April 28, 1915

The steam train puttered down the track smoothly, steam rising from its chimney in perfect cloudlike bursts and puffs. The gentle countryside raced on by—fields, farms, buildings, church steeples, entire little forgotten towns, all eclipsed, blurred, mere afterthoughts, rendered into memory by the seemingly endless onward motion of the locomotive.

The American Midwest certainly had its quaint charms, he supposed.

He turned his face away from the window, away from the greenery and yellowing mass, and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose to ward off what had to be an oncoming headache. The lighting in the train was too bright, the wooden bench in the corner of the car he was perched on too stiff and splintered, the other people in the car too damned chatty, too well-dressed for his liking. Did they have to rub it in—their ease with which they moved through life, their perfectly-folded pocket squares and expensively woven boater hats, while he had to smile uncomfortably, always the pretender in another type of man's clothes?

The train soon came to a stop, the whirring of the wheels on the railroad quieted. He

One of these empty suits, one of the many traveling salesmen who seemed to caw and natter on ceaselessly in this car like vultures on a carcass, had tried to flash a smile in his direction as he had embarked, jostling his rather threadbare suitcase in the process. "How far are you going, friend?"

He'd had to paste a fake, charming smile on his face, eyes lighting up as if they would in a real, genuine one. "Wherever the people are as green as the money, friend."

Friend served as a fuck-you as well as any other term of endearment, he supposed.

He had been so close the last time, so achingly close. He'd had the money in his hands, at the private detective's office, with a letter of a sighting—someone had seen him in Arrowton, or perhaps it had been St. Augustine—the details were loose and sketchy… and then the trail had gone cold once again, all the money dried up once more.

His little brother was still out of his reach.

He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his chin to his chest to let his boater slide down to cover his face, before a few more of the traveling salesman sat down next to him and across from him, effectively boxing him into his seat by the window.

The train car was clearly getting too damned crowded.

He sighed to himself and tilted his hat back over his head, revealing a youthful, handsome face with twinkling blue eyes and the hint of a dimple in his right cheek. The smile he emitted was like the sun—it had to be.

Without the learned ease with which he carried himself, the practiced charm that frankly oozed from his pores, who would Seto Kaiba be?

The other salesmen, sensing nothing amiss, introduced themselves perfunctorily; one of them held up a deck of cards.

"Next station stop: Domino Town, Iowa!"

Just as the train began to jostle its way into motion, a tall, thin man with a shock of white hair burst into the train car, puffing and wheezing, causing a mite of a scene as he slammed the door shut, silencing cries and shouts. He was clad in a similarly well-made suit—white linen, thin gray pinstripes, ideal for the weather, with suspenders, shined shoes, straw boater hat, the works.

Seto noticed the man's heavy leather briefcase, all shiny and slick, which marked him as one of them—one of the traveling salesmen who practically littered this train compartment. Hmm.

This train ride was clearly not his first choice, based on the evident haste with which he had dressed himself.

Judging by the row that had accompanied his arrival, he had been run right out of town, managing to avoid being tarred and feathered by the angry locals.

Seto Kaiba let himself smile a bit at this poor man's misfortune, knowing that if justice were ultimately to be served (some vague notion of justice predicated on honesty, for that matter), it would be himself in the same unwieldy position as this poor fellow—rendered breathless, chased, on the run, utterly miserable.

He bit back a chuckle as the white-haired man wiped a bit of sweat off his brow and turned to the fellow next to him, then buried his nose in the cards in his hand as the men around him chatted amongst themselves. Blending in. Becoming exactly who he needed to be in this situation, as with every situation.

"The climate for traveling salesmen is damned near impossible these days. I say, damned near impossible," muttered the man to no-one in particular, removing his hat, his breaths calming down as the train's motion settled into a low rumble beneath his feet. He glanced around the packed train car wildly, looking for a place to sit, light brown eyes darting in his pale face with a vengeance.

"Ryou Bakura, traveling salesman. Anvils," he huffed, his search futile. Remembering his manners, he extended his hand in turn to several of the other men in the car, who, agreeable enough, murmured some kind of introduction, determined not to let this newcomer spoil their mood.

One of the men piped up. "What did you mean about traveling salesmen? That's my line of work—I sell knives and cutlery, the like."

Ryou leaned against a seat, using his heavy briefcase to stabilize himself in the moving car. "Even for an honest men like ourselves—It's just no good around here these days. I've just been run out of town because of a damned con artist amongst us."

Seto's lips curved into a conspiratorial smirk, which he hid ably. Poor bastard. His suspicion had been correct. Where was this train station, again? He had clearly been here before… He dared not look around for a sign.

The train car filled with increasingly agitated chatter at this prospect. Con artist? Who? Which one of them? Which cities were safe? Which would welcome their efforts, and which would run them out of town like this poor Ryou Bakura fellow?

Ryou raised his voice above the growing clamor. "Yes—his name is Seto Kaiba, and he's been around all the cities and towns in the area and giving every one of us a black eye!"

Seto was used to this sort of thing, so he was able to keep his face neutral, cards close to the vest, so to speak.

"What do you mean?" questioned one of the other salesman, his voice rising in pitch in alarm.

Ryou sighed, wiping his forehead again. "I was just run out of town because of Kaiba—he goes around selling Duel Monsters cards and instruction books and little gaming technologies, some perpetual motion bullshit, all on spec, and promising to teach the kids in town to play—and then he skips with their money before anything arrives!" His voice grew hoarse in disgust. "Honest man like myself, I was just in Hollows Flat to sell some anvils, and they chase me out of town the day after I arrive because he'd gotten there first!"

Ah, Hollows Flat. Seto had managed to make quite a bit of cash off that particular set of naïve children and their loving, malleable parents—of course, that money had ultimately been spent on attempting to track down this brother. With the profits from his time in Hollows Flat, he'd managed to make it all the way to the last orphanage that had held his brother, ten years ago… which had been razed in the years since and turned into a vacant lot.

Another dead end, another disappointment after endless strings.

Of course, the women in Hollows Flat—that had certainly not been a waste. Ha. The women never were. A charming smile and impossibly seductive body language worked wonders on the female sex, he'd found.

And Duel Monsters? Well, he'd picked up the game as a child, moving from home to home—it had been one of the few constants in his life growing up in the system. And while his cards had never been remotely powerful, he'd understood how to make it work in his favor, betting pennies and dimes against his fellow orphans, boys' home-mates, and foster siblings, much to the chagrin of those in charge.

At age sixteen, after years of tinkering with music box and spyglass technologies several years earlier, he'd been able to design a neat little prototype for a card-dealing device—touch the spring in the right way, and the card holder would turn over the top card of a deck.

He was practically a genius, Seto Kaiba was. That was one thing he knew to be true of himself after all this time being someone else.

He was sure that if he'd been born into wealth and privilege, been adopted into comfort and security, even, he'd be able to embark on a different path, go to university. Perhaps he would have grown up kinder, happier, less cynical, more trusting.

Perhaps he wouldn't have to perform the myth, the lie, to parents, to children in towns like Hollows Flat all over the country, again and again, selling them dreams, selling them empty promises he would never, could never deliver. After all, there was no "Kaiba Company"—only a name that he threw around, ever the perfect traveling salesman, ever the kindly entrepreneur. Despite his knowledge of Duel Monsters, despite the device he had invented—there was only the one, the prototype, and that he would never give out.

Perhaps he wouldn't feel such a pang as he counted each citizen's money that they gave to him in droves, sold on his wild fantasies that he would never make good on.

Perhaps Mokuba would not have been separated from him twelve years ago, and perhaps Seto would not be forced to move from town to town, fleecing the locals from Utica to Bakersfield, spending all his funds on trying to find him.

He removed his coat and placed it under his seat, covering the embossed, stick-on letters on his suitcase. Just to make sure.

Caution never hurt anyone, after all. Especially in this line of work—caution could save his life.

After Ryou's announcement, the car was still filled with a crackling, panicked anxiety. How were they to make a living? Support their families?

Ryou ran his hands agitatedly through his hair, his movements angular and tensely strung together. "Just giving you all a heads-up, gentlemen—if you see Seto Kaiba, report him to the proper authorities immediately."

"What does he look like?" someone piped up—one of the salesmen near Seto, raising his head and adjusting his straw boater with a look of alarm.

"Nobody knows—he's never spent a night in jail, so no-one's gotten a police drawing of the man. But, I mean, if you see a man going around town selling Duel Monsters cards and that new-fangled device of his, make sure you question him firmly—perhaps you'll catch him in a lie." The other salesmen nodded amongst themselves, tacitly agreeing to this plan. Seto turned to the men in his vicinity and followed suit, eyes widened in mock sincerity. Of course. We can't afford to let one bad apple spoil our reputations.

"Of course, he'd be a fool to try anything here in the good ol' Midwest," said one of the other salesmen to Ryou, his voice confident in his assertion.

Ryou nodded his head vigorously in agreement. "I agree, friend—Seto Kaiba doesn't know the territory, doesn't know the people, the values… if there's anywhere that could sniff out a crook like him, it'd be 'round these parts."

The voices died down to a low murmur of assent. Of course their business was safe—no man would be foolish enough to try and fool these honest, stubborn folk that you'd find in these towns.

"Can you give me a spot? Legs are killing me," Ryou groaned. One of the other salesmen obliged, letting him squeeze in between himself and his portly neighbor in a most uncomfortable manner.

Seto returned to his card game. Noticing that he had a winning hand, he laid down his cards and pocketed the several dollars that he and his compatriots had bet. Now he had enough for a hot dinner in the next town, and perhaps for a night in a hotel.

Now, what was the next town in this endless mass of small-town America, all stuffed full with corn and wholesome values…and, hopefully, boredom among the locals?

Despite the inherent need for caution, let it be said that Seto Kaiba had a certain eye for a challenge.

"Domino Town!" the conductor rasped, sticking his mustached head into the train car briefly as the train began to slow down.

Well, Domino Town had to be as good a place as any, Seto supposed. He straightened his slightly wilting boater hat on his chestnut hair, reached for his jacket and slid it on, and brushed some invisible lint off his wheat-colored summer suit.

Perfect. Pulled together. Impossible to detect as out of the ordinary.

He looked out of the window at the impending small town one last time, and then focused on his own reflection. He smoothed a strand of hair off of his forehead and arranged his features into that practiced, open smile—his main weapon in this line of work.

This is all for him. Everything—the lies, the scams—it's for him. It was his mantra before every cruel effort he made in every city, every hamlet, every town like this one.

They were starting to blur together.

Amidst the clanging of the bells heralding the train's arrival at the Domino Town station, Seto stood up and hoisted up his briefcase.

"Gentlemen, you have certainly piqued my interest," he began, his voice booming throughout the tiny train car. Ryou and the others turned towards this formerly quiet traveling salesman with the bright, charismatic grin and friendly aura.

"I believe I'll have to give Domino Town a try."

Ryou's eyebrows crashed together; he piped up from where he was squished between two other salesmen, voice fraught with confusion. "Don't believe I caught your name, friend."

Seto raised an eyebrow and looked right at Ryou. "Don't believe I dropped it," he quipped, flashing the lettering on his suitcase—"SETO KAIBA—KAIBA COMPANY"—to everyone in the compartment.

Ryou's eyes widened with understanding—this was the man!— and he struggled to extricate himself from the row of salesmen in order to catch this Seto Kaiba, this phantom who had sat amongst them this whole train ride, who had caused him considerable annoyance and misery…

"It's him!" he shouted—yet the train car was indeed too packed with men all hoping to make their fortune for anyone to be able to reach him in time before he slipped away.

Seto beamed at the group of traveling salesmen, all wiggling towards him like a tangle of worms, before nimbly making his way down the steps and off the train and into the thick of the uncharted waters that lay before him.