A/N: My stories just seem to keep getting bigger and bigger, don't they? This is a not so short piece inspired by Trauma Team, the greatest game of all time (and a sequel/spin-off thingy to the second and third greatest games of all time). Specifically, it's about the adoption of everyone's favorite felon, CR-S01. They had absolutely nothing about this in-game, so I figured I might as well write up my idea of what happened. This isn't my best work, and I'm not sure how in-character the people are, but we never saw pre-amnesia CR or Albert Sartre, so I guess we'll never know until the sequel. Pretty major spoilers for Trauma Team, so if you haven't played the game, don't read. A big happy shout-out to BestFanOFAnime and her fic, "Pleaseant Days", for inspiring me to write this. Please review whether you loved it or hated it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Trauma Team or the characters or plot thereof. Atlus will always have a special place in my heart.

A gaggle of curious heads peeked through the dusty window of the orphanage's main office, and Albert Sartre acknowledged them with a smile and a wave. The pack of boys and girls quickly scattered back to the playground, afraid of being caught eavesdropping, and Albert chuckled. Of course they were curious; an adult visitor at the orphanage usually meant an adoption, and the children were sure to gossip and guess at who would be the lucky one this time. He wished he could give them all a loving home, but that was impossible. Still, this was hardly any place for a child.

Albert sighed and stared blankly out the window. Suddenly, a pair of eyes connected with his. They were small, sad, and lonely, but their most striking feature was their bright red irises. The eyes held his gaze for but a second, and then they were cast downwards, leaving Albert staring a mess of black hair. The eyes belonged to a boy, no older than ten, who sat on a swing by himself. Albert knew the boy had been watching him, and he was intrigued. The boy hadn't been standing at the window with the rest of the children, but had instead remained patient, and his virtue had rewarded him. He had gotten a better look at the stranger than any of the others. Somehow, Albert didn't think he would brag about it. He seemed like he didn't belong, although Sartre wasn't exactly sure why. The boy was sitting all by himself, but that wasn't just it; there was something viscerally different about him, something intangible. At once, Ms. Stephenson, the orphanage director, bustled in with two cups of coffee.

"Professor Sartre! It's a pleasure to see you again! It's been a long time since I've seen a adopter with your qualifications." She handed Albert a cup of black coffee and settled down behind her massive desk. She leaned back precariously in her chair and pulled the blinds down to keep prying eyes away. "I dearly hope you chose to adopt one of our children."

Albert sat up on the threadbare couch that took up one wall of the office. The room was cluttered and messy, but in a homely sort of way that put him at ease. Ms. Stephenson was a rather large woman herself, but not imposing: rather, she was kind and motherly.

"Well, I've looked at a lot of orphanages, but I was most impressed with yours, Ms. Stephenson." Albert took a sip of his coffee and forced a smile; he preferred his with cream and sugar, but he wouldn't turn down the kind gesture. He wasn't one to make a fuss.

She blushed. "Thank you, sir. I'm very pleased to hear that. The children are outside right now, so if you'd like, I could show you out back and let you have a look. I'm sure you'll find that they're all very pleasant, well-behaved children."

Albert laughed good-naturedly. "There's no need to impress me. I understand what I'm getting into. I don't expect any child to be perfect."

Ms. Stephenson smiled broadly. "Force of habit, Professor. I'm so glad you understand. You know some people." She pursed her lips and sat up perfectly straight. "Children should be seen, not heard," she mocked, and she and Albert laughed.

When they had settled down, Albert was the first one to speak. "Actually, there was one boy I wanted to ask you about. I saw him sitting outside, on the swing."

"Who?" the director asked excitedly. Unable to contain herself, she shuffled a few papers on her desk.

"He had black hair, couldn't have been more than ten, and he was by himself. Also, he had the most intriguing red eyes."

She seemed to deflate a little. "Oh, Robert? He's... an odd boy. Still lovely, of course, but..."

Albert interest was piqued. "Tell me about him, please."

Ms. Stephenson considered for a moment. She nervously chewed the nail of her index finger. At last, she looked up a Albert seriously. "Alright. I think... I trust you, Mr. Sartre."

She leaned forward and set her elbows on the desk. "He's a quiet one, and he doesn't have many friends. He never really got along with the other children. I don't know why. He's always so kind and polite, but he prefers to spend time by himself. He's very smart, at the head of his school, even, but all he does is study. Study and read. The books at the elementary school are never enough for him. I've taken to lending him some of my child psychology books. I don't think he's particularly interested in psychology, but he chews through them anyway."

"He sounds like a very nice boy."

"Well, yes, although, there's one thing. His parents, Mr. Sartre. I don't want to speak ill of the dead - let their poor souls rest in peace - but they, well, I knew them when they were alive, that's how I got Robert, and they weren't, ah, very kind to him."

Albert cocked his head. "Did they...?"

Ms. Stephenson shook her head vigorously. "Oh, no, nothing like that at all. They never hurt him, I'm sure. They never loved him, though, like every child deserves."

He nodded sagely. "Indeed. But, what do you mean?"

"I think, if anything, his father was afraid of him. He told me as much, once. I remember it as clearly as if it was yesterday. He said, 'That boy is going to kill us one day, I swear.' I was shocked. I thought he was joking. I can't imagine why he'd even think a thing like that. Robert would never hurt a fly. Still, they made him cover his books in brown paper, like he was reading something satanical. I've seen all his books - he keeps them in a box in his room - and they're just a bunch of nonfiction books, about all sorts of things, really. I've told him he can take the paper off, but he won't. I don't want to force him to do anything, so I leave them like that. I don't think Mr. and Mrs. Chaston, his parents, were ready for a child."

"How did his parents die, if you don't mind me asking?" Albert asked delicately.

"Oh, you don't believe that he could've killed them, do you, Professor?" Ms. Stephenson asked incredulously. "He was seven, for goodness' sake!"

"No, certainly not. I'm sorry. I was just curious. They died three years ago?"

She cleared her throat and blushed. "I'm the one who should be apologizing, Mr. Sartre. It was rude of me to assume what you're thinking. I was out of place. It was not quite two and a half years ago, actually. Robert turned ten just a little while ago. They died in a car accident. He wasn't even there. It was a very traumatic experience for him."

"Did he become quiet after that?"

"No, I'm fairly sure he's always been like that. He was very sad after they died, though, I'm positive. He cried himself to sleep several nights. He didn't want anyone to know, but I heard him anyway. He's always thinking of others and never wants to worry anyone. He's an exceptional boy."

Albert nodded. "He sounds like it. Could I meet him?"

"I would be delighted if you would! I really want him to be adopted. He's getting older now, and you know how hard it is for the older ones to get adopted." Ms. Stepheson hurried out of the room. Albert heard the sound of a door screeching open, and then the babble of children playing. The door fell shut heavily. After a few moments, the door opened again, and soon after that, Ms. Stephenson reentered the office holding a boy by the hand. It was the same boy Albert had seen on the swing. He was thin and lanky, and he held a thick book covered in paper under his arm.

"Robert, this is Professor Albert Sartre. Say hello."

"Hello, Professor Sartre," Robert said softly. He held out his hand slightly. "It's very nice to meet you, sir."

"Mr. Sartre is fine, Robert." Albert shook the boy's hand firmly. "Ms. Stephenson has been telling me about you. You seem like a very nice boy. Can I see the book you're reading?"

Robert looked up, a faint twinkle of interest in his eyes. He handed the book to Albert, who flipped it open and smiled. "Memmler's Structure and Function of the Human Body. That's a rather large book for someone your age."

The boy brightened considerably. "The average length of the human esophagus is 25 cm long. Food enters the stomach via the lower esophageal sphincter. Stomach acid is mainly hydrochloric acid, potassium chloride, and sodium chloride. The chemical formula for those are-"

"HCl, KCl, and NaCl, respectively. Have you been studying the digestive system?"

"Mhmm." He smiled proudly. "Are you a doctor, Mr. Sartre?"

"No, I'm a professor. But I teach medicine at a college. Do you want to be a doctor?"

"Yes!" Robert practically shouted. "O-oh. I'm sorry..." He looked down and shuffled his feet nervously. "For yelling..."

"It's alright, son," Albert assured him, smiling. He patted Robert's shoulder and handed the book back. "Why don't you go back outside for a while to Ms. Stephenson and I can talk?"

"...Okay." he muttered. He left, and Ms. Stephenson sat back down at her desk. She was beaming.

"That's the most talkative I've seen him in a long time. I knew you'd make an excellent father for him. Do you think you'd like to adopt him?"

Albert remembered the gleam in the Robert's eyes when he was talking about medicine, and his sudden shame in raising his voice. The boy was very mature for his age, but he had a lot to learn about being a child. "If there's anything I can do to make him happy, I'll do it."

"Oh, that's glorious! There's just a few papers, and then a couple of weeks of processing, but I'm sure you'll be approved..." She rambled on while Albert leaned back and smiled.

Precisely two weeks and three days later, Albert Sartre's sleek grey car pulled up to the orphanage. Ms. Stepheson and a few other staff members were standing out in front with the boy, Robert. A mob of children stood in the main doorway, whispering amongst themselves. Albert got out of the car and walked up to Robert, who was clutching Memmler's Structure and Function of the Human Body to his chest.

"Hello again, Mr. Sartre."

"Hello, Robert. Are you ready to leave?"

"Yes, sir."

Ms. Stephenson hefted Robert's box of belongings into the trunk of Albert's car while Robert said goodbye to the orphanage staff. Before he got into the car, Ms. Stephenson gave him one last crushing hug. Tears shone in her eyes. "We'll miss you, Robert. Professor Sartre will take good care of you."

Albert helped Robert into the back seat of the car. He buckled himself into the driver's side of the idling car and shut the door. As he pulled away, he could hear the shouts of the orphanage children saying their final farewells. Robert watched stoically as they left.

Albert glanced back at Robert, grinning encouragingly. "Why don't you read to me from Memmler's?"

Robert smiled a small smile and read with enthusiasm.

A/N: Yes, Memmler's Structure and Function of the Human Body is a real book. It's also a mouthful. I went on a medical book database and picked the most generic-sounding one I could find. Mini-CR's medical facts are true, as well. Anyone who guesses how I incorporated all the letters in CR's prison number into this story gets an internet cookie. There's more than one right answer, though I didn't intend for it to be that way. Hope you enjoyed the story, and please remember to R&R!