Alright, KingofthePocky here again with yet another shitty tale. This one took me an hour to write over 3,000 words with just six pages. Yeah, maybe I need a life. Maybe. But, a few of my friends demanded (yes, demanded. They threatened to kill me if I didn't post this and no doubt they're reading this now, so if I disappear, and only bloodstains remain, you know who killed me. Bastards.) I haven't written in my usual style this time, so I'm not really confident with this. It's first person, and it is a little out of character at times. But hey! It is Mello after all, and I'm not Mello. Obviously.

Now I'm going to shut up as I've run out of things to put here, and I also want to just skip ahead to the story. As always, I beta my own works, so I don't think there's any noticable mistakes. So, flames are appreciated and whatnot. I don't even care any more.

Oh, a side note to a certain reader who goes by the name NateFate RiderSpider. I know where you live, Nate, and I know where you sleep. And you owe me that drawing, and a cup of coffee. No, make that four cups of coffee. Hop to it.

-KingofthePocky

Prologue

My past is my own, and we need not discuss all of it here and now. However, I will do you readers the courtesy of knowing my name – my real name, not the one I spent most of my life hiding behind – and a few things about where I grew up, a friend I made, and the events that led up to my death.

You see, dear reader, when I was first brought to the orphanage for gifted youths known as Wammy's House, I was brought there with the name of Mihael Keehl.

An unusual name at that, but it marked me, defined me, gave me a way of identifying myself that belonged to me and me alone. The events that led to the death of my parents and that of my adoption to this orphanage are not something I wish to spend my time on, even if they were slightly relevant to my tale.

Suffice to say, I was born, I lost my parents in a raging fire, – the cause of it, however indirectly, being yours truly – the owner of Wammy's House, Mr Quillish Wammy himself collecting me from the ruins of our home, sweet home to take the quivering ball of tears to his orphanage.

Did it end there? Did I spend the next eight years waiting for a family to adopt me as their own?

No.

That is not something Mihael Keehl, Mello, would do.

It is not something that I did.

I fought and fought, kicking and screaming until the day I died. Of course, those few readers who do know the man belonging to this name, they'd probably be chuckling about how stubborn I am.

But here I am, losing track of this story's path. I should probably warn you, I do have an awful tendency to get sidetracked. I blame my redheaded friend for that, corrupting my mind and soul.

In every sense of the word.

Nevertheless, my life changed drastically when I was brought to Wammy's House. It was no ordinary orphanage, where the children wait – albeit hopelessly at times – for a loving and caring family to take them away. No, it was an orphanage for the smartest and most talented children from across the world. We were there in a futile battle to become the next L – the successors to the greatest detective who ever lived.

I was one of the few orphans to meet L as L. I doubt that my rival, Near, ever did, and I partly hope that this information annoys him. If it's even possible for him to feel that emotion, of course.

So all we did was study in our respective fields, that child learning about medicine and doctoral studies, with the next child learning about technology and engineering. While not all of these children would ever join the race to become L's number one successor, the majority of these orphans would become the owners of big-name companies, or investigative bureaus around the world.

Not all of us were lucky enough to be chosen as L's successors, those few who were became permanently flawed, beings created in the largest shadow one could ever hope to fill. It drove one child, A, to suicide, whose death in turn drove the elusive murderer Beyond Birthday – the man behind the Los Angeles B.B. Murder Case, mind you – insane.

The first generation of the Wammy's House children.

The flawed generation.

The broken generation.

By the time I was ten, I had risen up the ranks to become number two, second in line to L's legacy – beaten only by that albino freak, Near. My room mate, Matt, had managed to become the third successor even though he never even tried. I know I never give him credit, or even acknowledge just how brilliant he is, but just this once, I shall give him the credit he is due.

I was good, no doubt about it. I sauntered around the grounds dressed all in black, with a red and white rosary neatly tucked under my shirt. Matt, on the other hand, was the exact opposite to my chaos. Wherever I went, he would always be a few steps behind me, his goggled eyes focusing on some kind of hand-held video game. He was the only child from Wammy's who wasn't afraid to tell me when I was acting stupid.

Not that that happened often, alright.

But if he somehow managed to survive the events leading up to our deaths – and I wouldn't put it past that redheaded gamer, always coming up with crazy schemes and such – and if he is reading this, Matt, I'm truly sorry, for what it's worth. I never once intended for you to get involved in all this madness and chaos, but I'm glad you stayed with me up until the end. Even after I blew myself up, you never once left my side.

Thank you, Matty.

But enough sentimentality. The point of these notes is not to apologise to everyone who I brought into this mess, or to point fault with how they all acted. This is merely a record, from the day I left Wammy's to the day I died, as cheesy and as overused as it sounds.

While I did not die at the hands of that dastardly murderer, Kira, I still hold him to blame for the entirety of events. He cheated. Even though I cheated as well, he was able to kill people just by writing their name in a notebook while thinking of their face. How egregiously unfair to the rest of us.

I feel I must warn you though, reader. My life was not a pretty thing once I left our home, sweet home, Wammy's House. I killed, I lied, I stole, I cheated...

I sinned.

I sinned a lot.

They say that to be forgiven for your sins, all you have to do is repent. Not once in my life did I ever contemplate repenting for my sake. For Matt, I would. Aware of my sins, aware of the price that would have to be paid – that's how I lived my life.

Hah. Who would've thought that within the blackened, ice cold heart of the LA mafia's second in command there rested a spark of humor.

Hell, maybe I'm just the human-shaped embodiment of witticism. I wish. I was never the funny one. That honor belonged to my dear Matty.

Again, enough with the sentimentality. I'm sorry for the shit I caused and for the deaths I wrought, with my hands or with the hands of others.

Now onto the story.