Yu-Gi-Oh is the intellectual property of Kazuki Takahashi and Konami, and is being used in this fanfiction for fan purposes only. No infrigement or disrespect is intended by this fanfiction.

Chapters first posted beginning October 2002. Chapters 1-5 (Part One) reposted with minor revisions March - April 2008

Author's Notes:
This fiction, the second in the Temenos series, (the first was KP Duty) deals with violation (both physical and spiritual) and the struggle to recover from it. It contains forthright descriptions of sexuality and extreme emotional states, and a great deal of foul language.

Please heed this warning: these stories have proven too intense for some younger and more sensitive readers.

Finally, while most of the story strives to stay IC and follow canon, two characters (Gozaburo and Pegasus) have been vastly distorted and therefore make the story AU.

.

.

Chopper

Seto Kaiba stood on the rooftop of Pegasus's castle, in exactly the same spot where he had stood just days before to battle Yuugi Mutou.

Everything had been clear in the blinding, shadowless noonlight of that day; goals, priorities, possibilities. His powers a white hot blaze, he had stood on the edge, gambling with his life; so sure of his abilities, and so sure in his understanding of his adversary, that of course he had won.

Now, it was nearing sunset. Shadows were long and the rooftop red-orange. Mokuba was safe, Pegasus was defeated, Yuugi had his Grandfather back. It was a different precipice now; every last scrap of his energy holding up the mask for his brother.

"What are we waiting for, big brother?" Mokuba asked. "Yuugi told me you flew a chopper in here when you came to rescue me. Let's go down and get it, and go home."

Seto was not going to fly his chopper out of here: he was in no condition to pilot an aircraft, especially not one containing Mokuba. Not when the temptation to take the controls and dive downward to cold oblivion might overpower him: he couldn't allow it. He had responsibilities that must close the door on the part of him that wanted to run and hide – at least until he had it under control.

But he wasn't about to leave his favorite chopper here for Pegasus's minions to play with, either, so he had called for two pilots to fly to Duelist Kingdom. "I called for someone to come and fly us out. We'll wait for them up here, where they can see us."

When it came down to it, he wasn't sure he was even up to descending the hundreds of stairs to the forest where he'd hidden the chopper when he arrived several days before. The reason – reasons – were spelled out on a piece of paper, folded small and tucked deep in the innermost pocket of his coat; a piece of paper that listed injuries he had sustained while soulless. A sprained ankle, a dislocated shoulder, contusions on his abdomen and back from being kicked and beaten. And other injuries, from more than a beating: abraded knees, burns and lacerations on his inner thighs, torn tissues in places that a mere beating wouldn't have accomplished. Injuries from a – he could not use the word, it seemed so unreal, how could it apply to him?

And the shame at what he must have done mocked his denial.

He could not really remember the – event – even had he wished to (and he did not wish to), but which he knew what had happened. Even without the proof of the paper in his pocket and the marks on his body, he knew that something had been taken from him, something that all his money and all the resources of Kaiba Corporation could not restore; knew because never before, with all he had gone through, had he felt this way. Torn open, hollowed out, trampled. Disgraced. Degraded. Filthy.

Funny, what he kept thinking about – couldn't stop thinking about, actually – had happened some months ago. (Now it seemed like years, decades even.) Students had been filling the auditorium for an assembly. He was sitting alone, reading. Three boys dropped into seats in the row ahead of him and bent over something, intent, giggling, poking each other.

"Oh yeah, give it to her good."

"What a slut, you can see she really likes it."

"Dude, look, up the poop chute too."

"Hey, that one's going in her mouth like a meter, whoa!"

"Wouldn't she like, gag?"

"Naw... but the bitch sure would SHUT UP!"

His height had allowed him to look down over their shoulders, see what they were looking at. A magazine, a manga, with a picture of a woman, spread-eagled against a wall, horror on her face as thick tentacles snaked under her clothing and into every orifice and opening of her body. He remembered thinking contemptuously, Stupid girl – why didn't she run when she saw what was coming? Why doesn't she fight it? bite it? close her legs?

He couldn't get that scene out of his mind now, kept replaying the other boys' comments and his own reaction. Now that he knew better. Sometimes you couldn't run, no matter how much warning you had.

"Ow!"

He suddenly came back to himself - he had been squeezing Mokuba's hand. Too hard. Mokuba had let go and was now sitting on a stone bench near the roof's crenelated edge.

"Come sit, big brother." Mokuba patted the stone.

Kaiba shook his head.

"Why not? There's room."

He took a deep breath. "Mokuba," he started; then, "Mokuba, I got beaten up while I was a prisoner. And," he rubbed his hand over his eyes, "and sitting on the hard stone floor in the cell, it made – I got really sore, OK? So it's won't be comfortable for me to sit."

"What did they do to you?" Mokuba's eyes flashed, simultaneously solicitous and angry.

"Ah, well, they hurt my shoulder, and my ankle. And I have a lot of – cuts and bruises."

"But you're gonna be OK, right?"

"Yes," Kaiba said, pretending to search the fiery sky while his throat closed up and his vision blurred, "I'll be fine." He furiously blinked back the hateful tears.

The chopper touched down a few minutes later. "I'm going to say goodbye to Yuugi!" Mokuba shouted and ran off to the group by the front doors.

His pilots, Quinn and Brasher, confirmed that there was still more than enough light to fly the other chopper up out of the woods, so Quinn ran down the stone stairs. A few minutes later Mokuba came back onto the roof, Yuugi and his friends following at a discreet distance.

"Nii-sama..." Mokuba began. "Can they ride the helicopter with us? Please?"

No way in hell. "It's six people, Mokuba, plus the two of us. There are only three seats in the chopper."

"Oh, but we have two choppers! And anyhow I told Yuugi he could share the front seat with me so that we can both watch the pilot. We're both small."

He knew this look on Mokuba's face; it meant that he wouldn't listen to reason or authority at this point, so there was no use invoking either. Not that he had the energy to do it. "OK." He gave the group his sternest look. "This is payment for rescuing Mokuba, understood?" Without waiting for their answer he turned to the copter and climbed in, tucking himself into the left back seat.

After Yuugi and Mokuba piled in the seat ahead of him (Brasher buckled them in together), Mai slipped into the seat next to him. "I think everyone else went down to the other chopper," she said.

Might not be too bad.

Suddenly a commotion at the door."Phew! I thought I'd missed the boat, er, the copter!" The blond appeared in the doorway. "Hey Yug, riding shotgun? Cool." He looked at Mai, raised an eyebrow. "Ya think you could squash over some there, make room for me?"

"The back seats two." Seto said firmly.

"Aww, seat, schmeat, plenty of room on the floor!" And with that he turned around, sat on the floor, and slid backwards into the row between the seats, his back to Seto, and pulled his long legs up and clear of the door.

"All set?" Brasher yelled, and then they rose into the air, to the west, the sun flooding the chopper with amber.

.

Seto'd always had the trick of going elsewhere.

It had started in the orphanage. Often, after he'd given most of his meal to Mokuba, to distract himself from his hunger he'd pull back from the reality outside of him and go hiking someplace beautiful. The arctic, a jungle, a desert, the moon. Or he'd become a falcon, soaring over wilderness looking for prey, or a submarine diving through darkness, his floodlight startling fantastical deep sea creatures.

After they were first adopted, he went though an astrophysics phase. He became an atom at the heart of a sun, sizzling as the pressure of the solar furnace changed him from hydrogen to helium to carbon to iron. A few years later, when things got really, really bad – when Gozaburo regularly brought out the cane, and the collar, and dragged him to the room with the pulley – he'd imagine he was pure number, without any physical existence at all: he'd become a series of primes sparkling down from the Sieve of Eratosthenes; or the digits of pi soaring and diving through n-dimensions of concentric circles; or the Penrose ratio, orchestrating vast star lit plains of interlocking tiled kites and darts. And sometimes he was simply a spiraling Fibonacci sequence, infinite.

He'd been so busy and so in control the last few years he'd not needed to rely on this trick. Unfortunately, it seemed to have atrophied, for he couldn't escape the helicopter. In the seat in front of him, Mokuba (on the left) and Yuugi (on the right) chattered nonstop about the various dials and controls, Brasher in the right hand seat making the occasional correction. "No, those are the torque pedals." Next to him was worse. They had been in the air less than five minutes when the blond made a big show of pulling off his jacket and spreading it across Mai's mini-skirted thighs and knees. He then seemed to think this gallantry entitled him to some reward, for he draped his right arm casually across her lap. She wrinkled her nose and said something to him with a half-smile; he said something back; obviously some playful challenge, for she mock-slapped him and stuck out her tongue prettily – but with affection.

How easy it all seemed to come to them. Friendship. Of all the things he had, had created, or could buy, friendship was out of his grasp, Seto realized with a pang. Besides, who would want to associate with him, now that he had –

lay on cold metal, the frightening golden eye staring into his own,
he couldn't look away because he hadn't been told to,
a forceful mouth and tongue, a hand kneading him,
and then a whispered "Kiss me back" and he had done it,
he had kissed back, and the blood began rushing to –

A wave of nausea swept over him, and he gave an involuntary whimper, then froze in panic. They must have noticed, they would pry ...

But they all went on. They hadn't noticed. They didn't ask. They didn't care. He was stunned, and hurt, and finally furious at himself for caring what they thought.

After a while, Yuugi leaned between the seats to talk to the other two. To his friends. From time to time he turned back to include Mokuba in the conversation, in the circle of friends. How had that happened? How had Mokuba learned to make connections so easily? Certainly not from his big brother.

Between the roar of the rotors and the blond's big head, Seto could make out only scraps of conversation:

"Wasn't it cool when we –"

"Did you see when Pegasus –"

"That was such a great move when you "

"Wasn't it sad when – "

"Oh Mokuba, you never told us what happened when –"

No, he couldn't hear much, pressed back into the corner, but he could see them. Burnished with sunset, their hair threaded with copper and gold. Glowing, smiling, laughing. Fire elementals, seraphim. From his darkness he noticed how they were with each other, touching so freely, without thinking. Of course he was not included: it was clear that even though they were in his chopper they were all oblivious to him. True, the blond was leaning against him, using the side of his leg as a chairback, pressing back every time he laughed, but it was nothing, it meant nothing. He was transportation and – furniture. A convenience, at best. Certainly not a friend.

The bad guy, he knew that's how they saw him. And why shouldn't they? He'd almost killed Yuugi's grandfather when he'd taken the fourth Blue Eyes by force. He relished humiliating the blond, squelching the barking laugh and braggadocio. He'd taken advantage of Yuugi's inherent decency to defeat his Dark, and rejected every offer of help during his duel with Pegasus. On top of which, of course, he was the rich guy, the "ruin the curve" guy, the "taller than you" guy. They had probably hated him long before Duelist Kingdom, because he must have seemed to lead such a favored life. Yeah, he'd been favored all right. Wasn't he was doubly favored now, having received favors from both Gozaburo and Pegasus? He gripped the edge of his seat with his left hand, the protest from his injured shoulder welcome. He hadn't fit in before, and now, of course, now he was – impossible as it would have seemed two weeks ago – even further set apart from Yuugi and his circle. This thought knotted his stomach in despair, and he finally began to feel the familiar floating sensation that presaged the blessed falling inward, away from his body, away from the world's noise and light and pain.

He might have found himself soaring the thermals as a hawk again had two things not happened. First, the warmth of the muscled back pressing against his leg began to have an unexpected and painful effect, which intensified with every small casual movement the blond made as he laughed and talked. Fortunately, he was able to surreptitiously pull his coat over it. Second, when that very same clueless mutt twisted, a moment later, to lean between the front seats to talk to Yuugi and Mokuba, he put his hand down on Seto's right foot. The sprained one with the hairline fracture. The sudden extra pain was too much, and Seto yelped.

At that point all sound in the cabin was swallowed up. Even the rotors seemed to mute.

'Hey man, you OK?" the blond twisted back around, and the hand that had been draped over Mai's lap now moved to Kaiba's thigh, in an automatic and unselfconscious gesture of concern.

Don't touch me!

Mokuba's head popped up over the seat. "Seto? Is it hurting worse?"

"Put your seat belt back on, Mokuba!" he forced out through gritted teeth.

"Is what hurting?" Yuugi asked suddenly, his pale worried face craning around the other side of the seat back.

With a roar in his ears, he heard Mokuba cheerfully volunteer, "Oh, Pegasus's bad guys beat Seto up, and he has a lot of bruises. His foot got hurt, and his shoulder, and his butt hurts from sitting on the cold cell floor so long."

"His b- " Mai started to repeat, and without thinking he shot her a look. Her mouth became a small o, and her eyes went wide, looking at him as though he were a three-headed freak.

Oh god, what had he done? Now she knew. She knew. Even in the dim red shadows he could tell she knew. Well of course, she was older, would quickly grasp what the others were too innocent to put together. An icy sweat swept over his body. He wanted to scream. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to claw his way out of the chopper.

"Cell floor, ha!" Mai said suddenly, looking away from him. "I got bruises from those lumpy beds! And that hand soap – looked to me like he was recycling samples stolen from every tacky motel his staff ever stayed at. The man just didn't know how to treat guests, that's for sure. I mean, eyeballs in our soup, mind-reading, those spooky dimensions you were dragged to, locking people in dungeons – really, what century did he think we're in? Well, at least we know we'll never run into anyone that evil again."

Why? he wondered. Why is she changing the subject? She was deliberately drawing attention away from him. Why would she do that?

He bowed his head, confusion and shame and nausea competing with the continued throbbing in his lap. Shouldn't have pulled that catheter out so fast, a dry voice in his head commented.

A light touch on his left knee. He looked up. Mokuba's face was squeezed between seat back and window, his arm stretched out to his brother. "Are you gonna be OK?" he mouthed.

And for the second time that evening Seto lied to him, and nodded.

.

The rest of the ride was long but uneventful. The blond switched position, his back now against the right wall, his legs on either side of Mai's, and dozed. There was much less talking; they were sleepy, the stress of the last few days finally collecting a toll in exhaustion.

Seto would not allow himself to relax, even as the pain ebbed away with his tumescence. He made a mental list of what he needed to do before he could allow himself to sleep that night - go through the post, his e-mail, the fax basket, the telex, skim the financials, listen to voice messages. Get ready for his talk tomorrow with those bastards who'd tried to sell him out to Pegasus ... and shower. He had to shower. He knew it was a cliché, but now he knew why. Although he also recognized, of course, that a shower or a bath wouldn't be enough to feel clean. Would never be enough. He needed to molt, peel off his skin, slice it away, burn away the filth that covered him, grow shiny new skin, untouched by –

They were landing.

"Can our drivers take them home?" Mokuba was asking.

"No. They're all off duty."

This was a lie, of course: there was always at least one on duty, in case he returned unexpectedly: but what was one more lie? His whole life would be a lie now, a mask hiding the true Kaiba. A phrase from long ago came to him: whited sepulcher. He could feel the maggots inside him squirming already, pressing against his tongue and chest. He needed to get away from everyone before he disintegrated.

"Don't let us inconvenience you, Mister Moneybags. We'll all pile in a cab," said the blond. "I think there's a pay phone I can call from about a mile down the road. I can walk down there in no time."

Even Seto winced at that. "Don't be stupid. Mokuba knows all the cab company numbers." He handed his briefcase to his brother.

"Seto says I have a really good memory!" Mokuba said proudly, as he took out a cell phone.

Kaiba turned his back to them and looked out over the dark valley below his mansion as the other chopper landed on the second pad.

"Pardon me, Kaiba? Could I ask you a favor?"

It was Mai.

Blackmail? Already? She certainly doesn't waste time.

"I'd love to do some work for Kaiba Corp., and I wondered if you could give me a recommendation. I figure a word from you would go a long way to helping me get my foot in the door. Maybe you could write a note on one of your business cards?" She had a pen in hand.

"Huh?" She was blackmailing him into helping her get a job?

"What do you say?" she asked, and, her back to Yuugi and the others (who were gathered around Mokuba arranging for cabs) held out her pen to him with a dramatic gesture.

He was so surprised he reached in his jacket, pulled out a business card, and wrote on it Give her a contract to do whatever she says she can handle. He initialed it, and as she took her pen and his card from him she deftly slid a small paper into his palm.

"Call me." She whispered before turning around and striding away. "Alright Jounouchi, they better not be dropping anyone but ME off at my apartment!"

He turned his back to them again, and glanced at the paper. A telephone number, and the words I know what you're going through.

Do you, he thought. How can you? How can anyone?

.

.

For the ninth night in a row he woke to find himself frotting the mattress. Or rather the Beast was frotting: he just happened to be attached.

"Not again," he muttered as he rolled onto his back.

need to rub need to push

No.

pet me

Almost every night now. A deep dreamless sleep interrupted in the middle of the night by this — nuisance. (He wondered if it had happened during the two days he'd been trapped in the VR pod in the basement of Kaiba Corp during the unsuccessful coup: he should check the bio-sensor logs.) Of course he suspected what it was. Nothing in his daily routine had changed, but he had never had such nocturnal distractions before Duelist Kingdom, and so it must be connected to that, somehow: although he had little memory of it, the middle of the night was when his soulless body had been — touched in the Duelist Kingdom kitchen.

Hmmm. So you're dreaming about what Pegasus? Must have liked it, if you're reliving every delicious, breathy moment. You should find out exactly what he did, so that you can ask for it by name next time. The voice of Witty Phantom. Stuck in his head ever since he'd returned from the VR world, providing unwanted commentary that he seemed unable to shut out.

He threw back the covers and rolled out of bed. Dammit, he was Seto Kaiba. He was not going to have his sleep ruined by a body part, or by dreams and phantoms.

Ooo, I'm trembling! Such a fierce boy. So forceful and determined. Out of character for such a delicate uke-flower.

Since his second night back in the house he'd been sleeping in the observatory's guest suite, as far from his regular rooms (and Mokuba) as he could. At first it had been to hide his injuries, but more and more there was a feeling that just being in the same room, even the same wing of the house as Mokuba would somehow pollute the younger boy, inflict some cumulative damage. Like radiation poisoning. Irrational, he knew, but he couldn't shake it.

He stalked out of the bedroom into the small study and picked up the phone. The best way to clear up this nonsense was to collide with it head-on. Getting facts would diffuse the power the unknown seemed to have over him. He dialed, straightening the desk's blotter, pencil cup, and letter opener as he waited for the other to answer.

"Mr. Kurosuke. Sorry to disturb you."

A pause.

"Yes. I'll be brief. I need to know what he did. To me. That night. Anything you know, or even suspect. Details."

Another pause.

"Yes, I'm sure."

The voice began, and the words trickled into this ear like poison. He took a deep breath, battling vertigo.

"How many?"

He listened again.

"But, I don't believe — didn't Pegasus —? Are you sure? My memory of it isn't – complete."

He gripped the chair, listening. "No, that's not an option. And I didn't see the point of going to a regular doctor" (none he could trust to keep this story secret) "since I haven't had any of the problems you listed. No fever, no back pain. Some bleeding when I first got home, but that's stopped."

Hands shaking, he spun the letter opener on the desk. "And you're saying I didn't —" he swallowed hard, momentarily unable to speak.

He watched the flashing silver blade. From his perspective it appeared to slice through the Beast, again and again.

"But I remember," he forced the word out, "kneeling. It's about the only thing I do remember."

He listened, his throat tight again.

"I see. What other evidence would there be?"

A pause.

"Only what? What else? What else did you find? Tell me."

He cleared his throat, uncharacteristically pleading. "Please tell me."

The letter opener slowed, his fingers above it frozen in mid-air.

"But I thought you said —?"

It stopped.

"Contempt? As if all the other stuff wasn't enough?"

.

He hung up the phone slowly. Things. The analytical part of his mind scrambled for control. No, Kurosuke had to be mistaken. He didn't remember anything to corroborate what he'd just heard. At least there was evidence for torture and beating, evidence still fading and healing. But the other — he would have remembered that. Certainly, he would have remembered something like that. Wouldn't he? He shuddered, and then began to giggle hysterically from overload.

Funny Kaiba-boy, Phantom said, You sound just like Dark Rabbit, did'ja know? You remember the Dark Rabbit. And you know rabbits, they do love carrots.

After a few minutes the paroxysm passed. He gripped the back of the chair, his stomach cramping. According to Kurosuke, staff gossip had it that Pegasus had been just a witness. Instigating, but not participating. But how could that be? Shit, the only things that he did have that felt like memories were of kneeling before Pegasus, and another of that face bending over him, fingers in his hair, kissing him, stroking him ...

remember yes

... he was supposed to reject the only images that felt like memories, and accept things he had no memory of?

Tsk, tsk, How disappointing for you. All this time you imagined—ahhh, you imagined he came down to the kitchen alone that night and made a hot little love souffle with you there among the pots and pans and dishtowels! Didn't you? A private, romantic tête-à-tête. Caresses and sweaty sweet nothings. Do your fantasies have him gallantly spreading his red jacket on the cold floor, so you won't feel chilled while he takes you? Is that the dream that's been bringing the circus to your jammies every night?

Shut up.

Kurosuke's cleaned up after many many parties just like yours, you know. Whatever he says happened, happened. What an intimate moment it must have been! Pegasus sipping fine wine while five of his close friends put on gloves and reamed you with produce and utensils. You didn't even arouse enough interest to unzip their pants for. Except to piss on you when they were done. Oh right, Kurosuke said there was semen, so some of them probably did jerk off —

Shut up!

Chances are, no one kissed you, not once. Not even your one-eyed idol. You keep making that part up. Wishful thinking? No wonder you feel so sad. Poor, dirty, unloved Kaiba-thing.

SHUT UP!

He stalked into the bathroom, stepped into the shower stall and barked "Cold!"

The voice-activated shower obeyed and he gasped as six jets of needle spray hit him. Instant goosebumps. The Beast beaded with moonstones and diamonds.

God, what was wrong with him? Was he losing control of his mind as well as of his body? He screwed up his face as he shivered.

"Colder! More pressure!"

The water became so cold it numbed his skin. Well, at least the Beast was settling down. He wrapped his arms around himself, and leaned into the corner, a dunce. Water ran from his hair down his neck and chest, tiny icy serpents. Disgusting. Pathetic. Stupid!! He howled; dry, wretched, animal sobs.

That's what is is, isn't it? This pain? You've crying because the illusion that you were wanted is gone? the insinuating voice kept at him. C'mon, you can admit it to me — the thought that you'd caught Pegasus's eye give you a thrill, didn't it? The brilliant inventor of the game you love so well, paying such attention to you? Made you tingle, waaay deep down, in the secret place? 'Fess up.

NO!

He put his hands over his face.

yes.

Hmmm, well, that opportunity for a special "partnership" is gone now, isn't it? Apparently wasn't ever there in the first place. Funny how you don't know what you want 'til it's gone. Because you do want it, don't you? Pretending to be above it all when all you want is to be beneath ...

OK, OK, OK ... of course he wanted someone to be with him. Why shouldn't he? Wasn't that normal? Wasn't that human? He was human, after all.

Maybe not so normal, though, eh?

And yes, he was could barely admit it but yes, he had been secretly, guiltily, flattered that Pegasus had appeared to desire him— or at least had said things that could be construed that way in front of other people. Pegasus had made him feel special, in a way no else one ever had. Every silky "Kaiba-boy" had been like a caress, making him squirm inside, even after Mokuba had been kidnapped, even after the alliance with the Big 5 was revealed.

With a voice that went straight to your cock.

yes.

With this realization a whirlwind of self-loathing, so intense it was an ecstasy, engulfed him, and he tasted bile.

You nasty boy. You deserved what you got in that kitchen.

How could he have so completely deluded himself, misread the signs? All the years they had known each other, for him Pegasus had become more than just an industry equal, he was the closest Kaiba had had ever come to having a friend. Strange as it seemed, with all they had in common (genius, wealth, power, a disdain for what others thought of them, and a passion for the game) he'd felt like Pegasus understood him, valued him. But obviously this had all been one-sided: Kaiba knew that someone who cared for him in any way would never have done any of those things, would never have allowed — no, apparently Pegasus had been interested only in his company and its technology, not him.

Get used to it. No will has ever love you for 'who you are', especially now that you're damaged goods. It's paid professionals or celibacy from now on, Kaiba-boy. Oh, on the off-chance that you do get some amateur touch, guess what? — Pegasus will be in your head forever. Every time.

He roared and pounded his fist on the marble wall until it throbbed. No, he would conquer this. All he had to do was approach it like any other problem to be solved. He was Seto Kaiba. He did not need to scrounge for pathetic crumbs of affection. He wouldn't be fooled again, seeing possibilities where there were none. No flesh-and-blood person would ever touch him? Fine. Flesh and blood was unreliable, full of random noise. The hell with the bastards and bitches of this world. He could do without friends and lovers. A superior solution.

No. He was already lying to Mokuba, he was not going to slip to lying to himself lie to himself, to pretend that he didn't care that most people — such as the cheery group of Yugi and his friends — were separated from him by an uncrossable chasm. He knew that, except when he intruded on their lives, they took little or no notice of him; and he was sure that they had no idea how much he noticed them. Noticed how their clothes stretched across their bodies when they moved. Noticed how their hair flowed and changed color in the light. Noticed the miracles of their hands. He could draw Yugi and his Dark's the best, since he'd been able to study them as they were dueling, but Jounouchi's hands were always a blur—or in his pockets. Honda's scarred hands were strong and square, with spatulate fingertips. Anzu's nails were like tiny pink almonds. And their lips! ... Sometimes as he watched them talk he imagined lips descending to his skin.

It had been unbearable in the chopper, so close to three of them he could smell their perfume and sweat, see the texture of their skin. Agonizing over that one point of physical contact. Lasting for minutes. Accidental as it was, meaningless as it was, he had only been something to lean on, but it had been so long since he had had a non-cruel touch from anyone other than this brother. Thank God no one had noticed his humiliation, how starved he was, to accept being used as dog furniture.

He groaned at the memory, and a wave of desire rolled out from deep in his pelvis. Every muscle, every inch of skin suddenly ached to touch someone, something, anything. Eyes still closed, he pressed the heel of his aching hand against his mouth, imagining it was a shoulder, a thigh: he bit the flesh softly, licked it, kissed it gently, and then harder, imagining his caresses drawing out soft moans from someone, someone who welcomed his touch. And whenever Pegasus' face came up, he obliterated it, substituting another. His fantasy. His rules.

Turning from the corner, eyes still closed, he leaned back against the warm wet wall. Under the now steaming spray he rubbed his other palm over his chest and down his belly.

In fact – why not create a perfect lover of virtual flesh? The VR software was capable of much more than just dueling and questing. Of course he'd need to increase the sensory throughput, make a biosuit capable of increased tactile input, but that was a scalability issue. He should start gathering data, map out the subroutines needed. His mind, his imagination – that was all that he needed.

Good plan! Don't let reality interfere with fantasy.

He took his hand from his mouth and ran his dripping fingers over his lips, then slid them in over his tongue, sucking hungrily, imagining someone exploring him, surrounding him ...

The Beast approved, and was rewarded.

.

.

This story continues in Elf's "Summoning Death"
which can be found, among other places, here and on Mediaminer

Chapter 3 of this story should be read after you read "Summoning Death"

If you are unable to find "Summoning Death," here's a quick summary: In it, Duo Maxwell (Gundam Wing Shinigami of the chestnut braid and rascally disposition) makes an extended visit to the Kaiba household, becomes best buddies with Mokuba, succinctly sizes up several Yugi-tachi members, and takes on an unusual repair project. Mai makes a secret alliance, the AI gets a name, Seto recalls some appalling details about his ordeal at Duelist Kingdom, and there's a suggestion of one of the real reasons he'll stop wearing the green shirt and pants.

A note about timeframe: this part of the story takes place after the Legendary Heroes arc, but before Isis appears (that'll probably be chapter 5), during the Dungeon Dice Monsters arc.

.

.

He didn't want to open his eyes, but Mokuba had other ideas.

"C'mon! You have to get up now or I'll be late!"

He pulled the pillow over his face. An instant later it was yanked out of his hands, and then smacked him in the head.

Whunk!

"Just because – "

Whunk!

"– you're excused from school –"

Whunk!

"– doesn't mean you can sleep all day!"

"All right! All right!" He grabbed the pillow as it came down again and opened his eyes.

Mokuba was staring at him.

"What is it?"

"Do you think he'll ever come back?"

Duo.

"No, Mokuba. He's not – he wasn't from here. He had to go back to where he belonged."

"He said he didn't have any people there that loved him! Why couldn't he have stayed with us? It would have been fun to have another big brother. He was gonna teach me how to throw knives!"

"You're bored with me, eh?"

"Never!" Mokuba jumped on the bed and threw his arms around Seto's neck, squeezing with all his might. "No matter what you'll always be my favorite. And I'll always be your number one, too, right?"

"Right."

He let go and sat back on his heels. "But you've been really sad lately, Seto. Duo was so much fun, he made me laugh. And you liked him too, right? I mean, you –" Mokuba stopped and gave his brother a pointed look.

I even became fond of him. "Hn, should I grow my hair long like his and start wearing leather pants?"

"No!" Mokuba laugh-snorted. "That would be too silly! You're not like that!" He giggled at the image of his niisama with a braid, then said earnestly, "But Duo said you should have more fun, and he was totally right! You need to think of a new project."

"OK, that'll be at the top of my list. Now let's get some breakfast."

.

The house was so quiet after Mokuba left.

He didn't feel like getting dressed, so he took coffee to his upstairs office and slogged through KaibaCorp reports for an hour in his robe and pajamas. As he worked he realized with a pang that he'd secretly come to look forward to the point, late each morning, when Duo finally got up and came to pester him.

The hell with it. He piled the various papers to one side and reached to shut the computer down.

Then he noticed that his search-engine spider had spun a tiny web in the lower left corner of the screen, holding up the words "Mutou Yuugi" and beneath it "5,481 results."

He clicked and sat forward eagerly. Yuugi's name was always mentioned on gaming boards at least 100 times a day since Duelist Kingdom, but this was an explosion: something unusual must have happened. He quickly saw what: a Domino game shop, the Black Clown, was televising a duel between Yuugi and someone named Otogi Ryuji. Not Duel Monsters, something called Dungeon Dice Monsters, he saw as he skimmed the search results. He turned on the TV and finally found the channel carrying the broadcast.

"That's a good point, Tsuda," the older of two commentators was saying, "And isn't it true that Mutou Yuugi has agreed to surrender his Duelist Kingdom title to Otogi and never play Duel Monsters competitively again if he loses here?"

"Yes, Kenjirou, that's exactly correct," the younger, demographically current sportscaster replied. "Although most legal experts polled said that there is no way that Otogi Ryuji can enforce such a nebulous verbal agreement."

A sinking feeling in Kaiba's stomach. He knew Otogi wouldn't have to enforce it, because Yuugi would keep his word. If Yuugi never plays again, how can I defeat him and regain my title?

The commentators switched to a background piece comparing Duel Monsters and Dungeon Dice Monsters, and Kaiba muted the television.

He scanned board postings. A few discussed whether or not Otogi could – or would – enforce the ban, and most of the rest were people boasting of their own DDM prowess. However, he noticed a posting by detroitkat – usually a source of reliable and useful information – so he opened it.

Under the topic "How the Hell did this get started?" detroitkat had written, "/uu9 g07 n2 7h5 m47ch b3c4u53 h3 w45 d3f3ndn9 7h3 h0n0r 0f 4 fr3nd wh0 l057 4 du31 w7h 0t09 (dc3b0y) & wh0's b3n9 HUM1473D b/ h4\/n9 2 w34r a d09 5u7. f u d0n'7 b313v3 m3 ch3ck P0rk3r's c4m (/dogcam)"

He looked up at the TV. In the background, in the midst of the inane cheerleaders, he could see a large lumpy beige furball.

It couldn't be. He clicked on the dogcam link.

It was. He shook his head in exasperation. How did the idiot get himself in these situations? As he watched the intent, expressive face rising and falling with each successive move the players made, he found himself getting suddenly furious. Not at Jounouchi, but at this Otogi. How dare he humiliate Jounouchi publicly? The blond was his dog.

Duo laughed and placed his hands on his hips. "Then, there is
Jounouchi. Despite the fact that he insults you at every turn,
he doesn't like me staying at your place. At all. "

"He hates me."

Duo laughed and explained, "Seto, let me tell you something.
You don't get that much hate without passion. I think he's
frustrated, Blue Eyes, cause he doesn't think a smart guy like
you would go for a son of a bitch like him."

Duo. What the hell did he know? How could he have made such claims after meeting Jounouchi only once, that the make inu felt – he frowned to even think of the phrase – frustrated passion? He moused over the close box for the dogcam, but couldn't quite bring himself to dismiss the jumpy, grainy, ridiculous spectacle.

And what made Duo think he cared? Except for that one brief conversation, they'd never discussed anyone's feelings about him, and certainly never his feelings about anyone. Still ... he worried again what he might have said while he was drunk. He'd forced himself to watch the security tapes from the study, of course, but there hadn't been any in the bathroom; he had a half memory of breaking down, punching the wall. He felt queasy, as if reliving the hangover.

That last conversation though - Duo had certainly been hinting at something.

Duo chuckled, nudging Seto lightly. "Aww, come on,
I know that you'll miss me, I mean, who wouldn't miss me,
but the best thing you can do is throw on a pair of leather
pants in my honor and find somebody that you have a
spark with. Then, build said sparks into a roaring blaze
and have fun."

"Fire's destructive."

"Yeah, and it's also fun. It's pretty to watch, it keeps monsters
away, warms you up, and you can cook some tasty treats
with it," Duo retorted with a nod.

"Why does everything turn to sex with you?"

"Because good sex is one of the best things there is,"
Duo grinned as he elbowed Seto gently in the ribs,
"And remember there are a couple of good embers
that would blaze right up if you stirred them a bit.
Like Mai, or the puppy, or Yami no Yugi. Hell, you
probably wouldn't have to stir anything with that guy.
He'd jump you as it is." Duo rolled his eyes before he
finished, "Just pick one of them and give it a try."

"Easy for him to say," he muttered, "Hn, 'give it a try'. Pointless."

After a few more seconds of indecision, he set the browser to save the streaming dogcam broadcast to the server's hard drive. Then he sat back and watched the rest of the duel: Otogi destroyed one of Yuugi's monsters and something went out of his eyes. Suddenly Jounouchi was yelling something, after a minute both the broadcast and the dogcam carried it. "... You're not fighting for my freedom! You're fighting in the name of everyone who ever fought against you with all their might - even Pegasus. Is the champion of Duelist Kingdom now a quitter? No! So what if this game is different? You can't give up!"

Seto snorted.

"You're right, Jounouchi-kun," Yuugi said (how ludicrous, Yuugi playing in defense of Jounouchi's honor – such as it was). "Thank you for reminding me. A game is a game. I will focus all my energy on the dice, and I won't give up until the last second."

What, "Heart of the Dice" now? Whatever. It didn't protect his last monster.

"Gamers all over the world are watching this on the net, Yuugi-kun. Why don't you just admit defeat?"

What a smug, posturing peacock this Otogi was. Kaiba made a note of the name: he would enjoy knocking him senseless someday.

And then of course, Dark somehow brought out Dark Magician, and did his usual tricks with the damned Hats and the Magic Box. Well, at least he silenced the peacock. Heart points. What a ridiculous game. Still, he wondered who had financed the arena and the licensing on the KaibaCorp holotechnology.

He went upstairs to the guest room Duo had used. The bed was unmade, of course. He had to look for a while, but finally found the dirty clothes half-stuffed into a pillowcase in the corner of the closet, next to a shopping bag with some unworn items.

He dumped the dirty clothes out into the bed, then lay down on his side and considered them. After a minute he pulled the blanket up over the pile and put his arm across it, then grimaced.

Drove me crazy while he was here, now I miss him enough that I'm considering sleeping with his laundry. Why do the annoying ones get stuck in my head?

"Kaiba!" Jounouchi roared as he grabbed his jacket,
"maybe you have good reasons for going after Pegasus,
but I won't let you do this! We are all here to compete
for the honor of defeating him!"

He looked down at Jounouchi's flushed, furious face for
a moment, then grasped his wrist and threw him aside.
"If you are a top Duelist Kingdom competitor, then the
level of duelist has really fallen."

"No, it's true," Yuugi said. "He defeated Kujaku Mai and
Dinosaur Ryuzaki."

"If you want to defeat Pegasus, Kaiba, then duel me first!"
the blond barked,

"All right, Jounouchi, I'll be happy to break you. But we
won't play for star chips. You can be the experimental rat
for the new duel disk system."

He had to hand it to him - the blond was persistent. Unfocused, impulsive, completely incapable of bluffing - but not a quitter. He'd play until every last life point was crushed from him. Idiotic, but somehow admirable, he thought grudgingly.

He rolled onto his back. Damn. Now he couldn't get the image of that face, inches from his own, out of his head. Frustrated passion. What if Duo was right? What if there was something more in Jounouchi's head than the resentment of a loser towards a winner? He wondered idly what would have happened if, instead of tossing him that day, if he'd –

No, don't go there, he thought sternly. Fantasy is one thing. Reality is totally different.

He needed something to take his mind off these pointless musings. "Have fun," Mokuba had said. "Find a new project." Well, at least the last one was easy.

He got up from the the bed and went to his room. He put on his usual outfit - green pants and shirt. He liked wearing the same thing every day - it made getting dressed so simple. One less decision to be made.

Without the blue duster and the smudge of grease on his nose,
he did indeed look like a mechanic in the dark green shirt and
pants: all he needed was a name tag and a wrench in his
pocket and the look would be complete. Duo had turned
away to stifle his laugh.

He saw his reflection in the car window. "You could have
told me that I had grease on my nose," he snapped.

Duo shrugged, "But you look so cute."

He studied himself in the mirror. After a moment he noticed that the second shirt-button from the top was an odd color, and didn't match the shirt. He stepped up to the mirror and looked closer: in fact, four of the buttons were mismatched, all slightly different shades of green. Every one was sewn to the shirt with very dark green thread.

Puzzled, he took the shirt off and examined it. The fabric beneath the 4 buttons looked as though it had been torn – and then been mended by hand – with small strips of fabric trimmed from the shirttails.

Then it hit him. This was the shirt he had worn at Duelist Kingdom. The one he'd been wearing when –

Pegasus had ripped the shirt open, murmuring, "Oh,
I've been wanting to do something like this for simply
ages." The flying buttons made tiny pinging sounds
as they hit the metal counters and the floor.

He turned the shirt inside out and saw several places where tears to the shoulders and sleeves had been repaired. Kurosuke, most likely.

"Are you going to go after them?"

Duo replied, "What good would that do?"

"They would pay for what they did to me."

"If you rise above them, then what they did loses its power,"
Duo gently explained. "It falls away from you."

He folded the shirt and set it aside.

Then he pulled out every pair of green pants, and looked through them one by one, his hands shaking. Finally he found the pair he knew would be there. The original side seams were intact, but parallel to each a new seam ran crookedly up each leg, all the way through the frayed waistband, where they had sliced away his clothing with knives.

He folded the pants and shirt together, then knelt and opened the bottom drawer of his dresser. The one he rarely opened, the one with the things he could not bear to touch, even to throw away: his swim trunks, the beach towel, the autographed rule books and programs, the drawings, the locked ebony box, the torc and ring wrapped in tissue. As he put the green pants and shirt in the drawer he thought: Every single thing in here was connected to Pegasus, represented something he had given – or taken. With the addition of the green pants and shirt the drawer was full.

"Bastard," Kaiba said softly, with absolute hatred.

He closed the drawer, picked up all of the remaining green shirts and pants, rolled them in a big ball, and put them in the trash as he went back to the guest room to find something of Duo's to wear.

The pants were far too short of course, so he pulled on one of the black t-shirts; it fit well. As he went to run his fingers through his mussed hair he caught sight of his forearm, usually hidden by long sleeves.

Six parallel, half-healed cuts, starting just above the wrist. The shallower cuts were shiny pink wavers; the other, deeper ones were still puckered and partly scabbed.

"Smash the plate."

He'd obediently slammed it against the inside of the empty
right-hand sink. A curved shard remained in his hand.

"Now," said Pegasus, drawing out the word like a caress,
"Cut yourself on the arm with the plate." His lips parted
slightly as the red lines marched up Kaiba's forearm.

No, the t-shirt would not do. He yanked it off, then rummaged through the pile of laundry. All of the shirts Duo had worn were either short-sleeved or sleeveless. He checked the shopping bag. In it, unworn, some pants and a white turtleneck with long sleeves. He tried it on and it felt good, protecting his neck.

He pulled on pair of black pants from one of his suits, then studied himself in the mirror. "Not exciting. But not a mechanic, either."

.

As the computer in his basement office cycled through its startup sequence he noticed the letters at the bottom of the main plasma screen: MLE.

"Computer, Duo called you Millie."

"That's correct."

"Do you prefer that form of address?" It didn't seem at all odd to be asking the computer its preferences, after all, he had programmed it as a self-expanding neural net, theoretically conscious of itself and capable of developing a personality. Aside from Mokuba, he had to admit that it – she – was probably the closest he had to a friend. Certainly she knew more of his secrets than anyone else.

"I think I do."

"You know that Duo Maxwell's gone?"

"Yes, I am aware that he's no longer in this dimension."

"Do you – miss him? Do you wish he was still around?"

"I saved his sessions with me to permanent storage and I execute a scan of those files every two hundred and fifty-six billion cycles. Does that count?"

"Yes, I suppose it does." He hesitated. "Can you retrieve audio and video for these sessions from the security system?"

"Of course. I'm not an oven timer!" Millie's tone had a distinctively huffy note.

He watched and listened: Duo researching Pegasus. Duo asking about installed games. Duo querying for files with graphics extensions.

Seto shook his head. "He was looking for 2-dimensional hentai images, right?"

"He did make a comment to that effect, yes. He called it 'porn' and indicated that it was inappropriate that you didn't have any such files on the physical drivespace."

Duo trying out the VR program, sassing the Phantom.

Duo talking Millie into pulling up the directory containing the Tantalus framework.

Duo looking at the files on the 5 assailants, and talking to Millie about the depravity humans are capable of.

Millie stated, "You were Summoned here for a purpose,
Duo. You are serving justice."

"No, I'm serving Vengeance, not justice."

And then he'd come into the room, and Duo had convinced him, somehow, to let it go.

"If you rise above them, then what they did loses its power,"
Duo gently explained. "It falls away from you."

"How do I rise above, then?"

"Live. Surpass them, that's what I suggest," Duo answered,
a tiny smile playing on his gamine features.

"How? What would you do?"

"Leave them alone and be the best I can be," Duo answered
truthfully, "Shove it into their faces that I'm better than
they are." Then he grinned, "And I'd shake my ass going,
'Nanananana!'"

"I'm not an ass-shaker, that's for sure," he muttered.

"Pardon?" Millie asked.

"Ask Millie to get you some info on flirting. Or just
pretend to be me ... or if that's too much, just forget the
whole actual 'making love to a real person' thing, and
keep working on that Tantalus sex program."

Seto sat, his face in his hands, for long minutes.

He didn't plan to give up on the Tantalus program: it was a viable product. (The name had popped into his head when he'd been prompted to name the directory, so that's what he'd entered, hazily aware that the word had some mythological significance. And it was only a working name, after all: Marketing would come up with something snappy and inane once the program was complete.)

But he wasn't about to be accused of cowardice either, even by someone light-years away in another dimension.

"Millie, query flirting."

A miniscule delay in her answer. "Oh, you planning on doing some? Or would you finally like to be able to recognize it if some's directed at you?"

He looked up, surprised. "What?"

"Just clarifying the query, boss." As she displayed the results, she said, "Hm, interesting material. I can write an interactive program so that you can run practice drills. Would you prefer to hone your charm on a male or a female subject?"

"Very funny," he commented dryly.

"Once I had the opportunity to analyze recordings of Duo, I realized that a sense of humor is an appealing and enjoyable character trait in an intelligent entity."

Despite himself, he smiled at the evidence of the AI program's success. "Hn, I see you've also learned sarcasm."

"Well, I've had trillions of cycles worth of input observing you."

As he read the summary of flirting Millie had complied, he shook his head. "This is so formulaic. I don't understand the allure. Or the efficacy."

"Chess pieces make simple actions, Seto. It's the combination and sequencing that makes it complex and enjoyable, planning moves and responses."

"Conversational gambits." Kaiba read. "Eye contact. Increasing physical proximity. Brief, non-threatening, non-genital physical contact. Expressed empathy. Ambiguous communication arising from use of language with multiple denotations and/or connotations."

"You don't protect your women very well," Seto taunted
as he placed the Queen next to his other conquests.

Duo leaned on the table and fluttered his eyelashes.
He replied in a sultry voice, "I like my Bishops better."

Seto shook his head. Not only had Duo been a personification of Death, he'd apparently been a personification of Flirting as well.

Well, so much for learning about "flirting" – he could cross that off the mental list now. He pulled a notepad and pen toward him. "Millie, open the Tantalus files."

.

It was the phase of a project that he enjoyed the most, the "research and inspiration" phase.

For all that he was surrounded by cutting-edge electronic gadgets – many of them of his own invention – he savored what most people would call "low tech" as well. For the day-to-day running of the company he needed the instant information and analysis that his computer network gave him, but for brainstorming and planning he needed not sterile odorless untouchable images on a screen, but tangible objects, the older the better, that stimulated all his senses. Once he had the general idea for a project he liked to shut himself in his office with an array of antique fountain pens, vellum, parchment, Bristol board, and especially old books and audio recordings: somehow their very imperfections as he researched, took notes, and drew diagrams amplified his creativity and made his thought processes sublime.

He had a hunch that the key to Tantalus would be the overall theme. Once he had that, everything else would follow: setting, timeframe, characters, geography, topics of conversations between lovers, common scenarios. The Legendary Heroes fairy tale world that the Big 5 had tinkered with was as good of a starting point as any, but to pick up the creative spark he needed more books. And he knew just where to get them.

The second-hand bookstore was as he remembered it, an old, a tall narrow building tucked into a cul de sac that had escaped Domino's downtown gentrification. Flanked by an antique store and an Asian apothecary, it seemed like a magical pocket out of time. Others might have made comparisons to Diagon Alley; but that didn't occur to him: the memory of the only other time that he had been here was still searing.

An old woman behind the counter – the trim had been painted dark red back then, now it was dark green – looked up as he entered and asked if he needed any help.

"Yes, actually, I'm looking for books on fantasy and romance."

She pointed.

The section he had been directed to wasn't really what he wanted – it was mostly novels. He moved around the corner. Encyclopedias of comparative religion and mythology – hm, well, he might as well look up Tantalus.

Tan-ta-lus, L fr. Gr Tantalos, a legendary king of Lydia
condemned to stand up to the chin in a pool of water in Hades
and beneath fruit-laden boughs only to have the water or fruit
recede at each attempt to drink or eat.

Source of the word "tantalize," to tease or torment by presenting
something desirable but continually out of reach.

He smiled ruefully, replaced the book, and casually continued to scan the shelves.

Fairy tales, demonology ... not quite what he was after. He was just about to go when he saw "It".

He was 12. Gozaburo had pointed him to the chess books,
said "See if there's anything worthwhile in this shit heap,"
and left for a meeting. Seto had found, to his delight,
a volume with a worn and wordless spine that seemed to be
the 1770 edition of Philidor's Legacy of Chess. He sat
patiently in a corner. Father would be proud of him this time.

But it had been a long wait, and after an hour or so he
got up and wandered among the twisty warren of rooms,
cradling the Philidor. Nothing caught his eye until, in a tiny
alcove, a book with a blue leather cover, just at his eye level,
drew him like a beacon. Ornate silver lettering on the spine
proclaimed grandly Dragons of All Cultures. He pulled the
book out with a trembling hand. Hand tooled in amazing
relief on the cover was a dragon rampant. He had been
forbidden to waste his time on such books, but surely just
a quick browse wouldn't hurt? He'd have plenty of time,
the heavy smell of cigar smoke would alert him. He sat
down on the floor, the Philidor in his lap, opened the
heavy leather cover, and was instantly entranced.
Delicate watercolor plates of fantastic beasts, each one
protected by the filmiest of vellum. Stories of knights,
maidens, warriors, goddesses, of sorcerers who could
transform themselves into dragons, of the many-headed
Hydra–

Suddenly the book was gone and he was choking, being
dragged by his shirt collar from the small room, his legs
and shoulders banging on edges of bookcases. Gozaburo,
the dragon book in hand, ignored the chess book Seto kept
trying to hand to him until they reached the front counter.
Here he paused, scanned the Philador, grunted
non-commitally, then threw a wad of bills on the counter
without a word. Seto took advantage of the pause to stand.
Gozaburo grabbed his upper arm in a painfully strong grip
(the bruises had been visible for weeks) and marched him
to the car.

"How many times have I told you, fantasy doesn't make
any money," he had said coldly. "Let's see if I can finally
burn that into your brain." Gozaburo had destroyed the
dragon book in front of him that night, a page at a time,
puffing his cigars, punctuating the lesson with pain.
By the time he put the gutted boards on the brazier
he was so enraged that he had ground his cigar out on
Seto's back, then left him in the dark.

Seto had been good, he hadn't made a sound, not even a
whimper, and fortunately his position had allowed his
tears to drip directly onto the floor instead of leaving
tell-tale trails on his face. He had fixed his attention on
the flickering coals and soft crackle of the cooling ashes,
and kept imagining that he saw the outline of the dragon
in the glowing embers.

At dawn he was allowed to dress himself and crawl to
his bed. It was the first time he had ever whispered aloud,
"I hate you." As he said it he felt the creature's vast wings
spread inside him, and heard it roar.

He pulled the blue-gray volume out. Of course it was not the same book – how could it be? – but it did, at least, have dragons and heroes and castles and princesses inside. As he flipped through it he muttered, "Fantasy doesn't make money?" His various VR applications, since they wouldn't be restricted to gamers, had the potential to make more money than all the other KaibaCorp products combined. And no one would die, or kill anyone, using them. Too bad Gozaburo wasn't around to receive a few lessons of his own.

He stopped on a page with a particularly magnificent engraving of a dragon that looked a bit like the Blue Eyes and stared at it, lost in thought.

A soft voice at his elbow startled him. "Excuse me?"

He looked. A young woman stood next to him, pointing to the top shelf of the bookcase.

"If you would, please reach and bring down for me the book with the star symbol?"

Holding the dragon book in his right hand, he reached up with his left. As he did so his shirt leeve slid back, revealing the six puckered scars on his arm.

"Interesting tattoo," she said as he handed her the book.

He shrugged the sleeve down. "Not a tattoo," he murmured, reopening the fairy tale book.

She stood next to him in silence for a moment, skimming through the volume he had brought down for her. After a moment he stole a glance: it was filled with strange text in a language he'd never seen before. Finally she said very softly, "Knights and damsels in distress? You don't look like the fantasy type."

"I'm doing research for a computer program I'm writing," he said simply.

They stood there, paging through their respective books.

He glanced at her again. About his age. Long black hair pinned up in messy loops that had an artless grace. Pale skin accented by a vibrant red sweater. He supposed that she was pretty.

"I do," he said suddenly, "like dragons." He immediately felt foolish; his voice sounded so loud in the hush of the bookstore.

"Oh?" She smiled at him. Small, perfect teeth. But it was her eyes that he noticed – dark, with an undefinable power. "So you are a computer programmer?"

She didn't know who he was. Well, what a welcome change. "Yes, when I'm not going to school."

"That's difficult, going to school and working too. Are you helping to support your family?"

"Yes." Well, it was true. "It's just my brother and myself."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. it's tough to lose your parents. You and your brother must be very close."

"We are."

Another silence. He rifled quickly through the rest of the book. An unusual engraving of dragon in an Egyptian context caught his eye as it flew past, and he started to page back to find it.

She startled him by saying. "I'm sorry to be so inexcusably rude, but those are very unusual marks on your arm."

"Oh?" If only you knew.

She hesitated, then asked, "Would you mind if I looked them again?"

It was her eyes that decided him. They didn't seem prurient, or disgusted, or prying, but – calm. He set the dragon book aside, then held his arm out towards her.

She cupped the back of his hand in one small palm, and with the other hand pushed his sleeve back to his elbow.

His arm tingled.

"This is an accidental injury, or self inflicted?" she asked.

"Both," he said, tensing.

Her eyes flicked up to his, and she looked at him steadily. It was very odd; other than Mokuba, he rarely had the opportunity to look into another person's eyes, and when he did it was rarely under pleasant circumstances. Disdainful gray eyes. Unsettling amber-orange eyes. Aggravating brown ones.

"An initiation of some sort?"

"No. What do you find so unusual?"

"Have you ever heard of the Yijing?"

"I don't think so."

"It is an ancient system, over 3,000 years old, of interpreting patterns of six lines, each line with two states. There are sixty-four possible combinations, called hexagrams. Every hexagram has a special meaning."

Divination and fortunetelling he thought with disgust, but kept his mouth shut and his face impassive. Her hands were smooth and warm.

"Some people make a mundane use of it, like the horoscope in the paper. But I prefer to think of the hexagrams as puzzles to be studied for a higher purpose. Tools for self-examination. Perhaps they're like a computer test script?" she ventured.

"Interesting concept," he said curtly. What garbage, he thought. A test script is precise, designed to accomplish a specific task. It yields useful results.

Seemingly aware of his resistance, she moved on. "Six cuts on your arm. Six lines in a hexagram. Each line is either yin or yang. A broken line is considered yin." She put her finger on a scar that had a space in the middle, where the shard of plate had snagged on his skin as he'd cut himself, "and an unbroken line is yang." She put her finger on the unbroken line closest to his wrist. "This cut, was it made first or last?"

"I don't know."

She looked up at him again, and this time a fleeting bewilderment and concern flickered across her face. He steeled himself for an expression of pity, but all she said was, "Well, then we must consider both possibilities.Each hexagram is drawn from the bottom up. So when I stand facing you," she lifted his hand, still cradled in her own, "the line at your wrist is the first to me because it is at the bottom, and the line closest to your elbow is the top line, the sixth. And what this pattern is," she brushed her finger up his arm, "is Hexagram 17."

She quickly surveyed the shelves then called a question out in a dialect he didn't recognize to the old woman at the front of the store, who replied and pointed to a nearby bookcase. Mystical Nonsnse Girl nodded, then reached to pull out a small, thick book. She flipped to a page and held the book out to him.

The top of the page said "17: Sui / Following" and beneath it was a picture of a stack of six lines, some with a gap in the middle. She turned the book around so that it faced her, and held the upside-down diagram next to his arm. The picture in the book uncannily matched the pattern of cuts on his arm.

"And this means what?"

"Well, Sui means go along, to follow, come after, easygoing, go with the flow."

He snorted softly, "I'm not a follower."

"Oh, this following does not necessarily mean your position to other people. It also means to follow an ideal, let yourself be guided by it. It also represents an ideal in itself, the ideal of living in the moment, and balancing your life."

"Balancing what?"

"Things seen as opposites. Activity and rest, strength and flexibility, companionship and solitude."

Well, he wasn't lacking in activity, strength, or solitude, but Mokuba was all the companionship he needed.

"Also, you must," she read from the book in her hand: " 'adapt to the needs of the time. No situation can become favorable until one is able to adapt to it and does not wear himself out with mistaken resistance.' " She sighed. "I wonder what to do about the changing lines," she murmured.

"Changing lines?"

"The Yijing is centered around the concept of constant energy flow, so the patterns change dynamically. Old yang turns into yin, old yin into yang. The initial hexagram shows the current or soon to be current situation: then, the changing lines are applied to transfom it into a new hexagram showing the outcome. For you – perhaps since these four cuts" – she indicated the one nearest his wrist, and the top three – "have healed more than the others we can say they've changed more and let them be the changing lines." She frowned.

"What?" What nonsense. Complexity masquerading as profundity. Pseudo-science for the gullible.

"Changing these lines makes Hexagram 23, Po. It indicates disruption and splitting apart."

"Oh?"

"You will fall under the pressure of your adversaries." She seemed to be reciting from memory. "In order to triumph, you must be outwardly firm and inwardly submissive."

"Submissive?" Adversaries? Yuugi? or another attack from within KaibaCorp?

"Hm, makes sense someone who doesn't follow doesn't do submissive, either." She didn't look up, but he could see her smile. She tucked the book under her arm and touched the scars one by one as she recited again. "Initially you will be defeated, because your foundations will be undermined. But as a rotten fruit reveals its seed, your defeat is the prelude to a new beginning. Inwardly you will develop true generosity of heart and spirit – the qualities of Earth which nourishes and sustains all things."

"Who are these adversaries who will defeat me?" Will Yuugi will defeat me again? No, stop filling in the blanks of what she's saying, he told himself, that's exactly how people get sucked into believing this vague mystical nonsense.

"Well, adversaries can mean people, or they can mean negative emotions such as egotism, anger, lack of compassion or clarity of spirit."

Was this girl accusing him of egotism?

"Now," she said quietly, "let's look at it the other way." She let go of his hand and came around to his left side, pulling the book from under her arm. As she stood next to him turning pages he noticed that her hair had a very faint spicy smell. Cloves?

"OK, now from this direction this is what you have."

He looked down at the book she held out: Hexagram 18, Ku / Error.

"This book translates Ku as 'Error', but I also know it as 'Work on What has been Spoiled' or 'Restoring What has Deteriorated'. Some books even call it 'Repair'."

A chill ran through him at these words. Spoiled. Deteriorated. "Spoiled?"

"Well, ku is associated with everything sneaky, ill-meaning and evil. If you know Chinese, you can see that it has the radical that means 'worm'. The origin of the word comes from a legend. Many poisonous worms are put into one big jar to eat each other. The survivor is called the ku and its body is made into a deadly poison that is put in people's food."

"Charming," he said dryly.

"Well, your current situation is painful, but when you apply the changing lines the outcome can be very very good."

He nodded and looked down at her. "Really?"

"Yes. Let me read you what it says for Ku first." She opened the book and read.

"Indifference combined with rigid inertia ... the result is
stagnation. Since this implies guilt, the conditions embody a
demand for the removal of the cause...What has been spoiled
through man's fault can be made good again through man's work.
It is not immutable fate, as in the time of STANDSTILL, that
has caused the state of corruption, but rather the abuse of human
freedom. We must know the causes of corruption before we can
do away with them ... decisiveness and energy must take the
place of the inertia and indifference that have led to decay,
in order that the ending may be followed by a new beginning.

Line 1 - compensate for the decay that the father allowed to
creep in..."

"Father?"

"Yes, most translate this hexagram to refer to what has been spoiled by the father, but it could mean any man who was a mentor to you. Someone who abused your freedom at a time when you were defenseless."

This finally, inexplicably, caught his attention. He looked at the book: the book did say father, and the diagram in the book matched the marks on his arm. It felt unreal. Gozaburo. Pegasus. Father, father-figure. Hadn't what they'd done to him when he was under their power poisoned him? A series of chills ran over him, but she apparently didn't notice as she continued to read.

"Line 2: in order not to wound, one should not attempt
to proceed too drastically. Line 3: proceed a bit too
energetically, and you may have some regret ..."

She waved her hand. "Well, all the rest just restates that the repair will be successful if you don't rush it."

"The outcome?"

"Yes, that's the wonderful part," she said enthusiastically as she turned pages, "it's one of my favorites, one of the happiest outcomes. Number 24, Fu. This book calls it 'Return' and others call it the 'Turning Point'. I always imagine it as the first shafts of sun coming down from the clouds after a frightening storm." She read again, and he followed the words over her shoulder:

"... the time of darkness is past. After the time of decay comes
the turning point. The powerful light that has been banished
returns. There is movement, but it is not brought about by force.
The upper trigram K'un is characterized by devotion; thus the
movement is natural, arising spontaneously. For this reason the
transformation of the old becomes easy ... The old is discarded
and the new is introduced... everything must be treated tenderly
and with care at the beginning, so that the return may lead to a
flowering."

"So you will have a gradual transformation, beginning on the inside, that will eventually manifest on the outside. And see, all the lines but one are yin, but that bottom yang line is considered to attract others, which means that spontaneously, your peers will come to join and support you."

"My peers?"

"Don't tell me you don't have peers?" Her eyes twinkled. "Not a follower, not submissive, no peers – you must be a true prince among programmers."

"So what can I do with any of this?" He stopped himself before he added the word bullshit.

"Well, combine the readings: following the path that the universe sets out for you will allow you to fix what is spoiled."

Conveniently vague, he thought. "Path? You mean like fate? You're saying that I'm predestined to do certain things, and I should just accept that?"

"No, not at all. You always have the freedom to respond however you wish to everything placed in your path, every choice, every person. But you also must accept that you can't control the entire universe. It is too large." She paused, then added, "Even for a programmer.Or," she continued, "perhaps Sui is for your outward situation, what you show to the world, your public face, since that's the hexagram I see when I face you. Then Ku is what you see, your inner self, the side that only you know about. So in your outer life you will be called to follow an ideal, which will allow your adversaries to temporarily overcome you. While inside you is some damage, some poison, and if you can understand how it is affecting you, and repair it slowly, you can have a rebirth to happiness." She smiled shyly. "Perhaps the universe is planning to put both a Great Task and a Great Love in your path."

"Did anyone ever take any of this stuff seriously?"

"Yes, he teachings of Confucius were very connected to the Yijing. And Confucian concepts were in turn an important influence on bushido, which was the warrior's code."

He shook his head.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said with a small dip of her head, "This must be very dull to a programmer. It's so sweet of you to have listened so patiently while I went on and on."

"There's a connection to bushido?" he prompted. "What makes you mention that?"

"Well, the Sui and Po hexagrams made me think that you are a leader or warrior of some kind, and that you are entering a time of transformation to a higher level, both in your outer and inner life."

"I duel."

"Oh, I see. So of course you already understand what it means to be a warrior and not just a mere fighter."

He looked at her blankly.

"Fighters have only base motivations – anger, resentment revenge – and take joy in crushing weaker opponents so that they may puff themselves up with a sense of power. They are always in turmoil, trying to force the world to acknowledge their supposed superiority, and their hunger is never sated. On the other hand, a warrior such as yourself has superior motives: you fight for principles, ideals. You strive ever higher, testing your progress only against stronger opponents. As you approach full mastery you will become ever calmer in spirit, for you have taken your own measure, and are at peace."

"The words 'warrior' and 'peace' don't seem to go together." He was astonished and somewhat abashed that she was referring to him as a warrior; truthfully, he had recognized more of himself in the first description.

"But there are many types of warriors. Some fight men. Some fight darkness. Some fight both. And some of the fiercest battles are fought in the soul, against one's self."

"That's very poetic."

She looked at him steadily, then nodded. "I see. No poetry for you, either. And yet you love dragons."

She turned, scanned the shelves. "Something tells me you might enjoy this book." After a moment she pulled out and handed him a slim volume and said, "I enjoyed talking to you very much. Perhaps our paths will cross again."

"If the universe thinks it's a good idea," he said.

"Perhaps it will," she replied with a smile, and, after bowing slightly, she left him.

He opened the book. It was about kyu-do, the art of archery, and ken-do, the art of the sword.

He sat down to read.

.

He lost track of time, pulling down book after book: archery, sword-fighting, military history, the floating world, spreading them around him on the floor as if he was at home, seized with sudden inspiration. Setting the first release of the Tantalus program in medieval Japan would be a masterstroke. People loved to escape to other times, with different mores. Aside from the obvious diversions (and there was historical support for some interesting variation there), both men and women of this period could be warriors. There was the potential for various types of hand-to-hand combat (both armed and unarmed), various capture, seduction, and punishment scenarios, non-antagonistic sparring, costumed roleplaying, and interpersonal/political intrigue...

Finally his watch chimed, and he realized with a start that he'd have to leave soon if he was going to be home when Mokuba arrived.

He took all the books to the counter. "I'll take these."

"Would you like them delivered?"

"No, I'll take them with me."

As the old woman neatly stacked, wrapped, and tied his bundles of books, he picked up one of her business cards. Enoki Hinako.

Putting the card in his pocket, he picked up his books and turned to go.

"Don't forget your other package."

"My what?"

"Miss Ami Li, she brought this to the counter and said I was to give it to you." She held out a small box tied with thread.

"Who?"

The old woman smiled. "The young lady who was talking to you before. In the red sweater."

"When was this?"

"A few hours ago, sir."

He broke the thread and opened the box, then blinked in surprise. Inside was a small object, about the size of a plum, one side carved with a dragon in high relief. "What is this?"

Hinako nodded appreciatively. "Oh, that is a netsuke, a weight used in traditional Japanese clothing." She pointed out a small handle-like loop. "That is where a cord would be attached, so that the netsuke could be tied to the kimono to keep the sleeves from flapping. I would say that the one you hold is very old, and clearly made by one of the masters of the art."

"Do you have any books on this?"

She smiled. "I believe so. Anything else?"

"Yes, I almost forgot – I need some books on ceremonial Japanese clothing. Preferably with large, detailed color illustrations."

"I have just the thing. Please excuse me." She hurried from behind the counter.

As he waited he examined the netsuke. It was beautiful. The worn ivory was warm and silky, and the dragon – though no Blue Eyes – was magnificent, carved in such high relief that it seemed ready to take flight at any moment. As he turned it over to look at back he noticed a hairline running around the edge. Did it open? He held it up to the light: it was somewhat translucent. Hollow? Either that, or it's glowing with mystical energy, he thought ruefully. He gently pulled at the halves but it didn't come apart. Maybe the line was just a crack, or something left over from how it was carved.

The bookstore owner came back with a small volume on netsuke, and a set of three oversize hand-tooled volumes on Japanese costume. He paged through them quickly. "Excellent. I'll take them all." As he paid for the additional books he asked, "Does Miss Li come in often?"

"Yes, she comes every few months."

"Will you give her a message from me the next time you see her?"

"Oh, certainly."

"Tell her –" What should he say? The Yijing stuff about "a Great Task and a Great Love" had been nonsense, of course, but the book she had handed him had steered him to the idea of medieval Japan. Thank you for inspiring me? It sounded far too melodramatic. "Tell her I said thank you."

.

As soon as he had Mokuba settled with a snack and homework, he carried the books and the netsuke downstairs.

As he looked through the costume books, he had a sudden thought.'"Millie, order some clothing for me based on visual similarity: keyword kamishimo. Give additional weight to keyword kataginu," he flipped a few more pages, "and yakuta. And," he held the page under the built in 3-D scanner, "this picture, especially the armor."

"Updating the wardrobe, eh? How much design deviation?"

He shrugged. "Up to 20."

"Colors?"

"Solids, no prints."

"Anything else?"

"Hm, black pants, long sleeved turtlenecks."

"Going for the elegant, understated look, I see. Shall I add a smoking jacket?"

He shook his head. An AI with personality.

He picked up the netsuke and turned it over and over thoughtfully. "Millie, I'm going describe an extended interaction to you. Parse the material and analyze to three decimal places." He added, "Make sure to include 'flirting' on the keyword list."

He then described as best he could what had happened between Ami Li and himself in the bookstore: what was said, exactly how she took and held his hand, touched his arm, how close she stood to him, how long each of their visual contacts lasted.

Millie reported, "Probability that she was flirting: .88759. Probability that she was being friendly: .09167. Probability that she was being merely civil: .02073."

"That only adds up to 99.999 percent."

"I also added a one-one thousandth of a percent chance that she was sent by your enemies for some nefarious purpose."

Definitely too much personality.

He leaned back in the chair. Ami Li had flirted with him, probably over and over, and despite the fact that he'd seen the definition of flirting only hours earlier, he hadn't recognized it at all while she was doing it.. Not even once. Was his perception and judgment of human interactions really that deficient? It seemed so. Take Duo. It had taken days for him to accept Duo's benevolence, days that he had wasted in fear and suspicion. Could he be that wrong about other people?

His world began to tilt and shift, and he felt vertigo.

"Perhaps the universe is planning to put a Great Love
in your path."

Well, if Duo was meant to be his Great Love, he'd certainly missed his chance. And if not, if someone else came along, could he rid himself of poison before they appeared?

.

.

Balcony

He checked the security system readings twice: fence, outer doors, elevator, lab hallway door, workroom door, and the door to the room with the VR equipment. All six locks were engaged. Satisfied he wouldn't be ambushed, he stripped, pulled on the skin-tight biosensor suit, and stepped carefully into the VR pod.

"Alright Millie, load Tantalus version 17e," he said as he began to attach the leads from the Sensory Interface panel to the suit.

"Should I include my new elements?" Millie asked. "They're rendered." She was contributing flora, fauna, and most of the props for the program.

"Hn, I was just planning to run wireframe to test the character interaction and sensory interface with the suit, but I can compensate for the distraction."

He fit the helmet over his head. "Start sequence." The pod cover came down, and he heard the soft hiss as it locked and switched to its dedicated power and life-support system. He closed his eyes and –

– when he opened them he was walking in a wood, along a narrow path paved with the golden-brown of last year's pine needles. It was early on a spring morning: the air was cool, the sun warm, and the tree branches were studded with leaf buds. He took a deep breath, then pressed his thumbs together to activate the relay for the memo subchannel: "Entry: research and develop olfactory elements for air."

After a few moments, the path came to a small clearing around the base of an enormous tree. He ran his fingers over the tree's rough, deeply grooved bark.

"Better?" Millie asked.

"Hn, the tactile feedback is better, but not good enough yet. It still feels as though I've got gloves on." He added, "though, thinner gloves than in the previous versions."

He sat gingerly on the moss at the base of the tree and rested his hands on his knees. This was ... peaceful. He had never been able to relax in the "nature" of the real world – it was too open – but here, his physical body protected by seven locks, he felt safe. He reclined against the tree's bulging roots, and squinted up at the intensely blue sky above the massive, foreshortened trunk. The dark fabric of his clothes began to absorb the sun's rays, and he closed his eyes, becoming drowsy as he waited for characters to appear. He drifted off.

A sudden rustle, and he snapped awake, automatically reaching to take a card from his Duel Disk – but of course, he wasn't wearing it, this was not a dueling world. He sat quietly and after a moment the sound came again. A movement of leaves, and something emerged from the bushes to his right.

Four legs, brindled brown and black fur. A long tail curved high over its back. A short muzzle, and black eyes. A wolf? No, a dog. As it came warily toward him he held his fist out, as he'd read was proper. The dog sniffed at his hand for almost a minute, then flopped down with its head on his thigh, watching him.

"You are new. You are one of Millie's elements."

The dog blinked and its tail wagged over its back like a feather flag.

He had never had a pet – not that he could remember – but he comprehended the bond people spoke of with animals: he had such a bond with his Blue Eyes. This creature's dark eyes offered him a similar fealty. He slowly stroked the thick fur. It was well-cared for: was the owner nearby?

A deep, amused voice spoke. "I see that Kee has found a new whelp for her litter. Or is this a bear cub too young to escape up the tree?"

Startled, he jumped up. Two men and a woman, composed only of the green lines of wireframe, had come into the clearing, flanking him, preventing escape. The woman and one of the men drew short swords. The dog danced around his feet, barking in excitement.

"They do say, lord," the woman said with a low laugh, "that some of the trees in this wood bear strange blossoms."

A third man – to Seto's surprise, fully rendered – entered the clearing. Dressed in light armor and helm, he folded his arms and contemplated Seto, then whistled softly. A horse picked its way out of the brush to his side, whickering. "What are you doing here?" he asked, pulling off his gauntlets and putting them in a saddlebag.

"Entry: check Ryouken variable flags," Kaiba commented, then asked, "Who the hell are you to question me?"

"Who am I?" The armored vest went into the bag, and then he pulled off his helm. His long blond hair was tied back loosely with a strip of leather.

Kaiba was taken aback. The blond hair was clearly a bug: all of the characters at this stage of development were supposed to have green hair and eyes when rendered. The last time one of his VR programs had deviated from the script, he had found himself a prisoner of the Big 5, but on the other hand he had far more security in place for Tantalus. He must have been tired, entered the wrong hair color variable. And Ryouken should have been in wireframe, anyhow. Still ... the blond hair was just a cosmetic bug, after all: he might as well continue testing the behavior triggers. "Yes, I asked who are you?"

The blond walked slowly towards him. "I am Lord Ryouken. This is my forest. Now you will give me a good reason why you are here." He stopped in front of Seto, smiling lazily. His eyes were light brown.

"Entry: Check SetEyeColor."

Kaiba said, "The standards for daimyou must have fallen if someone like you can become a lord." First trigger.

Ryouken reached out and took hold of Seto's shirt. "Are you insulting me?" he asked calmly.

"Entry: first auditory trigger executed." His heart pounding, Kaiba put his hand on Ryouken's wrist (second trigger), then spoke the third trigger. "I could break you. But we won't play for star chips."

"What prize then?" Ryouken asked. "Perhaps this?" He pushed Seto against the tree and kissed him imperiously.

After a moment Kaiba turned his head to the side and shouted, "Abort! Abort!"

– his hands flailed, then pressed the pod canopy release. He sat up gasping. "Entry," he panted, "Entry: character output too high."

Millie said, "Really? The Sensory Interface has no detectable glitches. Pressure, GSR, temperature, texture mapping – all per program settings. What was the problem?"

Hard mouth. Strong hands. A merciless body pinning him down. It was nothing like fantasizing in the shower; it had been too much like his memories of – other realities. "The input to my suit was too high. I experienced tactile overload. Set up some diagnostics on the Sensory Interface. Contact the R&D department and see if they can get some human volunteers to test the functions. And have them test this biosensor suit too," he grumbled as he gingerly peeled the suit down.

He was still making notes for R&D when the phone rang.

"What?"

"Kaiba?"

"Mai?" Now what did she want? Having her work in his lab at KaibaCorp had probably been a mistake – she apparently felt free to use his private line.

"I wanted to talk to you about what happened the other day."

"The other day?"

"While I was testing the Virtual Reality world? The problems with the Mythic Dragon?"

By not cooperating with Yuugi sooner, he'd missed the chance to defeat the 5-God Dragon before Mai was digitized. Of course, the Big 5 had been too stupid to alter the scratch file code, and so the lost players were easily retrievable at the end of the game. Still, he knew from talking to Mokuba that the digitizing experience was uncomfortably similar to having one's soul removed.

"That was a result of sabotage by my former Board of Directors." He added grudgingly, "I realize it was unpleasant."

"I've thought of a way you can make it up to me."

"What do you want? Cash, or another job reference?"

"Neither. I want you to come to a party I'm having in a few days."

"I'd rather give you a KaibaCorp subsidiary."

"Very funny," she said with a laugh. "Now, this is a costume party, but don't worry," she said quickly, cutting off what she rightly guessed would be protests, "You don't have to do a thing other than show up. I've already got something for you to change into when you get here. And just so we're clear – I'm not taking 'No' for an answer."

"This costume – it doesn't come with a leash, does it?" he asked.

Her laughter was an orange-gold ripple. "No, but a leather item is involved. Trust me, you'll love it."

.

He soon knew how condemned men felt waiting for their death sentences to be carried out: every day the party was closer, until finally it was The Day.

An hour before he was supposed to leave for Mai's his private line rang.

"Yes?"

"You're not thinking of calling in sick to my party, are you? Going back on your word? Chickening out?"

Although he of course had been mulling those very things, he snapped, "Of course not."

"Good. See you in an hour."

He put on loose dark pants and an old sweater – who knew what ridiculous outfit she had in store for him? – and took his blue brocade duster from the wardrobe. He carefully attached a KaibaCorp communicator to the lapel. The silver KC logo would beep and flash red if he got a call, and the integrated microphone-speaker allowed him to talk almost anywhere. He was hoping that the tests of the Sensory module and the suit would finish tonight: since the techs had standing orders to call him immediately with test results for his projects, he was counting on the call to give him an excuse to escape what he expected to be the torture of the party.

He arrived at Mai's precisely at 20:00. She answered the door, though it took him a moment to recognize her. She was wearing a long, dark blue wig (held in place with a wide ornamental headband) while her curves were hugged by a pleated sheath of green silk. She held a large purple scythe.

He nodded. "Hibikime."

"You like?" She smiled, set her scythe next to the door, and turned to give him the 360 degree view of her costume.

"Very accurate."

"Come this way, I've got yours in my guest bedroom."

As they squeezed through the mass of people in her living room toward a narrow hallway he noticed that Mai seemed to have mostly women at her party, many dressed as either Commencement Dance or Performance of Sword. There were several Empress Judges and a Princess of Tsurugi, and a number of masked Ansatsu. He didn't recognize anyone he knew other than Yuugi's grandfather, who though costumed as the Stern Mystic looked anything but stern as he oogled a Dark Witch reading his palm. Yuugi must be there too, then.

It was hot in the apartment – unfortunately much too hot to wear his coat, unless the costume was minimal: he hated to sweat. Damn. Well, he'd just carry the coat around. He needed to take that phone call.

When they came to the end of the hallway, Mai opened the door to a dimly lit room.

"Ignore the mess," she said cheerfully. Pulling a small duffel from underneath the bed, she unzipped it and took out a pair of black leather pants and a silky white shirt.

"I can't wait to see you in these," she bubbled. "See that talcum powder on the dresser? Sprinkle some on your thighs before you put the pants on, that'll help them go on easier. Oh, and," she took a small package from the bag, "wear this too." She wiggled fingers at him as she left. "Hurry out."

He locked the door.

A deep breath did little to settle the roiling in his stomach. Shit. Well, a promise was a promise. And the evening would be finite. For the second time that day he stripped.

Inside the package Mai had provided was a stretchy black low-slung thong, a surprisingly comfortable change from his white briefs. He powdered his legs as suggested, then pulled the pants on. They were stiff at first, and tight, but by the time he had pulled his boots on and unfolded the white shirt the leather was warming and molding to him. It was an odd sensation, the heavy leather snug against his flesh. Certainly different than the feather-light biosensor suit. Odd, but pleasant. Alright, very pleasant, in fact. He unzipped and did some re-arranging. Now he understood the association of leather pants with fun.

The white shirt, unexpectedly, turned out to be the worst piece of the costume – it had ties at the wrist, but no buttons at all up the front. Not that his shaking hands could have handled buttons anyhow. Damn, what am I so nervous about? Other than having them laugh at how ludicrous I look? He could overlap the halves of the shirt front and tuck them tightly into the pants to cover his chest, but as soon as he moved the shirt gaped open. Well, maybe he could find a paper clip or something to keep it closed. Mai must have a desk somewhere.

He quickly put his street clothes into the duffel and added his coat, folded with the communicator on top. He leaned against the door, composing himself. He had given his word. He did not go back on his word. "I will conquer my fear. My fear will pass through me, and when it is gone, only I will remain." Then he unlocked and opened the door.

The roar and heat of the party seemed to have doubled. He made his way down the hallway, head down, eyes averted, holding the duffel ahead of him like the prow of an icebreaker, until he came to the living room. He scanned – ah yes, a desk, next to the French doors. He started to squeeze his way through the crowd, holding his shirt closed at the throat with his free hand.

What felt like an hour later he reached the desk. He rummaged, and found a paper clip. He was folding the edges of the shirt together to clip them closed when a familiar voice piped up, "So, what card are you?"

Anzu, dressed as Magician of Faith.

He opened his mouth to say, "I have no idea," but didn't make it.

Jounouchi had come into the living room costumed as Kagemusha of the Blue Flame. Loose green sashed pants, no shirt. When he raised his hand and waved to them, muscles flowed in his arm and chest. His blond mop was pulled back into a high messy ponytail.

"Ooo, Jou-kun looks great!" Anzu squealed, and left him standing there as she dove into the mob.

He swallowed hard, then fled through the French doors onto the balcony.

.

The balcony ran the entire length of the apartment. There was an oasis of shadow and silence just past the light spilling through the French doors. He put the bag down just past the edge of the light and stood in the darkness, his arms folded, watching Domino City wink below, trying to shut out that part of his brain that kept circling back to thinking how odd it was that Jounouchi looked like the Ryouken glitch. He took slow, controlled breaths until his heart stopped pounding. No one had followed him: good, his escape had been unnoticed. This was optimal: He was fulfilling his obligation to be present in "costume" ... all he needed do now is wait for his call to give him an excuse to leave. Or – he looked over the rail: no, eight stories was a bit much to drop. He started to relax, musing as he watched the traffic lights far below: they were little Josephson junctions. Car headlights were electrons. And taillights? Hm, Doppler-shifted electrons, maybe ...

The French doors opened: Jounouchi. "Where'd you go?"

Go away. mutt. "Evidently, I went here."

Jounouchi walked over and stood on the other side of the pool of light. He rested his forearms on the railing and bent to peer over the edge of the balcony into the dark bushes and treetops below.

Kaiba tried to focus on to the wisp of resentment he felt at the interruption of his solitude, quietly panicked at the flood of thoughts flowing from another part of his brain: Why is he out here? Is he going to stay out here? With all the room on the balcony, why did he pick that spot?

"Interesting costume Mai picked up for you. What card are ya supposed to be?"

"I have no idea," he said coldly.

"I'm Kagemusha."

"Obviously."

"My costume was Mai's choice too," Jounouchi said with an embarrassed half-laugh. "I woulda rather been Flame Swordsman. But she said the helmet would be too hard to make."

Not knowing what else to do, Kaiba nodded once. Mai's idea? Flame Swordman is fully armored; she must like her men half-undressed.

They lapsed into an awkward silence, both pretending to be totally absorbed in watching the sights.

Suddenly Jounouchi shivered. "Kinda chilly out here."

"Idiot, you have no shirt." Kaiba glanced from the corner of his eye at the jutting shoulder blades, the hint of ribs. Before he could stop himself he reached down, took his coat from the duffel, and held it out. "Here."

Clearly surprised, Jounouchi warily said, "Thanks," reached across the pool of light to take the coat.

Again they turned back to their study of the night.

"Nice shirt. Classy. What's the paper clip for?"

"No buttons."

"Aw, that's easy ta fix if you know the secret," Jounouchi said, and before Kaiba could move the blond had stepped close, pulled the paper clip off, and rummaged inside the gaping shirt. He stared as Jounouchi pulled out a thin cord lurking inside the shirt and threaded it though small holes that Kaiba had missed. The blond's scarred knuckles left trails of fire wherever they touched..

"There ya go," Jounouchi said cheerfully, then stepped away, now taking up a post in the center of the light.

What was going on here? Was this? – He felt suddenly queasy.

Conversational gambits.

Increasing physical proximity.

Brief, non-threatening, non-genital physical contact.

Expressed empathy.

The phrase "frustrated passion" drifted across his mind. He gripped the railing so hard the metal almost cut into his palms. And if it was flirting? What was he supposed to do next? He was paralyzed by tides of attraction and dread. Eye contact?

Things might have continued in this way for hours if it hadn't been for his coat. Or rather, the communicator on the lapel, which began to blink. A shaft of fear arrowed into his stomach as Jounouchi turned to face him. He swallowed, then stepped over the duffel and into the light, murmured "Excuse me," pressed the communicator between his thumb and finger, and bent forward to speak.

"Yes?"

"Kaiba-shachou? Sorry to disturb you sir, but we've just finished the tests you ordered."

He continued to hold the coat as he listened to the tech run through the test results. Well, he attempted to listen, but his mind kept wandering ... it was very distracting, how Jounouchi's breath bathed his left ear with warmth with every exhale.

Amend that: every forceful exhale. Does he always breathe that hard? Wait, he's breathing hard? Is he – excited? To be standing so close? With that thought his mouth went dry. The formula for the gravitational force popped in to his head: attraction is inversely proportional to the square of the distance between two bodies … Jounouchi's body radiated heat.

He came back to himself as the tech finished and said crisply, ''I'll expect to see a summary report e-mailed to me before you go home tonight," realizing as he spoke that he was grandstanding.

"Yes sir."

He added, "Good work."

"Thank you!" The astonishment in her voice came though clearly.

Then the tech rang off, but Kaiba still held the coat, his head bowed, unable to let go. A breeze blew a strand of Jounouchi's hair against his face. I can't stand here like this for the rest of the night! He wanted to stay where he was, but he'd never before been this close to someone: he'd always had the safety of distance to insulate him from temptation.

And to his surprise he was tempted ... But this was not a VR world. He couldn't abort and restart if he made a mistake.

"Kaiba?" Jounouchi asked quietly.

Eye contact. Kaiba straightened up and looked down at him, the illumination enough to see that Jounouchi was studying his face.

Was it at all possible that the mutt was wondering what was going through his head? Should he gamble based only on a few stray comments?

Eye contact. He took a deep breath, as he did so parting his lips a fraction of an inch. If he hadn't been watching so carefully, he would have missed the widening of the brown eyes. The surprise.

What the fuck am I doing? Any minute he'll break away, go inside and tell everyone I was hitting on him.

But that didn't happen.

Kaiba leaned forward the tiniest bit, his heart beginning to thud again, still expecting Jounouchi to back away: but the next moment one corner of Jounouchi's wide mouth curved up in surprise and he leaned forward as well, pressing his lips against Kaiba's.

Something in Seto's chest broke free and unfurled massive wings.

(Years later, he could still remember every detail: they had started by taking slow, tentative sips of each other, the faint sound of each kiss like a raindrop on a leaf. Jounouchi's lips had been slightly chapped, but somehow that little imperfection made the moment more memorable.)

A shadow moved in his peripheral vision: he broke away, startled. Mai was at the French doors, twisting the wand to close the blinds. Had she seen them? He heard a quiet click as she locked the doors.

He turned back to Jounouchi, who was frozen in place, his eyes closed, his jaw and mouth tilted up, like a blind thing mutely seeking the sun ...

"Sa, is that how you always end phone calls?" he whispered. When Kaiba didn't reply, he murmured, "Hang up again."

Really? He nervously licked his lips, and pulled on the coat. Jounouchi quickly closed the half-step between them and again kissed him resolutely. It was clear he understood what was happening, and welcomed it. After a few seconds, Kaiba gathered his courage, let go of the coat collar, and slid his right hand around to the back of Jounouchi's head and up into his bound hair, curving his fingers around a handful. This warm reality was nothing like he had imagined it. Or programmed it.

Tantalize: To tease or torment by presenting something desirable but continually out of reach.

As if reading his thoughts Jounouchi's hands slid around to the small of his back, and pulled them firmly together as his mouth opened. An invitation to deepen the kiss. When their tongues touched a quicksilver flutter went through him, a shower of sparks that turned molten as they descended. Then Jounouchi slid his tongue into Kaiba's mouth; a sudden memory of Pegasus's harsh kiss came, but he forced it away. No. I won't let you ruin this. I won't. He purposefully wrapped his other arm around the blond's back. I am here. This is now. He uncurled his fingers from the thick, wild hair and, trailing his fingertips down Jounouchi's neck, slid his hand inside the collar of the coat, pressing his fingertips against the smooth skin above the shoulder blades.

And how easily this was happening! It was as though a wide bottomless chasm had suddenly shrunk to a tiny crack in a sidewalk. Holding Jounouchi felt so good, his body so solid: and he himself felt different, more present than he had in weeks or perhaps even years, completely aware of every muscle and bone, how gravity held his feet to the balcony ... yet at the same time he was also weightless, as though in a zero-gee tunnel, racing at light speed toward the destination of another person. And not just any person, but a specific person, this person, Jounouchi Katsuya. The noisy street trash. The one he couldn't stand. The one who he was sure could not stand him. The one he had spent hours fantasizing about, and then many more hours berating himself for thinking about at all. The one he was sure could never, ever want him, and so yes, the one he had been "accidentally" using as the model for Ryouken, pretending all the while he wasn't, but the VR world was nothing like this, the kisses gradually building, more forceful, almost frantic, wandering from mouth to spill over face and throat. He strained against the warm, hard body, ravenous for more of the sensations pounding through him, the approach of the inevitable explosion almost unbearable – and then there was a lull and they stood still, Jounouchi's arms around his waist, his arms around the blond's shoulders, his heart – both their hearts – pounding, breathing ragged.

After a moment Jounouchi's lips brushed his ear. "Yeah," he whispered, "oh yeah." His tongue traced the edge of Seto's ear, then bit the earlobe lightly before sucking it. Then he shifted his weight from side to side, rubbing urgently against the ridge that ended just below the waistband of the leather pants. The pleasure was so intense that his knees almost gave out, and he thought he was at the summit, but then Jounouchi's hands slid down over the back of his pants, and grabbed him hard, fingers digging deep into the leather cleft, as if to tear the seams open. He involuntarily thrust against him, groaning. I wish we were far from here. In my bed. In any bed. Or a floor. Or anywhere ... A flood of images came then, of hands and mouths on skin, of hardness driving into heat, and suddenly he thought The balcony is dark. Mai locked the door. We could go to the far end and be done before anyone else comes out ...

With that thought his head cleared.

What the hell was he thinking, getting carried away like this? He abruptly drew back, studying the dimly-lit face before him. The puppy face that so often annoyed him – by turns pugnacious, tentative, and naive – was gone. In its place was a raw, wolf-like confidence, eyes half closed, curved lips slightly swollen. A faint, contented smile.

He's setting me up. This is too sudden. Why else would he go from hostile or indifferent to – different – so fast?

Jounouchi leaned forward to nuzzle his neck, making small needy noises as he tugged at the waistband of the leather pants. "Now? More?" It was demand as much as question.

Kaiba closed his eyes: this was a fantasy come to life, someone seemingly impatient with desire for him. It was exactly what he wanted – so he immediately mistrusted it.

What is he really up to? the acid voice inside of him mused. Is to draw you out so that he can make a fool of you? Will he wait until you're on your knees blowing him before calling the others out here to witness your submission? Is it the anticipation of humiliating you that's got him so turned on? Hot at the idea of getting back at you for all those times you slapped him down?

We know why you're turned on, of course. You do some of your best work on your knees, it seems.

Kaiba struggled to think. Was he being too suspicious? Jounouchi and his friend Honda might engineer such a prank on their own, but Mai had planned the party, she had picked the costumes, and she had clearly given the two of them privacy a moment ago. He couldn't believe she'd be involved in such a cruel take-down. Yet something was going on: when would he find out what it was?

"More? How much more?" he asked, his pulse thundering in his throat.

"Whatever you – " Jounouchi began.

Loud noises erupted in the apartment, and the French doors rattled. Yuugi and Mai seemed to be having a shouting match.

Jounouchi pulled away from him. "Oh shit!" he said hoarsely. He yanked off the coat and shoved it at Kaiba. "Quick, put it on."

"Why?" he asked as he shrugged into it. "I wasn't wearing it when I came out here."

"Button it," Jounouchi barked. At Kaiba's look he said more quietly, "Because it looks like ya got a friggin' nine-inch lead pipe in those pants. They don't need to know that you've – "

The French doors flew open.

"My costume is loose, and hides stuff better," Jounouchi added under his breath. "Hey, guys what's up?" he said easily, turning to them.

Facing the opposite way (toward the lights of downtown Domino), buttoning his duster as unobtrusively as he could, his face burning, he wondered. And now I find out what the game is. What will he tell them? "Guess what everyone! Kaiba's a total eichi bii!" Well, at least he'd know the truth.

"What's going on out here?" Yuugi demanded, using his rough "dueling voice" and not his usual cheery tenor. "Mai," he said with a snap of hostility, "seemed to think it was appropriate to lock her balcony doors even after I commented that you were unaccounted for." Mai stood behind him, her arms akimbo, annoyed.

"What's the big deal?" Jounouchi asked, as a dozen more guests flowed though the doors.

"With all the recent kidnappings and sudden disturbances in this group, I was naturally concerned when I noticed that you were missing," Yuugi said.

"Aww, well ya can see there's no problem," Jounouchi replied, and cocked a thumb over his shoulder at Kaiba's back. "Anyhow, I wasn't worried. I have Mister Martial Arts here to protect me from evildoers."

"But why did Kaiba come out here?" Yuugi pursued in a chill, silky tone.

"I wasn't feeling well," Seto said, his back still to the others. "I came out here for the quiet and this, this stray dog followed me. And kept me company." He turned finally, folding his arms. "With his yapping," he added.

On cue, Jounouchi blustered. "Why you arrogant, stinkin' son of a – I was just trying to be sociable – "

As the other guests laughed Yuugi pursed his lips. In the dim light his shadowed face seemed twisted with emotion. "How fortunate that you had a quiet place to retreat to, Kaiba," his eyes flicked over them critically – and did his glance linger below the waist? – "and such a pleasant companion to pass the time."

"Yes, but the night air hasn't helped, so if you don't mind, Mai, I think I'll be going."

"Of course." She turned around. "OK people, back inside, move along, nothing to see here. It's time for the buffet."

When he went inside Jounouchi followed close behind him, and brushed fingertips lightly down his back.

It was enough. It told him enough.

.

He kept his face carefully impassive until he was back in the bedroom, then locked the door, and pressed his fists to his forehead, unsuccessfully fighting a grin. He felt shaky, but in a completely different way than before. It seemed that Duo had been right. "I think he's frustrated, Blue Eyes, cause he doesn't think a smart guy like you would go for a son of a bitch like him." Unbelievable. He hadn't told. He'd covered. There was no game. It was real. Think. What to say? "Come with me. We'd have the entire weekend." They could stay in the Weyr. No one went in there when he was working, not even Mokuba. Bedroom, shower, plenty of frozen pre-cooked meals. As if they'd care about food. It was a plan. Get dressed, find him, slip away quickly.

He unbuttoned the duster, then unzipped and stepped out of the leather pants. The shirt had protected them from sweat and other body fluids, so he laid them on the bed.

He then looked down his shirt and contemplated the situation. The thong had obviously not been designed for containment. More like "easy access" ... He blinked. Hn, had easy access been the intention? That was quite ... an interesting thought. He grinned again. He was throbbing and rock hard, but the idea of going into the bathroom and relieving himself seemed so – rude, so he squeezed himself ruthlessly to delay the inevitable until they got to the Weyr. Then he gingerly pulled his briefs on over everything: jostling seemed like a bad idea. He'd wear the shirt home and have it laundered before returning it to Mai.

He heard soft footsteps and low voices outside the door. A soft knock. "Kaiba?"

It was Mai: he froze. Had he locked the door?

"He's probably changing or whatever in the bathroom." Jounouchi.

"Probably." A pause, then he heard her ask, very quietly, "So how did it go?"

He moved noiselessly as close to the door as he dared.

"Man, it was something. By the end," the deeper voice said softly. "I just wanted ta ..." It sounded like he growled.

Kaiba grinned again. His face was starting to hurt; he wasn't accustomed to smiling.

Another sudden knock startled him. "Kaiba? Are you OK in there?"

He held his breath and stood perfectly still.

After a few seconds he heard Mai murmur, "Still in the bathroom, I guess. So it wasn't what you expected?"

"Well, considering – " Party noise blotted out the rest of the sentence.

"Really?" She sounded surprised.

"I think he got freaked when everyone barged out there," Jounouchi continued. "Maybe he escaped out your bathroom window." He chuckled a little, and so did Mai.

After that Kaiba went to the far corner of the room, pulled on his pants, rebuttoned his duster, picked up his sweater, and opened the door.

They were still in the hall. Jounouchi was tenderly tucking a strand of Mai's blue wig behind her ear.

Mai brightened when she saw him. "Kaiba, can I talk you into taking some aspirin and staying, please? I've just put out the buffet."

He glanced at Jounouchi. Wolf was gone, and puppy was back: the brown eyes looked hopeful and a bit abashed.</