Disclaimer: Klonoa and related characters are copyright to Namco Bandai Games. They probably won't appear in Brawl. We can hope, but meanwhile, SS will just produce weird fanfics.

Author's Note: Long story I'm starting. I've planned the whole thing out. It's slash, no fluff, and it may well be taken down before I finish it. I'm so indecisive in those matters. It's dark. Meh. But it doesn't have endless chords of Requiem, or cutting. I assure you that.

This is the Prologue. It might not make sense. It will not make sense. But all in good time. Next chapter will be up shortly.

There is something wrong with that child.

I'm putting it down on words... ah, what is becoming of me? I'm not proud of writing this down. I cannot ever be proud. It feels as if this diary now holds a great sin, as if I'm committing blasphemy against the Goddess Claire for daring to write such words about my child. But I'm conscious of it, perhaps really conscious of it for the first time. Those words make it seem real.

Of course, no true parents should be relying on child-raising books to raise their child properly. Those books hold only opinions of a so-called specialist, but nothing more than that. A child is not a doll one can play with and then throw away whenever bored. Parents who stop loving their only children because they simply don't match their expectations anymore do not deserve to experience the true joys of parenthood.

However, that's not what I want to talk about here. What can I say... oh, despite what I wrote earlier, I am finding this harder to say this in words. This is not what I've intended. At all.

I never demanded anything from my darling child, other than the average.

I believe that as long as they do not do poorly, there is very little reason for them to be outstanding either. They will have the proper senses benefiting their ages, and that would normally suffice for them. They'll be good enough. My dear child, my boy is the same.

But that child changed as soon as he turned five years old.

I found him five months ago in the shed, sitting on the wooden bench and kicking his legs, and beside him there lay a full WA 2000 rifle, completely assembled. He held the bullets in his hand, tipping them out of the barrel, and tossed them niftly into a box in the corner. As I watched, stunned, he took the rifle in his hands and began to disassemble it into tiny pieces. His handwork was extremely nimble; he looked a sight, a five year old sitting on a wooden bench taking a rifle bigger than himself apart into pieces. He never noticed I was there. When he was done disassembling, he giggled at his own handiwork for a moment and immediately began putting the whole rifle together again. The entire operation took less than five minutes.

I thought that my husband had taught him; he is the gunslinger after all. But he merely looked confused when I told him that. Upon questioning, my child merely looked bored and offered no answers. I know for sure that my husband did not teach him; did my boy know purely by observation? Before long he was using his father's rifle-scope to look at the stars, staying outside for hours at a time. This is not normal behaviour. It's not natural. Little children cannot know those things; they're too young.

And he never laughs.

He giggles sometimes, when he does things by himself, but other than that he remains emotionless. When we go out at the weekend, only he will not express joy. When we have our meal, only he will not take the turn to say the blessing to the Goddess Claire. But the odd thing is that once all those privileges are taken away from him, he will visibly miss it all, although he apparently doesn't care less about his opportunities and possessions.

...Ah, but even if that was all, this is still beyond my understanding.

But what I really don't get is... sometimes, even when something that's exactly the same as the things I wrote above happens again, this time around, he would show the kind of interest and happiness that fits his age perfectly.

I am his mother. But I have so little idea of what his standards are.

So what does this all amount to?

Why isn't he interested in his meal, but glad for the meal itself?

Why isn't he interested in his book, but glad for the book itself?

The former and latter appear exactly the same in my eyes, and the former appears better to me sometimes.

I cannot understand my child's senses.

My husband is closest to our child, of course, being his father, but he does not understand the boy either. We talk every night, when he has gone to bed, and at those he reveals those thoughts as well. Our child is definitely more relaxed in his father's presence, but similar things happen with him as well. He brings the issue up, and I reply that I cannot understand that child, even as his mother. And then we lapse into silence, our heads together, wondering what we should do and coming up with no answers. Every night.

There was one day when I was in a very good mood. Wanting to please that child, I made the dishes that he liked. He came down with a sweet smile and a giggle, but there was no sparkle in his eyes. He ate well, but he didn't look like he was truly enjoying it. By the end of the day I was disappointed, and when he forgot to put his dishes away I shouted at him. And instantly, his smile disappeared, replaced with that bored, emotionless look he has often.

There was another day, when the weather was stormy. The laundry basket, which was standing outside, tipped over with because of a strong gust of wind. My boy stood by me, watching me picking up the laundry in a panic, and began laughing loudly. I yelled at him to be quiet, but he didn't stop laughing, and I shouted at him again. His smile disappeared again, and he gave me one contemptous look, walking away calmly.

...I regret those incidents now. Those things happened many times before. And now he only looks at me with a blank expression every time.

I repented to the Goddess Claire for being a bad mother. How I regret those things! I would do anything to turn the clock back. But I cannot do such things, and we must move on. I must try to regain my child's trust through small things and actions.

But his uncanny abilities frighten me. He can walk without making a sound. He sees the strangest things with his father's rifle-scope. He can assemble rifles and guns he has never seen before and has never handled before. My husband can buy a new gun, put it on a desk, and within minutes the child hops over and takes out the bullets swiftly. And he doesn't notice that we're watching. He can take everything apart and assemble it again. My husband says that our child has the spirit of the gunslinger inside him and that we shouldn't worry. But I highly doubt he himself could do that when he was five.

The villagers adore him. He has a soft, innocent face, with long eyelashes and long hair for a boy. One could easily mistake him for a girl. He predicts the most unusual things, and the villagers think that he's special. Something wonderful and unique. There was a rumour that the family, from my husband's side, had inherited the spirit of a Shinigami, and if the ninth-generation firstborn was a boy born directly to the bloodline, he would be the reincarnation of the Shinigami. According to that myth our dear boy is that entity itself. But what would being a Death God do to his life? He just cannot kill anyone! He cannot be like this all his life! We brought him up to be obedient, to be gentle. Why is he acting like this?

Oh, dear Goddess! This madness must not go on any longer. I cannot allow this to happen to my child. If only that myth and that story never existed. He would be entirely ours, he would have been my child and mine alone!

A week ago I saw him staring out of the window, watching the sun. I called out to him.

"Darling, do you want to go play outside?"

"No," was the answer. I put down the basket I was carrying and went over to him. He was using the rifle-scope to look at faraway trees, overlooking the entire village. He is really attached to it - perhaps we should buy him his own. Anything to stop the madness.

"That man over there," He suddenly said, pointing with a finger. I looked outside to see the local officer patrolling the area. "Who is he?"

"Oh, him! You know Suiryu? He's a fully grown teenager now, he's studying outside Volk... and that's Suiryu's father. Our officer. You met him once when Suiryu came around, didn't you?" I laughed, and swept my hair back. "But you were little more than a baby then. I doubt that you can remember that long ago."

"I can't," He replied, and laughed. "How can I remember that far back?"

I laughed with him; I was able to understand my child that day, and it felt nice. I stayed with him, laughing and tickling him. Eventually, he quietened and peered at the officer again.

"It's sad," He said quietly. "I feel sorry for him."

I thought this comment odd; but it was possible that he was commenting on how difficult life must be for the officer, patrolling the village at all times. I let it pass.

And now, one week later, it turns out that he passed away from a heart attack.

He knows this. His face paled at the news, but no other reaction. Is it possible, then, that he can read the future? Does he look at each one of us and see our deathdays written on our faces? No, no, that can't be, that's unnatural, it's impossible!

My child is not the Shinigami! He isn't! He isn't...

I don't get it... I don't understand that child...