Disclaimers etc: Death Note and characters not mine, no profit being made. Rated for references to violence and physical abuse, alcoholism, possibly language in later chapters.

AN: You would think I would've learned my lesson by now, but here I am, trying to write another multichapter. I do have most of it outlined, however, so I think there's a glimmer of hope, lol. This'll probably be three longish parts and a fourth, shorter part.
I listed this one as being about Near and Mello, and it is, but it's from Roger's POV. Sort of a reflection on the House and L's successors by the man who seems to have raised them. Hope you enjoy it, and I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Part 1: House and Headmaster

He was in the garden when the call came, and consequently missed it.

Kneeling really wasn't good for his arthritis, but the begonias needed to be weeded. Ignoring the creaking protests of his back and knees, Roger pulled gamely away at the stems sprouting up around the flowers. The begonias—the whole garden, really—seemed overrun already, the flowers dull and wilting despite the fine weather. Beds and neat rows cultivated carefully to look half wild were quickly becoming so without Rosalea's loving attention. Roger had never had the same knack she did for nurturing growing things.

He pushed up his hat and wiped his brow, sighing. Perhaps he ought to consider hiring a gardener, he thought morosely as he cast a glance around his wife's garden. The idea of a stranger invading her sanctuary, though, so soon after….

It wasn't until after lunch (eaten alone, the opposite setting of the table silent and empty) that Roger noticed there was a message on the answering machine.

-o-

"Please, come in," Roger said, ushering his guest into the foyer.

Quillsh Wammy, though he was a few years' Roger's senior, still had some spirit of youth that Roger felt that he himself had lost: a brightness in his sharp blue eyes, a sense of purpose in his step, a retention of the firm-shouldered military stance Roger had surrendered to the weight of age and, more recently, grief. He'd also grown a moustache since last Roger had seen him. The kindness in his voice, however, was the same.

"I heard about Rosalea. I'm so sorry."

Roger nodded, not trusting himself to reply, accepting the silent comfort of his old friend's hand on his shoulder.

"I was surprised to get your call," Roger finally broached the subject that hung heavily between them after tea had been served and polite pleasantries exchanged. "It's been a few years."

"Yes," Quillsh said, smiling slightly and setting his teacup down. "I've been working on…something new."

"Developing another new-fangled thingamabob?" Roger frowned. Quillsh was always working on 'something new'. This had been the first time in their thirty-year acquaintance, however, that he had simply fallen off the planet for a couple years.

"No," Quillsh said, and chuckled. "Perhaps a better wording would have been someone new."

Harrumphing, Roger sat back in his armchair. "So that's it. Been wining and dining a pretty woman or some such thing, have you?" It was somewhat amusing, though a little off-putting that Wammy had completely lost contact for so long for such a reason.

But that, as it turned out, was not what his old friend had been up to. First disbelieving, then incredulous, then overwhelmed, Roger listened to Quillsh's strange story, a story about a child savant he had found, a boy with an amazing talent for solving unsolvable crimes.

-o-

"So this L, as you call him, is actually recognized by Interpol."

"Most definitely," Quillsh affirmed. "They have no idea of his identity, of course, or mine. But L has become something of a…legacy."

Roger eyed his old friend sharply over the rim of his glass. The tea was long gone, and he had found it necessary to bring out the scotch, despite not having supper yet. Quillsh had that look, the look that meant whatever crazed fantasy he had managed to somehow wrestle into reality, be it a computer chip or an ergonomic chair or a sonar plane, he was already underway to make it even crazier and more fantastical.

"I see," Roger said guardedly. "And so…what brings you to me, after all this time?"

Wammy's gaze grew keener, though no less friendly. "We have encountered some complications in some preemptive attempts designed to maintain L's future as a weapon against crime. I realize now that I made certain assumptions while making staffing arrangements that were not conducive to forwarding our goals." He paused, and his tone softened. "I have been keeping up with you and the rest of the boys, though I know I haven't been in very good contact…and when the news came of your wife…I thought…you might appreciate a change of scenery."

Roger's heart contracted.

"I've come," Quillsh set his scotch glass down on the table and leaned forward earnestly, "to ask you to accept a position at our installation in Winchester."

-o-

This was…not at all what Roger had prepared himself for.

"You said the Winchester establishment was a training center," he muttered under his breath as the two old men rolled up the winding driveway to the elegant mansion Quillsh referred to as the 'House'. His friend had been terribly unspecific, but he had certainly implied that Roger's career background made him a perfect candidate for this position.

As the ex-military administrative director of a training facility for a private security force, Roger had been expecting a similar institution designed specifically to train L's personal bodyguards. How better to maintain L's future than to keep him protected? But this—this—

Yes, there was a sturdy stone wall surrounding the place, as well as a heavy iron gate protected with a complex digital security system, but there was no sign of a training yard or gym or armory. Instead an old-fashioned bell tower presided over a sprawling three-story building with French windows and ivy-hung brick walls, a neatly sculpted lawn, and a football pitch. A pitch currently in use. Shouting indistinctly, a handful of children scrambled after the ball in high-spirited competition.

"Indeed it is," Quillsh said. Roger gazed fixedly through the tinted window at them, feeling rather ill. "On paper, this institution is an orphanage. In reality," he actually grinned as Roger tore his eyes away from the playing children and stared at him in growing horror, "this is where I have been gathering the best and brightest orphans from across the world to find a successor to L. Then, if anything should ever happen to him, his legacy will be carried on."

"I see," Roger said faintly.

"You're looking like you rather regret coming after all," Quillsh observed.

"I…" Roger shook his head, unsure of where to start. Successors to a child savant? A training facility for—children?

Doctors had told Roger and Rosalea a lifetime ago that they would never produce children. Neither of Rosalea's siblings had had children, and Roger was an only child. Roger's world was one of paperwork and orderliness and schedules and evaluations, not of mud and screaming and petty tantrums and whatever else it was that children got up to. Quillsh had said that his own charge, L, was only sixteen, but sixteen wasn't so very young—he'd worked with recruits only two or three years older, after all—and he didn't expect he'd be seeing the boy much anyway. But these, those children playing in the yard, they were—well, Roger wasn't sure. He didn't know any children, so had no frame of reference by which to judge their approximate ages. He doubted any of them were in their teens.

"I don't think I have the appropriate qualifications for this position," was what he finally managed.

The sleek black car stopped at the front door of the House. Even as they sat there, two children tripped past the car and up the stone steps, one supporting her crying companion, apparently scraped or bumped in the game.

"On the contrary, I think your qualifications make you an ideal candidate."

"Quillsh." Roger ran a hand through his thinning grey hair. "I train professionals to work in demanding, high-stress situations. Mature adults. I don't work with children."

Wammy turned off the ignition, the set of his mouth uncharacteristically serious. "Did you see those two that just went inside?" He glanced sidelong at Roger.

"Yes, of course, but that's exactly what I mean—I don't know how to deal with scraped knees or—"

"That little girl," Quillsh interrupted, "was not hurt. And if she was, it was intentionally self-inflicted for that performance."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The students rarely play out of doors this time of day. Afternoons are generally devoted to study. Something today is more interesting than preparing for their upcoming exams." Quillsh nodded slightly back toward the pitch. "A few stand watch. I expect that the rest are stationed throughout the House, similarly pretending at inconspicuous activities. Those two were sent to tell those inside that a stranger has arrived."

"That's ridiculous, Quillsh," Roger scoffed. "Even if children would go to such complicated lengths, how did they know we were coming in the first place?"

A tiny smile lurked around the corners of the older man's mouth. "A couple of them are excellent hackers. They probably read that I had an appointment in my computer schedule."

A curtain on the second floor shifted slightly. Quillsh chuckled.

"Come, let's head inside. They're probably stewed half to death with curiosity."

-o-

True to Quillsh's prediction, there seemed to be children everywhere as Roger was given a brief tour of the building. Some sat alone in windowseats, apparently reading, others sprawled on the floor or huddled at tables in twos or threes playing games or working together, and once a small group chased passed them in a hallway, giggling and darting subtle, scrutinizing glances at the men. Now that he was paying attention, Roger was fairly certain he was seeing the same children multiple times in several places throughout the building, and that some of those were the same children they had seen minutes before out in the yard.

It was, he had to concede, an impressive facility. When he looked past the fact that it was populated by minors, Roger was able to observe that it truly was, as Quillsh said, a training ground. Security cameras winked from the corners. The extensive library contained books and periodicals in forty languages, and, according to Wammy, merely represented a fraction of the information resources available on the cutting-edge computer system. There was a gym, in fact, with a lap pool and tumbling mats, as well as several science labs, shops for building computers and electric circuitry, and sound-proofed practice rooms for music.

We have a mandatory core curriculum," Quillsh told him as they toured the place. "Reading, writing, math and ESL, of course, as well as world history and politics, and basic technology and physical sciences. All other courses are elective. We hire tutors and specialists from around the world to teach whatever subjects our students express an interest in pursuing."

"I'm impressed," Roger admitted.

"I rather hoped you would be. So, how about a cup of tea?" Quillsh smiled, glancing meaningfully at a tiny girl passing by (a book on astrophysics tucked under her arm).

-o-

"Sorry to be so abrupt. They do like to know what's going on, but not everything is need-to-know information for the students," Quillsh told him conspiratorially after he had ushered Roger into a well-lit study, full of honey-colored wood and half-empty bookshelves, and switched on an odd-looking device produced from his jacket pocket. "Jammer," he said, noting Roger's quizzical look. "They've been known to bug the office. Please, have a seat."

Roger rubbed his arthritic fingers distractedly. A sudden thought had occurred to him after observing the children, who, in his opinion, were damn creepy. "You indicated there were problems with previous staffing. What happened to the last manager?"

For the first time since showing up on Roger's doorstep, Quillsh looked troubled.

"You understand, of course, that everything I am about to tell you is in strictest confidence."

"Of course."

The previous House headmaster, his old friend explained, had a background in running boarding schools.

"I thought he would be perfectly suited to overseeing the students' education," Quillsh said soberly. "As it turned out, his experience working with average children was exactly what led to his oversight of some serious problems that were developing among the students."

The children were all given false names upon arrival, their real names and history known only by Mr. Wammy and the headmaster. Names were assigned by initial in alphabetical order. Alt and Backup had been the first.

"All the children are very unique individuals," Wammy mused, rubbing his chin. "Extreme gifts, I think, go hand in hand with a tendency toward eccentricity. B, however, was always particularly…unusual. I come to the House rarely; much of my time is spent traveling with L, organizing cases, forging and cultivating contacts. I counted on the headmaster to monitor things here at the House and inform me of anything alarming."

The former boarding school principal, however, had underestimated his charges. B was developing in a way that was most certainly cause for alarm, but was able to keep the headmaster oblivious simply because the man couldn't believe a child would be anything but innocent at heart. Petty and mean and jealous, perhaps, but not murderous.

B was cruel, vindictive, knew how to play on the fears of others. Most of the students ostracized him. One was unable to avoid him, however. B was known to follow A around, bothering him constantly. In retrospect, and after having questioned some of the other students, Quillsh had put together a quite sinister picture of the situation: B had deliberately pushed A's buttons, probing mercilessly at the most sensitive spots he could find, goading him until A started to crumble under the combined academic and social pressure. The other children suspected something was off, but in the end, they were reluctant to approach B, and A was driven to suicide before anyone intervened. By the time the headmaster was aware of the situation, B had run away, injuring two other children on his way out when a group of students found A's body and confronted his indirect murderer.

"Those who would discuss it," Wammy added grimly, "indicated that the encounter was not a chance happenstance—they intended to incapacitate him themselves, permanently if possible, rather than informing the headmaster and letting the staff deal with it."

All of this had happened a mere two months previous. Appalled that such a thing had been allowed to happen, Quillsh had immediately released the headmaster from his contract.

"Oh. My goodness." Roger stared at his friend, wrinkled hands clutched tight around his teacup. "Is that—is that normal behavior for children?"

"Not for normal children. No."

"But typical of these students." It was sounding less like his current job of training security specialists, Roger thought, and more like the job he had taken immediately after his retirement from the military, as a prison warden.

"Well," Wammy temporized, "B was an exception rather than the rule. Our students don't typically go around killing each other. But they do take matters into their own hands, and act and think in ways that most would not expect children so young to be capable of.

"Do you see, now, why I am offering this position to you, despite not having worked with children before?" Quillsh asked earnestly. "These are not children. They do not act like children. They do not tolerate being treated like children. These are people—young, yes, but very adult in some respects—who are being trained to deal with demanding and high-stress situations, as you say. Your lack of experience with children is an asset, not a liability, because your preconceived notions of how children behave are relatively unformed. I am not asking that you yourself be a teacher or nanny to these students; we have staff that deal with their daily needs. Also, many measures have been taken to ensure the incident is not repeated. The cameras, for instance, are new, and we have employed a psychologist to monitor the mental status of every student.

"The position of headmaster is administrative in nature, but it also requires a keen attention to overall trends in what is going on in the facility. I think you would be perfectly suited to the job. If you are interested."

Roger steepled his fingers, letting his eyes rest on the jammer. Quillsh's story about B was a little disturbing, but no worse than incidents he had witnessed in prisons and adult training facilities. It was certainly something different, a task that would keep him occupied. Already, despite how little he knew, it was clear that this position Quillsh was offering was more than a job. This had all the hallmarks of the type of position that consumed and demanded the life's dedication of the one who filled it.

His life didn't have much going for it at the moment, other than killing Rosalea's precious flowers.

"Tell me more about it."