Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ Chance Meeting ❯ Chapter 2

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Disclaimer: Same as previous. If I owned YuGiOh, I definitely wouldn't be writing fan fiction.

Author's Notes: The next five short stories. I was tempted to turn one of these ficlets into a WIP, but that will have to wait until I've finished the other ones first.

Thanks to Moe for the beta and thanks to everyone who has reviewed and given feedback—I wanted to reply back to everyone (and hopefully I've done so), but RL has been hectic lately, and I might not have time until semester ends.

Completed: 7 May 2006

6. Handle with care

Seto lived in a cold, grey world.

He lived emotionlessly, carelessly, and without regard for anyone or anything, not even Mokuba, who had once been the only light in his life. That light had diminished as time went by, as more scars were etched along his skin, like an eternal chill that hovered around his body, his mind, depriving him of any haven; and Seto found himself in darkness, his only light eclipsed by heavy smog that shrouded his heart, leaving it withered and dying.

Seto lived in a cold, grey world of ice; untouched and hard, sharp and deadly. He drew blood wherever he went, with Mokuba always by his side, eyes wounded and mouth tight-lipped, full of determination and despair. Seto didn't care.

He was like a piece of automated machinery, following through the motions of life, but failing to understand and grasp why. He once knew why—he once felt love, pain, failure. Triumph. Sacrifice. He once…felt.

Curiosity. It crawled into his mind like a worm, wiggling and squirming into his neat and ordered thoughts. The puzzle remained a mystery from the first time Seto had set his eyes on it until now—when Seto was nearly finished completing it. The challenge had been a temptation, the curiosity irresistible. Seto had found himself distracted for the first time in years by something almost pleasant. Almost pleasurable. The puzzle was like a game; each piece was like a pawn, waiting for Seto to guide it to its rightful place.

Mokuba had started to look hopeful, but Seto just ignored him. He had one final piece to place and he was finished; game over. For a moment, he was almost regretful—but then he scoffed and shook it off.

He had a puzzle to finish and after that… after that, it didn't matter.

The piece slid between his fingers in welcome, slightly warm. Seto frowned for a second and held the piece up for a closer look; any warmth from his previous handling should have vanished by now. Unless…his eyes narrowed and he pondered on whether Mokuba disobeyed his orders—whether Mokuba needed to be punished.

Later, he thought, as he relaxed his grip and slid the final piece in. First, complete the puzzle, then punish Mokuba.

For a second, Seto felt a keen sense of satisfaction, of triumph—then, when it became clear no mystery was going to reveal itself, he became angry. Disappointed. But he quickly suppressed it and fed on the anger—because anger was better; anger was necessary. Anger sometimes melted the ice that surrounded his soul.

Something crackled; something—no—a spark shot out from the puzzle to his hands, weaving a strange pattern onto his palm, his arms, and travelling upwards to his mind. He envisioned glass shattering, an endless rain of sharp pieces pouring over sand; faces, old and young, decaying into skeletons—sunken, hollow, and brittle; and an old, ancient maze with groaning, moving stairs in every direction, where each door beckoned dangerously, old monsters just a hair's-breadth away.

Shuddering, Seto wrenched back; the puzzle fell onto the floor looking innocent and harmless. Seto stared at it with shock and fascination, with something akin to obsession; the puzzle was gleaming and Seto couldn't help but be entranced. He steadied his mind, calmly walling in his thoughts to that dark secret space; a place of solitude, where the physical plane didn't matter and Seto could stay there for as long as he wanted while his body bled.

He picked up the puzzle, thumbs gently tracking its outline, and waited.

He didn't have to wait for long. A slow tendril of electricity sparked out, reaching for him, grasping at him, until Seto could feel his heart thundering in response. He felt the tendrils trail up from his hands to his chest, and to his head—

There was sand everywhere, biting and scratching at his skin. He was in darkness, surrounded by stone. No—stone tablets; monsters were engraved on them. And there was someone else there. Someone powerful—someone dark.

Then, he felt something foreign in his mind, running through his thoughts like a machete hacking away wild plant growth. His head hurt, but he struggled to maintain his control. He struggled to throw off the intruder.

It stopped. Suddenly, Seto could breathe again as his headache faded. The intruder remained though.

Who are you?

Seto narrowed his eyes. Who are you?

There was a pause as the intruder examined his surroundings, prodding at the walls Seto had put up. Seto immediately strengthened them and he felt a glimmer of annoyance and grudging respect in turn.

I am darkness. I am...Yami.

7. Night sins

The carpet was lush and soft, a rich dark red that blended and contrasted nicely with the elegance of the room. Paintings, mostly abstract, hung on each wall, while shelves of trinkets and figurine art stood in patterns only deciphered by their owner. The lighting was dim, a yellow-orange glow that covered the expanse of the entire room, highlighting the play of shadows; the intimate setting in which one could take pleasure in.

Seto stood just inside the doorway, face tightly composed as lips thinned in distaste. If Pegasus thought offering the services of a 'highly skilled escort' was going to change his mind, then he was a fool and an idiot. Did he think that Seto could be bought off by pleasure and sex?

Well, apparently so if he thought asking him to a so-called false meeting would ease the way to a contract. Seto would have been more angry with being deceived if he hadn't half-expected Pegasus to do something like that. Any respect he might have harboured for the creator of his cherished game had been shattered when Pegasus had tried to kidnap Mokuba and use him as a bargaining tool. Now, he had nothing but contempt for Pegasus; what he thought were similarities between them were simply shallow facets of their personalities—nothing worthy of his respect or admiration.

He glanced around the room once again and made no attempt to hide his impatience.

"Sorry for the wait. I was was running late from my last appointment." The tone was smooth, bemused, and not very sincere. The crimson eyes that met his, however, were appraising; they swept down Seto's body like a caress, neither asking nor seeking permission—didn't need any.

"I'm not here for this," Seto said coldly, ignoring the penetrating gaze.

"Then what are you here for? I'm sure a smart man like you would have figured out what Pegasus was trying to do..." Amusement lingered coyly, like the subtle jasmine scent Seto was only just aware of, becoming stronger with every step the crimson-eyed stranger took.

Seto's breath quickened, the sharp spike of desire, of pure lust, taking hold of him, and he fought to regain his composure. There was danger in this desire, in this stranger. Pegasus wouldn't have asked him to come otherwise—and the question remained: if he had known, then why had he come?

"You don't know anything," he snapped, his composure spiralling out of control; his certainties, his thoughts—they were unleashed from their tightly ordered reign, and now they were in chaos. His body and his mind fought with the confusion, fought to regain his equilibrium.

"Oh, but I do..." And he was there, just barely inches apart; soft lips lingered on his neck, his chin, then, a whisper into his ear. "I'm Yami."

Deft hands and supple fingers trailed down until they reached his belt. That soft whisper continued. "You don't have to tell me your name. I know just who you are."

A lick. A kiss.

"And what you want."

8. Night Flight

Seto stared at his watch and then eyed at the blinking board in front. Right in the centre, just on the column where the status of his flight was meant to be lit in green, was the word DELAYED in large, red, and blinking characters. It stood out, of course, because it wanted to be as clear-cut as possible to the irate passengers; but Seto found it annoying just the same. As if the delay wasn't bad enough, Seto had to be reminded of it at every turn.

He supposed he couldn't blame the airport—the weather had been worsening since late evening, and the slight rainy mist then had turned into a full-blown storm now; large, rounded raindrops were splattering onto the windows in sync, leaving solid wet trails as it slid down. The hard thumps of rain hitting the roof might have been calming, under other circumstances, but it only served to irritate Seto further.

It hadn't been a good day. First, Seto had been late for his appointment with his advisor. His alarm had somehow malfunctioned during the night—he had yet to take it apart to see what had happened—and Seto had woken up half an hour late because for some annoying reason, his internal clock hadn't seen fit to wake him, as it usually did. Then, to make a disastrous start of the day even worse, one of the main roads to the campus had been closed off for maintenance, leaving Seto with no option but to take the longer route—one which half the city's population seem to be taking from the smothering traffic. When he had finally managed to arrive at the Information Communications and Technology building, he then realised he had left part of his thesis at his apartment. At that point, Seto had wanted nothing more than to throttle someone. Anyone. He hadn't cared. His day had started badly and went worse as the hours ticked by. The much needed meeting with his thesis advisor had been fruitless; they had both agreed to cut the meeting short and have Seto email a copy later in the evening. Then, as if he hadn't been irritated enough, he had two hours of lab work to complete. Usually, he found the practical side enjoyable. Usually, he found a sort of peace tinkering and testing his designs. But when he had entered the post-graduate lab, he had found a bunch of under-grads working in his station. Apparently, there had been a mix-up in the booking for the old electronics lab—which meant these particular set of students needed to work in another area... His.

Despite the trying circumstances and the occasionally urge to knock out several students, Seto had managed to finish off his control circuit in time. He had left immediately for his apartment and started packing. Mid-semester break was coming in three days; Seto had opted to take those three days off in order to spend more time at home to make up for the previous semester, when he had been too busy to fly back. Mokuba had not been pleased then, and Seto had spent several days being tormented by large, wounded dark eyes and a pouting mouth. In the end, he had agreed to make up for it during the next break.

Upon arrival, he had grabbed his ticket and waited for his luggage to be approved. Then, he had waited and waited and waited, until some questioning had led to being notified of a 'slight' delay from the airport receptionist. Now, he sank onto the hard plastic seats and rubbed his temples gingerly. Of course, his flight had to be delayed; he should have expected something like this, with the current trend of his bad luck.

“You wouldn't happen to be Seto, would you?”

Seto looked up and blinked at the visage of a dyed-spiky haired youth, around the same age as him. “Yes, I would,” Seto said suspiciously.

“It's nothing bad... well, not the dying type of bad. It's more of the being double booked type of bad,” the stranger said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head. He obviously didn't like being the bearer of bad news, and Seto couldn't blame him. Well, he probably would have if he had been in a less numb state.

Seto sighed. “It figures.”

“And there's no more seats left.” The stranger winced as soon as he said it.

For a second, Seto could only stare blankly. Then, his hands clenched. “Fuck! Fucking bloody—damn it!”

“I'm sorry.” And the stranger did look sincere, which made it easier for Seto to calm down.

“Not your fault,” Seto muttered as he ran a hand over his face. And it wasn't. It was just another crappy thing in a long, crappy day, and Seto just wanted it to end.

“You know, I can take the next flight if you're in a hurry,” the stranger said, shrugging. “I'm not in a rush.”

Seto blinked. “I—thanks.”

“No problem.”

Seto found himself relaxing despite himself. “Thanks again, uh, I don't know your name.”

“It's Yami,” Yami said, smiling slightly. “And you're welcome.”

9. Knockin' on your door

The mansion was huge and encompassing, but not intimidating. It held shades of warmth that had nothing to do with the reflection of the sun, and it was almost...friendly. Comfortable. It spoke of age and modern sophistication; it hinted at hidden pathways, secretive rooms, and Seto was intrigued. If he could just touch the walls, if he could just get one glimpse...he knew the mansion would speak to him. They always did. Images, emotions, sensations—Seto received them all; it didn't matter what shape or form each object held, as soon as Seto could touch, Seto could feel, see, sense.

It had been an annoyance at times and a wonder at others—what Seto most loved about his quirk was the way everything would come alive when he began piecing together his creations. They wanted to come together—they wanted to be complete, to be one whole entity instead of several bits of matter, but they didn't have the means. Seto saw all this and more; he knew how the pieces fit together, until one-by-one they became whole. And afterwards, staring into his prototypes, he felt their peace, their pleasure. He heard their whispers, their murmurs, their circuits whirling in thought. People might think machines had no soul; they might see them as an endless and continuous interconnection of wires, where current travelled and voltage varied, but he saw their heart. He could hear its beat, could sense the static pulses as they breathed.

He had thought it was normal for people to hear, feel, and sense what he had always heard, felt, and sensed when he was younger. Now, he knew better.

The Professor had said it was a gift—Seto could very well believe it if he wasn't a sceptic by heart. And if he hadn't read through all of the Professor's publications, which were numerous and very telling. The Professor might think it was a gift from Mother Nature, but Seto thought of it more pragmatically—a mutation was a mutation. It happened and it couldn't be undone, and therefore Seto would accept it as it were.

He supposed being here was part of that acceptance; the Professor had been very persuasive when he had told Seto about his school.

A place for those gifted...much like yourself.

Seto had not been convinced, but when Professor Xavier mentioned Cerebral and the jet... Seto's fondness for technology was well-known and well-documented.

Looking around, he wondered where the Professor might have hidden them. He knew the Professor couldn't leave it in plain sight, nor could he afford to have the parents question the school's motives. Seto also knew Professor Xavier hadn't vouched this little bit of information to his own parents—nor did he ever intend to. Which was just as well. Seto wasn't going to say anything to jeopardise his chances of seeing Cerebral or of flying the jet. He was sure he could convince the Professor of the latter, one way or the other.

“It's nice here, isn't it?”

Seto whirled around and stared at the youth sitting on a stone bench nonchalantly, which had been unoccupied before.

“Cat got your tongue?” Crimson eyes twinkled mischievously. “Or are you just not very bright?”

“How'd you get here?” Seto said suspiciously, ignoring the previous blather. Seto hadn't seen him when he had first entered the appealing garden; he was certain he would have noticed a stranger, especially if that stranger wore black and had dyed his hair yellow and purple.

“There's this thing called walking—I'm sure you're familiar with it.” The stranger smiled. “I guess that answers that question—you're just not very bright.”

Seto gritted his teeth and counted slowly to ten. In French. “I meant just now. I would have seen if you were here before.”

“I was here before. You just didn't see me.” With that, the stranger leaned back and sighed, looking as if he were alone, enjoying the sun for all intents and purposes.

Seto stared at him incredulously. “I would have seen you!”

He shrugged. “No, you wouldn't. It's a little trick I learned from the Professor.”

Seto narrowed his eyes. “You're another student,” he stated. With his own set of 'gifts', Seto added silently. At least he'd found an answer to his question, no help from Red Eyes there.

“Why, yes, Blue Eyes. It took you long enough to figure that out.”

Gritting his teeth again, Seto glared down at the stranger. He had a feeling he knew what the stranger's 'gift' was, and he didn't like it.

“You wouldn't, of course.”

Seto glared. “Stop reading my mind!”

“I'm not—you're projecting really loudly.” The stranger shrugged again. “Just turn the volume down and I'll quit freaking you out.”

“I'm not freaking out,” Seto said from his clenched jaw, but he did make an effort to mentally calm himself.

“Much better, Blue Eyes.” He nodded approvingly. “I'm Yami, by the way. But I'm Yugi the other half of the time.”

At Seto's confused look, Yami grinned. “Don't worry. I'm sure you'll figure it out later.”

10. Looking for trouble

Seto cut right through the queue, ignoring startled protests, and flashed the ring on his right finger—a black stone engraved with the symbol of his House. The bouncer's dark eyes gleamed, and then he grunted, waving Seto through. Seto walked in, his mind automatically strengthening his mental shields. It was considered in bad taste to use telepathy on those within the Club and generally, only the young and arrogant have ever attempted to do so—those who never learned also never lasted long here—but Seto had never liked the thought of being so open among the Witches and Vampires, his fellow predators. Plainly put, he thought it was stupid to trust the others, his own species included. He had no doubt there were some rogue Shapeshifters lying in wait, spying for each side of the triad; the only uncertainty was figuring out who was on whose side.

At the moment, Seto had no sides. His only motive for coming here was to see the mythical Old One with his own eyes. Rumours might be good enough for the awe-stricken ones, those who never gave another thought before they bowed to the Royal Line, but Seto needed something more—he needed to see before he could believe. It was a trait that had caused him much trouble when he was younger and more prone to follow his curiosity, but it had also sharpened his mind. He didn't bother changing that part of himself; the curiosity, he tempered, the rest didn't need to be fixed. It had served him well.

He ignored the curious stares, the appraisals, and the contempt as he walked towards a bar stool. The curious ones were most likely Witches; they had an innate fascination with Shapeshifters—probably because they were the only kind not branched from the Ancestor—and would endlessly try to question any Shapeshifter in the vicinity.

The appraisals were from his own kind, he knew; his rare Shape drew unwanted attention wherever he went—if it wasn't questions regarding his Dragon form, then it was questions regarding his family. And Seto never spoke about his family.

The contempt was undoubtedly from the Vampires. They held themselves as the superior of all races and looked upon the Shapeshifters as commoners. Even if those commoners had done a much better job of surviving the Blood Age.

He nodded at the bartender, whose spiked up green hair and mild blue eyes hid his feral Wolf form from non-Shapeshifters, and settled on a bar stool.

“You're here,” Alexei said in mock surprise.

“Yes, I'm here,” Seto said, annoyed. He gestured dismissively.

“And you're being charming, as usual.” Alexei grinned.

Seto snorted as he eyed his surroundings, taking in several faces before he turned back to the bartender-slash-old nuisance. “I'll give you charming.”

“Sounds like fun.” Alexei's grin widened. “But I don't think that's what you came here for.”

Seto's back immediately straightened and his eyes narrowed. “So it's true then.”

“Yeah, it's true. You wouldn't be here if you hadn't thought so yourself,” Alexei pointed out. “And the rumours wouldn't have gone on for as long as they have.”

“How many?” Seto asked bluntly, fingers tapping on the bench table.

“Only one so far.” Alexei gave him an incredulous look. “You didn't think they'd all show themselves—”

“No,” Seto cut off. “Of course not. But I'd like to know how many still exist... and why they decided to appear now. They could have turned up centuries ago when Vampires were feuding and we splintered off into different sides—why now? We haven't had trouble in decades.”

Alexei nodded and sighed, shaking his head a little. “All these questions and no answers— and let me guess, you're just going to go up and start interrogating him.”

Seto frowned. “I get answers, don't I?”

“Yeah, but it's not very subtle.” Alexei was about to say more when his eyes turned towards the entrance; he grinned. “In any case, go to it—our guest of honour has arrived.”

Turning around, Seto stared at the Old One—or who he assumed was the Old One. His appearance gave no hint of his age—not that Seto had expected it to—but the spiked yellow-purple hair and crimson eyes were a far cry from what he had thought an Old One would look like.

“He calls himself Yami,” Alexei said from behind him.

Seto didn't say anything. He didn't have to, because Yami was heading straight towards him.