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Vox Dei
The Complete Remastered Edition
2/21/2010
Tsugumi Ohba, Takashi Obata, Jack U. Rosart
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Jack U. Rosart's
Vox Dei
by
Matsuda Touta
with introduction and footnotes by
Nate River
2nd Edition
Century Gintis Books New York London Tokyo
Copyright © 2057 by Matsuda Kenji
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Japan, England and the United States by Century Gintis Books, a division of Ellison's, Inc., and simultaneously in Canada by Ellison's Canada Limited, Toronto.
Century Gintis Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Ellison's, Inc.
Permissions acknowledged and illustrations credits appear on pages Unavailable.
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Matsuda, Touta
Vox Dei / Touta Matsuda
p. cm.
ISBN 0-435-3456-4 (pbk)
ISBN 0-435-7534-5 (hc)
ISBN 0-435-2333-2 (hc/signed)
1. Title
PS2331.A5312H97 2071 645'.76–dc67 99-43241 CIP
Ellison's, Inc. Web Address: EllisonsIncorporated dot com
Voxdei dot jp
Printed in Japan
First Edition
25 24 23 22 21
We believe this novel is a work of fiction. Any reference to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locals are intended only to give the reader a sense of reality and authenticity. Other names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, as are those fictionalised events and incidents which involve real persons and did not occur or are set in the future. We hope. – The Ed.
A note on this Edition:
Full Colour:
- The word note in red; the word language in blue. The word tower in orange.
- All strike outs in green.
- The only struck out passage in chapter XXV appears in purple.
- Xxxxxxx, Morse code and colour plates.
2-Colour:
- The word note appears in red and the word language in blue. The word tower in orange.
- No coloured strike outs.
- No Braille.
- Few colour plates.
- Scraps not coloured.
Black & white:
- No colour for the word note or language or tower.
- No coloured strike outs.
- No Braille.
- Black & white plates.
- Only Latin characters.
- Logs uncoloured and may be incomplete.
- No scraps
Incomplete:
- No colour.
- No Braille.
- No plates.
- Only Latin characters.
- No translations.
- Elements in the appendices, index and footnotes may be missing.
- No introduction.
The Full-Colour addition will soon be available on gabriel-isnt dot deviantart.
Contents
Unavailable
Foreword
The first edition of Vox Dei was privately distributed in 2055 to few select people, and
not available to the general public due to the author's last wishes. It did not contain Chapter 25, any of the Logs, Appendix Unavailable or the Index. Every effort has been made to provide appropriate translations for every separate language, and to accurately credit all sources which are available to be credited. This is done on page Unavailable. We apologise in advance for any mistakes and are open to corrections in subsequent printings all errors and omissions brought to our attention.
We must warn in advance that this is a book that is a disturbing account of the past. We believe it to be fictional though, but have included this warning for those who are still disturbed by previous events that are mentioned due to the historical nature of the book.
We know that Matsuda Touta was involved heavily, so we have not taken his words lightly, but we cannot rule out the possibilities of him suffering from dementia or memory loss in his later years.
Unfortunately, we cannot track down Nate River, who seemed to firmly believe what Matsuda Touta has written. If we could, he could tell us whether or not it is all true.
This is not for you.
Introduction
Unlike what Mihael has said before now, I myself knew some stories too. He would never believe me, of course, for that was not the type of person he was. He was a passionate, fiery individual who charged ahead without thinking too much about it.
Alternatively, he could also think too much. Either way he did it, I still think to this day, suicide was a given.
Mihael was killed on the 26th of January in 2010. He left little, but a crudely written book in Japanese about a story a long since deceased detective had told him about an adventure: an exciting, mysterious case he had tackled with an assistant in America. It sold well between cults and history students, though it may not have been completely true. Said detective was a liar, a cheat and a scoundrel of a man from what I have heard from those who knew him well and survived him. But the man wasn't one for friends – which is something that does not surprise me, assuming that he really was a cheat, a liar and a scoundrel – so there have been few to talk of him. Unfortunately, the ones there are to talk to all shared this similar opinion, as well as saying that not only was he this, but he was also a genius, a fighter of justice, and a little odd. I never really properly spoke to him out of the two times I met him myself, so I wouldn't be able to say with much confidence what he was really like.
There were many of us once; genii or geniuses depending on the country and particular rules of grammar set to each individual language, that fought for the law. Over the space of six years the best of us were killed off, except for myself. I had to take the place at the top, which I was sure to receive anyway, whether I wanted it or not. I had certainly admired that position, but not so much with the whole, messy incident that had thrust the previously private seat of power into the public light, but I had to sit upon the throne which was being warmed for me as I grew by the worst enemy the world has faced before. The most dangerous. A face many can still recall some forty-five years later. I am a man of old now, and have outlived my predecessor twice over. In eleven years it'll be a third time round – thrice the life of the greatest detective in the world, it seems. In five years I'll have outlived my greatest enemy for the third time. I could continue, figuring out how much
XIII
older I am than Mihael when he was killed – forty-three years – and Mail – forty-two. I was the youngest, the smallest, the weakest. And yet it was I who won, and it was I who was left standing. Yes, I had a small team of elites, all of whom were brilliant people with few matches besides my side to help me, but they were thrown unawares into a world of people with no matches; people of great skill, mental ability and killer tricks. It was a world where the man we were out to catch had no face, no real name, no clues leading us to him – just a rising cult of worshippers who did not realise that their God was merely human.
Forty-five years of freedom doesn't console me on the lives that were lost – thousand of people unjustly killed over things they were either already being punished for or who were innocent in the law's eyes. Then the actual innocent who fought so hard to protect the world were killed on the base of 'sacrifice' or 'necessity' or for the crime of 'hindering the creation of an impossible utopia'. Of course, by now you are either on the same wavelength as me or you are simply too young. The second is an option I doubt. You can never be too young to learn things of old. When I was a child we learnt about the problems in Northern Ireland in history class. That was nothing compared to this. If even one person does not know of the existence of such a terrible being that haunted this planet forty-five years ago then the blood and sweat spent by so many seems like time that was spent chasing air; a waste; unimportant. Time we would have better spent making him a throne, perhaps? As a key part in the investigation I myself feel uncomfortable saying that it was energy that could have been spent doing other things, like brushing up on our bowing skills.
Of course, I do not believe that.
Matsuda Touta disliked me greatly. He thought me as the reason everything went wrong. I like to think that maybe I was.
Matsuda-san had been in the investigation since it started in Japan, had been in the meeting that announced the involvement of the famous detective. This gives him a perspective I cannot give; one I cannot dream of having. When my own investigation started, I had a lot of previous work to help me, years of it, and that I will freely admit for it is the truth. Mihael did as well but wouldn't say as much, and therefore we had a good starting point to base all our work from. We had the murder weapon, quite literally, and all the bloody fingerprints staining it. We had places to start, solid ideas to fall back on, and all the money we could ever need to support us. After some consideration I have decided reword that to clearly illustrate the fact that I had money to support me, and Mihael liked pretending that he did not.
Matsuda-san had none of this. He had no idea where to start, had no helping hand, and had to work with scraps of evidence that a
XIV
seemingly untrustworthy source had picked up through evil perception and a defined lack of morals. He had to, else he would get nowhere.
When I met Matsuda-san for the first time I didn't think much of him: there wasn't much to think. He was blinded by love and faith, and heart-broken when this trust he had was ripped away from him gruesomely. But with this showed layers to him I hadn't seen initially, and I was sure they were layers no one else had not been shown either. All had seemed surprised with his handiness with a gun, and if not for the grief overriding most of his emotions it would have seemed that he was comfortable with the object resting heavy and loaded in his hand, despite his apparent meekness and high-levels of childish naivety. I, of course, was not expecting such a thing of the man, and it was clear most to all others were feeling a similar emotion of blatant astonishment. None more so than the man on the receiving end of the bullets, for sure.
That was below my usual humour. I apologise.
When I first learnt of this manuscript found under the late Matsuda-san's bed by his oldest son, with my personal phone number tucked in to the first few pages, I was initially amazed that he'd even kept the contact details I gave him and the entire investigation taskforce soon after my last meeting of them all those years ago – as I've said, Matsuda-san did not like me very much. It was clear he'd thought of it only when he realised I was the last one who will be able to confirm this. We were both the youngest in our two teams, and the only one besides Mrs. Loud née Bullook, who are still alive to this day. He wouldn't have had any way or particular want to contact Mrs. Loud, and even if he had he would have found her quite useless as a reliable testimony, as the woman is incarcerated, for lack of a more delicate term due to inappropriateness, in a care home due to her deterring mental health which is down to her age as well as the trauma caused by the loss of her husband.
After the initial feeling, I was naturally saddened by the loss of a great investigator, and then once again surprised as I learned of the contents of the manuscript of the book.
His son had already read it several times over, from cover to index and back again, and thus knew me only by my first alias: the name that was on the card. It was a horrible feeling to be called that name again, as it was something I wasn't used to. But he informed me, without realizing my great discomfort, of the fact he was in the mind to publish it. I had wished to advise against it almost instantly, as it could cause much damage to society as we know it, but knew that he was not going to listen to me. Instead I requested to read it first, and he assured me that I could. He also said that I was going to receive my own personal copy free of charge, as were all those I knew of that were mentioned who were still alive,
XV
and the family of those who weren't. As I've previously said, it was only Mrs. Loud, Matsuda-san and myself that was still breathing, and now Matsuda-san was also deceased. Three days later I received a copy of the book, and I read it through exactly nineteen times before allowing myself an opinion.
I was frankly stunned that Matsuda-san had even dared to do what he did: to say something so potentially destructive in such a bold way was suicide. Or, I would say that if he hadn't already died. I was merely thankful that the Yagami family had all since died out as well – a line that was long gone even before the last few had fallen down from grief and loneliness – for it would have hit them worse of all those who are to mentioned in the following pages. In fact, I doubt it would have been published had the Yagami's been alive still, as there would be a distinct possibility that after the releasing of the book they might not have been much longer.
I realised that Matsuda-san, despite the brave faces he wore when we last spoke of such things written in this account, was bitter and broken about the ending of the story (not a story at the time of course; a horror, definitely, and one we all had to live – and die - through) that we had all decided on; an ending that had preserved the memories of better times rather than showed the truth, and it was frank, transparently so, by the time I had read it through for the twentieth time that he wanted the history books set straight.
Those books each individual government release say what the public saw, and not being in the public, Matsuda-san quite understandably didn't understand, or, at least, didn't agree with what they were saying. He had seen it all from the inside, knowing everything backwards, all the progress being committed to memory out of sheer paranoia, and being right next to the leading detective and prime suspects all the way through. He couldn't see how the investigation team looked like they weren't able to do their jobs; how incompetent they looked to the general public. But the general public didn't understand how much very few people were expected to do, and this release of this book shows that Matsuda-san has now decided to speak once and for all. You will see, if you continue on, how it was from the inside; the truth. The one we agreed on not telling.
But word of mouth is not binding, and Matsuda had long since lost care in trusting many others.
Again, that was perhaps my fault.
My own story began not when I was born or when I left the orphanage I grew up in for the first time; rather it was when my first big investigation closed and I had a title that was covered with grime. I could use metaphors and pretty similes to paint a beautiful picture of words to describe how I was expected to clean
XVI
said title up, but it seems easier to say that it was more than just mere expectation: it was my duty.
If I didn't live up to the heavy weight the title gave and if I didn't prove myself, then there would be no point in having it. There would be hundreds of innocents I let down, hundreds of criminals I let walk free, and an increase in crime rate of almost twelve percent. I don't think my pride would let me do such a thing, never mind my sense of purpose and being. I even have the pressure of my peers (most of them dead, but still heavy about my shoulders) needing evidence that I can do the job right, those who look up to me expecting me to save them, and those who wish to take me over waiting for me to do wrong. I am not yet dead, but already my supposed successors are climbing all over each other like insects and trying to overthrow me. I'm sorry to say that many have almost succeeded. Despite me always being the one who comes out top in these battles, there have been far too many close calls, especially in the last few years, for my liking. It's a bloody pool now, being a successor; practically a death sentence. Not that it wasn't in the first place. There were five famous original 'ideals'. I was the youngest, and perhaps I was the cleverest, but besides me they're all now dead – all at a young age; all murdered. Two by mine and Matsuda-san's mutual enemy (one that possibly still haunts my unconscious unawares to me), one by said mutual enemy's followers. One murdered by his own hand and the heavy expectations he could not meet by merely being a successor.
Being a successor leads you into dangerous situations. Several of my own potentials have similarly died trying to impress me as those four died trying to get to, or escape, or avenge the ones we were succeeding.
I wonder if that made any sense. I refuse to read over, but I know that it did in my head. I just hope I am not becoming senile; I hoped I was above such a thing.
I think I'm one of few to be at this level in the world and grow old. I know there are others, such as an old friend Linda, but I think I am the first. I hope I am one of many more to come. I look forward to the day we are all old, successful in our endeavours, and clever. Because that is something I know I am, and know I always will be. It is why I am able to sit here and say I am the most powerful man in the world. Privately.
By the time this is read, republished and available to the public I still hope to be alive. But I am a detective, and accidents always happen. But, to be optimistic, because I am a detective I am thus an established and well practised sleuth. Even with my name, you do not know my face. And this is my greatest defence, as I have always known since I started the case that follows in this book.
This may one day replace the text books which are published due to curriculum. There is less truth in them than there was in the
XVII
mouth of the accused; the real killer. And that, I must admit, is an achievement.
I digress.
Several years ago, back when I was twenty years of age, I was almost overwhelmed in a sea of hatred and misguided religions. Although I myself have never been a religious being, there are many others whom I know, rely on, and even remember with great fondness, whom were religious, and I respect those beliefs. I must return to the subject of Mihael, whom was perhaps the greatest influence over my life at the time. Mihael was not a catholic when I first knew him, but was bestowed belief unto him, saw the light, etc, when he first learnt that his idol had spent his last ten days toying with the idea of God, and praying that ten days was enough to repent and be forgiven for the monstrous acts he'd committed against basic human morals. How Mihael had managed to track the man's last ten days down was something I marvelled at for a long time. I know I too was able of such a thing, but he had done it in days, without even leaving the country to talk to the priest in Japan who had seen the man once a day for dix jours pluvieux[1] whilst Mihael himself was in England stealing from a locked room and learning about the American Mafia.
I respected Mihael's beliefs when he accepted God and Jesus into his heart. And I respect any other belief that people may present to me with pure heart and true love for their religion, assuming that they do not worship a long-since disappeared creature which killed and destroyed in way of giving and forgiving. I understand the wish to believe that something is actively protecting the virtuous, but that would be only… well, I'm unsure who or what that would refer to. No one and nothing is virtuous. Not even young children are intrinsically selfless, as they form attachments merely to survive, as they are physically vulnerable and thus incapable of survival without a protector, thus the need to form some sort of connection with a caregiver – usually the mother, or similarly a motherly-figure.
Excuse me, I am not used to writing for so long. I did not mean to digress for a second time.
We were discussing Mihael's religion for a point which is perhaps moot now, with no real meaning. I believe one must be on my wavelength by now, else I do not believe you would still be reading, unless you believe I am to provide answers. No, I am not here to provide answers. Yes, I shall provide helpful, albeit useless,
- - -
[1] The Ed's translation: "ten rainy days", 10雨の日
The original translations Nate River provided: десять дождливых дней, عشرة أيام المطر , Zehn regnerische Tage, Δέκα βροχερές ημέρες, Dieci giorni di pioggia, עשרה ימים גשומים, 장마 10 일, zece zile ploioase, dziesięć dni deszczowych, dez dias chuvosos, mvua ya siku kumi, tio regndagar, สิบ วัน ฝน ตก, on gün yağmurlu, צען רעגנדיק טעג, tien reënerige dae, 10個陰雨天
The Ed: We think Nate River was just trying to be as difficult as possible.
XVIII
titbits of information, translation or correction where Matsuda-san's poor memory has failed him, and black spots he missed out altogether, but not answers. Today, that is not my job. Today my job is to assist you to draw up your own conclusions from crudely done inkblots if you understand my metaphor. To further sharpen the allegory, sit yourself down on a couch, do not face the listener sitting just beyond your eye line, and read out-loud. Do not censor, do not think, just say what you see, what you feel, what you believe. We are not listening to your conclusions, but we appreciate them all the same.
I told you earlier about how I learnt of the existence of Matsuda-san's part in the creation of this file and how he has started this idea of revelation and truth, but not of how I found the logs.
The logs are in this book in their appropriate places; places Matsuda had either missed or had completely no knowledge of. There are always secrets in the middle of Taskforces as well as outside them.
Originally they weren't here, the logs in this book I mean, because if those poor families knew they would surely have a heart attack, ironic or not. But, concerning an audience with little to no chance of ever tracing anything back to us me, much less actually believing what is said, the logs – and Matsuda Kenji-san's mutual agreement with me via long distance phone calls – have been included second time around, the author of them long since passed the point of telling us whether he wanted them published and read at hundreds of points by thousands of people all over the world. Even if he wasn't dead or happy about it, I wouldn't be one to care. The logs provided sound insight where Matsuda-san could not as previously mentioned, and were close to impossible to find. Of course, I am the best, so they were eventually dug up, but that doesn't mean they weren't appropriately hidden.
That they weren't deleted suggests to me that they were designed to be found – that they authors didn't expect to live through to recall it by word of mouth and brilliant eidetic memory. But I'm not sure as to why they would want these logs to be found. As you will sure enough discover for yourself in the very near future, the logs are not full of vital information, evidence, or in fact anything of any real substance. It is a set of logs. They are day-to-day logs, tedious to read the first time, but fascinating the second time round. I will leave it up to you to discover why I say this. Subtext, as it is said, speaks louder than words. And there are many words. There are also pictures, photos, of a building which still exists. It was once a beautiful place – glass staircases, speeding lifts, two helicopters hidden on the roof, towering proud in the middle of Tokyo. It was left to me, and I found it crumbling to the point of disarray – proof enough that my predecessor had both
XIV
a lot of money and the willingness to give it all up for this one moment in his life, as it was not built to last – and it was up to me to decide what to do with it. The easiest option was demolition, as it would cost me less than trying to fix it up. I couldn't figure out where half of the rooms were, and a lot of the technology was beyond even my comprehension, so I did leave it for a long time in order to figure it all out. I had neither the money or the time to do anything about Mihael's idol's last home; the place where I believe the older man died. It still stands abandoned in Tokyo, because even though now I have the money I have no care in fixing it up.
I did not know he was buried nearby though. I knew he wasn't charted off back to England when he died; back to where he was born and lived for a few brief years in his life, but was still the longest he'd lived in one place at one time ever. But I didn't know his last place of rest was in Tokyo. I didn't realise his enemy really wanted to keep him close, even after death.
I am of course referring to the saying of, 'keep your friends close, and you enemies closer'. This is a saying I believe, due to years of experience and seeing with my own eyes the evidence which supports the idea of Michael Corleone[2] knowing what he was talking about, and which I also believe was the attitude taken when my predecessor was buried so close to the point of his enemy's base.
You, after reading Matsuda-san's ideas as well as the logs, can make your own decision about how the maniac's mind worked. I wish he were still alive so I could figure him out. If there is one person I couldn't read well, it was him. You'll find him out soon, I shouldn't wonder, as I know you will continue on to find out. Especially if you know the contents this books contains; the knowledge you will receive in reading it. As I've said before, I'm not here to offer answers. Maybe I'm really here to inspire you to continue to read, hence all my cryptic messages and the breadcrumb trail of unanswered questions. But I will assure you now that I am not doing such a thing. I suppose I am writing my own confession of sorts.
I am real.
- - -
[2] By Michael Corleone, I of course mean the actor who played him in The Godfather Part II: Al Pacino. And when I say that, I of course don't actually mean him knowing what he is talking about. He is an actor, and although I have a great amount of respect for actors, they're still, for all intents and purposes, reading from a script. Perhaps the credit should be paid to the writers, Mario Puzo & Francis Ford Coppola instead. There is also talk of the idea that Sun Tzu, Niccollò Machiavelli or Petrarch said it also. Maybe it was Napoleon, but of course he could have been quoting too.†
† The Ed: All of that section was taken thereabout from WikiAnswers to the question of who quoted "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer". Unfortunately, we can't tell if it's sarcastic irony that he had to look it up or not. We're debating he possibility of him merely knowing the passage by heart and is now being sarcastic about it.
XX
The first thing I said at the beginning of this confession of sorts is that I too knew some stories, regardless of what Mihael thought. Mihael was a very childish boy, and blind to reality if his emotions were involved. He was clever; a genius, and he was a good detective. But he was not when it came to matters of the heart. I bruised his pride by merely having an IQ higher than his, and I was the obstacle that stopped him from getting to the top. Therefore he did not like me. There were, of course, two people above us, and then a third that could have potentially by-passed us both if he had wanted in our race to get to the top of our childish game that determined our future – and by that I am talking about Mail; a game-loving computer genius who spent more time on Mario Karts than sleeping, which he enjoyed only a little less than electronics and food. He was perhaps the best of us, morally anyway – he was the only one of that was determined not to lie or to cheat his way through a puzzle, or a test, or a level because that was taking the whole fun out of the game. It might be a bad way to live, but with all the hours spent in front of a games console he had learnt to see things as one big game, whether it was Call of Duty (which he took very seriously) to Tetris (which he was concerned with at a similar level of soberness). More often than not he would play two games at a time, lest someone finally grow annoyed at his detachment from reality and chuck his handheld out the window or at something solid. It happened more often than not with Mihael as his best friend, who had more C19H28O2[3] than appearances should necessarily allow for, and too much energy to contain. So, adding two and two will make a keen and clear cut idea that when Mihael had one of Mail's Gameboys and an over abundant amount of aggression to vent, it is obvious to say that the only moral dilemma he would be facing would be which wall to chuck it at. So nature had set its course and Mail had developed a system of multi-tasking the same thing on two different consoles and developing the hearing skills of a cat in order to detect the sounds of angry Doc Martins pounding towards him in anger moment before he burst through the door. This was done in order to hide at least one of his games. But then, this wasn't too hard to a task to achieve, as the orphanage we were brought up in had squeaky floorboards. It probably still does.
He also had to get two copies of each game, which taught him the illegal skills of downloading, covering his tracks, and more often than not, hacking. He ended up being able to trick anyone on the net, get around everything cybernetically and make other people pay for the things he wanted. It was a subtle art I enjoyed watching him put into practise. He didn't mind Mihael, the orphans or I knowing of his skills, as long as our carer were never to find out. All this he gained from merely the act of an over-emotional best friend being jealous of a games console. I would have thought it ridiculous had I not known Mihael or Mail personally. I know you're
- - -
[3] The Ed: Testosterone
XXI
thinking this too. In fact, I have no doubt. Who are Mihael and Mail, you question. I would of course tell as I have few secrets any longer and the identity of two dead boys are not one of them, but to be blunt, I'm not sure I know. Not now. Not anymore.
There are clever people and then there are geniuses. I am a genius, according to my IQ tests. Then there are those who are even better; who are naturally so clever that they can't even openly admit it. They'll smile and thank people when they receive congratulations for one-hundred percent on a test, or several, but they'll remain humble and work hard even if they needn't have to. I hate those people – those who are better but can't see themselves as such. I am an arrogant person, and always have been as far back as I can remember. Maybe in my childhood I felt humbler, but due to my fully developed brain of now, I can only recall vivid images of my past and not emotions which were hidden behind it, or comprehension of what I could have been seeing then. I can't compare it as I no longer understand my simplistic mindset of learning and being taught.
I probably dislike those people who are clever geniuses merely because I have never met one. They seem to be liked more than those who are not, as they can fit into all groups and categories in a neutral way that doesn't anger any one around them. It's a clever ability and one I was never successful in achieving. I'm anti-social, I will admit, but that comes from growing up expecting to be a recluse, so never bothering to learn how not to be a recluse as well. I was raised to be different as that was what I was going to grow up to be. It was a strange life, I realise this only after I escaped the shadow of a dead man, to grow up to be like someone else. I remember once, me sitting on the floor faced with a Rubik's Cube for the first time, and Mail was watching me watch it. We didn't speak, we didn't question, and most of the time we didn't even blink. He blindly played on his Gameboy Advance SP and I steadily completed a globe jigsaw of the world without paying it much attention.
Both of us were secluded from the world and its horrors, too young to leave the Orphanage and without enough social ability to be apt in talking and conversing with many children. I occasionally allowed a talented artist, Linda, to draw me, and Mail had Mihael, which no doubt was enough of humans for a lifetime in one singular body. We didn't have many friends, and few words to speak to others. We didn't offer answers in classes, and eventually grew too clever to even show up. We didn't flutter from friends to friends or even have the confidence to flutter over to someone new like Mihael could – he was a regular social butterfly, which explained his ability to goad people into listening to him and agreeing with him even if they hadn't originally. I never realised social skills would ever find themselves useful up until the moment I was forced into using my defined lack of knowledge of social etiquette for a case. I admittedly am rambling at this point, but the idea was to show you
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how little we knew of the world. We stared at the Rubik's Cube – a gift, if you were wondering, which I had received for my 11th birthday from my carer – for over an hour, each knowing what one was vaguely, but neither being bothered to figure out why it wasn't doing anything. It was supposed to be puzzling and exciting, I had heard all the children talking about it at one point. But we couldn't see it, and Mail was far too interested in watching my own attempts at staring it down in hopes it'd sweat itself out into admitted what it does and how it is meant to amuse me than assist me in my attempts to figure the damned thing out. The hall was large, arching, and made of stone. It was uncomfortable and cold, even on that sunny day, and had colourful stained glass which cast beautiful reflections onto the stones I sat on, but neither of us was much interested, and neither did we particularly care. We wanted to know what the Rubik's Cube did; how it was supposed to elevate even a genius' boredom, and it was another twenty-three minutes passed the previous hour I spoke of before-hand until Mihael came to find Mail in his newest attempts to get the boy to play actual physical football with him and the other boys outside. He, of course, ignored me as he shook Mail, then – when he realised what Mail was watching with such fascination – turned to glare at me, and then down at the Rubik's Cube.
"Are you both idiots, or something?" he had said, the comment aimed directly to insult me and to only genuinely question Mail. "It's a Rubik's Cube." He said, and I nodded.
"I am aware of what it is." I had replied to him in a dreary monotone one can still hear in my voice even after so many years of trying to work it off – it's a habit of almost 25 years, all of which included my developing years, and thus it is proving incredibly difficult to change my hard wiring, is the idiom. I had then gone on to say to Mihael, "I am unaware of what I do with it."
It wasn't a question, and I didn't really mind either way if he answered or didn't. I knew I was quite capable of sitting and staring and figuring out; just as capable, I will say, as I was to listening to him explain. But my hopes were not high in the chances of the latter. Mihael wasn't one to provide answers, going by the idea that those who didn't understand innately were not worth it, least of all me. But he had constantly had a new set of ways to surprise me.
He picked up the Rubik's Cube which had all the sides on the right colours, as it was new, and turned around. When he turned back he chucked the Cube over to me, which I failed to catch. It skidded passed. As I watched it come to a stop I noticed the colours were all different now. Curious, I stared up at Mihael expecting more.
He rolled his eyes, at both me and Mail who looked just as interested all of a sudden.
"You twist it." He said simply. Mail raised an eyebrow and I asked why. "To make the colours match up." He said exasperated at
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the two of us. "Sorry if that's too far above your intelligence level, I forgot you were an idiot."
I told him he hadn't, as he had clearly accused both Mail and I of being such when he had first noticed the Rubik's Cube. He grit his teeth, looming over me dangerously, with a temper that was quick to rise when it involved things he disliked. It wasn't just Matsuda-san who has never liked me, you understand.
Mail got up when Mihael grabbed his arm roughly and pulled him into a standing position. "You're so stupid sometimes." Mihael had yelled back at me. "If you don't understand now, you won't ever, you know."
And that was the truth. I understand the concept of a Rubik's Cube, and once Mihael had explained it to me back then I understood almost as quickly as he threw it at me. But to this day I cannot actually understand them. I can solve a Rubik's Cube, but usually I do not recognize quite how or even that I did it until it is a box with solid-coloured sides adorning it as it is supposed to be. Sometimes I wish to believe I am merely taking the stickers off and putting them in their apparently correct places in order to win the challenge. Obviously, I must be simply blocking out these memories of doing such a thing as I would never go so low as to cheat. No, that's very wrong, as I very easily would. But the entire story shows that I was a child who wasn't designed for basic, easy and somewhat obvious knowledge like how to solve a Rubik's Cube, or even what one was. Mail wasn't either. Mihael only knew because he had learned from other people what it was and how to do it properly, and found it very amusing that it was a puzzle I couldn't solve. Other simple things I could never manage to do was getting a slinky to fall down the stairs as it was meant to, and bouncing a ball. It was proved to me later that I wasn't just an idiot and I was merely over thinking things, but as an heir to who was believed to be the cleverest man in the world (and who was soon to be discovered to be merely the second, but still, that is a good place of power), it had made me panic, and realise that social skills could come in handy. Naturally, my very being wouldn't allow me to turn this knowledge into actions until I was 23, 4 months and 16 days old and it was very necessary then and from that day on became necessary. Before then it hadn't been, and thus-
No, I refuse to continue on this train of thoughts. I am running in circles, and this does not feel comfortable to me. As a forewarning, I am going to say that I am not comfortable with the majority of this book. Not because of what it contains as such, but what it is saying underneath the guise of a confession of a policeman. Detective Touta Matsuda is dead and beyond caring anymore, as is everyone else, as I have previously mentioned, bar Mrs. Loud, who is beyond rationality. The contents in the following pages are more confessions than only Matsuda-san's or mine, but confessions from the recording of the day-to-day logs, or scrap pieces of paper
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Matsuda-san had found all those years ago when my predecessor was still alive and the police was still involved in the case as much as the Taskforce. He squirreled them away only to show you now, and they provide hand-writing and secrets unlike what I could ever pretend to know, and Matsuda-san could never hint at you subconsciously on his own. You can't understand the weight of this book until you read it through however many times it takes you to comprehend what it is saying, or what the conversations Matsuda-san has managed to keep or what the log has reviled and what they really are admitting behind the lies. Read with an innocent eye at first, do not try to figure it all out. Then with a cynical one. Criticise. Finally, read with confidence that this is the truth. Do not doubt me, or Matsuda-san, or those logs. I may lie, but Matsuda-san has not lied since the 28th January, 2010. He was 32 back then, and it was a long time ago. He died in 2055. I'm sure you do not need to do maths well to realise that is forty-five years of refusing to lie to another human being. That's more than enough time for it to be a complex, as I'm sure you'll agree. It's 'his' fault, you will also find out. And you will finally learn who 'he' is.
Am I being mysterious, or just annoying? Unfortunately, Mihael once told me I will never learn the difference between each and always live until I die believing myself mysterious when actually I am merely irritating. I'm inclined to believe that I believed him when it told me, thus making such a statement a self-fulfilling prophecy. I wonder what else is my fault that ultimately went wrong. Some believe the tiny amount of electricity your brain makes as it works is enough to effect the course of you life. Maybe this is no different. Maybe I have changed the entire world inadvertently. Or maybe it was deliberate. You just don't know with us clever people. I apologise for the sarcasm, that too must be rather annoying. Or maybe I'm not really sorry, who knows?
Which returns us to the idea of the perfectly modest and clever person I spoke of earlier. I'm sure we all know one. Well, I never did, but I knew of one, which makes me bitter towards them. I believe that if you never knew one personally, on a friendly basis, then you never quite understand how someone can be so good and so nice. Regarding my own experience, and the idea of Mail's lack of social ability, as well as my own, and the aggression that came hand-in-hand with Mihael's intelligence, it all suggests to me that such a perfect being cannot be possible. Yet, they're everywhere. Once you know them you can't help but like them, but before then and when you're not with them you don't want to feel such positive emotions. You want to hate them and you want to be jealous, because they're everything the opposite gender wants all in one perfect partner, and they're everything a teacher wants in a perfect student. Then you find they're everything you want in a perfect friend, and from there on out it's hard to escape the embrace of affection you feel for them, innocent or not.
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I speak of things I understand little of, but it's my own way of rationalising what my predecessor saw in his enemy. You will most probably forget what I have said here by the time you reach the point where it is all explained and where it all comes to light. Forgive the pun you will not understand, please. I take no pleasure in saying it, the very word sending me into defence mode.[4] There are a lot of hints, and some places where hints are so absent it seems almost a sin for something so strange to be so innocent, and therefore there must be something deeper. Perhaps this is merely me as a detective, but I am not lying in saying that there is something more than what meets you on the page. But that is only what Matsuda-san has written. The fact is there is so much in the logs and in scraps and personal notes that you're so inclined to disbelieve the words that are written that you know them to be true. I myself was surprised how accurate the descriptions, how honest the words. I hated it, because I knew it instantly to be true. We detectives develop a sixth-sense of detecting lies from truths. It is, after all, our jobs. If we couldn't even tell the signs of a lie we would be truly incompetent. I am not incompetent. So believe me when I say that what is in these pages are not false.
Stories. Stories was what inclined me to write this introduction and edit this book, add to it and make it more than just the memoirs of a detective forty-five years passed his prime. By 'prime' I do not mean skill-wise. Or even experience-wise, for he had much of both, especially in his old age. I mean… well, I suppose I mean innocence-wise. Matsuda-san, when I knew him from before this all ended – I knew of him only by learning about him from files and surveillance, admittedly, but I think that was enough to generally understand him - was a skilled detective whose abilities matured and got better over time, but was just above average back then, and nothing like the other men on the Task Force. He was naïve, sweet, trusting, and such attributes were dangerous in that world and with that job. Maybe some people don't remember that world anymore, but I do. I was told to always be on high-alert, and I was brought up acting like I was going to be killed at any given time. This means that even now I am paranoid, but with being social comes having to put your guard down. This is fairly obvious, else I'd be arresting people left and right for assault when there was none, or anticipation to murder or something equally ridiculous. I once arrested a man on the charge of anticipation to rape, I recall. This was on one of my first few outings, and I was almost in the centre of a very ugly lawsuit. Of course, that I was right changed quite a few things, but that is not the point I'm trying to make.
My predecessor was a secretive man. He and I only met twice, and the first time was, admittedly, somewhat awkward, but we were both stubborn genii and Mihael eventually freed us both of the
- - -
[4] I don't know what word you're talking about, of course.
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suffocating silence we had been sharing in order to be the centre of attention once again. Mihael had a rather serious issue with getting attention, and usually went to extremes to get it. I am especially talking about in his later life, though it wasn't attention off the same person it used to be.
But what I gained in that silence was perhaps more than what I could have learned with endless hours of talking with the man. Once again I am referring to my predecessor. He wasn't an easy person to watch; his fidgeting made me want to fidget and I didn't ever do such a thing. I play, even to this day, around with games and figurines in order to arrange – or, usually, to demonstrate – my thoughts into an order that makes sense to both myself and those of lower intelligence. Likewise, the man who had joined me in awkward silence made his hands busy too, normally with food, and curled up in a way I started to unconsciously copy to a point (I only curl up one leg) about two weeks after I first saw him.
There was something obscene about him; something fascinating. He was ugly, rude, blunt and skinny, but he was clever and weird and that's all I can say. He wore a white shirt, which I presumed was forced upon him when he attended the orphanage (as we all were required to wear blank clothes until we reached the age where we could make our own money and buy new ones). I only ever fell out of the habit of white clothes when I was forcefully carted off to a medical institution of psychological health due to the fact I, apparently, looked like an inmate. I thought this was a weak excuse and eventually they admitted that I looked and acted 'funny'. This was just as weak to me, as so do many other people, and what did 'funny' mean, anyway? Mentally incapacitated? Because that I certainly was not. Or odd. Because that I could understand somewhat. Or did they mean actually amusing. I fail to see how anyone can find their amusement in watching insane people fall apart, but it is I who am the social recluse, so perhaps you bugs of normal society could enlighten me? My number is 07530877969[5], so please drop me a text.
I have gone in an opposite direction to what I intended to go. I intended to tell you that my predecessor wore a white shirt, thin and easy to breathe in, and a pair of baggy jeans which held everything he needed: a pen, some paper, a plastic fork and a mobile phone. He even had headphones and a USB connector for something he didn't seem to have with him. He had a long piece of ribbon that was a dark green and some empty sweet wrappers.
He slouched, and it caused me to slouch somewhat as well. I didn't mean to copy his mannerisms because I knew he wouldn't like that, but maybe that was why I did it. I wasn't trying to be him; I was trying to be better than him by showing everyone (in an admittedly very childish manner) how little I thought of him. I
- - -
[5] The Ed: Don't bother. It's not real.
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thought the world of his title, and wanted it for my own, but I hated him as a person very quickly, and far too easily.
The second time I met him he actually spoke to me. He told me of America and Russia and China and India, places I wanted to go desperately, and made sure I could speak all the languages and adopt the necessary accents at the drop of a hat. I could do that, but what I couldn't do was act a person out. I didn't know how good of an actor he was until he straightened himself out and changed his tone completely (I also adopted my monotone from him, but I think also I was taught it by my carer and my lack of emotions). He became a different person for an instant, but only for so long. It made me believe that for the first time in my life I was imagining things. But then I saw it again as he left, talking with my carer, and then to someone he knew less well. He was different around them than he was around me. He was more careful, and more casual. With me he was stricter, more curled up, less open. I didn't know whether the openness was an act to my carer, or whether the closed attitude he had taken on with me was an act for me to see through. Mihael got someone completely different when he spoke with the man, I think. That, or the younger boy was merely blinded by the stars he got in his eyes.
Funny, actually, that Mihael never took on the same personality or actions of the man like I did. I shared many attributes with him, and Mihael none. Maybe it was the passion. Our predecessor had little of that from what I had learned of him through our brief and few meetings.
He never did decide between us to title one of us an heir. It was Mihael's hate for me that decided. A shame as we worked well together. Or, to rephrase, we had the potential to work well together.
Finally, the last thing about my predecessor, as I wish to talk of him no more: The last time he came to the orphanage he stole a single stainless steel fork from a new set the cook had bought. I watched him do it, and I think my carer figured it out soon enough, but by then he was long gone. I think he was in South Africa for a while before he wound up in Romania, and then Russia, then Iceland, and then Japan. That was from what Mihael found out. I trust in his abilities of stalking the man so I have no reason to doubt him, and neither do you.
I think what went wrong was the ending. I never felt comfortable with it; the idea of the supernatural put more than just me on edge, as found out with this book. Still, I watched the happenings with objectivity and refused to be affected or angered by the progressive happenings. I thought I had no right to interfere, but looking back shows that as a human being (besides what everyone else thinks, as I am more than just a computer) I had every right to
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stop what was happening and map it out in my own way. But I think I was scared of death.
Death had come so close then, and I wasn't even twenty. It was a feeling that wasn't comfortable. I wanted to live my life, and refused to die like so many others had. I wanted to be the one to follow through to the end and be there as he fell.
I was. I didn't like it. But recalling the events, I think it would be worse for me if I hadn't been there. My name was reviled then and now again, by a deranged psycho who almost killed me twice in one night. I still am thankful that the deranged psycho's equally deranged psychopathic follower was blinded and dumbed down by love and…well, deranged followings.
I realise I won on luck alone, as I was battling an enemy who was always five steps ahead. That makes it hard, quite obviously. He also had the world backing him, and few resisting. He was the head of the main resisters. This made him even harder to catch. Luckily, he too was becoming overwhelmed with emotion, growing tired of the games, and leaving it to others to do his bidding. That's a bad move, as others are always stupid. Stupider than you, anyway. They don't quite understand how much they have in their hands: the entire future, possibly. Indeed with this case. Strange, that someone like him would leave so much entrusted in one person. I wouldn't have thought it possible had I not seen it with my own team and used it for my own gain. I think it was a good thing that he made one really bad decision, else I know I wouldn't be alive, even though I don't think I would have set up the warehouse stunt. Life seems to have its own little system of justice. Sometimes I thank it, but most of the time it gets in the way. It's irritating, and the irritation is irrational. I'm irritated at thin air. But I think now I'm open to ideas of anything. The supernatural is neither super nor natural, but it's real, and it's terrifying. I could potentially believe in the possible existence of anything I imagine, and that too is terrifying in itself, as I have a fairly decent imagination.
I think, at the end, there was nothing left but a front and an evil entity which had taken over a noble, brilliant mind. Maybe that's giving too much sympathy, but I was there when he died, and I saw what was left of him. He wasn't who he was meant to be, who he could have been, or who is described in this book. Yes, I could say that about anyone, as anyone could potentially be someone else. But if they're potentially someone else, they're not actually that someone else. Which is unfortunate for him, as if he were that potential person begging instead of the entity which had taken over, I think his killer would instead have targeted me. This, naturally, is very lucky for me in some ways, and not in some others, as I would have enjoyed studying him.
He, though, I think, was weary of the game. He had killed off the main player years previous and I knew he never saw me as a fair
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replacement. Maybe I wasn't, because I think there was something more to them than the fronts hiding the killer and the detective, and then that uncomfortable truth hid the other truth behind them. We won't ever know for sure, of course, but it's one theory at least. I think it's true, even if no one - even he - didn't realise it. Grief can eventually kill absolutely anyone, I think. Even him.
This is the end of my introduction, and for the last few words, I only just realised I haven't yet introduced myself. Hello, my name is Nate River. And I'm the reason we're all still alive.
– Nate River
5th July, 2055
Winchester, England
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Jack: Concepts: Death Note - Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata
House of Leaves - Marx Z. Danielwski
Characters - Death Note - Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata
Front Page - Background writing, House of Leaves, The Holloway Tape, pages 333-335, text plus footnote and French translation - Mark Z. Danielewski
Page XVII: Wiki-answers webpage mentioned in footnote 2 and †: wiki dot answers dot com slash Q slash who_said_'Keep_your_friends_close_and_your_enemies_closer'
To Be Continued...
