Watari

Birth Name: Quillish Whammy
Whammy Code: W
Known alias: Watari Birth Date: May 1, 1933
Death Date: November 5, 2007
Ties to Whammy's House: Founder
Strengths: Has overall strong sense of justice, intellegence in science, in issues of everyday life, talented in espionage and marksmanship, and making the best sweets and teas
Weakness: Is a rather weak human being, lacks authority/strength, and has an inability to find a successor for L
Obsession: With justice, raising children as detectives and depriving them of normal lives

Somewhere in England 1941-8yrs. old

I remember it so clearly, a past that anyone would easily consider inhumane and utterly unjust. (*sniffle* mother…father.) It doesn't take a genius to see the truth, the hideous and somehow easily overlooked truth. (*gasp* * Blood gushes everywhere and had began to emblazon the marshmallow white walls with oozing red chocolate*) Yet no one, not a single person, came to rescue me. (*His own screams were drowned out by hers.*) So unjust… (*hack*) so UNJUST! (*hack, hack*)Crime flooded the streets. How could no one notice a city with floods of speeding cars, robberies, and threats directed at innocent victims? How could no one hear my shrill voice echoing through the halls, crying out desperately for help? Why didn't anyone try to stop them—stop the injustice? Why didn't they try to save me? WHY DIDN'T THEY TRY TO SAVE MOTHER AND FATHER?!!

Scorching hot tears trickled down his cheeks as he stared at the crazed woman butchering his mother with a nicely sharpened knife or the now blood-soaked man hacking chunks of his father with an oversized axe. He felt like screaming, like clawing at his arm until the bone was exposed, covered in spots of red, assuring that it was completely degloved. He wanted to end their suffering, make their pain his, anything to stop seeing them like this, anything cease their torturous screaming. His throat felt hoarse, as if agonizing screams were tearing at his throat trying to escape and—a…whimpering?... sound succeeded in forcing itself out, but it was rigid and uneven…was he…crying? It didn't take him long to realize this, he had always been a quiet child… back when he was happy, never once crying. Before there was nothing to cry about. He was content with his small family maybe a brother would have been nice, but he was pleased. He quickly silenced himself before he was heard. After all they had not taken notice of him watching them through a gap in the closet door, maybe he would be able to escape. Maybe that's why mother had screamed so loud, to protect me, to make sure I wasn't heard, to save me... He continued to calm himself down.

"They are just common criminals and are easily enough beaten," his father had told him once, "no need to worry I will always be here to save you. I always win. I've locked away so many criminals there's no way I'll lose. I won't lose you, not to them. I won't lose to them." Win? Lose? Why didn't he take his job more seriously? Was this just a game to him? Yes that's exactly what he thought. That this was just a form of entertainment, just another game to occupy him during his spare time. But look at him now broken, quite literally, into a billion pieces. So how could he think of them as just common criminals? They had killed his parents so brutally, his mother—his oh so loving mother, and his father! His father the infamous detective that had protected everyone from people like them who was protecting them? No one.

Suddenly he froze, pushing aside the reservoir of memories and thoughts of angst. Why was it so quiet? He opened the door slightly and noticed that they were gone. A woman and a man; one carrying a kind of derringer and the other a rather flagrant choice of weapon, an axe, well considering they lives next to about 7 acres of multiple species of trees it would not be too difficult to convince witnesses that they had just gone out to gather produce. And they had made their way into the house relatively quick and most likely with diminutive hardships. Both of them had knocked loudly on the door and we had lacking common sense as to implore why they were on our property. Oh! How convenient they left the room. Where was that voice coming from?More importantly now was his chance the closet he was stuffed in was not at all far from the doorway. Haha! He was going to be alright! Ya well they most likely just saw the cute little family photos and decided to show up in your room to kill you. At first the thought had scared him, partly because of its content but mostly because of the voice that oh so cheerily said it. That...wasn't him…was it? A shiver ran down his spine.

He got up cautiously and made sure no one was outside. As he stepped outside his eyes quickly glazed over the scene at hand. Then it suddenly hit him—hard. The stench of flesh and blood caressing his body--welcoming him, flowing into him. "Uggh!" That sickly sweet scent dancing cruelly on his tongue bringing melancholy thoughts back to his self and paralyzed him. He stood there with a blank if not horrified look on his face. Slowly he regained control and got a glimpse of the door leading outside the estate there was that bittersweet feeling again, but before to he fled an object caught his attention through the corner of his eye. It was rather small—a…key? "There's another one! They're identical. Why are they set on this table? I wonder…what are they for?" He began to pick them up, they were each hanging from a string long enough to just barely fit over a person's…then an ice cold shiver ran though him and realization of the image he faced ran through him and caused him to stumble backward. For he saw what they were hung from. Originally they were (as far as he could tell) on the necks of his mother and father. All… of these bits and pieces …were of his parents corpses, scattered around the beautiful carpet just like confetti thrown around during a party. Their arms, legs, head, and torso has been severed off and cut into even smaller chunks. He had on numerous occasions dumped his toys and built forts atop that very carpet and look at it now no longer a beautiful all white carpet with intricate swirls and designs, but a red sodden one. A look of sorrow crossed his face as he walked over to it. *CRASH* A loud noise had sent the murderers in a frenzy footsteps gradually getting closer. He had stumbled over an ax causing him to fall face-first onto the ground. He rapidly regained his balance and picked up the two keys and a knife that he had landed right next to, his vision a distorted mess of red shapes. Covered in victims' blood and carrying a possible murder weapon might slightly arouse suspicion, but if they caught up to him he would need something to level the playing field. And so he ran—ran out the door as fast as he could, without knowing where to go, without thinking about calling the police. He just ran.