Hey! I'm Imaybesomeone, and this is my first suits fic. I'm in love with this fandom, and I really think this will end up being a good story. Hopefully. I've never had much good luck when it comes to my feedback.

Anyways, this will be the prologue to a very long story. Expect steady updates with a few late ones. One to two a week sounds manageable, right? I sure hope so, because school starts in a few weeks and I sure as hell don't want to promise anything more than that if it means less time for my school shit.

Summary: Mike's grandmother could not be contacted when his parents died. Shipped off to a boys home, he was found my Harvey when his reputation called for extreme actions. The lawyer is clueless when it comes to caring for the quirky eleven year old. But he may soon find out that he won't be doing all the caring.

Warnings: there may be some slash. Nothing with Harvey/Mike (although I do have another story where that's the main pairing. It's in production at the moment). If you don't want me to add it, let me know and I won't. Nothing in this prologue, but there will be gore in the next one, and some dark themes. I mean, this is my take on mike after the accident. Lemme do what I want.

Disclaimer: I don't own it. If I did, shit would go down. So, USA shouldn't sue me. Because as much as I love to load the characters. I don't want to buy them.

I have no beta at the moment. If you wanrt to beta this, PM me, PLEASE! Anyways, I love you all. J

Anyways, here you go!

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{}Chapter 0{}

Cracks

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There was a four inch crack on the ceiling. It was thin, like the hairline fracture in the boy's right arm. It began in the upper right hand corner, next to the splotch of rust on the metal frame holding the tiles in place, and ended to the left, as if it were a river, trying to make its way downstream. Two tiles down, one of the three lights flickered, the dull light doing little but irritate the boy who lay still atop of the white sheets covering the metal hospital bed. His eyes flickered back to the crack. It marred the perfection of the ceiling, breaking the once smooth white surface that greeted awakening patients.

Oh, how he hated that crack.

His eyes would flutter shut as he prepared himself for a restless night, his blonde eyelashes spreading across his cheeks, catching on the bandage that was neatly taped in place below his right eye. If the discomfort from the skin irritating bandage wasn't enough, all he could see when he attempted to succumb himself into darkness was the four inch crack, breaking through the Styrofoam ceiling tile above his head, next to the spot of rust, and two tiles down from the flickering light.

He tried to tell his doctors. He told them his room was dangerous. The ceiling might cave in on him, and the light was going to break and catch fire. He tried. He nearly pleaded with the irritable nurses. He wanted to leave the white room, forget about the flickering light and the smudge of rust. And most of all, he wanted to forget the crack that scarred the tile right above his head.

It couldn't happen. It wouldn't. He would never forget about the damned crack. You could approach the boy fifty years from now and inquire as to how long the crack in the ceiling was on July 5th, 2001. Without pausing to think, he would reply, "Exactly four inches long, starting next to the small rusty spot on the metal frame, two tiles away from the light that never stopped flickering."

Unfortunately for the eleven year old boy, the crack in the ceiling was a mere distraction. In order to avoid the horrid feeling of guilt that flooded his stomach every time his mind wandered to the pain in his body, he thought of nothing but the four inch crack in the ceiling above his head. He needed to. As much as it drove him into insanity.

Every so often, a nurse would walk into the room to fiddle with the long needle that pumped liquids into his body, or to change the pus laden gauze. He hated the gauze. It stuck to his skin, peeling off the scabs and crust that kept his wound protected from the chafing fabric. He hated when the nurses said it wasn't that painful when they pulled the smelly bandages off. They were wrong. . The pain was horrid. It was like pouring hot wax over your arm, then pulling it off, with your skin dangling limply from the hardening liquid. It was painful. He was one to know, he had nearly lost his legs less than a week ago.

He hated their 'pleasant' voices. He hated how they cheerfully disposed of his nasty bandages in the dark red container to the right of the sink that never stopped dripping. He could read you the safety rules and hazards off of the red box without looking at it. He didn't' pay attention to it though, the pain was disposed of there.

Their voices grated against his ears like nails across a chalkboard, "Wow! Look at how brave you are! Such a great patient, I'm so proud of you! You'll be out of here in no time!"

Out of here, yes, it was to be expected. Very few people live in a hospital. The real question is where exactly he was going to go. Where would he go, now that the parents he loathed from the bottom of his heart were rotting in hell? Where would he go, now that his grandmother was deemed incapable of caring for him? Would his aunt take him? No, of course not. She had two kids, both of which here 'smarter and stronger' than him. He nearly scoffed at the thought of his pudgy cousins. There was no way in heaven or hell he would go live in that smelly house. He would rather not catch whatever the filthy swine carried. The same went for a boy's home. He never got along with others. He was as antisocial as they come. Children his age were incompetent, in his book. He had never done anything wrong, criminal-wise, so they wouldn't send him to that torturous facility. Not yet, at least.

A foster home it was, then. A home where he would have to smile and act brave, in spite of the leg brace that would be holding his leg in place, and the black cast that reached just below his elbow. In spite of the emotional trauma he was going through. He would smile as he remembered. Remembered the drops of blood that hit his forehead as his mother bled on him, her disemboweled corpse starting to smell as he waited for more than a day in the humid car, his leg crushed under his father's seat. He would have to avoid the stares as his face healed, the wounds stitched together like Frankenstein's monster. Just two more days and he was leaving one hell to head for another. But he couldn't focus on that now. The door had croaked open, the rusty hinges creaking together like nails along an old chalkboard.

The social worker was ugly.

The moment you look at her, she looks decent, but then you really take a good look. She had no chin, it was as if someone had taken an ice cream scoop and just scooped it off. Her nose was long and slightly crooked, covered in blackheads and oil. Her eyes were a pretty blue, but hazy. As if she was a shell of her former self.

She probably was.

Her name was Allie. Allie Shapiro. She asked the boy plenty of useless questions. Favorite book (Utopia, by Sir Thomas More), favorite color (dark red, like the container they stuffed his needles and gauze into), and what he wanted to be when he grew up. As soon as she figured he had warmed up to her (or gave up trying to get him comfortable), she started asking real questions. She asked about the accident ("They were sober, but my father was angry at me. He was yelling."), then asked about his treatment at home, ("I'm alive. That's all there is to it). Eventually, she left, a frown etched into her homely face.

It upset the boy. He didn't want to be alone again. He wanted to keep talking to the hideous lady. He wanted someone to take his mind off of everything. He needed her to keep talking. He craved the attention she had just given him. He needed more. He didn't care from whom. He just needed someone. Someone to keep him occupied, his mind stimulated. The more he was stimulated, the less of a chance he had of growing distracted and thinking about things he didn't want to think of.

There was no angel there to save him, though. Soon, he succumbed to his thoughts. The horrible fight he had with his parents and the horrible crack in the ceiling. The one four inches long that sat by the spot of rust, two tiles away from the light that seemed to never stop flickering.

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Alright, this is pathetically short. I promise a chapter of 4,000 words next time! Pinky promise! Anyways, I want at least two reviews before I update. I love it when people appreciate my work. This is shit, but hopefully the next chapter will show you all I'm not totally hopeless!