Prologue

Before I begin, I'd like to state simply that this is not a report nor a diary of any sort. I have never been a fan of excessive writing or typing on serious matters and my persona is much too stoic to have any thought to keep a whimsical thing like a diary. Rather, the following logs are nothing more than a resource for future generations...or in simpler terms, a record of my exsistance. Although these ramblings will most likely not become of any use to anyone, it will put my own mind at ease to know that something will be left of me after death.

I live at the Wammy House, and have lived here as long as I can remember. I know little about the entire history of the orphanage due to mere lack of interest, but what I can assure you is that the home is a cess pool of great minds and philosophers, all under legal age. Originally, the orphanage was nothing but ana verage orphanage who took in children from the local area...

And along came the genius.

Quillish Wammy, the founder of our home, brought the boy to the orphanage when he was younger than I am now, and as he grew, the orphanage's main focus was changed. The boy...he had become a marvelous detective...no, he was the world's greatest detective, and that was all due to the love and care of the Wammy House. It was decided that said detective needed people to follow in his place in case the worst of the worst were to happen.

I ended up at the house long after it had become a place for raising the gifted so I'm not quite sure if I can explain to you the burden the previous, 'ungifted' orphans felt when they were told they needed to begin hard and tedious studies and step into the detective's shoes, but I can assure you that it was definitely a change that they simply couldn't approve of. Many of the orphans left on their own, while others wre forced to leave to make room for the enriched flock of children who were supposed to pour in. I supose the entire point of my little rant was to inform you that the orphanage's change and finally, it's downfall, was L's fault.

All his fault.

With this in mind, it may not come as surprising that many of the other parentless kids held a strong dislike, no, a fiery passion of despise toward the man.

But...I was different...and so was he.

We're different from the others, he and I. We admire him (usually from afar, for he's never really around. That, and even with his slouchy posture he's quite an intimidating sight) and are often looked down upon and even tortured because of it. But he and I are different from the other orphans...we're better than the other orphans, much better. We are next in line, the next generation's greatest detectives, the Wammy House's smartest members.

While he has learned to keep his opinion on L to himself, I've taken a different approach by isolating myself. I watch as he plays soccer with the other boys with absolutely no remorse in my blank slate eyes and I merely continue to piece together my puzzles.

And I am completely satisfied with my choice of lifestyle, for I know that what I'm doing is much more important than a few childhood friends or memories. I know that I will eventually take the place of the world's most righteous, glorious man and help hundreds or maybe even thousands of people. But, until then, I'll remain alone in my room, piecing together the same puzzle.

I can't honestly say that my life here at the Wammy House has been completely bad -- on the contrary, I can't quite say it's been peachy either, but I will admit that my fondest recollections all take place here within the clean and spotless walls of the home. As I've mentioned, these logs are proof that I, Nate River, or better known as Near although I would prefer you refrained from reffering me as such while reading this set of momentos, was alive and did, in fact, exsist, but these logs are also proof that I have had what one would call acquaintances, friends even. I will also keep these notse as a friendly file of the things I never want to forget, for when I grow old and begin to whither away, reading these fond thoughts from my lacking childhood will, again, be enough to put my mind at ease.