Disclaimer: I. Am. Not. KIRA! *punch*
A/N: The writing of this chapter is brought to you by chocolate milk. Lots and lots of chocolate milk. Also, I am currently wearing a tee-shirt with the "evoLution" graphic on it. Google it if you don't know what I mean.
Future Employees
By six months after that first experience with a psychiatrist, Quillish had taken L to numerous others. Their diagnoses varied: often it was Asperger's Syndrome, or Antisocial Personality Disorder, but occasionally it was some other illness that Quillish knew nothing about. The various psychiatrists only had one thing in common when it came to L: they never wanted to see him again. So, he decided that this time, it would not be L coming to him, but the other way around.
Knock. Knock.
"Enter," came the youthful voice, whose cold monotone was still surprising, despite the fact that Quillish had been familiar with it for well over a year now. Quillish opened the door to L's small, solitary bedroom. The boy was crouched in an oversized, puffy armchair; one hand delicately holding a book, the other clutching an icing smeared fork. There was a plate of cake on a small table beside him.
"L," said Quillish, "I need to talk to you."
"Go on," said the boy.
"We made a deal. I would only be your go-between if you cooperated with the psychiatrists." Quillish said.
"And I went to all of their offices and talked to them." L replied.
"Yes, but you didn't really cooperate. You scared every single one of them enough so that they told me to take my considerable finances elsewhere." Quillish said.
"Hm. So I must find another surrogate. This is acceptable." L said.
"So the idea of really cooperating is really so terrible?" asked Quillish.
"Correct. If this is all you've come to say, then you are dismissed, Quillish." L said.
"I am dismissed? I am not some kind of butler, L, you don't speak to people that way!" said Quillish, but by the time he'd finished, L had shut the door in his face. Perhaps he should simply deny the boy cake for a week, and see if that might keep him from acting that way. Actually, that was a pretty good idea, now that he thought about it.
Two weeks later, at the end of July, Quillish was interviewing a new applicant for a caretaking job. The woman's name was Carla Sorolin, and she was quite young, 24 years old.
"I just love to help people," she said, as they walked around the grounds, which was where Quillish liked to conduct interviews. It always made the interviewee less nervous.
"What do you mean?" asked Quillish, trying to discern if she was just using the generic line to get the relatively well-paid job of "Wammy's House Childcare Attendant." Of course, it was well-paid because the children were high maintenance, and Quillish wanted to keep the environment as positive and conducive to development as possible, which meant it required a lot of work, but few people stopped to think about that.
"I always have. Even when I was a kid, I wanted to be a doctor, or a cop, something that would be at least a little altruistic. But I don't like science enough to go into medicine, and it would just be too sad to be a cop, and I love kids, so I thought I'd do this instead." She replied.
"Too sad to be a cop?" he asked.
"My coworkers would die, some cases go unsolved, some police departments are corrupt, that sort of thing." She replied.
"Alright. But why work here?" he asked. She looked down.
"I need the money," she said, "My mum's sick and my dad's dead since I was little. I'm an only child, too. I gotta support her."
"Hmmm. I guess that makes sense. Do you have any experience with extremely gifted children?" he asked.
The interview, in general, went well. She did have some limited experience, and an extremely admirable work ethic. She was also, it seemed, good with kids in general, judging by the glowing letters of recommendation from the directors of several nonprofit preschools and daycare centers she'd volunteered at. She was definitely a hire. He didn't notice a tiny, black-haired figure following them around the grounds.
A week later, she was a member of staff. After her first day, she came into his office.
"Mr. Wammy," she said, "your orphanage is wonderful. It's just what all these poor little kids deserve. But did you know that the staff sometimes bully the children?" Carla asked.
"What do you mean? Tell me about this!" he demanded, worried.
"I mean, there's this one kid who they treat like he has the plague or something. All the other kids do too. It's so mean!" she said.
"Who is it?" asked Quillish.
"Umm, he calls himself by a nickname, I don't know his real name." she said.
"I know all the children, including their nicknames. Tell me!" he said.
"L. They all seem to dislike him, but he seems perfectly sweet to me." She said.
"Oh… what do you mean he seems perfectly sweet? How did he demonstrate this?" Quillish asked, confused.
"Well, he offered to share his cake with me, and he showed off a big tower of sugar cubes he was building, all cute and proud, and then he clung to me for the rest of the day." She said.
This set off alarm bells in Quillish's head. L had never before acted so out of character. He had to have some sort of agenda.
"Normally he isn't like that," he said, "L actually is his real name, by the way. Normally, he's… he doesn't act like a child. He acts like an adult, a very intelligent and… cruel adult." He said.
"Huh," she said, "I just can't imagine him being like that. I'll keep an eye on him, but I think you're wrong, Mr. Wammy." She said, sounding determined. They continued to chat a little, and eventually, she left to go home for the night. Once she was gone, he called L to his office.
"What are you doing?" asked Quillish, once L had sat down in the chair on the other side of his desk.
"What do you mean?" asked L, looking very innocent.
"Why are you being nice to Carla all of the sudden?" said Quillish.
"I am simply trying to be nice and learn manners, as you want me to. I am doing it to Carla because everyone else already knows me, and would suspect me of something. She's a clean slate." L's voice was his usual monotone, but his face had the tiniest of smirks playing around the mouth. It was not a good sign.
"L, what are you planning? How is she useful to you?" asked Quillish.
"Nothing." Said L, but the smirk widened. The little boy left the room, as usual, without dismissal, but Quillish was used to that. He put his head in his hands. What was L plotting to do now? Why did he need Quillish's innocent new hire?
A/N: What's that I smell? Plot? Oh my god, I just saw a pig fly past the window.