[Matt]

A/N: Well I hope you like it. Typed it out in about an hour. Kinda sad but it's not as depressing as how I usually write. Also I'm 13 so inevitably I'm gonna improve so please don't hate on it. Reviews appreciated!

From the very beginning, I'd accepted that I'd die unimportant. It's not like I have a problem with self esteem or anything, but that's kind of how it is around here. If you're not first, or at least in the top three, you're practically useless, disposable even. I suppose they only keep others around so that in case another A or Beyond Birthday were to develop they'd just pull along the next kid in line. It's screwed up really, but that's how things are. Roger would never admit to any of this, of course, but a part of me does wonder if he feels any guilt at all in what he's doing. He may use the excuse of giving orphans a better life or making the world a better place but is the cost worth the benefit? Molding kids who had a chance at a normal life to be someone who was a glitch in genetics, stripping them of their identity and giving them no purpose at all but to take over that person? Hell, we're not even allowed to keep our own names. I'm not sure if any of us remember them anyway. It's been so long. Yeah, we'll all die unimportant- I can say that for sure. We have no families, names, identities. We're nobodies.

I'm perfectly content with being third. Rules are especially lax because years ago they learned that if you pressure one of us too much, we'd either end up hanging from the rafters [or the church ceiling beams in A's case] or a serial killer in LA. Even if did they make us want to be L, being pushed too hard is dangerous. Mello finally cracked and ran off and I'm sure A is rolling in his grave over the fact that another one of us ran off to the States to become a murderer. But with Mello gone and Near whisked away to New York, I suddenly found myself thrusted into 1st place and it's not all that glorious as Mello made it out to be. That kid must have been on some heavy drugs to want it.

[That being said, if he was on any, I wonder if his stash is still around.]

It was a matter of time before I finally performed the disappearing act. It must have been about 6 months after the top two left to the States when I finally said fuck it and took what little I had, threw them into a duffel bag, and was out the gates at the crack of dawn. I'm pretty sure no one noticed the empty bed until noon, though.

Life in the outside world was surprisingly easy. For 3 years, I hopped from city to city living on the money I made from doing the dirty work of criminals and thugs. It was because of them I took up smoking but it's a hard habit to kick. They're cancer sticks and all but a part of me always knew I would die young [maybe it had to do with the fact that I was trained to fight for my life the instant I was chucked into that damn orphanage] so I thought what the hell. But being around tough guys with drug addictions made me think of other addictions. Like chocolate addictions. So I left.

I saved up enough to go to the States so I flew to New Jersey, where Roger told me I was from, and that's when I started to lose it. Between all the cigarettes and fake IDs, was an 18 year old kid [kid, not man] with no where to go and no idea what to do. I was slowly losing my mind [not that it was ever completely there] and I felt like screaming at the top of my lungs and crying until I physically couldn't. Instead, I got a crappy job at a daycare but being surrounded by all the disinfectant smells and toy robots reminded me too much of someone. Someone I hadn't seen for a long time and probably never will again. So I left.

I flew to San Francisco where the rent is expensive but the money is easy. In such a cramped city, it's almost impossible to not find the wrong crowd. And I did. I was paid shitloads to hack into important bank accounts and transfer hundreds, thousands, millions of dollars. I didn't feel guilty though. I never did. Because while this person had so much unnecessary money, somewhere else, there was a kid losing his parents and he would be forced into this place called Wammy's House.

And that's what my days consisted of for about a year. Wake up hungover, solve crimes in the newspaper [its like the only training the police had was Blues Clues, honestly], do a job for the highest bidder, and get drunk. It was quite the routine. I was a little ripped around the edges but I was doing just fine. [Not] Really.

For a person who spent 15 years of their life training to become the worlds best detective, I suppose I should have noticed the guy tailing me all day. Especially since he was 6' 5", had no hair, and was covered in tattoos, but I didn't notice. Because who could possibly take the time to tail me? Matt, poor little orphan nobody, always 3rd place, alone and abandoned, turned criminal and spends his days drinking and smoking. I was a sob story no one found interesting. I was unimportant. But I always knew that.

It would be an understatement to say that I was shocked when that bald dude pulled a sack over my face and shoved me into a car, but then again I probably shouldn't have been walking in an alley at 2 am in the ghetto. It would be an even bigger understatement to say that I was shocked when I saw the only two people I could ever consider friends sitting in front of me after having not seen them for 5 years.

"Mello. Near."

"Matt," they returned.

Near was first to break the awkward silence. "It seems that since we left England, you have taken up some quite imprudent and ill advised hobbies. As impertinent as I may seem, I must insist that you discontinue your malefactor lifestyle lest we turn you over to the appropriate authority figures."

"Some people get their hands on a thesaurus and think they're on top of the world. Did that sentence make you feel good about yourself, sheep boy?" I spat.

I had no fucking clue as to why I was being so nasty towards them. After all, Near and Mello came back for me. They came back. But maybe it was the fact that they had to come back at all. It sucked, no, it stung to know that I wasn't important enough to be dragged along wherever they went. I would have gladly tagged along with either one of them but I wasn't smart enough or good enough to keep up with those two. So I ended up choosing to waste my life away with nicotine and alcohol [so much potential, Roger would say, shaking his head. I had so much potential]. And I had no right to be such a special snowflake about it all because Mello looks like half his face melted off and Near looked like the living dead [did the kid eat or sleep at all?]. Long story short, L died and went to hell and was slowly dragging us down with him.

And then Mello punched me in the face.

And that's how I got roped into the worlds biggest serial killer case in history. I was convinced to stage a public kidnapping on the most influential celebrity in the world and it worked. For a while. I always knew I was more stupid than Mello and Near but I never considered myself stupid enough to believe the promise that I wouldn't die [whatever happened to always knowing you would die young, Matt?]. So like an idiot, I stepped out that car and I got shot. Too many times in such a short space to count but I think it was close to about 20 sweltering bullets pushing themselves through my organs and chest and into my car [I knew it was stupid to spend all that money on a paint job].

So I sat there, bleeding against the car, and my life didn't flash before my eyes. I didn't see memories or events, I saw people. I saw Roger, Wammy, L. I saw Mello and Near. Linda, too. Why would I be thinking about her at a time like this? Maybe it was because she was my first crush. Maybe it was because it hurt that she didn't even draw me for the police. She drew Mello and Near but not me. Even though she knew Mello and I were partners in crime and there was a chance we'd be working together. It seems petty and childish [but I am petty and childish] but there was a dark part of me that wanted to be selfish. I wanted my last battle to be broadcasted as a crappy sketch of me as a internationally wanted criminal. I wanted to be remembered. But I wouldn't be. Because I'm not important. I was just another sacrifice in the Kira case. But I'm okay with that. I was never the protagonist, even in my own story. I was always just a supporting side character whose death occurred only to move the plot along.

And the life vanished from me quicker than the dying cigarette dangling from my lips.

[game over. for me at least.]