End Games

Chapter 32: Nightmare

L was shivering, covered in cold sweat and gasping for air. He heard voices, and felt things being done to his body. He felt his muscles shaking, contracting violently and painfully, as though they had a mind of their own. Every bit of him was failing, breaking down, but his mind went on, helplessly registering it all in a state of panic. Who knew that dying could be this chaotic? When he thought the worst would come, everything fell silent and still. His eyes opened but he saw nothing, then he saw lights above him, and shapes hovering over him too. They were talking to him, trying to bring him back, but he was too tired to move, and in spite of their best efforts, L closed his eyes and slipped into a world of memories.
-In Russia 1986 -
4:30 am. The mournful knocking on the door signaled that it was time to get up for the daily grind. Six dark haired boys with cobalt eyes sighed and groaned in protest, dreading the long work day ahead. Likewise, the other inhabitants of the crowded residence came to life as they joined in the chorus of non-verbal complaints. The eldest brother, a 16-year-old boy with a serious face shook his head upon noticing the mass that lingered on the top corner bunk, like a forgotten lump under the sheets.
"Hey you." He said sternly. "Get up."
At first nothing happened, then the sheets on that top corner bunk parted to reveal yet another raven-haired boy, who unlike the others, seemed calm, and almost careless as he took his time getting out of bed.
...
L felt things being inserted into his cold and battered body. All the while, someone kept telling him to "wake up" or "get up" but he just didn't have it in him this time. He was tired and he didn't feel like trying either.
...
By the time the small boy lazily made his way downstairs, everyone was already gathered around a large stove, demanding breakfast. The small boy took a seat on the stairs and watched the scene from a distance.
His family was large, full of strapping dark haired men and women, who in his opinion, were hard-working, but utterly ignorant, or even stupid. And they were poor too, so much so, that his immediate family, cousins, and extended family had to live together in one house. That made seven boys, five girls, and six adults, all living in a house built for a single family. Overall, the place was a hellhole and he hated it.
He saw his mother, a small brown-haired woman slaving away at the stove, making breakfast for everyone. She frowned as she measured each portion carefully so as to have enough to feed each hungry mouth. Unfortunately, in spite of her best efforts, it was never enough to satisfy.
The small boy then looked at his father, a tall muscular man in his late 30's with short but messy black hair and kind, dark brown eyes. While everyone else waited for food, the man was already sitting at the table, eating, because as the primary breadwinner in the house, he was always served first.
Someone tripped over him on the stairs, letting out a slew of curses. "You, watch yourself! You'll cause an accident sitting on the stairs like that!" Chastised his uncle, stepping over him on the stairs.
The small boy said nothing and only curled up into himself even more. Being one of the negligible middle children, and the smallest in size, he was used to being overlooked.
He went back to watching his father eat when he noticed the man looking right at him with those piercing brown eyes. The small boy froze. In all his life, his father had never looked at him before and he often wondered if the man even recognized him as his son...then, just like that, his father went back to looking at his plate as though nothing happened.
...
On the way out, his father kissed his mother goodbye and whispered something in her ear. She smiled for the first time that morning. Satisfied, his father went to start the pickup truck along with his uncle. It was time to go. His oldest brother counted them all as they passed him in a single file out the door, noticing that again, one was missing.
"Hey! You! Come here, we're leaving" His brother called when he saw him still curled up on the stairs. The small boy sighed and obliged, taking his time walking. What a pain.
Every day it was the same thing. They got up before dawn to go work at Metaldome, the local metal factory, with their father and uncle. After working for a few hours, they went to school, and after that they went back to Metaldome to work until nightfall. Then, they would go back home, dying of hunger, only to find out that dinner was scarce.
That was every day for them, but not for the small boy. He followed his own itinerary. Metaldome was enormous, like a small city of metal, and as soon as his family separated to their individual sections, he slipped away, never to be missed. And while everyone in his family slaved away like overworked dogs, he did no work at all. While the others always went home starving and begging for more, he ate plenty, probably more than all of them combined. And while his whole family wallowed in poverty, he had money to spare, all hidden away. How did he manage all of this? He shirked away from manual labor and worked smarter, not harder. Instead of wasting his life at boring Metaldome, he went to the market and made money off of foreigners who needed a translator for the day, or a guide, or any other menial favor, really. It was way better money than the rest of them made at the factory, that's for sure.
...
On the days the market was slow due to crummy weather, the boy trudged back to the factory for the day. For hours he'd run around Metaldome, climbing and poking around the beastly machinery, pretending to do work. Eventually while roaming the factory, he got so bored he invented a game and challenged his two younger brothers, who were four and five, to play. The game involved tying a rope on a high surface, playing cards, and climbing heavy machinery. It was dangerous, but he'd promised the youngsters a prize they could not refuse. Needless to say, it wasn't a good game to play, and by the end, his youngest brother had accidentally sliced off a finger...
...
"Hey you! We're leaving, hurry up, we're starving!" His oldest brother called from the pickup truck.
At nights, the small boy made sure to arrive by the pickup truck just in time to wipe his brow and say how "hard" he'd worked that day. None of his siblings ever believed it. His oldest brother even gave him a disapproving look, knowing well that he'd done nothing all day. Whatever. As long as the others didn't rat him out, the boy didn't care. Mules like them would never understand him. Metaldome was their life, the sole source of sustenance and it would be for the rest of their lives. He, on the other hand would rather die than accept that as his fate and very soon, he was going to run away to do bigger and better things.
...
Late into the night, on the lonely block of family houses, the small boy with pale skin and hair black as a crow ran like his life depended on it. Behind him, in the distance, a large, imposing structure was lit up in flames. The word "METALDOME" was painted on the facade of the gargantuan factory that was now disintegrating at 5000 degrees. The boy stopped for a moment to catch his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. It wasn't part of his original plan to set Metaldome ablaze. He'd only gone there to mess with the controls, and maybe put that horrible place out of commission for the week. Nothing major. Just when it looked like he was going to succeed, a pipe busted and the place caught fire. He ran out and by the time he was at the front gate, the main building was engulfed in flames, quickly followed by everything else.
Feeling rested, the boy ran the rest of the block toward his modest home. The lights were off, indicating that everyone was asleep. Like he'd done countless times before, the boy climbed the rusty old fire escape ladder up to the attic part of the house. He reached the top and crawled into a tight nook that only someone his size could fit through. With practiced hands, he felt around for the opening into his room, and when he found it, he quickly shoved the lid aside and jumped down into the top bunk of his bed.
Just when he thought he was safe, the lights turned on and the boy found himself being stared down by six pairs of dark eyes.
"Where are you coming from, ferret?" Asked his eldest brother.
The small boy rolled his eyes. He had a name but no one ever used it. He was always referred to as just 'you,' and when he wasn't, his brothers called him a 'ferret' because of his curved posture and stealth.
"Didn't you hear me? I asked you where you went at this hour."
He curled up in his bed, pretending to be asleep.
"We know you're not really sleeping. If you're gonna get us into trouble then at least tell us what you did this time"
The other six boys looked at the small figure on the top bunk with piercing glares. The door opened and a very angry teenage girl appeared with a group of smaller girls behind her.
"What the hell is this fuss?!" Asked the girl. She glared at the oldest brother. "In case you didn't get the memo, it's 2 am and people are trying to sleep!" She hissed.
Before anyone could answer, a procession of black cars entered their cul-de-sac, stopping directly at their house. The small boy jumped up from his bed in a panic. How could this be? He'd been careful to avoid the cameras, and he was certain that no one saw him anywhere near Metaldome tonight. So why, then, was the police here?
It wasn't just the police though. It was the owner of Metaldome, a man so powerful and corrupt that he had the law in his pockets and with it, everyone else, his family included. There was a loud knock on the door.
"Lawliet! Lawliet! I know you're in there so open the door!" Called the owner to his father, with his goons at his back.
Realizing that all was lost, the boy decided then and there to realize his plan to run away. While his brothers and cousins were distracted with the commotion, the boy threw the sheet off his bed and dug his hand into the mattress, pulling out fistfuls of money and shoving them into his pants.
"Look! Look at all that money!" Yelled one of the younger brothers upon noticing what he was doing. The others looked at him, shocked, and he quickly removed the lid above his bed. Just as he lifted himself into the opening, someone grabbed his legs, pulling him down.
"Let go!" He yelled, kicking with all his might.
He fell down to the bed and onto the floor. The door burst open again, only this time it was his father standing there with and expression that was as cold as steel. The children froze and the man ordered everyone to their beds, with the exception of the small boy. At that point the boy made a run for it but his father stopped him, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder, causing him to whimper.
The man whom he called father, who never even acknowledged him, dragged him downstairs, to join his aunts and uncle, his mother, and the owner of Metaldome, who had a revolver in his hand. His mother threw herself at the small boy, sobbing and hugging him as if he were the most precious thing she owned. He'd never been hugged by his mother before... he didn't know what to do. The moment was broken by the owner's voice ordering his father to shoot the boy with the revolver. His aunts gasped and his uncle tried to peel his mother off of him. His father's face was unreadable as he looked at him in his mother's arm. Just when he thought his father might argue, he ripped him out of his mother's embrace and took the revolver from the owner. His last memory of his mother was of her desperately crying, throwing herself at the owner's feet as she begged the man for her little son's life. Next thing he knew, his father took the revolver and smashed the blunt end of it against the back of his head.
...
L stirred in his sleep and his breathing was labored. Whether this was from a reaction to the chemicals that kept him alive, or from the nightmarish memories, no one could know.
...
When he regained consciousness, he found himself strapped to the passenger seat of his dad's pickup truck. It was already light outside, indicating that they had been driving for many hours. The boy looked at his sire, teary-eyed and with his head hung low in shame.
"I'm sorry." He said in a barely audible whisper. "It was an accident."
For miles, his dad said nothing and his face remained stoic. The boy looked out the window, not recognizing any of the terrain, and wondered if his father was taking him to slaughter. Faced with possible death, he felt a huge sense of guilt overwhelm him, and, with his head down, he wept.
"Stop crying." His dad said finally. "You're better than that..."
The boy looked up suddenly, surprised, not because his father had said something to him at last, but because his father had called him by his name. The sound felt so foreign to his ears that he barely recognized it as his, but even so...his father knew who he was.
"You seem surprised." He told his son with a half-smile. "I know quite a lot about you, believe it or not."
And so he did. His father knew everything, from his birthday that they never celebrated, to his insatiable sweet tooth, and he even knew about the frequent visits to the market and the deals he made with foreigners. The small boy was in awe. All his life he'd believed that his parents didn't care about him, when in fact, they loved him.
It all suddenly made sense, why his father always worked so hard, never once complaining, and never regretting. Likewise, his mom worked nonstop inside the house just to make sure that they had as much as they could. It was because they loved him, and his siblings, that they worked so much and as a result, spent so little time with them. His parents seemed indifferent, when it was the exact opposite.
They entered a strange town where the signs were in a different language. There, the pickup truck slowed to a halt. His father got out of the car and instructed him to do the same. The boy ran to his side and the dark haired man knelt down and put a hand on his son's disheveled head.
"I told that bad man that I would take you somewhere and kill you." Said his father. "But I'm not going to. I will go home and say I did, which means that you cannot come back with me. You can never come back, is that understood?"
The boy looked down at his feet and nodded his head.
"If you come back, our whole family will get into a lot of trouble, starting with me. I'm serious."
"I know." Said the boy meekly.
"Good. We just crossed over into a different place, far from home. That's why everything here seems strange to you, but I know you can do well here. Just keep walking down this road, and eventually you'll hit the town square. There you'll find people who can help you, places you can stay, and work that you can do." He said. "And take this-"He deposited a bag full of the money from his mattress into the boy's hands"-this is a good amount, it'll get you to wherever you want to go." He said. With that, he hugged his son for the first time, and took off, never to see him again.
...
Months later, the boy found himself in a whole other world. He'd done everything his father told him to do in that place, and before long, he found more foreigners that needed a travel companion. They were all very nice and paid very generously. The boy was doing pretty well, until a bad man posing as a foreigner recruited him as an assistant for a renown criminal organization.
His job for the mob was simple. All he had to do was translate for the mobsters on both sides during certain transactions, usually negotiations or interrogations. While the vocabulary of the mobsters wasn't terribly extensive in any language, and was mostly comprised of phrases involving money, weapons, drugs, sex, and the authorities, the boy had to learn to be fluent in these kinds of conversations. They weren't things that normally came up in his dealings with nice tourists at the market.
Sometimes, he had to make threats and say profanities to enemy mobsters, which never failed to shock them, given his puny appearance. Yet, he was surprisingly good at making threats. It wasn't always fun though. A lot of people got hurt in the mob and more than once he watched people die because a negotiation turned sour.
He also learned a lot during that time, not just about organized crime but about himself too. For example, he discovered that he enjoyed the intricacies of the schemes the mobsters sometimes put together as well as the way they manipulated the police like pawns on a chessboard. It was pretty fascinating. The mobsters took good care of him too. They clothed him, gave him all the sweets he wanted, and even took him on "business" trips to the best hotels. It was a mutually beneficial gig, and for a time things were good.
However, it all evaporated after an unexpected raid of the mob's cartel put many of the mobsters in prison and the boy in an orphanage run by nuns. And that, was by far the worst place he'd ever been to. The nuns were harsh and they tried to force feed him religious dogmas that he had no interest in following. He could read about the different religions, but he didn't feel drawn to practice any of them, which of course, was unacceptable to the nuns.
In retaliation, he often rebelled by arguing with the nuns, which only earned him time in solitary confinement. When his protests fell on deaf ears, the boy moved on to spreading false rumors about the scriptures taught at the orphanage. Elaborate lies spewed from him and he reveled in watching the nuns cry out in frustration, wondering where all this misinformation was originating. With time, he poisoned the minds of the other orphans and they too began to argue and question, but by then, the nuns had zeroed in on him as the source of the problem.
Time in solitary confinement became a regular thing for him, and every day he spent more and more time alone. Eventually he came to enjoy solitude, noting that it was better to be alone than to be in bad company. Not only that but he could read and study as much as he wanted when he was locked up. He read everything he could get his hands on, from math books, to history books, to science books and encyclopedias. Through reading, he refined his vocabulary to that above the base lower-class and mob-speak jargon that he'd been using his whole life.
He made solitary confinement a time for self-improvement and knowledge, an absolute necessity. He'd get up every day and purposely act out, or do something terrible during Morning Prayer, just to be placed in solitary confinement for the day, where he wouldn't be disturbed. It was great.
But that didn't last either. Eventually the nuns figured out that he'd just been toying with them all along and decided to transfer him to a different orphanage. Months later, that orphanage also found the boy troublesome and sent him away to an all-boys' home in Southampton, England.
By then the boy was nearing his 8th birthday, had been passed around three different orphanages, and was about to be passed on to a fourth one because the director of the Southampton all-boys home despised him. Lucky for him, at least those people recognized his extraordinary mental abilities and called in someone from a nearby orphanage in Winchester to meet him. That someone was Quillish Wammy, the founder of Wammy's House.
The day that Wammy was to visit the boys' home, the caretakers did everything humanly possible to prepare him. They brushed his teeth several times, they clothed him in the best clothes they could find, and they took on the daunting task of trying to make his rebellious hair stay down. They even considered putting bronzer on him just to make him look less pale!
"Sit still!" Fussed Dorothea, the old female caretaker as she fought to keep his hair down.
"I am still! You're the one who keeps tilting my head at weird angles and making me feel like my head will swivel out of place, which would then cause you to be charged with child abuse by the SCPD!" Said the boy in protest.
The caretaker sighed. "Quiet, you. Now, if only your hair weren't possessed." She lamented. "I've tried everything...extra conditioner to weight it down, hair gel, straightener, hairspray...and forget combing, I've been combing so much my poor arm feels like it's going to fall off, and if it does..." She lightly tapped his nose with the tip of her index finger. "...then it will be you who gets charged with assault, young man, or rather your hair will." She said smiling.
"It doesn't work that way Dorothea." He said matter-of-factly. "I would never be charged for such a thing because I'm a minor and there's no probable cause to believe that I can make your arm fall off...or like you said, that my hair can make your arm fall off. Besides, the odds of that happening are much less than 1% so I don't think you'll be able to build a solid case against me." Said the young boy as the caretaker led him by the arm to wait in the common room.
"You're too clever for your own good child..." Said the woman.
"No I'm not..." Said the boy looking up at her. "And tell me, Dorothea, why did we spend all this time enhancing my physical appearance? It's not like I'm going to a child modeling agency. I'm going to an orphanage! I should look like an orphan with my hair like this-" Said the boy, shaking his head, making his hair wild again.
"Stop it! Now you ruined it...all that hard work" Said the caretaker, resigned.
The little boy's eyes danced with mischief and Dorothea couldn't help but smile. She would never admit it, but she was going to miss that little boy.
"He's here! Mr. Quillish Wammy is here, hurry up, bring the boy" Called Seymour Wester, the director of the boys' home. He glared down at the dark-haired boy. "We're going to meet Mr. Wammy now. Whatever you do, don't say anything outrageous." He warned.
They walked into the parlor and the director quickly introduced himself to the older gentleman with a kind face, gray hair and glasses.
"And this here is the boy..." Said the director, bringing the boy forward. "I'm afraid we don't really know his birth name because when he came here, he claimed to not remember it, so we've just been calling him Dorian...but of course, you're free to call him whatever you'd like, seriously he's all yours, please..." rambled the director, practically begging to be rid of him.
"Hello there, Dorian" Said Wammy. The boy cringed at the name. He hated it.
"No name for now is fine, please. I don't like to be called Dorian." Said the boy, making the director shoot him a dirty look. The boy reached into his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. "Do you invest in the stock market, Mr. Wammy? Because if you do, I have some suggestions for stocks to buy that would be very beneficial to your finances." Said the boy handing him the piece of paper.
"Where did he get that?!" Whispered the director to Dorothea. The old caretaker shrugged. "I knew we should have drugged him to make him less talkative." He whispered.
"I can hear you, you know" Said the boy shamelessly to the director.
Wammy took the paper and read the names listed, knowing that they were real companies. He looked at the numbers and graphs scribbled on there, appraising the formulas and their genuinity. "Very interesting, and how do you know all this?" he asked the boy.
"I've read about financial models and I did some extensive calculations to project future value of those stocks. Also I have experience with money matters such as earning it, investing it, stealing it, and laundering it. You see, I spent some time working for the Russian mob and-" he was stopped abruptly by the director's hand on his mouth.
"Okay! That is enough talking for you, Dorian!" The director laughed nervously. "Mr. Wammy, please excuse him, he's got such elaborate stories...you know kids, they say the darnest things! But he's very clean and very intelligent, as you can see...eh, would you care for some tea?"
Wammy politely declined the offer, saying that he had to be heading out soon. Just when the director thought all was lost, and that he'd be stuck with the boy, Wammy leaned over to the boy and smiled.
"My orphanage is called Wammy's House and it is a highly specialized place where we nurture the talents and abilities of gifted children to the highest potential. It is our greatest hope that everyone that goes through Wammy's House will use their gifts to better humanity." He said. "Does that sound like a place that you would be interested in?" He asked.
The boy chewed lightly on his index finger and thought about it. The director was ready to pinch him if he said no.
"Yes, I think so" He said finally.
Wammy smiled again and patted him on the head. "Very well...but we'll have to do something about your name. You see at Wammy's House, we give names and aliases based on the English alphabet system so-"
"Can I be called L?" Asked the boy, looking up, still biting on his finger.
"Just L?"
"Yes, please" He said.
"That'll be just fine." Said Wammy
At that moment, L smiled for the first time in a while. Throughout his short life he'd been called by many different names, but at last, he had a name that felt right. After that, Wammy walked out hand in hand with the latest addition to Wammy's House.
...
L was starting to feel stable. Was he dead? If so, being dead felt a lot like being comatose in a hospital bed.
...
Just an hour after arriving at Wammy's House, L had already caused a commotion. He'd gotten into an altercation with some of the older boys over some toys in the common room. It seemed that L had no notion of sharing the things he liked, and he also seemed to be utterly incompatible with the other children. As a precaution, Wammy decided to send him to his room for the time being.
"Alright L. Here you are" He said, opening the door. Inside the room, there were two sides that mirrored each other and on the far side by the window, another boy was sitting on his bed, reading a thick biology book.
"Hello Ethan, this is your new roommate, L" Said Wammy pleasantly.
The boy on the bed said a quick and shy hello before turning back to his book. This other boy was small and skinny, just like L, but with short brown hair, thick glasses and braces. He looked to be about the same age as L too.
"Hi." Said L with disinterest.
"I'll leave you two to get acquainted with each other" Said Wammy, closing the door behind him.
L climbed atop his bed and sat there, staring at Ethan, biting his thumb. The other boy was so engrossed in his biology book that he did not even notice him staring. He also did not notice when L left the room minutes later and began to hoard all the best toys from the common room under his bed. In fact, he did not look up at all from his book until L burst open the door and ran over to him.
"Ethan! We have to get out of here, this is very bad. The older boys that tried to coddle me earlier are on their way here and they're going to do some terrible injustice to us. You have to come!" He said, alarmed.
The brunette looked unsure of whether to leave his room or not.
"I think I'm just gonna stay here, thanks."
"But they'll get you!" Said L, annoyed that Ethan wasn't going along with his plan. "You have to come."
"It's Ok."
"Fine" Said L. "Suit yourself, but later don't say I didn't warn you..." And with that, he left.
Moments later, a group of older boys that looked to be about twelve entered the room.
"Well what's this, Moresly? Stashing all the good things, huh?" Said one of the older boys, pointing at his bed. The brunette seemed uncertain until he looked at what the older boy was pointing at and saw the pile of toys underneath his bed.
....
After dinner and three large pieces of cake, L returned to the room to find Ethan huddled on the bed with his knees drawn to his chest, weeping. His biology book had been torn apart, with pages strewn all over the room. The toys that he'd hidden under Ethan's bed were all missing as well.
L climbed on the other boy's bed and patted Ethan on the head.
"I told you, you should have come." He said, unapologetic. Ethan looked up and L noticed that his glasses were also broken.
"You...you did that! You took those toys from the common room. You're a thief and a liar..." Said Ethan, hiccupping.
"No I'm not!" Said L.
"You are! You made them come here and break my things!"
"No I didn't!"
Ethan looked at him with contempt and threw a punch at L's face. L fell back on the bed, caught off-guard by what Ethan had just done. Slowly, he straightened back up on the bed and massaged his cheek.
"Ethan... are you familiar with the expression lex talionis?" Asked L.
"It's a latin expression that means 'an eye for an eye'?" The other boy responded, and as soon as he did, L buried his own fist in the other boy's face. The raven-haired boy put all the strength he'd gained climbing the Metaldome and the old fire escape into that punch and Ethan went falling off the bed, crying harder than ever. Enraged, the brunette yelled and threw himself at L, and the two went at it anew.
...
In the director's office, Ethan and L sat on the two chairs facing the big mahogany desk. One boy was snot-nosed and crying with a bloody lip, while the other sat passively, staring blankly at the old man sitting across the desk. Wammy looked at both boys mournfully as Roger Ruvie, his co-director shook his head disapprovingly.
"Open your eyes Quillish" Said Roger stiffly. "It is very clear what must be done here. Ethan has been with us since he was three. Over the years he has demonstrated that he is sweet-tempered, obedient, studious, and most importantly, he has never been in trouble until now."
At the mention of his name and the word "trouble" in the same sentence, Ethan buried his face in his hands and cried loudly into his hands.
"L, however, has only been here for a few hours and already caused two major incidents. Two! From the looks of it, this boy is a complete scrapper. He is aggressive, and antisocial." Said Roger, looking at L with disapproval.
L simply gazed at his feet and twiddled his toes, saying nothing to defend himself.
"Boys, please wait outside" Said Wammy, resting his elbows on the desk. The two boys sat on some chairs outside the office and even though the door was closed, they could still hear everything perfectly.
"What do you propose I do Roger?" Asked Wammy.
"Isn't it obvious? Send L back to the Southampton boys' home tonight. He doesn't belong here. He's a bad apple, just look at what he did to Ethan! It's no wonder Seymour wanted to get rid of him, the boy is a complete monster." He said. "Get him out of here as soon as possible. I think that would be best."
"I can't. Seymour won't take him back. He has no other place to go."
"Then dump him somewhere else, let him be someone else's problem." Said Roger.
And just like that, it was settled that L was to be passed on to yet another orphanage, which didn't surprise him. He was used to it by now, though it stung a little more than usual because for a fleeting moment, he thought that he'd finally found a home.
After that, L and Ethan were walked back to their room. While Ethan solemnly gathered the torn pages of his biology book, L curled up against the backrest of his bed, staring at his feet. For an hour straight, that's all he did, until finally he got up and ran back to the director's office. He opened the mahogany door without announcing himself and a surprised Wammy stood from his desk.
"L!" Said the old man.
The boy ran toward him and threw his arm around the old man, pressing his face against the man's jacket. L clung to Wammy like his life depended on it. The old man put his hands on the boy's shoulders and noticed they were shaking.
"I'm sorry...p-please don't. Send me away..." He said in between chokes. "I know I messed up. I always do but please...I promise. I won't do it again...."
The old man knelt down to L's eye level and gave him a handkerchief to dry off his face that was now covered with hot tears. L hugged Wammy again as his breathing came in rugged, uneven gasps.
"I'm s-sorry. Please. Mr. Wammy, give me another chance..."
And not a moment later, L unleashed a broken cry, muffled by the hug. It was a cry full of anguish and desperation that made his little body shake and his heart clench as it released all the sadness he'd felt since he left his family.
L did not go to a fifth orphanage that night, nor any day thereafter. From then on, Wammy made it his personal affair to care for L as though he were his own. It wasn't easy, and it took a lot of patience, but with time and a lot of trial and error, L found his way. Wammy's House became his rock of stability, the permanent place where he could be understood, and though it was not without faults, it most certainly felt like home.