Disclaimer: I am not Kira. Therefore, I do not own Death Note

A/N: To Whom It May Concern:

I am sorry. I have been praying to the gods of plot all week, and they have sent divine revelation down from the heavens: this story is a prologue. I'm sorry, but that's what it is. It isn't going to have a huge amount of plot, or character development, (although there will be some), because those bunnies are being eaten by "Above and Beyond", the story for which this one is a prologue. There will still be plot and development, though, just not as much as I had hoped. Dear reader, I hope you may forgive me for this grievous waste of your valuable time.

Entertainment and Ambition

After the dinnertime display, Quillish could not, in good conscience, send L to classes with kids his own age. But L had to be taught. That amazing intellect could not be wasted. He considered placing L in high school level classes, but decided against it. The Wammy's House high school level teachers were not prepared for the young psychopath, and who knew how L would react. After a few days of searching for some solution, Quillish grudgingly gave in to the idea that had first occurred to him: private tutoring for the boy.

So, the teacher of each class that L wanted to take got paid a little bit of overtime in order to teach the little genius. L took his classes at night, went to bed late, and slept late. By the end of a few weeks, L's tutors were exhausted, and not just from their late night schedules.

The science teacher, a woman named Amanda Baker, came to him first.

"Mr. Wammy," she said, as she sat in his office.

"Please, call me Quillish," interrupted Quillish.

"Quillish, then. Look, Quillish, I'm an elementary school science teacher. I've taught your 'L' boy everything I know. He needs a tutor on the high school, or even college, level." Baker said.

"Alright, Amanda, I shall get him one." Quillish said.

"And… Quillish… he won't tell me anything about himself, even his real name. What the Hell is he? I've taught prodigies – I work at an orphanage for genii – but I've never taught anyone like him. He's not just smart, he's also… not normal. What is he?"

"If I knew, I'd tell you. I really would. But he won't tell me anything either." Quillish massaged his forehead.

"Well, I'm glad you're changing his tutors. I can't keep teaching him. No way. Thanks, Quillish."

Quillish had similar conversations with the rest of L's teachers in the subsequent week. Soon, L was being taught at the high school level in all subjects. Quillish was worried that the boy would run through his education so fast that he would run out of things to learn by the time he was six. At least he seemed not to be ripping through the high school classes quite as fast.

On June 11th, a bit more than three months after Quillish had found L, there was a knock on his door.

"Come in," said Quillish, absently. He was working on a letter of apology to a family whose window was broken by some unruly orphans who had thrown a ball through it. He was expecting an applicant for the newly vacant "Vice-Head of Administration" position.

What he got instead was a four-and-a-half-year-old with an agenda.

"Quillish," said L.

"What do you need, L?" asked Quillish, tiredly.

"I wish to visit Gary Milov in prison."

"Who's Gary Milov?"

"The criminal I caught."

"Why?"

"That is for me to know, until I wish to inform you."

"What are you going to do?"

"Have a conversation with him."

Quillish resignedly followed L into the visiting area of the prison where Milov was serving a life sentence. L seemed to recognize the convict waiting for them. He led Quillish to a table, where a man was already sitting. L sat right down and said,

"Gary Milov?"

"That's me. Who're you?" replied the man.

"Your son," L said.

"I don't have a so- wait…"

"You are a serial rapist. You must have expected that you would sire some offspring."

"Jesus Christ! You're a kid! How do you even know what rape is?" Milov was beginning to show the customary confusion of any normal person exposed to L.

"That is unimportant. My mother was Inama Lawliet, and you attacked her on December 26th, 1978. I have come to say something to you: in the game between us that you started at the moment of my conception, you are in a state of checkmate."

Milov opened and closed his mouth, slowly. "Quillish, let us go," said L.

As they were driving back to the orphanage, Quillish asked L,

"Why did you do that?"

"It is good to inform those that play a game of their standing in that game." L replied.

"Crime isn't a game!" said Quillish.

"On the contrary, Quillish, it is the most dangerous game. Those that play often die, lose everything, or go to jail. Those that gamble with such high stakes… someday, I would like to play against them."

"What do you mean?"

"My ambition is to become a detective."

"A noble goal, L."

"Is it?" the boy crouching in the car seat looked at Quillish, face blank. "I don't believe so. It is hardly 'noble' if one's sole intent is to entertain oneself."

"That would be you only goal?"

"Essentially."

"Then why that particular line of work, why not one with less lives at stake?"

"Human lives are the currency that I gamble with, Quillish. Besides, there is not much, besides detective work, that can hold my attention for long."

"So, the only way to make you care is to play Russian roulette with the lives of innocents?"

The boy just shrugged in response. Quillish wished he was not driving, so that he could put his face in his hands. "L… that's not healthy." He said, at last.

"I am a genius. I am so far above those around me that they cannot comprehend it. That sort of situation is not conducive to good psychological health."

"Ah…"

"Yes Quillish?"

"That doesn't worry you?"

"My psychological state is quite stable, and is unlikely to change, either for better or worse. I have my current brand of strangeness, and am unlikely to develop a new one."

Just as L said that, they arrived at the orphanage. L unbuckled his car seat and hopped out, walking swiftly back to the orphanage building. L was not inclined to spend much time outside. He preferred to stay indoors, reading books so far above his age level that Quillish wondered how he'd learned enough to comprehend them.

Quillish wondered what on earth he could possibly do with this child.