Reduced To

L taps his fingers on the chair. The rest of the passengers are sleeping, are exhausted, because it's two in the bloody morning. But he can't sleep.

His fingers are tingling with the memories of what happened and his legs and arms are aching and his eyes are burning with held back tears and his voice is dry and cracked and hoarse from screaming.

But he is L now, and he is safe, being L. He is not Henry Manchester anymore, the boy named after the largest city North of England. He is L. He will forevermore be L.

L is good.

Isn't it?

Evangeline Lynchard, 14 years old, somewhere in first class (she wasn't paying attention when they led her to her seat) and daughter of two famous billionaires who are now dead. Hence the special-snowflake treatment.

Evangeline is going to some people. Maybe new parents, maybe not. No one really told her what was happening--only that her parents were dead and she had to go somewhere and they'd be nice to her because her parents are rich. (Okay, so they didn't say that last part, but she inferred it.)

She is looking out the window.

There was a bit of a scuffle down in economy class, apparently. (Or, as she would say: 'pparently.) This guy has staggered in, kneecap cracked, one of his shoulders dislocated, head bruised--the whole she-bang. He hadn't said much, just told them his seat and sat down.

She presses her fingers, lightly, to the window. It's cold, and the curtains are drawn (2 a.m., anyone?) but she can't sleep. Her head is too spinny (is that a word? it's how she's feeling) for that, right now, and there's an achy, found-the-golf-ball! feeling in her throat.

She leans her head against the window--cold, cold, cold--and closes her eyes. But she doesn't sleep.

Ernest keeps glaring at the person in the seat in front of him.

Which, you know, really isn't his fault.

See, Guy-In-Front-Of-Ernest, Ernest's fiancé just broke up with him. And the couple sitting next to him have been smooching for the last few hours. And it's really annoying him. Because he hates PDA. And it reminds him of his fiancé. Which really sucks. And he can't sleep. And it's so bloody effing annoying. The world is bloody effing annoying.

And now he wants to scream it with all of the venom the broken pieces of his heart can muster: THE WORLD IS BLOODY EFFING ANNOYING! AND SO ARE YOU! GO TO HELL, YOU!

Of course, that'd make people look at him. And may even make the police grab him when the plane lands. (Will it? Won't it? He doesn't know anymore.) And he doesn't want any of that.

So he clamps his mouth shut more tightly than before, and keeps glaring at the person in front of him.

Gerald Lee smiles at the mirror, and his reflection smiles back.

He is technically a genius (I.Q. 0f 194) has already finished high school (8 year old from Melbourne finishes high school) got 99.95 (99.95...an 8 YEAR OLD?) and is doing Medicine (Bachelor of Surgery and Medicine--5 years) at Monash.

So. Yay him.

His mother calls his name, and he sighs. Replies that he's coming. And then, stepping away, screwing a smile onto his face, he opens the door and walks back to his seat.