Seto Kaiba was growing increasingly sure he had made an excellent decision in his choice of designer for his latest project. He had come across some of her work online, browsing random Blue Eyes White Dragon creations in a moment of downtime, and instantly wanted to hire her to update some of the decorations in his theme park. He had initially been put off by her white hair and blue eyes—since that was a form of dedication to Blue Eyes that he himself wasn't interested in, he found it absurd—but these features were apparently natural. He had someone check up on her before offering a contract, which Facebook and her apparently doting parents made easy: pictures of baby and toddler Kisara, already wildly white-haired and blue-eyed.
The look of his park—everything about Kaibaland, really—was important to him, and he was as hands-on as time allowed with any aspect of the park he felt he had the qualifications to contribute to. Still, he was aware he could have outlined his goals in an email, simple as they were: the designs were beginning to look dated, but obviously the subject would remain the same, just keep the park looking up-to-date. She would then make a handful of prototype designs, he would choose the style he wanted, and she would make final designs that he could then critique and approve: all perfectly reasonable over email.
But here he was, meeting with her for not the first but the second time. In their first meeting, she had brought paper and pencils with her, and made sketches right in his office as he described what he wanted. He respected how quickly she wanted to get to work, but found himself lingering and suggesting a second meeting. The only sour point so far had been when she suggested a simplified, streamlined look that would appeal to young children—it had reminded him of Pegasus's Toon World, and she quickly flipped the page and asked for clarification on what he was looking for. He liked that she responded with such equanimity to his sudden temper, especially since she had no reason to expect he would react that way to something that occurred in a tournament she likely hadn't paid any attention to and couldn't know she was bringing up. But she didn't apologize, or even look nervous, as most employees or contractors would be when faced with his glare: she just went on with what she was doing. If anything, she looked a little annoyed with his attitude, but as she was leaving, she stopped at the door to smile at him and tell him she admired how invested he was in this project. That's when he had impetuously asked for a second meeting.
So here they were, avoiding the office-front traffic by walking briskly through the Kaiba Corp. parking garage toward a limo that would take them to Kaibaland. They could discuss installations in person and compare them to what was being replaced. She was teasing him about the giant statue of himself that overlooked the park, and he was actually… kind of enjoying it.
"I mean, at first I thought it was a little much, but now that I see you're actually that tall, I thought, oh, a life-sized statue of the founder, that's pretty reasonable, isn't it?"
"The Blue Eyes White Dragon I want built over my statue, to scale—that might be a little ostentatious," Kaiba deadpanned. Kisara laughed, and Kaiba smirked. Their interactions reminded him uneasily of the friendly façade he used to adopt when manipulating people to his wishes, but he wasn't trying to trick her into anything that he could tell. He supposed he liked that she had said she admired him; Kaiba earned plenty of sincere compliments, but they usually had the ulterior motive of trying to gain his political favor within the company, and they were rarely about anything he actually felt proud of. He was a genius and he worked hard, those were parts of him, hardly to be noticed more than the color of his hair or the size of his shoes. Kaibaland, on the other hand—that had been a dream he made reality, and he was proud of the result. And he wasn't conscious of any the deliberately saccharine (by his standards) behavior that he used to wear like a mask to try to talk to people. Since his first encounter with the other Yuugi, he had dropped that kind of dealing—it would probably be hilarious, actually, if that group of sheltered morons realized what an improvement his sincere rudeness was over his faked manners. And yet, finding himself in the position of wanting to make a positive impression on someone other than Mokuba, who had remained loyal to him through his most terrible actions, he found himself questioning his own behavior in a way that felt suspiciously like crippling self-doubt hidden deep beneath the surface: Seto Kaiba didn't care about being likable, didn't expect to be likable, and, well—not expecting to be liked, that meant—no, best to avoid that line of thinking. Did it feel disingenuous just to act like himself and expect her to like him? No, definitely avoid that line of thinking. He was Seto Kaiba, after all, what could he possibly have to prove? And Seto Kaiba never lost, not in the end. Anyway, he knew he was coming across well over all and couldn't deny he felt good about it. Plus, he enjoyed the way she glanced appreciatively at him after her laugh. His smirk grew wider.
The pleasant if nerve-wracking feeling did not last long. A hand reached toward his briefcase, and he twisted away automatically, bringing the briefcase up like a shield. A man in dark clothing, the hood of his jacket pulled low over his face, sized up Kaiba before hefting the crowbar in his right hand and circling toward him. Kaiba looked over his shoulder at a noise behind him: another man had shown up, and Kisara had kicked him quite viciously in the shin.
"You bitch!" the man snarled, and he slapped her full in the face, causing her to stagger. Kaiba had no choice but to turn back to his own attacker, using his metal briefcase to block the crowbar aimed at this head. The shock of the impact knocked the briefcase from his hands, and a third man appeared from between parked cars to grab it. Kaiba barely had time to turn and halfway raise his arm before his own briefcase was swung full force into the side of his head, and everything went black.
"Kaiba!" It was the last thing Kisara managed to yell before a man whipped a gag into her mouth, tying it tightly behind her head. She struggled against the man holding her around the waist, but they managed to tie her hands anyway, then blindfolded her. She continued to struggle as much as she could as she was half-dragged, half-carried, until one of the men joked about enjoying watching her squirm, wondering if that was why the Great Seto Kaiba was taking the time to meet with her. The man holding her laughed, and she suddenly felt cold, deep fear seeping into the anger and defiance she felt. Never one for muted emotions, she felt her rage increasing along with her fear as the men joked about where Kaiba must find these beautiful "escorts". After riding in what felt like a cargo van, the men hustled her into some kind of hallway, down stone stairs that felt like they were leading underground, the noise from outside growing muted until silent; damp cold beginning to creep from the walls. She could tell by their sounds of exertion that two of the men were carrying Kaiba, who had still not regained consciousness. She was shoved bodily into a room, and she heard Kaiba groan as they apparently threw him onto the floor next to her. Whatever served as a door clanged ominously as it was slammed shut, and Kisara was left in silence.
Quickly, Kisara dug in her dress pocket for the box knife she carried to sharpen pencils to her exact specification. Tossing out the pencils and erasers in her way, she seized the instrument and opened it with a click. She sawed hurriedly at her bonds, struggling to gain purchase at the awkward angle she had to hold her wrists. Once freed, she whipped off her blindfold and removed the gag, disgusted at the saliva that had accumulated. She glanced around quickly—it actually looked like some kind of stone prison cell, with an old wooden door and what appeared to be a brand new metal lock. Low, guttering light came in through a window that was unbarred but too small to climb through, indicating torches along the passageway. She hurried to Seto, who was beginning to move but still looked unconscious. An enormous bruise covered half his face, and his arm was bleeding through a ragged tear in his right sleeve: a defensive wound from the sharp briefcase corner.
"Mr. Kaiba," she murmured, tapping the unbruised side of his face. "Mr. Kaiba." He flinched slightly away from her hand but his eyes remained shut in a pained grimace. Using her box knife, she cut her blindfold into several bandages and secured them tightly over his wounded arm. He remained motionless. "Please, Mr. Kaiba. Director Kaiba?" He reacted to this second name, once again pulling away from her.
"No," he murmured. She tapped his face again, more urgently.
"Director Kaiba—"
"No!" Kaiba brought his hands to his face, but he still appeared insensible, and Kisara began to worry he was hallucinating. She placed on a hand on his arm, and he jerked away.
"Leave me alone!"
"Director Kaiba, please, I think you're having a nightmare—"
"Stop. Just—leave me alone!" he growled angrily. Kisara became increasingly worried as Kaiba grew more frantic, moving erratically.
"Please, Director Kaiba, you probably have a concussion, you need to hold still!" she admonished.
"I'm—I'm trying, Father! I am! Please, just—no!" Kisara's eyes widened in shock.
Oh, no, she thought numbly. Kaiba appeared increasingly distressed. Director Kaiba, that's what his father would have been called, isn't it? She stopped trying to touch him, instead calling his given name: "Seto? Seto. Set—"
His eyes flew open suddenly, his breathing still labored and panicking. He looked slightly deranged, gaze flying around the cell, until it landed on her.
"You—that girl—in Egypt—!"
"Um, no, Mr. Kaiba. It's Kisara. You hired me through your Advertisement and Design Department." He looked wild for a moment before she could see comprehension dawning in his eyes. Kisara was quick to anger, but quicker to feelings of sympathy and concern. Blessed with a natural gift for kindness, she instinctively knew that to baby him or refer to what she heard would only damage his pride. The impulse to comfort him was strong, but she recognized a complicated stranger in front of her, and had to admit she didn't know how.
"I think you're experiencing mental confusion due to a concussion. With a head injury, it's best not to make sudden movements. Do you remember what happened?" she asked calmly. Seto looked around the cell thoughtfully, when his eyes suddenly widened, and turning into a corner he began to throw up weakly. Kisara steeled her face against the sudden smell of vomit and pulled her handkerchief out of her other pocket, holding it out to Seto as he turned back around. He accepted it without comment and wiped his face.
"How long was I out?" he asked.
"Not long. Maybe a ten minute car ride, then they carried us down here. Less than twenty minutes total," she hazarded.
"Did they say anything about Mokuba?" Kisara shook her head. She could see how thinking about his brother focused him, and she was grateful. He struggled to his feet, and she scrambled to help him up, but he steadfastly ignored her hand. "Do you have anything that could be used to pick a lock?" She held out her box knife and pulled a bobby pin from her hair—long as it was, she purchased especially sturdy bobby pins. Selecting the bobby pin, he leaned on the wall as he made his way to the door, reached one arm out the window and began exploring the lock.
Before too long: click.
"I see you're a man of hidden talents," she ventured, but Seto was in no mood to talk anymore. Grimly, he swung the door open and started down the hall. Kisara passed in front of him, ignoring the glare he gave her for taking the lead. She held her box knife extended in her right hand.