Hello, once again, my fellow fanfictioners. I'm here today with a chapter fic-le gasp, that's new and different-in which I plan to pit two of my favorite characters against each other in a battle of sexiness...I mean, in a battle of wits. Ahem. Battle of wits. Yes. Anyway, it's a crossover fic, so before you start reading this and exclaim, "Angeliz is cracking up! This isn't a YuGiOh fic!" I should like to explain that, actually, yes it is. It will combine the ygo-verse with the CSI-verse, but the first chapter only contains CSI because...I think my excuse was that I wanted the first chapter to run like the intro on an episode of CSI. (You know, where we get the initial set-up of the case, and Grissom cues The Who with a snappy pre-credits one-liner?) And then in the following chapters I'll get to mixing things together.

Something like that, anyway.

But back to the point, assuming there is one-if you've read Angeliz's chapter fics in the past (which is a little scary because they were written a couple of years ago), you know that Angeliz has trouble finishing things. However, I promise to make a valiant effort with this fic, not only to finish it, but to finish it in a timely manner. Ficwriter's honor. So please read, and please review, and please stick around in the following chapters.

Enough of my blathering. On with the fic!

It was a dark night, a new moon night, as the stars twinkled down on the lights of Las Vegas. Over the bright neon strip they fared badly, but away from the heart of the city they lit the night sky like millions of scattered gemstones. Their still, cold light skipped idly past high-rise hotel-slash-casinos to illuminate suburbs of cookie-cutter homes, filled with sleeping people, before drifting onwards toward a cemetery. They paused, fondly, on a pale man near the gates, then moved on to glance off of the rows of polished granite.

Gil Grissom moved silently through the starlight, shoes whispering across the freshly shorn grass, blue eyes sharp. Normally, he would have no reason to be here in the dead of night—no pun intended, of course—but this was one of those cases that forced him from the realm of normalcy. A corpse in a graveyard was one matter; a freshly murdered corpse skulking between the tombstones was something entirely different.

All in a night's work, he supposed.

"Gil!" A rough voice rang out in greeting, effectively shattering the calm silence, its owner waving Grissom toward a smattering of red and blue light.

"Jim," he replied cordially, shifting his kit from right hand to left. The detective had paused near a particularly ornate chunk of marble, hands tucked into jacket pockets, and Grissom fell into step with him easily. "Do we have an ID on the vic?"

Captain Jim Brass nodded once, perfunctorily, and lapsed into his self-appointed expositionary role. "Christopher Binns, twenty-six, worked as a janitor at the Tangiers. Found his driver's license and employee identification in his wallet, along with some credit cards and a few ticket stubs. No cash to speak of."

"Cleaned out?"

"Judging by the fact that the wallet was lying next to the body? Probably." Brass shrugged, tone indicating scarce concern for the robbery portion of the current crime du jour. "Personally, I'm more interested in the cult activity."

Grissom quirked a brow; it all but disappeared into his silvering hairline. "Cult activity?"

"Apparently. Costume, funny symbols, the whole nine yards." The two slowed their steps as they drew near the perimeter, ducked beneath yellow tape with practiced grace. Grissom's face took on a more serious air as he glanced cursorily around the crime scene, pinpointing both the body and its sprawled effects.

The wallet had apparently since been bagged, but a strange collection of objects remained, dark patches on the scruffy green grass. What appeared to be a book, leather bound and half-crumpled, lay injured beside a smooth stone basin, and both were encircled by a number of indeterminate dark shapes. The basin had been overturned, spilling its contents into the earth, but a dark residue clung still to its insides, which would be useful once they got it back to the lab. The book appeared to have snapped its spine.

Frowning in concentration, Grissom stepped gingerly closer, eyes fixed on the shapes in the grass. Upon closer inspection, they were not actual objects, but jet-colored scorch marks, branded into the ground. He could not recognize their origin, though they seemed vaguely hieroglyphic—a possibility that intensified with the discovery of Egyptian text stamped across the book's cover. Grissom leaned nearer to the markings, intrigued, eyes bright behind their lenses.

And the next moment he was blinded.

The CSI blinked, straightening rapidly, as a cheerful female voice cut through his evidence-seeking haze. "Hey, Grissom. Interesting scene, huh?" Another flash brightened their surroundings momentarily, followed by the faint whine of a camera recharging. "You might want to move a few steps back. I'm right in the middle of photographing."

"So it would seem," he replied, nettled, his sight returning in blotches. "Good evening, Sara."

The woman grinned, a slight gap showing between her teeth, and resumed her photography with gusto. "I'm all set with the items around the body, here," she said, snapping off one last photo before trading camera for kit, "but Warrick could probably use some help with Christopher over there." She gestured a few yards distant, where a dark mass lay huddled on the ground, another dark mass kneeling over it.

Grissom fixed her with a typical Grissomian look, a wordless which-of-us-is-the-supervisor-here?, but acquiesced to her roundabout request, moving toward Warrick. The cadaver came into relief against the grass as he closed the distance between them, its skin pale as the nonexistent moonlight. Golden bands glittered at its wrists and throat, winking from the black depths of its cloak.

"No visible injuries," Warrick said lightly at the sound of Grissom's approaching footsteps, "but the look on his face—it's evil. This guy was pissed when he died."

"Or because he died," Grissom speculated, squatting near the twisted form.

"Could be." Warrick's forceps glinted briefly as he touched them to the ink-black cloak, pulled them back with a flourish. "Hello, hello. Houston, we have a hair." The strand glimmered, long and silvery, twisting in the light breeze. "Female, blond. Suspect?"

"Or it could be the girlfriend." Sara's voice rang out over the space between them, a wallet-sized photo between gloved fingers. "Found this in the book. Looks like she was pretty close to the vic."

"Could still be a suspect," Warrick returned, shrugging as he bagged the hair. "Love can be a strong motive."

Grissom's head tilted slightly, his eyes thoughtful as he deliberately mangled Shakespeare. "To love, perchance to hate…ay, there's the rub."

Tbc. You know the drill; there's nothing to it: if you read it, you review it!