Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ KP Duty ❯ KP Duty (complete) ( One-Shot )

Yu-Gi-Oh is the intellectual property of Kazuki Takahashi, and is being used in this fanfiction for fan purposes only. No infringement or disrespect is intended by this not-for-profit work of fan fiction.

Author's Note and Warning: For the most part, this story and its sequels strive to follow canon Yu-Gi-Oh characterizations and events as presented in the unedited anime and the manga. However, because two key characters (Pegasus and Gozaburo) have been purposefully distorted, these stories are unquestionably AU. . .

The huge kitchen was pleasantly warm, and full of soft sounds: a drowsy hum from the bank of gleaming refrigerators; a rhythmic clink, clink, thunk, swoosh, splat, the sound of running water; then silence for a half a minute before the sounds started over again.

Seto Kaiba was washing dishes for Maximilian Pegasus. He stood at a stainless steel double sink; dishes to be washed on the counter to his left, washed dishes stacked up on the counter to the right. His green shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow.

He finished drying a plate, laid it on a stack to his right (clink), put the dishtowel down, then turned and picked up the next plate (clink). He put it in the left hand sink, where it wobbled out of sight under the water (thunk). He put both hands in the water, pulled up the plate and the dishrag (swoosh). He scrubbed at the plate, then dropped the rag in the wash water (splat). The plate was rinsed, dried, and added to the stack at the right. Clink...

Forty-five seconds per plate. Pegasus had 200 plates. Every few hours someone came down and moved all of the dishes on the right counter back to the left, and he mutely washed them all over again. He worked in almost complete darkness, because the overhead lights were off: some illumination came from the hall. "Turn the lights off, no one's home," they had snorted the first time, when they left. By now the wash water was icy, and soapless. The towel was soaking wet.

Whenever his hand found no more dishes to wash, he stood at the sink, waiting.

Echoing footsteps and laughter, including a high pitched giggle, then there were very bright lights.

"Oooooo, the new boy." Enter Pegasus, a red palomino surrounded by black-suited stallions. Pegasus took in Seto's water-splashed pants, and hands so waterlogged that the nailbeds were starting to separate from the white fingers."Not so sharp-looking any more, Kaiba-boy," he purred. "Watch this," he drawled over his shoulder to the herd. "Wash the plate," he told Seto.

Seto reached out for a plate. When he didn't find one he became quiescent again.

"Oh for heaven's sake," Pegasus hissed impatiently, handing him one from the clean stack. Seto began to wash.

"Smash the plate."

Seto 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 his captive's forearm.

"He's a walking vegetable," someone said. "A vegetable."

"Yes." Pegasus said. "Stop cutting now, my obedient little," he paused, "—carrot."

Everyone chuckled.

Pegasus moved to the center of the kitchen. "Come here, and be good—or else," he waggled his finger, "I'll feed you to my Dark Rabbit!" He then threw back his head and laughed at his own joke.

Seto came and stood before his master.

"Kneel." Pegasus said sharply.

Seto knelt. The stallions circled around to watch.

Pegasus stepped forward until his trousers were an inch from Seto's face. "Stick out your tongue."

Seto did as he was told; the moist tip just grazed the red trousers.

The stallions applauded. "You've got a great eye!" one of them said without thinking.

There was sudden chill; but Pegasus deigned to laugh, and the herd whinnied again.

"Now this is fun. And educational." Pegasus said, silver hair sheeting his face as he regarded his captive. "You know, when people talk about a 'soulless corporation', they make it sound like it's such a bad thing. But as you can see, a soulless corporation can be useful—when brought to its knees."

After the new laughter had died away, he twisted a handful of Seto's hair and tilted the head back. "You're going to pay, oh yes you are, Kaiba-boy," he whispered to the vacant blue eyes, then sighed as he let the head drop, "It's so boring when they don't struggle. Where's the fun? the verbal ... foreplay?"

He sighed, then snapped his fingers and waved his hand around. "Get creative, gentlemen!"

Eager clattering and banging as drawers and cabinets were yanked open. After a moment someone handed Pegasus a cello bag of carrots. Peeking into it like a kid looking for the toy surprise, he cooed. "Well, this ought to do nicely." He pulled up a carrot so thick that thumb and forefinger could not met around its middle. Without taking his eye from Seto's bowed head, he returned the carrot to the bag and passed the bag to his left. A box of latex gloves was produced and also made the rounds.

"Stand up, Seto Kaiba, and take your shoes off for us, that's a dear..." .

He woke up with a start from the carnival memory-dream, stretched his arms, and re-arranged himself languidly on the chaise lounge. This combination of sun and breeze and surf was balanced perfectly: he was at maximum relaxation. He closed his eyes. Where was this again? Cozumel? Bondi Bay? Playa Zuncudo? Eh, who cared?

"Nice Speedo." A drawling voice startled him.

He opened his eyes. Long tan legs next to his chair. He looked up. It took him a minute before he placed her. Large breasts, wild hair—Valentine. Third rank duelist. Harpy deck. "Mai."

"I'm honored you remember."

Wearing a bikini of frothy white lace that looked like sea foam, tied with tempting tiny pullable bows. A necklace of seashells spilled over her breasts, which themselves looked ready to spill out of the bikini top. He remembered another thing—perfume tricks. She always smelled good.

"Want a lick?" She was holding a glistening ice cream cone an inch from his mouth.

Definitely. He stuck his tongue out and licked, not breaking eye contact. With a woman like this, you couldn't show fear—Pahh! what the hell kind of ice cream was she eating? It tasted so weird, like—wool?

"Hmmm." Mai tossed the cone away and knelt next to his chaise, ruffled his hair roughly, then twisted a handful, tilted his head and kissed him hard, sucking his tongue into her mouth.

He was shocked, and pleased, and impressed all at once: she sure had balls! This was definitely getting interesting, and he started to kiss back. But then something about her perfume distracted him—it was off. Before he could figure out how, a hand slid inside his Speedo, and cupped him. Hey, slow down. Then there was a third hand, on his chest. Someone else? Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed brown hair. And another, tickling his navel—he looked down and glimpsed black hair—what the hell?

A bubble of panic swelled up in his gut as cold metal slid up his hip and his Speedo fell away. Suddenly there were more—many too many more—hands, tongues, fingers, other things, stroking, pinching, pulling, insistent: it felt like dozens, they were in places they shouldn't be, no-touching places, some were hurting him, making him feel really bad.

With a surge of adrenaline he burst up from the chair and threw them off—without really seeing any of them he knew that they were all there, they were all there, why were they there?

Arms reached for him and he sent a flying kick at the nearest midriff, but got tangled up and fell: and then wave after wave of icy water slammed onto him, twisting him around, crushing him down, forcing into him, burning him open; sharp, searing waves full of grit battering him over and over again. He could not escape or call for help: all he could do was clutch at the sand, dragged under by terror and shame.

When it finally stopped he stumbled up the beach, away from the amber-eyed waves and the pounding hooves. He finally made it to a gray block of stone that held a tidal pool of jagged shells. Shells. Must be Costa Rica, he thought.

He squinted up at the sun and a face moved across it. He blinked, and it was gone.

The last thing he saw before the sun went out was his reflection as he fell into the tidal pool, tangled hair framing his face like a crown of snakes. .

3:30 A.M. Whistling down the hall. Without turning on the light Greene went into the kitchen for a snack, jaunted over to the fridge, took out an apple. He danced from one foot to another like a boxer, scanning the shelves for something to go with the apple. When he found a bottle of beer he punched the fist with the apple in the air—Victory!—and spun completely around. He froze at what he saw in the light from the fridge, whistled long and low, then sauntered out of the kitchen.

Down the hall to Kurosuke's office. The office was the antechamber room of the video archive, which Kurosuke guarded like a virgin's honor. Ha! Definitely one less virgin in the castle tonight. As usual when Peggy was sleeping, Kurosuke was reviewing security tapes, some feeds frozen mid-frame on the shelf of monitors over his desk.

"There's a rosebud bloomin' in the kitchen," Greene said. He took a bite of apple and chewed noisily. There was no place to sit—Kurosuke's desk was piled with computer disks and cables and stuff—so he leaned against the wall.

Kurosuke turned slightly in his high backed leather chair to face him. "I do not understand a word you say, Mr. Greene," he said dryly.

"There was a special party in the kitchen. The kid's bleeding all over the place." He took another bite of apple and grinned. "Do I need to explain more details?"

"No." Kurosuke turned back to a slide presentation he was working on, and hit a button. The screen went blank.

Greene opened his beer and took a sip. "So who's gonna get stuck with KP? "

"Since this is your shift," Kurosuke said, glancing disapprovingly at the beer, "You are responsible."

"Oh man!" Greene angrily threw the apple core in the wastebasket. "I do not want to have to clean that mess up!"

Kurosuke continued firmly, "It's not difficult if you follow the key procedures. You have done KP before?"

"Not by myself. I was assist on trash last Christmas. That choir," he yawned, "that got to heaven early."

“When you take out the big trash also discard any item that might have been used. Any item," he stressed. “Then just sanitize and you're done.”

"Screw that." Greene jerked a thumb angrily in the direction of the kitchen. "You haven't seen what's in there! You have no idea how much work discard and sanitize is gonna be this time."

"Nevertheless, it must be taken care of. That is, after all, a kitchen. Where food is prepared," Kurosuke reminded him crisply, "including your food, need I remind you?" He took the beer from Greene's hand and dropped it in his wastebasket, then held out a three-part form and a pen. "Sign by the X."

As he watched Greene scribble a signature he continued, "I'll give you a copy of the form. Follow the checklist. Mark each item off as you complete it. That way you will not forget anything."

As Greene read, Kurosuke summarized. "Assess the scene before beginning; that makes you more efficient. Bag the bulky item first. Then any additional. Use a clean tarp for each trip down to the chute—do not be lazy like Bryson was, open a new one so that we do not have any surprises later, if there is an investigation. You know how Mr. Pegasus hates surprises. Do all the counters. All of them, even if they look unused. Once you've cleaned surfaces check the undersides of all shelves for splatters; use a flashlight so that you do not miss anything. Finally sanitize the floor with the forensic solution under the big sink. And scrub please," he stressed, "not like—"

"Bryson. Yeah. I know." Greene gave a loud, exaggerated yawn. “Then turn out the lights and, um, lock up?"

"Mr Greene, will you be able to discharge your duty?" Kurosuke asked sternly. "Or do I need to find a substitute?"

"Well now that you mention it, I am seriously whacked. I'm not sure I can, you know, keep awake to do a really good job."

"I see." He took the signed form from Greene. “I suppose I could cover for you this time. Why don't you go get some sleep?”

"Kuro, you are the greatest!" Greene slapped Kurosuke on the back. "A real life-saver." Then he sauntered out into the hall, suddenly awake enough to whistle again.

As soon as Greene had left, Kurosuke turned back to his computer, touched a button to bring the screen back to life. He finished the file, then saved and shut the lid. He took three laminated "KP Duty" signs from his desk and put them on the lid of his laptop along with a roll of masking tape. He stood up then, and looked at the frozen monitors. With not a grain of tracking static, the images on each were crystal clear: archives of the feed from the Master's bedroom, the poolroom, and the playroom along with a digital soundtrack. They had held nothing useful, unfortunately.

He switched them off, locked his office door, and then put his laptop, the signs and the tape into a leather duffel bag. He picked up the bag, slipped a tiny infrared remote into his suit pocket, and went into the depths of the video vault. .

Kurosuke emerged into the hallway through an unobtrusive door across the hall from the kitchen. Duffel in hand, he slipped in. Almost immediately, the window of the heavy swinging door he'd gone through was covered with one of the "KP Duty" signs, all edges firmly taped down. If anyone had been near, they would have also heard the deep thunk of the deadbolt. Within minutes both of the other windows to the kitchen were similarly covered and the doors locked, openable only from the inside.

Only then did he turn on the lights.

It was, as Greene had said, a mess. The animals appeared to have opened every cabinet and drawer in their search for items to use on the young man. Every counter had at least one smear of blood, and soiled gloves were everywhere, which suggested that the savagery had gone on for a considerable time. The open space in the center of the kitchen floor was a puddle of urine, streaked with blood, that led to the nude figure draped over the sink. Every few seconds a tremor passed through the body, which meant at least that he was not dead. He will wish to be. Kurosuke thought, and a lump swelled in his throat. Burn the whole room, burn this unholy castle and salt the earth, destroy the monsters who could do this to another being...

Sorrow was not constructive, he reminded himself. .

He opened his bag and took out several small plastic sheets. One of them he draped across the staff microwave in the corner of the kitchen near the double sink; the other was spread on a nearby chair to keep his duffel clean and in easy reach. He had at least an hour, but no more than two, before staff would begin to arrive for breakfast. When they saw the KP Duty signs they would go to the back-up kitchen, but as usual no one would remember to put a sign in the stairwell and so others would continue to come. He took out his laptop, placed it atop the microwave and launched the presentation program. He took the remote from his pocket, sealed it in a double thickness of plastic bag, and placed it next to the laptop. Next, he quickly removed his suit jacket, folded it, and placed it inside the duffel at one end. The last step was to roll his shirtsleeves up above the elbow and secure them with wide elastic bands.

As his file came up he donned a long clear plastic raincoat, then tied an oilcloth apron on top of it. Huge knee-high rubber boots came out of the duffel next, and he pulled them on over his shoes with one hand. Finally extra thick, long surgeon's gloves went on. He tossed several towels from the duffel onto the stacked dishes, then pointed the remote at the laptop and pushed a button.

TRY TO STAND UP STRAIGHT, SWEETIE. GOOD POSTURE IS THE HALLMARK OF A TRUE GENTLEMAN. Pegasus's recorded voice seared the silence. The words were mirrored on the laptop screen, large yellow letters on a deep blue background.

There was a sudden faint scraping sound from the sink. Kurosuke swiftly took a broom from the pantry—it had miraculously escaped notice—and swept the filthy puddle toward the floor drain, with one eye watching the boy gripping the edge of the sink, straining to push himself upright. Obeys no voice but his Master's.

As soon as the puddle was swept, he went to the sinks. A layer of ceramic shards, snapped carrots, and gloves littered the bottom of each. He set the remote within reach on the counter, then, using his left arm to support the unsteady boy he expertly and one-handedly turned on the taps, pulled the ceiling-mounted sprayer down, and squirted dish soap on the bowed head.

"First crush you, then crush your company. Wanting some hidden will," he muttered as he attacked the semen-crusted brown hair with a scrub brush. He pulled the sprayer down again and rinsed, wetting the face with a tracery of water, cleaning quickly but gently. "If he could see what will you have now he would be afraid. He should be afraid. Even I can see you are like a phoenix. Unquenchable. You will rise from these ashes."

For despite a torn body wracked with trembling, the boy was trying over and over again to bear his own weight. "That ankle is broken? Sprained at least. Hm, and that shoulder looks dislocated—well, we will know in one moment." Kurosuke murmured as he finished washing chest and arms, assessing injuries. Aiming the remote again, he advanced the slideshow until the words THAT'S RIGHT BITCH, GET DOWN ON ALL FOURS LIKE THE DOG YOU ARE appeared on the screen. He shook a towel out, dropped it expertly open on the floor right behind them, then pressed Enter, and eased the boy down onto the towel as his bloodied legs folded subserviently in response to the recorded command.

The ceiling mounted sprayer was, as always, a God-send. Kurosuke draped it over the edge of the sink like a mini-shower, leaving both hands free to clean and examine. He worked swiftly, the remote within handy reach. He hardly had to look at the screen when he needed a command, by now he had the slides in the optimal sequence, and memorized. Each revision a horror.

STICK YOUR TAIL IN THE AIR, DOGGIE.

ROLL OVER.

SPREAD YOUR LEGS.

WIDER.

Yes, sprained ankle, dislocated shoulder. The usual other injuries. I should have been a doctor, he thought. His eyes brimmed with tears as he quickly washed the thighs. They always use the wire brush. I've seen it this many times, why don't I get used to it?

The remote again: TAKE THIS TOWEL AND DRY YOURSELF OFF, YOU GORGEOUS WET THING. This time the voice was softer, seductive. A recording from the summer a "special guest" stayed in the pool house; he had set the audio to loop, repeating every minute, always hoping that those last few words would help, even a small bit, the damage to the spirit. While the boy lay on his back, laboriously rubbing himself with the towel, Kurosuke snapped open a garbage bag and began circling the kitchen methodically. He found the green clothes under one of the tables; they went into a small bag that he double-sealed and tossed in his duffel. The beautiful blue coat he had been able to hide away immediately after the defeat. Of course, most of the staff had guessed what would be happening: as usual, there had been a betting pool on how many dishes would get washed before the "visit". Apparently 837 had been the winning number.

Once he had all the soiled items picked up (and saw that the boy was as dry as he was going to get by himself), Kurosuke applied liquid bandage to the worst of the abrasions then reached for the remote again.

PUT YOUR CLOTHES ON AND—.

.

.

Kurosuke went to to the duffel bag and pulled out a sweatshirt and loose shorts. This was easiest for them to put on, though not very warm; but blankets would come. Again he allowed the boy to struggle on his own as he began to disinfect the counters. Kurosuke had learned early that, almost no matter that their condition, it look almost as long for him to dress them as it took for them to dress themselves; somehow their hands remembered what to do even when their minds had gone elsewhere. And while they dressed themselves he could save time, keep cleaning. (Although it would not have mattered if the kitchen had been off-limits for one hour or six: no one cared how long KP took, as long as they did not have to do it.)

—GET OUT.

At this command the boy went up to the nearest door (the one that Kurosuke had entered by 37 minutes earlier) and stood facing it for the long minutes it took to thoroughly mop the floor with disinfectant and rinse final evidence down the drain. After removing his waterproof gear, Kurosuke quickly rolled it and the used towels inside the plastic sheets and packed everything into his duffel.

Now came the dangerous part. He took his laptop, with the words GET OUT still on the screen, and nestled it in the center of the open duffel. He tapped a key to advance to the next slide, slid the duffel handles over his left arm, then he quietly turned the deadbolt and cracked open the door to listen.

Silence. He opened the kitchen door, propped it open with the garbage bag (he knew anyone coming down the hall would see the bag and reverse direction), quickly unlocked the small gray door across the corridor from the kitchen, then pressed the Enter Key on his computer.

COME HERE.

The boy obediently walked across the hall to him and into the dark room beyond.

.

.

He closed the hotel room door and put down the keys, and nodded to the nanny as she left. "Grazie." He put his briefcase on the table. "Mokuba?"

"Seto Seto Seto! You're back!" A striped explosion raced toward him. "Did you bring me anything?"

"As a matter of fact ..." He took a small leather pouch from his briefcase. "I had these specially made, to match mine."

Mokuba put on the mirrored blue sunglasses and spun in ecstasy. "I love these!" When he got dizzy he flopped on the couch. "What are you going to do today, big brother?"

"Well, I have to drive to Milan on business," he said carefully. Mokuba's face fell. "But I thought you might like to come with me."

"Road trip! Road trip! Road trip!" The spinning ecstasy had returned. "When do we leave?"

"Right now. I've picked up the new car."

The car, parked at the hotel entrance and guarded from the gathering crowd by two valets, was impossibly sleek, a metallic light blue that seemed to ripple with light even in the shade.

"What do you think, Mokuba?"

"It's great! it's the same color as your Blue Eyes!"

Seto gave a small smile. "Got your shades?"

"Check!"

"Got your music?"

"Check!"

"Alright." He started the car, revving it up to 2500 RPM to clear a path to the street.

"Shirts or skins, big brother?"

"What do you want to do?"

"Skins, skins, skins!"

"OK. Let's wait til we get on the road. Don't want too many women to go wild." He eased the 7-speed into traffic. The car shifted like silk, a glorious extension of his arms and legs and will.

Mokuba questioned him eagerly. "How big is the engine, nii-sama? How much horse powers?"

"Eight liters, with 1000 horsepower," Seto told him, "and 922 pound-feet of torque. You know what torque is."

"It means it can go really fast. Can we go really fast, please?"

"In a while," Seto said.

Once they were out of the city outskirts, he pulled over. They took off their shirts and stuffed them under the seat, rubbed their bare backs against the buttery leather like two happy cats, then put the top down and pulled back onto the road. Seto accelerated to 100 kph in 3 seconds, Mokuba shrieking happily.

"Can I put in music now, Seto? Will you sing along too?"

"Maybe."

Mokuba took out his current favorite—an ancient digital audio disc titled Pure Funk—and sang:

She's a brick - house
She's mighty mighty, just letting it all hang out
She's a brick - house
I like ladies stacked and that a fact
Ain't holding nothing back
She's a brick - house
We'll work together, everybody knows
This is how the story goes

Mokuba's joy was infections. By the fifth song ("Lady Marmalade") Seto was also rocking his hips in time to the music as they flew down the sunlit, almost empty road at 140 kph.

During the instrumental beginning of "Shaft" he had a sudden brainstorm about how to handle the proprioception monitors in the VR pod, and as he dictated notes Mokuba's hands danced and swam in the air. By the time Mokuba growled happily

Shut your mouth!

Seto was grinning. He dropped the recorder into his lap, then reached over and ruffled Mokuba's hair. The leather warm against his back, the sun, the purring car, the music, a tough problem suddenly solved, and of course his brother's delight—it was a perfect moment. He could not remember ever being so completely, unbearably happy.

The next song was "Flashlight" by Parliament. The Kaiba brothers sang together,

Flashlight, spotlight, neon light, green light,
Everybody's got a little light!
Under the sun! under the sun! under the sun!

I gotta help em
Help em find the funk
Most of all get the funk, everybody bump
Most of all get the funk, everybody bump
Most of all get the funk, everybody bump
Flashlight, daylight, spotlight, red light

Everybody's got a little light under the sun!

The sun and wind rushed by— —and he gasped awake, his soul restored. .

He tried desperately to stay in that perfect moment, to return to sleep and the dream, yet it faded.

The room was very dark, a grainy black sand that pressed on him. First he became aware of a damp patch between his legs that had soaked into the sheet below him. Hunh, he hadn't had one of those in - Pegasus laughing

Vertigo snatched him up, and he shut the nightmare out. "Mokuba," he whispered, as an icy whip coiled in his gut. What if—suddenly new images were there, horrifying. Instinctively he reached up for the locket: his hand bumped something hard lying on his chest, that rustled and slid away. The locket was missing.

He jerked then, startled, and a whole overlay of pain fell into place. There was a sharp twinge on the back of his left hand, his left shoulder and right foot ached, his face felt swollen, his cheekbones and jaw throbbed. There was an odd pressure on his body from the waist down, and a burning, uncomfortable sensation in his bladder. What the—?

He moved his hand down and bumped again the thing that had fallen off his chest. He explored: smooth, a piece of wood, no, a clipboard. Along the top, maybe a light attached. Something that felt like a button; he pressed it.

The dim light stung his eyes, and he squinted. The clipboard held a spreadsheet. The columns were titled You have sustained the following injuries, You have received the following treatments, and Recovery will consist of: He scanned the first few lines: Dislocated left shoulder, sprained right ankle with possible hairline fracture, lacerations of knee, abrasions, contusions ... What kind of hospital was this?

As his eyes adjusted he looked around. An IV was taped to the back of his left hand, the tube trailing up and away behind him, but it was no hospital room. He was wearing his own clothes, laying in what appeared to be an ordinary reclining chair, in a small storage room lined with bookcases holding computer equipment and backup tapes. There was a door ahead of him, beyond his feet, and another to his right. Both were closed.

He picked up the clipboard again and read more details... He scanned the second column: pressure bandage, IV—saline with electrolytes / glucose, catheterization ...

He laid the clipboard on his chest and slid his hand under his waistband. What the hell? Bike shorts? a butcher's knife slicing his clothes away
panic

He fought vertigo again as he explored. Oh, that tubing was definitely gonna come out—he'd be damned if they'd find him leashed to the chair when they came back! He took a firm grip, clenched his teeth, and steadily pulled. It didn't hurt nearly as much as he had expected it would.

Now the IV. First he flexed the fingers on his left hand. A rumble of pain answered from his shoulder when he lifted the arm slightly, but at least it wasn't broken. That's right, the clipboard had said "dislocated shoulder." his arm twisting back, impossibly high,
a popping sound
pain

He slid the IV out.

He felt in all of his pockets (damn, it hurt in so many places) for the locket, noting that his clothes must have been been cleaned and pressed while he slept (both the shirt sleeves and the pants had the crisp creases that come from ironing.) This detail seemed very slightly reassuring, but he wasn't about to relax until he figured out where he was and who put him here.

He felt along the side of the recliner until he found the handle that brought the chair upright. When the dizziness had passed, he stood and moved toward the door ahead of him, gripping at bookcases as he edged along, getting used to the pain. He hated this, being weak.

The door was locked. He leaned against it, and when tears welled up he brushed them away angrily. He had to hold it together until Mokuba was safe. If Pegasus had hurt him—he growled in rage, rattling the knob. It took a moment for him to notice that there was a light switch next to the door.

He flipped it, and squeezed his eyes shut against the harsh fluorescent buzz. Squinting, he saw that a small table next to the other door held his blue duster, neatly folded, and below that his boots. He shuffled to the table and searched the duster's pockets eagerly. No locket.

He tried the second door. To his surprise it opened. He stepped through into a cell. The cell door was locked. As he gripped the bars and stared down the long torch-lined hallway he realized that he knew those stones. He was still in Pegasus's castle. He had foolishly allowed himself a brief stupid fantasy that somehow a miracle had transported him away, that all the nightmare had been just a nightmare, but now he realized that it was true, it had all really happened ... He backed away from the bars and when he bumped against the back wall he slid down, and wept. "Mokuba," he whispered over and over, "Mokuba." .

He could never estimate later how long he sat here—his grief stopped time—but gradually he became aware that there were noises in the other room. He got to his feet as quietly as he could. Oh, they would pay—

A figure appeared in the doorway. "Come quickly, your brother is looking for you." It was Pegasus's major domo, and he was holding a briefcase out to him. His briefcase?

"Who are you?"

"I am Kurosuke, Kaiba-san." the older man said, bowing slightly.

"You—you work for—him." He balled his fists, erupting. "Where is he? What has he done to Mokuba? I'll kill him. I'll kill him!"

Kurosuke held up a hand. "Your brother has not been harmed. He was too valuable to Mr. Pegasus." He set down the briefcase, reached in his pocket, and removed something which he held out. "He is an extraordinary child."

It was the locket. Seto took it, suddenly silenced.

"Since he was under compulsion to obey, when your brother did not reveal the secret of the key everyone assumed that he did not know it." Kurosuke paused. "Had Mr. Pegasus guessed at the strength of your bond, he would have realized that it was love which sealed the child's lips. He would have known that the way to force your brother to speak was to tell him it was the only way to save your life and your—honor. Had he known, he would have forced him watch ..." He stopped and pressed his lips together, seemingly furious.

"Watch what? Who are you?" asked Seto as he put the locket around his neck. "What kind of trick is this? Do you want money? Is that it?"

Kurosuke shook his head. "Open your briefcase. Call someone to retrieve you. In the chaos you may yet escape unnoticed."

"Where's Pegasus? Take me to him!" he demanded.

Kurosuke shook his head again. "Vengeance must wait for another time. Mr. Pegasus is no longer on the island. You and your brother must leave immediately, while the staff still thinks you are dead."

Seto glared at him for a moment, then unlocked his briefcase and took out his cell phone. "Dead?"

"There is a signed form documenting that your body was disposed." Kurosuke smiled very faintly. "If there is paperwork documenting something, it must be true."

"You seem to have a lot of forms." Seto pointed at the clipboard. "You do this sort of thing often?" Without waiting for an answer he began to dial.

Kurosuke's reply was a diffident tilt of the head. He turned away and began tidying the room, murmuring, "To save one life is to save the world entire.' "

Seto finished his call. "Where is my brother?"

"I will bring him to you, then we will go to the roof. No one will look for you there." his stomach twisting and spinning, darkness yawning.

"Everyone will know. What he did to me." He clutched at the collar of his coat, pulling it tight.

"They will not, unless you tell them. You will see. Have courage young man. You will persevere." Kurosuke unlocked the cell door, and they walked out into the dungeon hallway.

Seto moved through the deserted halls of the castle, numbly at first; but then, as he ascended, despite the pain like shards of glass in his legs, with every step he felt lighter and lighter. It was over, Mokuba was unharmed. Mokuba was safe, now that Pegasus was no longer a threat. Mokuba was rescued. Over and over he repeated rescued, safe, unharmed, rescued, safe, unharmed.

Finally he arrived in the grand entrance hall, and through the door he heard Mokuba shouting, "Nii-sama! Niiii-sama! Where are you? Nii-samaaaa!"

Kurosuke threw open the doors then, and through them the descending sun blazed, a molten yellow pearl in an aching shell of of pink and gold, with handmaids of cloud on the edge of the blue ... but Seto saw none of this, for his eyes were filled with his brother, his world entire. The End. . .

Yu-Gi-oh is copyright (c) 1996 Kazuki Takahashi and Konami.
No infringement or disrespect was intended by this non-commercial work of fiction.
The Commodores' "BrickHouse" is (c) 1977, Motown Records.
Isaac Hayes' "Shaft" is (c) 1971 Fantasy, Inc.
Parliament's "Flashlight" is (c) 1977 Mercury Records.

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Rambly Author's Notes ( edited version) Commence ...

May the copyright holder (as noted, Kazuki Takahashi and Konami) forgive me for what I've with their characters. But I had my reasons, so please listen.

In October 2002, when trying to get a feel for ratings so that I could post my first fanfic (a hideous one that will never be seen again), I read a oneshot rapefic, in which Kaiba was abased and then abandoned.

It pissed me off.

Yes, I know Seto Kaiba is an imaginary character, but something in the character connects to part of me, so when he's abused, my psyche feels assaulted as well. I felt poisoned by that story: KP Duty was my antidote.

Apology to Pegasus-lovers: Yes, I've warped the metrosexual Mr. Crawford, but at the time I started the story I didn't know about Cyndia/Cecelia. Later episodes pointed to the sennen eye -- or a deliberate pose on his part (see Bakura's fortunetelling before the eye is taken)—as the source of his "predatory" vibe. Yes, it's an offensive stereotype. Yes, pedophiles (or in this case, "ephebophiles") are rarely that flashy ... But someone had to be the bad guy so yes, this Pegsu is expedient plot device. I'll admit I'm a bad, lazy author. (Jan 2003 update: P will re-appear, more fully characterized in two other stories I plan to set in this AU.)

Thanks to Eriko, tjrad815, Suzuki, Initial DK, Duelist Chick, Ryugi Otogi, shinraisei and Riori2 for the "Mokuba—wooden horse?" thread on pojo in late 2002 and the relation of the story of the Trojan Horse to the Kaiba psychology. That thread led (both directly and indirectly) to some of the imagery of chapter 2. Sweatdrops and groveling if I forgot anyone. ~ The tone of this story (but especially chapter 3) was set by Estonian composer Arvo Part's Tabula Rasa, and especially, "Cantus in Memory of Benjamin Britten". It is the most unbearably sad, beautiful, and yet luminously transcendent music I have ever heard. I owe you something after you putting you through this, and I hope you're curious about music that requires 5 adjectives. ~ Finally, and in a way most importantly, I would like to thank Cassandra Cassidy, author of "A Thousand Pardons, Mr. Pegasus" who indirectly gave me an essential spark in her story description. By saying that her story was "the only fanfic centered around Croquet" (well, it's the only funny one that I know of) she called my attention to a throwaway character who stood apart from Pegsu's other goons the more I looked at him.

The car described in Kaiba's soul-dream is real: the 48-valve, 7.9 liter Bugatti Veyron. When it came out, it was to be both the most expensive (850,000 to 2,000,000, depending on who you read) and the fastest (0 to 300 kpm in 14 seconds) production car ever made. It is staggeringly beautiful. There is a blue-and black version of the Veyron, but not one in pure Dragon Blue—although Seto'd have a custom one anyhow, right? :p)

Thanks to shinraisei, Eriko and Sakura TAA for clarifying "nii-sama."

A few extra rambles about being soul-less

When I first conceived the story I did a bit of informal polling on the PoJo ezboard about what it meant to be "soul-less." Since what people said didn't contradict my working theory, I made a list of facts I decided to use. (Thanks especially to John, Kopaka of Ice, aznumbskull, and LilyAngel for responding to the specific post, and to others who made valuable comments in other contexts.)

1. According to Pegasus, "they only obey his voice" but apparently can be led (see: Mokuba). This ultimately lead to the idea of Kurosuke using recordings of Pegasus to control the victims. And helps reduce the expository awkwardness that a total bathe and dress would have required.

2. The soulless are capable of limited voluntary actions, however—for example, Mokuba does take the Duel Disk when it's handed to him, w/o prompting. I decided to use that on the dish-washing, but drew the line at opening a door. In other words, they could deal with something that was "at hand" as long as it related to a prior command, but couldn't "decide" to do things like turn door handles. You could probably challenge me on this point, re: how is reaching for the dishes to wash them different than reaching out and turning a door handle?, but hopefully it doesn't make too large a hole in the story.

3. I deduce that the soul-less aren't completely "unconscious", else they couldn't do #1 or #2 at all. However, I also assumed that, overwhelmed by what's happening, Kaiba can escape to a place in his psyche where he can shut his perceptions out, much like what happens in severe MPD.

A final word on Kurosuke

Through the process of writing this story, I have come to an inexplicable conviction that Takahashi "drew himself in" as Kurosuke (I've used his wacky sub name: he's Crockett in the original and Croquet in the American dub). I don't have anything but intuition here (and the vague idea that Kurosuke looks about the right age)... perhaps it's his comment at the very end when he tells the duelists that they "Did good." Maybe it's my wondering exactly when it was that Pegasus had time to tell Croquet where to find the Bond of Friendship card—what with the bleeding and unconsciousness and all? Well, if if he ever does admit it in an interview (yeah, right) I want you to remember that I called it!

And she goes on: Story Continuity

Part of the fun of writing a "fill in the untold story" story is making sure the pieces actually fit with what is seen in the episodes.

After I had the rough outline for the story, I sat down with the English subtitled DVDs of TV Season 1 and 2 and watched episodes (22-40) for appearances of Kurosuke/Croquet or the soulless, starting with Kaiba vs. Peg through Yugi vs. Peg, up to and including Kaiba coming out of the castle. (I had always wondered about that too, vaguely—who let him out? Hadn't we seen him in a cell somewhere?)

Note: when I wrote this story I had not yet seen the manga. I already know that, in the manga, after his soul is released Seto is "led" out of his cell by his younger self. I did revise chapter 5 a bit after I saw that, but Kurosuke isn't in the manga, and I wanted him to be in my story. Authorial prerogative—pick and choose...) I decided arbitrarily that the Kaiba duels and loss of soul took place on a Friday, the semi-finals on a Saturday, and the Yugi-Pegasus duel and restoration of souls on a Sunday. The symbolism was all for my backstory.

It was exhilarating that almost nothing I saw contradicted what I wanted to do—in fact, it almost seemed tailor made. Kaiba is never shown the entire time he's soul-less until he is re-united with Mokuba, except for a brief shiver when his soul is restored and another brief bit right after Yugi has his Shadi encounter. Adjusting my rough draft to accommodate these actually helped shape Chapter 5. There is still a tiny nit-picky error, regarding Seto's jacket, but it's good for the soul to accept less than perfection.

2002.11.10 first publication
(051) 18 Mar 2010 edits.