Disclaimer: Still not Kira!
A/N: Sorry I didn't post a chapter last week! It's a long, complex story involving traveling, writer's block, and power outages, which you don't really want to hear. Also, sorry this chapter's so short, but the next part really deserves its own chapter. You'll see why.
Plans
L did not often play like a normal child. Usually, when he wasn't supposed to be doing anything, he either read or slept. So when Quillish was called to help stop an incident in the yard, he did not expect L to be at the center of it. He certainly did not expect to see L being chased by a pack of older boys.
It was November, a little while after L's fifth birthday. There were intermittent patches of snow and ice on the ground, and it was sometimes difficult not to slip. Quillish was passing by the door to the outside, on the way to his office, when a child, perhaps seven or eight, dashed in and said,
"Hey! Adult-people! Some poor little kid is getting bullied by George an' his gang!"
"Where?" said Quillish.
"In the yard. Go stop 'em, Mr. Wammy!" said the child, whose name was Robert. Quillish dashed out of the building, to see that Robert had been correct. George Allaines, Carl Tott, and Quinn Belbatire, a trio of teenagers rarely seen apart from one another, were chasing a small, black haired figure, which was holding some sort of paper.
"Hey you," Quillish called to the boys, running toward them, "George, Carl, Quinn! Stop doing that!"
They paid him no heed, continuing to chase the younger child. Suddenly, their victim put on a burst of speed, and swerved around some invisible obstacle. The three pursuers put on speed as well, but did not swerve. Less than a second later, one of them – George – slipped. The invisible obstacle was apparently a patch of ice, and there was a sickening crack as the boy's head hit a rock. The younger child stopped and looked back, and now Quillish was close enough to see that it was L. The other two teenagers went to their fallen comrade.
"Oh God!" yelled one of them, Carl. "There's blood! And… Oh dear God help us, is that… is that his brain?"
"I think I'm gonna be sick…" said the other, Quinn. He knelt down to check George's pulse, then gasped. "I think he's dead."
"You little bastard!" screamed Carl, voice tearful, "you killed our friend!" he tried to resume running after L, but slipped, coming down hard on his knee. He screamed.
"I did not kill your associate," said the familiar monotone, creepy, as always, coming from the mouth of one so young, "he simply made a series of unfortunate choices, resulting in his own death."
By this point, Quillish had reached the site of George's fall. It was gruesome. His head had hit a rock and caved in. blood oozed out of the cracks in his skull, and little bits of brain had been extruded out the sides of where the rock had penetrated. He was certainly dead.
"All of you, come with me, we're going inside." Quillish said. When none of them moved, he said, "Now."
"I'm not sure if I can walk," said Carl.
"I'll carry you, then."
So Quillish hoisted Carl up into his arms, and Quinn and L followed him as he went inside.
After he'd called an ambulance for Carl and George, Quillish sat Quinn and L down to ask them what happened.
"They knocked down an intricate structure that I was constructing out of sugar cubes, in the kitchen. I retaliated by stealing this, it seemed quite precious to them." L said, holding up a pornographic magazine. Quinn turned red. "They chose to pursue me in order to retrieve it, and also probably to cause me physical pain in retaliation." L continued. "I did not wish for this to occur, so I chose to win the game by luring them outside and causing them to slip, which I reasoned would cause them to cease their actions against me."
"L," said Quillish, "did you just say that you intentionally injured two boys because they knocked down your sugar sculpture?"
"They began the game, I simply escalated. Besides, it will make sure they do not do it again. I did not mean to kill one of them, though. Mild injury would have been sufficient." Quillish could hear the indifference in L's voice, and it sickened him.
"L, you are confined to your room for a month. With no books." Said Quillish. L looked horrified, but did not comment. "Quinn, is the story he told true?" he asked the other boy.
"Yes," Quinn ground out, glaring vicious daggers at L. Quillish couldn't blame him. The little boy had just admitted to a level of malice that few would have thought possible in a child his age. And this malice had caused the death of Quinn's friend.
"L, I need to speak with you. Quinn, go get some hot chocolate and warm up." Quillish said. Quinn left the room rather eagerly, and L and Quillish were left alone. "L, why do you do things like this?" asked Quillish.
"I prefer to win. As to why I escalate, I am bored, Quillish. There are no games that I have access to whose stakes are high enough to rivet my attention. So I have to raise the stakes myself." Said the boy.
Quillish had nothing to say. L seemed to have such a twisted, skewed world-view that he couldn't see that what he did was viciously wrong.
"Go to your room," said Quillish at last. L complied, and Quillish went out to meet the ambulance, which had finally arrived. Only half of his mind was on his conversation with the paramedics, however. The other half was working frantically on the conundrum of what to do with L. Perhaps some psychological therapy? He should at least be brought to a psychiatrist who could diagnose whatever was wrong with him. But what if that didn't work? He seemed to need constant, interactive, challenging entertainment. How to keep him from boredom? Then Quillish remembered what L had said about his ambition to become a private detective, and he began formulating a crazy plan…