugly? Mail pushed the ridiculous ideas out of his head and harnessed his inner zen. If you wait long enough, everything comes to you.

"Aaaarh. Bloody hell. Nhhh."

Another wave of pain coursed through his body, pushing any and all thoughts from his head. He was almost delirious and wasn't thinking straight. He was pretty much helpless right now and all he could do was wait and see where the tide took him.

A week later, Mail was revisited by the masked man in black. He sat up straighter, glad that he was no longer wracked in pain. For the time being at least. He was sad and angry and downright miserable. He wanted to curse and swear up a storm in Latin, but he didn't have the energy to do things that he simply knew were futile. Aaaand he didn't know Latin.

Yesterday, a couple from New Jersey had come to pick a child like a puppy from the pound. And they had picked his baby sister. He wasn't mad that he wasn't picked by anyone- a glance at the mirror told him that he would be nobody's first pick. But he was livid that they wanted to separate him from her. It broke his heart.

Her sister sat on his bed and cried her eyes out in protest, refusing to go with them. She had been now put to bed and Mail himself was left conflicted and hurt. Watari had to know. That's why he was here. So Mail stared unflinchingly, waiting for the older man to speak.

"Mail… how do you feel about this?"

His voice was gentle- far gentler than he had been the last time he'd seen the man. But Mail was far too bitter to even attempt to be pleasant- or even civil.

"How d'you fucking think I feel? What kind of a dumbass question is that? I'm gonna lose my baby sister. I feel like shit. Thanks for asking though. I feel sooooo much better now."

The sarcasm dripped like gravy over Homer Simpson's pork chops.

Watari stifled a sigh.

"The system isn't fair, Mail… the chances of both of you finding the same home are…"

Mail spat out with venom.

"Fucking shitty. Yeah, I know, man. I ain't that stupid. I mean, look at me. I'm addicted to coke, look like that fucking creature from Nightmare on Elm's Street. Not exactly everyone's dream child."

There was silence. Anyone else would try and tell a white lie to the boy, give him some hope or self confidence in himself. But Watari didn't. Pretty words did nothing to a person in his predicament and false hope was crushing in the end. Mail, in short, was right. He wouldn't get adopted. Ever.

"A crude and unsavory way of putting it, but yes, I'm afraid. That is the truth. But Melanie, your sister can be happy with her new family. She can grow up with people who love her and give her the things she needs. She'll live a full life- don't you want that? For her?"

The boy was silent and his countenance changed to something of melancholy that was heartbreaking to see.

"Don't you think I know that? What the fuck can I do? Sure, I've prevented her from getting beaten up by a drunk faggot for the past three years but what about a year… ten from now? What the bloody hell can I give her? But I'm going to lose her… and I… Ah, I'm being such a pussy. I'm such a selfish bastard. She's three. She'll forget. She can be happy and… that's all I want."

A tear rolled down his cheek, just one and he wiped it away harshly with a bandaged hand.

"I was gonna tell her to go anyway. But one thing. Under one condition."

Mail looked up and fixed his gaze with the older man's eyes, even though Watari's eyes weren't visible. The intensity gave out an almost deadly aura, showing his utmost seriousness.

"She changes her name. All of it. Surname, first name. I don't want a single minute of this hell she lived in infecting her mind. She won't remember me, and I want to keep it that way. I just want her to be happy and live a complete life. For the both of us."

Watari had an overwhelming urge to hug the six-year-old who had more maturity than half the adults he had stumbled across during his life. But he didn't. Instead, with an unseen tear going down his cheek, he reached out a hand for the boy and lay it on top of Mail's, mindful of the network of tubes that encircled him.

"That was very noble of you, Mail. Very. And yes, I'll fulfil your wish. She will only be Melanie Jeevas to you."

The boy averted his gaze and retracted his hand, nodding once curtly. Watari took that as his cue to leave. He was sure. Mail would be a fine young man one day. After all, time heals all emotional scars. All Mail needed was time.

Adoption day.

Mail stood weakly in the hallway, disconnected from the myriad of machines he was usually attached to- like a marionette. He felt fatigued already and it had nothing to do with the physical exertion it took for him to walk… fifteen… twenty three feet out into the disinfected corridor. All he felt was an all-consuming sense of weariness and resignation. And heartache- don't forget the heartache.

His sister was leaving forever.

The nurses asked him if he would like a last picture with Melanie, but he point blank refused. He wasn't interested in sadomasochism. He didn't want to go the rest of his life torturing himself, staring at a picture of her, wondering every second of his existence if she was safe, if she was happy.

He had hugged his sister and cried alongside her for much of the previous day, while they shared their last bowl of strawberry-caramel popcorn as they watched a marathon of Disney movies.

Pwease bwother, I don't wanna gooooo, she had wailed. Each time he pictured her crying face, his already broken heart just ripped a little more. He didn't want her to go- he wanted to run down the hall and bring her back, tearing her from the grasp of the New Jersey couple who had adopted her. Kristen Addams was her name now. But he didn't, knowing that it was the most selfish thing he could ever do.

Her new parents had wanted to see him- to tell him that she would be alright, but his composure only went so far. He refused. And now, he was simply staring into the hall, gazing fixedly upon the corner the three of them had turned to go for the exit. He didn't even have the strength to follow them and wave goodbye for the final time.

It was all silent.

And then a car started.

More tears fell.

Go dammit! Stop them! She's Melanie, she's not a fucking 'Kristen'! Get her back you fucktard! GO! RUN! YOU CAN STILL STOP THEM!

But Mail was just still, the only outward expression of his grief being tears falling down his emotionless face. His fists clenched slightly and his knees wobble sporadically, but then again, one could say that those were just withdrawal tremors.

Then, the car revved and the engine noise faded, accompanied by the sound of gravel crunching under tyres. He just listened as two people they didn't know drove away with the one thing that he ever cared for. And then, the silence fell again.

Melanie was gone. There was nothing left to remember her by- she had taken all her belongings. She had tried to give him a drawing of the both of them, but he refused, saying that it was better if she kept it to remember him. And he had given her nothing to remember him by- that drawing would be lost under piles of memorabilia as she grew older.

It was over and done with, and she was gone.

No more Melanie Jeevas. Only Kristen Addams of the fair city of New Jersey.

L was curious, to say so the least.

"Hm. Is this what it's like to have family…?"

He mused. Seeing the state of the newest addition to the Wammy's house was enough to put stoic old him in a bout of depression. A zombie seemed more alive than him. Well, he was glad that he himself couldn't remember much from his childhood. Watari had found him as a baby. All he had pretty much known was the man who was Quillish Wammy who later became his Watari.

The subject of his observations was in the same state ever since his sister left his life for good. Which was over a month ago. He ate sparsely- didn't go near even cake. It puzzled L to no end. People were just so complicated. So simple in so many ways, yet so complicated. The eternal paradox. And it was setting him and Watari behind schedule. They should have been back at Winchester by now according to his calculations. The only thing L didn't account for was the human factor- emotions. So inconvenient sometimes.

Mail showered, Mail listened to the nurses, Mail slept, Mail took physiotherapy. For the past month, he did everything he was told, going through the motions. He didn't once complain… or speak for that matter. His communication stopped at a nod or a shake of his head to show that he understood.

L turned around, using his swivel chair to pivot his body around without once relinquishing his bird-on-a-perch stance.

"Watari, is it not time that we return to Winchester? It is quite unlikely him staying here is going to change his outlook. And now, he is physically healed well enough to make the flight."

The older man looked balefully at the screen of L's laptop, showing the image of the redheaded by staring blankly at a TV. That was not powered on. L was right, of course. Now that this case was solved, others were piling up and they had to be on the move. It was perhaps time to approach the boy and tell him about Wammy's House. It might help him move on.

He sighed. It had to be done.

"I do believe you're right. I'm going right now. And yes. Before you ask. I shall get you pistachio pound cake- don't fret."

With that, he turned around and left, lost deep in his thoughts.

He wouldn't refuse- that much was certain. He was highly intelligent- perhaps even on par with L, even though he seemed to lack… determination and willpower to strive on. He accepted defeat too easily, but it was teachable. Watari hoped so. However, what he feared was that he would fail as the others before him did- granted they were not quite as bright. Beyond came to mind- Roger had informed him that he had lopped off his hair into a shaggy mess and died it black. It worried him- all the kids at the orphanage were his kids, regardless of their biological belongings. He wanted to stop BB from going off the deep end. The question was how?

The downside of dealing with a houseful of mini-Einsteins.

Half an hour later, he arrived at the care facility. Greeting the receptionist, he walked down the stark white corridor to Mail's room. He knocked twice, but got no answer. As expected.

"Mail, I'm coming in."

Pausing for about five seconds, Watari stepped in. The boy was sitting up, blinking at him owlishly, but he made no effort at greeting him or anything of the sort. His gaze was piercing- Watari felt like he was being x-rayed. He avoided broaching the topic of his sister. It'll do more harm than it will good- no matter how good his intent was.

"Hello, Mail. I came here today with some news. It is your choice, of course. I am flying to England tomorrow and I would like you to come with me. In a city called Winchester, there is an orphanage that you might find quite favorable to your living arrangements here. You will be able to learn there and make friends. You'll have a new life."

Silence. The boy's brown eyes were still focused on him, as if trying to decipher his true motives. Frankly, Watari was worried. What the child went through was the very definition of trauma. Parting from Melanie might have triggered some sort of PTSD, which might have rendered him mute. He would need specialized care-

"A new life, you say?"

Watari's train was cut off as Mail spoke. His first words in over a month. He was relieved- he wasn't even more damaged than he was before at least. His tone of voice was laced with sarcasm and irony, but there was an undertone of grudging acceptance. He would accept the offer- of this Watari was sure. As was L.

"Yes, Mail. A chance to start over."

Mail snorted and turned away.

"It's not like I have a choice anyway- never had one. You know as well as I do that I'm going to accept. I'd rather live in that bastard's crack den than here. But tell me. Who exactly are you? I don't know you, but you're controlling me like a puppet master holding all the strings. You fucking took my sister away, and now you want to take me to England. I've had enough of this shit. Who the fuck are you?"

Watari was silent. He didn't expect Mail to be this aggressive. The child was no longer mute- the cork had been popped. All the rage he had been bottling up was now rising to the surface. Hatred emanated in almost tangible fumes. He waited for L to speak into the earpiece. He'd know what to do. He could very well lie, but that may have negative repercussions when they do go to Wammy's- Mail would immediately know that he'd been lied to- after all, the boy certainly wasn't stupid.

"Watari. I suggest you tell him. He'll find out anyway- the truth just might calm him down the slightest."

The green light.

"My name, as you know is Watari. As you may have deduced, that is not my real name. However, I'm not at the liberty to divulge such information. I am an associate of a detective- a man named L. You may have heard of him. He was the one charged with your case."

Mail's eyes widened. L was involved with his hacking? The L? He had watched all the late night shows about a mysterious hidden-in-the-shadows detective who solved the impossible, but never in a million years did he ever dream that his hacking skills would attract the skillset of L. Maybe the detective was having a breather. But then, his eyes narrowed. Surely, him travelling with Watari would jeopardize the identity of L, even if it was slightly. Why risk someone else finding out such an elusive name?

He waited silently for the masked man to continue, which after a pause, he did.

"Wammy's House is an orphanage in Winchester, catering especially to… gifted children. Like yourself. We believe that with a little doing, you could become L's successor."

He fell silent once more, waiting for Mail's reaction to the truth.

The sound of pieces clicking together in Mail's brain was almost audible. So this was why they went through so much trouble. They wanted him- more specifically, his brain. A school for geniuses. He was a genius? He was a genius, apparently. So that was what the weird test was for. The one that he and Melanie took.

A frown overcame his face. Melanie. She… wasn't a genius. Maybe… maybe…

A dark shadow crossed his features. Maybe they separated them on purpose. Waited for her to get adopted so that he'd have no ties left to the US. No. It was too big a coincidence that a bit after she was taken in, he'd approach him. They definitely planned this. They knew that no one would adopt a kid like him, so they waited like carrions until he was too broken to think straight. Bastards. Fucking bastards.

The lowered his head further, trying to control his shaking. He had to know.

"You… you planned this from the start. Didn't you?"

Watari closed his eyes. The child figured it out. He couldn't lie, nor could he give the straight truth.

"The world needs people like L, people like you. You have to understand that Melanie could not continue to live with you- a foster care home is not a place for a girl like her to call home for the rest of her life. You know that yourself. This is your destiny, Mail. Please. Join me. Join us."

To say Mail was angry was an understatement. His emotions were out of whack, the cocaine doing nothing to help him. But in his heart, he knew Watari was right. The world was a cruel place- he and Melanie were not destined to lead the same lives. She was to lead a normal one, while he would be in a cage with a hamster wheel, labelled L Number 5.

"That wasn't an answer. But from your words, it's a straight up 'yes.' Fuck you. Fuck all of you. But I played right into your hands didn't I? So I have no choice. Tomorrow, I leave behind my sister and my country to leave to some fucked up place in a country a quarter the world away from here. Could you now kindly leave so I can sleep it off? You know, so I don't lose the little sanity I have left."

The older man saw the six year old child crumple under the weight of the truth. The crushing weight of the truth. He looked so small, so fragile and so lost- despite his sharp tongue and sullen demeanor. He was a child who had lost everything and was now floating aimlessly, like debris in the sea after a shipwreck. Wherever the tide took him, he'd go. He had given up.

Watari couldn't bear it. He walked up to the boy- who now had his eyes closed. He placed his hand on Mail's head and gently ruffled his hair.

"Mail, I know no one can ever fill Melanie's place. No one can erase the pain you've gone through- pain that I have unwittingly caused. But it will get better- I promise you. And you're wrong about one thing. You don't have to fill L's shoes. No two people are alike. Use your talents for good- that's all I ask. I would never ask you to lose yourself to become another whom you've never met. Please remember that, Mail. The path you forge in the future is your task, and yours alone."

With that, he turned around and left, leaving the apparently sleeping- yet fully awake boy behind him.

And so, fourteen hours later, Mail stood in an airfield.

He was wearing a new coat that actually fit- Watari had taken the liberty of purchasing items that any human being not coming from a hovel would need. His hair had been combed into something far from fashionable, but presentable enough. There was only so much that can be done given the rough shearing that the nurses had given him. Boots adorned his feet and his pants and shirt were warm against the chilly air.

It was all real.

He stared at the metal contraptions that surrounded him. They looked like giant metal paper cranes and the feasibility of those things carrying them up in the sky seemed low. Though his face was stoic, he was afraid. There would be no going back.

He was going to England. To live and learn among geniuses. To one day, take L's place.

The latter frankly didn't appeal to him. He didn't want to be L. But the parting speech he had heard Watari give him the previous day struck him. Though he didn't wish to be a detective, he wanted to help the world. Help people like him, and Melanie, against people like that faggot, Joseph. Even like his mother.

No matter how much he wanted to forgive Cindy Jeevas and visit her in prison, he couldn't bear it. All this time… she had been giving him cocaine. No matter what the intent… it was cocaine. She was weak and it was that weakness, that inability to let that one man go, that subjected all of them to their miserable existence. She was the reason that today, he was going off to England with a virtual stranger, never to see his sister again. Mail couldn't find it in his heart to forgive her. He couldn't.

He wanted to help people- but on his own terms. He wouldn't sell himself and make himself into a carbon-copy of the detective. He was Mail Jeevas. Not L.

"Mail, are you ready?"

Watari looked down with concern. The child had markedly calmed down and to some extent, he could see that he had resolved his conflict.

The monotone with which the boy answered did absolutely nothing to reassure him that he was fine though.

"Yes."

And with that, no more words were exchanged. Watari took the boy's luggage and hefted it into the cargo space, and the two of them boarded their chartered place. The old man lead him to plush looking seats- comfort that Mail had to fight very hard not to gasp or gape open-mouthed with awe at. This… was surreal.

It was a whole new world to him. Frightening, yes, but also futuristically wicked. The space he was now enclosed in was encompassed by two deep velvet curtains and the curious cat in him desperately wanted to pop his head around the suede and see what lay in wait. Or at least ask Watari. But his pride didn't allow him to ask such questions. He wouldn't give him- or L- the satisfaction.

Watari came in and sat down in a seat close by, but respectfully distant enough, to keep an eye on the child. After all it was his first flight and though that face didn't betray anything, he was undoubtedly afraid, or at the very least, nervous.

And he was right. Mail's stomach was roiling- full of snakes. The startup of the engines- their fearsome roar- was unexpected and terrifying. They were just so loud. Ironic. He could listen to the sound of gunshots as if it was the Philharmonic, but the sound of an engine firing up scared the living crap out of him. He barely even registered the pilot telling them to buckle up over the intercom.

Holy Mother of God, and they were off! Unaccustomed to the slight ringing in his ears due to the pressure change, Mail's head began to feel stuffy and his stomach dropped as they climbed and climbed. He could see the clouds and the land in which they left was a patchwork of postage stamp-sized pieces! They were flying in a metal contraption. It beggared belief.

As much as he was impressed, he was scared. It was futile for him to even try hide his emotions- everything was so new. So, Watari saw the flickering of emotions- the fear, awe, shock and perhaps even the slightest bit of excitement- and smiled to himself, albeit a little sadly.

High IQ was, no matter how anyone phrased it, a curse. Ostracized from the rat race that was mankind, whether unintentionally or purposefully. Geniuses had a greater role, more potential, than the average man- and that was exactly what cursed them. Sometimes being average was God's greatest gift. Seeing the innocent half-smile on the boy's face, all Watari hoped was that someday, Mail and L… and if he hoped it wasn't too much for God, the rest of the Wammy kids could live if not normal, happy lives with a semblance of normalcy.

But right now, it was unavoidable. The safest place for Mail Jeevas- new name yet undecided- was Wammy's. The real world was what foxes were to chickens and bloodhounds were to foxes. Predators. Take Mail for example. He was chewed up and spat out, used to hijack money at the age of five for a drunk, shot-up pathetic excuse of a man. He was used for his genius and his life had barely even begun. At Wammy's, he'd at least have the chance of learning what the world was like beforehand so he would have a shot at survival, knowing what to expect.

Else, it would be a very sad existence.

Watari stood up. L was in the next compartment, and was probably half comatose with calorie deficit, given that he was too lazy to get his own cake, even if he was on the verge of starvation. God forbid that he should walk. Nevertheless. Everyone had their quirks. L just had more than the average person's.

Mail was smack bang in the middle of an existential crisis, worried to the point of insanity about what was to come. Even staring at the cotton-ball fluffiness that floated below them did nothing to ease the frantic thoughts. But then, his brain decided to call it quits.

Empty plate of brownie next to him, his eyes began to close as the fatigue finally caught up with him. Just before he did, he swore he saw a crown of the messiest black hair he'd ever seen float by, but he was out for the count before he could deem it imaginary or real.

It was a twelve hour flight to Winchester- better get some sleep. And sleep he shall.

Roger refrained himself from facepalming, tutting and slamming his head on his desk simultaneously. Quillish was putting him at wit's end. He loved the kids,yes… in his own way, but this was ridiculous. Within these halls were steadily maddening children- a crazy blonde kid who can be angered beyond rationality at the drop of a pin. A scarily sullen albino, but not-quite-albino. An increasingly deranged L-lookalike who was not only just as smart, but had taken to wearing makeup. Somehow, Roger fancied it was beyond typical looking-up-to-a-role-model. He just hoped Wammy, the old chap, was right.

A frown was etched on his face perpetually. Decades of managing a house full of… special… children would do that to a person. Not a day went by without a dozen complaints, each of which he had to deal with.

And now!

Another one. This time, a six-year-old coke addict who, as an added bonus, was a criminal. Oh how purely joyous! As if his current stock wasn't troublesome enough. Just go ahead and chuck a child who will scream bloody murder for drugs at two in the morning into the mix to disturb the very little sleep he already got.

Wearily, he sighed. He didn't have it in him to be angry anymore. Too many times he had gone Battle Royale mode on Wammy, cursing up a blue storm. And too many times had the man ignored him with a smile and a pat on his back. This time would make absolutely no difference.

Roger could hear the car outside and adjusted his face into something resembling civility. It was the nicest he could muster out of his limited range of facial expressions. He swore he couldn't remember the last time he smiled. Smiled without the intent to kill, that is.

Taking out a manila file, he laid it on the table. It had an alternative identity all set up. The existence of Mail Jeevas would be no more once the child stepped into this office. Once the blank tag on the front of the file was filled, that was that. The past erased, the future to be written. A perfect blank slate.

Mail stared out of the window in unabashed wonder.

It was like a palace and a church rolled into one. Neatly trimmed bushes, even grass. He didn't even know such places existed. Well, he knew. But never did he imagine that he would see, or yet alone live in, such places.

Watari got out of the driver's seat, came to the rear and opened his door. Mail sat still as the older man unbuckled his seat belt and helped him from the car.

"Welcome to Wammy's House, Mail. I hope you'll be quite happy here."

The boy checked his expressions and became neutral once more, nodding quite curtly. Watari lead him to the foyer and conversed with a woman dressed quite formally- a receptionist or caretaker of sorts. She smiled kindly down at him and offered him her hand. Confused, he blinked up at Watari blankly, waiting for instructions and an explanation.

Watari answered him.

"This is Mrs. Harris. She'll take good care of you. I have somewhere to be, but I'll be back later in the day. Mail, follow her into Roger Ruvie's office. He is the Headmaster here and he will explain what is to come. Don't be afraid dear boy, you're in good hands now."

He ruffled the red hair and with one last kind, unreturned smile, turned away and walked back out. Mail looked up at the woman and hesitantly gave her his hand, which she grasped gently.

"Now dear, don't be afraid. Mr. Ruvie might seem a bit mean, but he's golden. You'll see. Now… tell ya what…"

She bent down and leaned in closer, whispering conspiratorially. Mail felt a flinch coming his way- whenever someone ever came that close to him, he always expected a slap or punch to follow. But he forced himself to calm down. This woman was nice, he deemed. Her accent was thick and homely.

"I'll get'cha a lolly from the freezer for after the meeting okay? It'll be our little secret."

She winked and straightened, gripping his hand a little tighter.

"We're here. Go in, love, I'll be right outside when you're done."

Mail nodded and murmured a quiet 'thank you.' He was afraid. But he had spent every waking minute of his life being afraid that it seemed all too normal to him. He'd been hit with glass bottles, thrown to the floor like a broken doll and unwittingly exposed to cocaine. Compared to that, this was nothing. In theory. Taking in a breath, he walked in.

There was a man seated at the table, a composed, yet slightly irritated expression on his face. Complete with a sharp nose and watery eyes, he had the perfect look for a headmaster. A male Trunchbull starter kit.

"Mail Jeevas?"

Mail nodded.

"Very well. Sit down."

And Mail did just that, quite aware that when he got up again, his life in the future would bear no likeness to his past. Whether that was good, or bad, he couldn't yet tell. He hoped for good.

Twenty minutes later, the boy stood up and with a nod of acknowledgement from the headmaster, left to become accommodated. It was decided that he would be paired with kids his own age- namely a boisterous blonde and the albino voodoo practicioner.

Roger picked up his fountain pen and wrote on the manila file in an elegant script.

"Matt Carters."

It was official. Mail Jeevas was dead to the world. And the said world didn't know Matt Carters even existed, and hopefully, would never know. All in all, like everyone else here, Mail… or Matt, as he was now known… was a ghost.