A/N: Sorry about the more obvious typos. They've hopefully been corrected. Please let me know if I've made any other oopsies. I'm sure there's probably more and suggestions are welcome.
Synopsis: With the help of Bakura, Kaiba's evil half escapes the Shadow Realm again. They manipulate a gangster, the mysterious Mr. X, into stealing an ancient Egyptian relic: a pair of armbands. This fits into the yamis' plans for revenge, because the bearer of the armbands is Yugi's unknown sister. But Yugi's sister isn't the only one on their hit list; they plan to wreak havoc on Seto Kaiba as well.
A/A/N: I'm trying my best to keep the characters as they should through most of the fic. I'd appreciate it if anyone could let me know if Yugi and co. gets out of character.
Oath of Vengeance
A lone youth, showing the blossoming promise of womanhood, stood at the foot of an earthy grave. Her shoulders were slumped, hands in pockets; she stared blankly at the light grey headstone with hardened, violet eyes. The hint of an approaching storm whipped her nape-length crimson hair and two golden bangs.
Her grungy, overstretched t-shirt and ragged-sleeveless denim jacket afforded her little protection from the wind's clawing, especially where her chest lay bare around the baggy shirt collar. Instead of shivering, she rubbed the chill from her left arm; slender fingers ran across the ridges of an old burn scar. That scar was the only flaw to her otherwise fair, child-like skin.
A ray of the dying sunset caught glints of metal around her neck. One was from a spike-studded collar, and another, hanging low on her chest, was a gold pendant bearing a lioness deity. The girl didn't pay much attention as the gathering storm clouds roared their triumph in their assault on the sun with an earth-shuddering thunderclap.
"Zeri? Zeri! It's time to go!" shouted a man, her social worker, some distance away.
Seconds later, the first heavy drops of rain tumbled to the ground. A flash of lightning illuminated the engraving on the tombstone. It said "Muto"; dark patches of moisture formed where there had been light gray, making it appear that the stone cried.
"Father, I swear I'll find the ones responsible for this," she muttered darkly. Zeri's amethyst eyes were flashing angry slits. "I will make them pay!"
She turned away slowly and walked through the gloom to where a car waited. The grass crackled and squeaked quietly beneath the rubber soles of her tennis shoes; cold droplets of fallen rain clung eagerly to the cuffs of her jeans. Her face was a mask of anger; it seemed the storm mirrored her mood with its own angry rumblings and flashes of blinding white, but the sky wept bitterly for her loss. Rain drops pelted her heavily, flattening out her hair and darkening her clothes.
Quietly, she slid into the passenger seat and crossed her arms. The man next to her brought the car to life, his face barely visible in the soft glow of the instrument panel. Lost deep within her mind, Zeri didn't notice the lights of Los Angeles flickering to life. She sat unmoving, unblinking, allowing the world to wash over her the same way a river swirled around a large stone.
The social worker stole a brief glance at his young charge. The only sounds heard were the hum of the car's engine, the slap-snick of the wiper blades, and the angry hisses of rain tossed away by tires. He noticed that one of the two golden bangs was trying to separate itself from the soft, damp crimson of her head.
The pair continued onward without speaking. Again the social worker glanced at Zeri. Her nimble fingers were absentmindedly probing that scar running the length of her arm, puckered and ridged with age, a grim memory of her past. That was his sole reminder that Zeri wasn't helpless, though she could barely see over the dashboard—assuming she wanted to.
The man, his attention distracted, almost ran into a stopped car. He slammed on the brakes; the rain-slicked asphalt hissed and spat, furious about being disturbed. Zeri grunted, the only acknowledgement she gave to the jarring deceleration as her lithe figure was first caught and held tight by the seatbelt and then flung back into the seat. The violent motion was just what her bangs needed to escape their crimson prison; they achieved their normal position—two golden antennae curved over her head. The rest of her hair regained much of its M-like bird wing shape, velvety feathers framing her graceful but clouded face.
Breathing a sigh of relief, the social worker waited, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Onward they drove in the glare of harsh street lights, the occasional blare of horns nearby from irate drivers on their way to some destination they thought was more important.
The man glanced at Zeri again; she sighed heavily, a look of heavy grief seemingly crushed her small frame from the inside. For the briefest of moments, her body sank into the seat's leather in defeat. With a sharp breath, she realized that she was being watched. Zeri's hands bunched into fists and pressed firmly into the seat, and then she sat up ramrod straight. Her graceful face took on the look of murderous intent; if not for the feral glint in those almond-shaped amethyst orbs, the social worker would have laughed at her posturing.
The driver's mouth opened and snapped shut, and then he cleared his throat. He drummed his thumbs; anything to prove to his own ears that someone was still alive. Almost hyperventilating from his growing unease, the social worker finally said, "You know, Zeri, you would be quite a lovely young lady if you wouldn't scowl so much."
He felt prickles of sweat on the back of his neck; he could sense those eyes piercing him. "And I suppose I should grow fairy wings and wave a magic wand," she growled, adding to her menacing glare, which he felt more than saw.
The bobbing of his Adam's apple and increasingly mechanical demeanor suggested he knew things, dark, worrisome things, about this girl. His throat moved like he was trying to choke down a hockey puck that wouldn't budge. Zeri noticed the play of light from the moisture collecting on the social worker's brow.
"I—I sure hope the plane leaves on time," he said, his face twitching at the sound of his faltering voice.
Another turn and the car was headed for their destination: LAX airport. The soft patter of drizzle tapped softly on the windshield as the engine died. He was about to remove a duffel bag from the trunk, but Zeri beat him to it, even though it was almost too long for her, and decidedly overstuffed. She slung the heavy bag across her left shoulder, and was almost toppled over by the weight of it. Spasms of pain cascaded across her face until she set her jaw with a look of raw determination. The man shook his head in bewilderment as he found his bags and caught up with her.
"Are you—are you sure you don't want any help?" he asked, holding out his hand for the heavy burden, having shifted his bags to one hand.
"No," she ground out between clenched teeth. She walked slowly, each step a definitive splash from her sneakers. The man withdrew his offered hand, fingers curled into a fist at his side.
The pair soon found themselves within the bustling terminal. Zeri's eyes blinked several times, violet eyes adjusting to the antiseptic white light. Bewilderment shown on her face for a split second; the immenseness of this place was a dizzying swirl of bustle and noise. She followed her only guide in this maelstrom of travelers, the social worker.
By the time they checked their luggage, Zeri tried valiantly to conceal her exhaustion. However, the twinges in her arms and legs, plus her labored breathing, betrayed her. A chaffed abrasion flawed her fair skin where the bag had intertwined with her spiked collar.
At the metal detector, a police officer she recognized was waiting. He smiled warmly at the unhappy teen, his grey eyes full of compassion as they made eye contact. Though she still wore her livid face, Zeri's gem-like amethyst eyes communicated her affection for this man. The officer pushed up his cap, revealing black curls underneath. In the crook of one arm, he held a wrapped package, tied with a blue ribbon, its paper iridescent.
"Here, Zeri," her older friend said, "I thought you might like this. Open it on the plane or when you get to your new home." He knelt down and handed her the package.
"Thank you, Pete," she replied solemnly, taking it from him slowly, still making visual contact. He saw the true gratitude residing in those almond-shaped eyes.
Impulsively, Pete tousled the teen's downy hair. "Don't take over Japan now, kiddo," his bassoon voice admonished gently. No longer caring that anyone was watching, Zeri threw an arm around Pete's neck and hugged him.
"You know I never behave," she whispered in his ear, which brought out a chuckle from her friend.
"Be sure to write me sometime," Pete said. The teen nodded against his neck.
They parted as her social worker motioned for Zeri to hurry up. After clearing the metal detector, Zeri allowed the social worker to lead them to the lounge. They didn't have a lengthy wait.
A female voice from the PA system caught their attention, "Flight 229 to Japan, now boarding."
Quickly, the two found their plane and boarded. After being seated, Zeri halfheartedly listened to the usual flight attendant protocol, still lost in some distant corner of her mind. She was jarred from it, however, when the jet's powerful engines roared to life and the plane began coasting into position. Zeri touched the cold, darkened glass of her window as she looked out; she hardly recognized the disbelief and fear in the eyes of her likeness. A drop of water outside her window trickled down the dim reflection like a tear.
The small teen sighed and shifted position—one leg outstretched, the other one bent upward. With arms crossed over her developing chest, she positioned her head so that no one could read her eyes. Zuri's gloomy thoughts replayed that life-altering night yet once more.
~~~
Searing pain throbbed from the back of her skull as she regained consciousness. The teen girl's right hand touched the lump and winced; flecks of dried and sticky blood came away from her crimson hair. Turning her hand over, the girl's violet eyes widened when she saw more blood around her fingernails and on the back of her hand. Trying to steady her thudding heart, she licked her soft lips. The girl's tongue met with the salty metallic sting of more blood. Realizing this, panic began overwhelming her lithe body. But lying here—not knowing what had happened—bothered her even more. Her young face contorted in spasms of pain when she attempted to rise from her flat position.
The teen sat on her knees, eyes closed, willing the pain and rising terror away. Once she felt centered, she opened them. What she beheld by the full moon's light overwhelmed her so that her fair skin drained of color.
A man, no, an intruder lay crumpled in a heap against the far wall. Someone—or something—had shredded the intruder's neatly-pressed suit into bloodied ribbons. There were long claw marks on his face, arms, and chest. In fact, finger-like gouges in the flesh suggested that something had tried ripping out the intruder's heart. But what horrified the small teen the most was the gaping hole torn open in the man's neck. An unrecognizable red lump, just large enough to fill that hole, lay a few feet away. The man's flesh was waxy, his lifeblood having been spilt over the hardboards of her room. Looking around, she noticed a smear of scarlet leading to the open window, and more stains on the gauzy curtains. The teen's brows furrowed, as if trying to remember the significance.
The crimson-haired girl arose to her feet shakily, her breath caught in jagged gasps. Her once golden bangs, now an orange tint, hung limply at the sides of her head. She looked down, only to quit breathing altogether. Drying scarlet discolored her t-shirt and denim jacket. Her slender fingers convulsively wrapped around the pendant hanging from her neck. Then she reached her upper arms for further reassurance, but her fingers only met dried blood and skin, not the special armbands that she always wore. The girl's violet eyes closed, more to calm her nerves than to show grief. Her right hand began caressing the scar running down her left arm, every bump, ridge, and valley memorized long ago. But as she stood there, it dawned on her: the only other noise that greeted her ears was the wind pushing against the curtains.
Her eyes snapped open, pupils constricted in fear. Swallowing nervously, she walked purposefully to her room's door. Light streamed in underneath, and then into the whole room when she stepped into the hallway.
"Daddy? Daddy, are you okay?" she asked, her voice more high-pitched than usual. The living room door was open. The teen's feet traversed the hallway rapidly, fear welling up into her throat with every footfall. Her blood froze when she saw what had happened: her father lay face down on the carpet with a pool of scarlet under his chest. His normally warm brown eyes were now glassy and almost as colorless as his skin. One of her wakizashi, its blade now stained with blood, rested on the carpet nearby.
"Daddy…" the girl, her voice husky with barely restrained emotion, whispered.
She rushed over and sank by his lifeless body; her hand withdrew involuntarily from the cold, clammy feel of his skin. Without thinking, she cradled his head in her small arms, her chest and shoulders heaved with dry sobs. It felt like her heart swelled with an ever-increasing anguish that threatened to kill her.
No longer able to hold it in, she threw her head back forcefully and shrieked, "Why? Why did this happen? Why?" Scalding hot tears ran down her reddened cheeks as she breathed heavily. One tear carved a pink trail through dried blood at one side of her mouth. Trembling violently, her slender fingers pushed aside her father's golden bangs. She kissed his brow tenderly and brushed his eyelids closed with her fingertips.
"I'm sorry I couldn't save you, Daddy," she whispered, her free hand still gently running through his gold and crimson hair. "I loved you… so much…"
So involved in her loss, she didn't hear the police banging on the door. Nor did she notice when the door splintered into shards, the police charging in.
One of the officers saw the teen and hauled her away roughly, grabbing the girl around her waist, "Come here, kid. You have some explaining to do."
"No!" she screamed, struggling in the officer's grasp, her fingers stretched out painfully for her father. She tried harder with every step the officer took, but she just couldn't return to her father's body. The hallway walls pulsed with blue and red from the squad cars outside, though the girl was too upset to notice.
Another officer, waiting outside, pushed up his cap, revealing black curls in the harsh, pulsating lights. His gray eyes flooded with grave concern when he saw the young, blood-stained teen struggling frantically against his fellow officer.
"Zeri? Zeri Muto?" the black-haired officer asked. "Calm down. Making a scene won't do your rep any better."
His bassoon voice penetrated the anguished fog in her mind. Looking around in the surrounding harsh brilliance, she saw not only officers, but curious neighbors wanting to know what was happening. She glowered angrily at the onlookers and continued kicking at the officer's knee.
"You know this kid, Pete?" her captor asked the gray-eyed officer.
A smile tugged at the corners of Pete's mouth. "I sure do. Let me take her in, okay?"
"Hey, it's your health, buddy," the other officer muttered, and then released Zeri with a shove.
For a reply, she defiantly crossed her arms over her developing chest, her face set in fury. But when her eyes met Pete's, that look communicated their special bond. With a heavy breath that suggested Pete wanted to ask what had happened, but dared not, he guided Zeri to his squad car.
"Well, kiddo, I don't remember you looking this bloodied up since you stopped those gang bangers a couple of blocks away," Pete said, walking behind the crimson-haired girl. She didn't say anything; she just let her friend open the backseat door for her so that she could sit down.
She made eye contact again, violet probing gray in the night. "I'd tell you what happened, Pete… if I could only… remember…" She cleared her throat, because her voice was faltering. Pete nodded his understanding; he could just barely make out the faint trail of dried tears on her cheeks. His gray eyes blinked in surprise.
With a sigh, the teen stood, her wrists held out to the officer. "You and I both know this drill, Pete."
~~~
The doctors said that the murder was too traumatic, that it was the reason I can't remember, the teen girl thought. If that's the case, then why do I get the feeling they're wrong? And why are my dreams plagued nightly by that… monster?