"You're doing what?" The one with the shark-hair looks at the one in the sunglasses that always seem to hide what's going on, on his face.
"I so totally want a piece of that," he says, and then, "has he got anything planned for the kid brother?" And Croquet rolls his eyes (not that you can tell with the sunglasses on), because he'd known that was coming.
"It's just the older one," he tells Kemo, not stopping what he's doing.
Which is lacing up a leather corset-thing, no easy job for a guy his age. Kemo, to his credit, pitches in and helps. "And he's got you doing it?" He can't seem to leave this alone.
Croquet just rolls his eyes instead of answering.
"Well duh." After a moment's silence, Kemo goes ahead and answers himself. "Of course," he says, "I should have figured. Can't see the Master actually getting his hands dirty doing something like that himself. Sitting by and snarking while you do it, maybe."
"And reading a comic book." Corseting finished, Croquet lets himself unbend a little. "And drinking a white wine spritzer," he says.
"Chateau Pegasus." Kemo snerks. Then he looks back at the pile of Croquet's gear, all very black, all very leather-y, and his smile fades again. "Fuck," he says, "you always get the good assignments."
'Good assignment' is not exactly what Croquet would call this one. For that matter, he doesn't get what someone would get out of the arrangement, even someone as undeniably weird as the Master. "It amuses me," is all he was told when he dared to venture a word of question, and when he persisted, Master Pegasus got that look in his one good eye that usually meant someone would be spending time in the dungeons if he wasn't careful. So he shut up again right away.
If it amuses the Master to have his Chief of Security play BDSM games with Kaiba Seto, so be it. What's it to him, he's just earning a paycheck. And if the CEO of KaibaCorp, for that matter, likes to be tied up and whipped in the exact same cell where he was imprisoned not so long ago, well, what of that? Rich guys have to have their fancies. Croquet's just glad he'll never be rich enough to get crazy like that, he thinks, as he slides the black hood over his graying hair and adjusts it so he can see out of the eyeholes. The gloves are next, he puts them on and does up the lacings. Then he hefts the cat o'nine tails and heads on into the Game Room.