House of Cards

Genres: Romance, Mystery

Summary: She was a constant presence, lurking behind his closed eyelids, the feeling of her skin smudged with greasepaint beneath his thumb and the smoothness of silk against his skin. Any justice would simply have to wait. / AU Trustshipping Seto x Ishizu

A/N: Written for Round Two of the YGO Fanfiction Competition, Season 9, with the pairing of Trustshipping (Seto x Ishizu). In addition to Trust, there's a side-ship of Rose (Pegasus x Cecelia). This is an AU set in 1920's Hollywood, and while some of the specifics (buildings/places, dates, etc) are real, I'm fictionalizing their context to suit the story. I hope you enjoy!

Huge thanks to LadyBlackwell and Azhdarcho who inspired this story!

On November 26, 1922, archaeologist Howard Carter discovered the tomb of Pharaoh Tutankhamen.

An Egyptian craze swept the nation.

In Hollywood, nothing was more representative and iconic of this than the Egyptian Theatre, which was the home of the first-ever Hollywood premiere…

House of Cards

He got the invitation in the mail a few days before the party. He had been planning to go regardless—they couldn't call it the biggest event in the city if he wasn't there, could they?—and while it was a little thoughtless of his one-time friend to be so late, he expected it of him. Maximilian Pegasus was nothing if not discreet in his partiality.

It was in all the papers; he read them first to see what they were reporting on him and his own company, but occasionally the journalists found other bones to chase than a young executive's exploits in Hollywood for the season. New York was just too damn cold, and if he wanted to freeze from standing and breathing he had a perfectly serviceable refrigerator in the kitchen. No, he had the foresight to see that this city was going to become the place for the elite, and he was determined to at least make them all remember his name, if not his face.

He swung his legs down from where they'd been crossed at the ankles on a coffee table, tossing the invitation to the side. It was made of thick paper, shining like gold, with black script and scarabs patterned in both blues and reds. Dear Seto Kaiba glinted on one flap, and he wondered briefly just how seriously Pegasus was going to take the theme at the theatre's premiere. Knowing him—and he almost wished he didn't—the surface had just barely been cracked.

He glanced at a clock on the opposite wall. Four-thirty. Plenty of time to catch a drink at Varnish before the evening truly began, assuming it hadn't been raided. He hated the music, but after a drink or two that would barely be a care in the back of his mind.

He paused in a mirror to fix his tie, and then he was off.

The building was spectacularly lit, and even in the fading sunlight the bright colors of the façade seemed to be enhanced, so vivid and tasteless in its garishness. Crowds of reporters, photographers, and random hopefuls looking to get into the celebration packed the streets around the front gates, and he waved his invitation towards a tall security guard with a clipboard of names, saying his own, and was passed through without another word. Inside the theatre's courtyard, a giant paved walkway was filled with the city's best, lined with palm trees and decorated in an overdramatic Egyptian motif. On a parapet above the theatre's door, a man dressed as an Egyptian guard marched back and forth, stamping the ground with the staff in his right hand. Along the farthest wall, tables of food were placed near cushions and lanterns for conversation, and Seto saw his benefactor at the same time the other noticed him. It was too late to pretend otherwise, so he suffered the attention as the other crossed the courtyard, throwing his arms wide and shouting to be heard over the noise of dozens of different conversations.

"Seto Kaiba!" Maximilian Pegasus made to shake his hand, but Seto kept his own loosely entrenched in the pockets of his suit. "You must join me, Cecelia is waiting for us in our lounge. The pre-show is about to start, you'll want a good seat."

"If Cecelia insists," he said, halfheartedly following the wide swath Pegasus cut through the crowd. As one of the arrangers of tonight's event, Seto had no doubt that Pegasus would have secured the best possible seats, and if he could bear a few hours of the other's company, he could use it to make introductions with some of Pegasus's other contacts, although here it would be just as easy to let them come to him. With the end of the Great War, the world didn't need munitions as it once had, so he was working on restructuring the business to expand into technology, games, and toys—a lucrative market, and one that didn't come with the side-effect of killing the ones the company products were used against.

"Cecelia." He inclined his head towards her as he took a place on an adjoining seat, the low cushions and tables providing an ideal setting for conversation; this particular grouping bordered the open courtyard, and afforded an excellent view of the entire square and the steps leading up to the theatre doors. "I trust you're doing well."

"Well enough." Cecelia looked radiant in a blue dress, and leaned into the arm Pegasus settled around her shoulders. "And you? Your company? Your brother?"

"All fine. My brother remains in New York." She didn't press him for elaboration, and he didn't give any himself, choosing instead to change the conversation. "Egyptian, Pegasus?"

"Do you like it? You haven't even gotten to the best part yet—I purchased a few choice artifacts for exhibition inside. Of course, I had to be thorough with the details…"

"It's garish. Completely tasteless."

"I can always count on you to be honest, Kaiba," he said. "In your own way. And when you're not honest, you're just as loud." He laughed, tossing his head back, letting his silver hair slip over the shoulders of his well-tailored suit.

"Maybe I can't change your mind, but in cases like this I think I'll let the show speak for itself." Pegasus gestured towards the steps, where a series of costumed guards had assembled. The two on either end raised trumpets and belted out a series of high notes. The double doors opened, and a man dressed in gold entered, a hooded headdress on his head.

"The great Pharaoh Amenhotep!" one of the guards announced, and the man descended the steps, waving to the crowd. He took up a position on a pedestal base, posing with his crook and flail.

"The great Pharaoh Tutankhamen!" The next man to enter wore a replica of the gold mask found in the Valley of the Kings. He crossed to his own pedestal, turning and posing as if a statue in constant, considered motion. Seto was just about to turn away when the third figure entered, a woman crowned in gold, skin of burnished copper emphasized by a white silk dress belted at the waist and a collar of lapis lazuli and other semi-precious stones.

"The great Nefertiti!" called the guard, and the woman took her time on the steps, crossing to a higher pedestal in the exact middle of the courtyard, ascending with the help of a male guest's proffered arm. Seto had seen a picture of the famous bust in the Times, and while this woman bore little resemblance to its structured elegance, there was no denying that she was every bit as captivating.

"Ah, I see he has found something he likes," Pegasus commented, waving his hand in the air for a second to grab the attention of one of the guards. "I'll bring her over here for you."

"That won't be necessary." He could feel the flush on his cheeks, damn it, and his attempts to look suitably irritated and offended only added to the others' delight.

"Do you know how rare it is to find a native Egyptian in this town? She knows it, and we're paying her a small fortune to be here. I consider it getting my money's worth." With a smile, he stood to welcome the woman as she joined them, seating herself on the only empty place, beside Seto.

"The beautiful one has come," Pegasus continued. "That's what Nefertiti means in Egyptian, my dear, and may I say you've earned every accolade."

"Thank you." Her voice was every bit as concurrent as the rest of her, and as she turned her eyes towards Seto, he introduced himself to far less fanfare. She'd had trumpets and a proclamation, but he managed a short nod and as disinterested an expression as he could muster.

"What brings you to Hollywood?" Seto asked.

"Business or pleasure, you mean?" The look she returned was cool yet compelling, and she twisted her mouth into the barest of smiles. "Why can't it be both?"

"Why, indeed," Pegasus said, offering Cecelia his arm as they both stood. "Well, it's business for me, today. We'll be needed inside to introduce the premiere."

The woman waited, raising an eyebrow. When Seto declined to chat, she stood as well, taking a moment to adjust the circle of gold on her head. "I apologize, but I must return inside as well. The living statues are every bit as much of the exhibit as the artifacts on display."

"Let me accompany you." Seto took her arm before she could accept or decline, and steered them both towards the secondary doors where Pegasus and his wife had entered. "Will you tell me your real name? I can't believe you were actually named Nefertiti."

"It's Ishizu," she said.

"Can I see you again, Ishizu?" His hand tightened around her arm for a moment, and they paused before the doors.

"You're seeing me right now." She looked at him, and even in flat sandals their eyes were almost level. He wanted to know what she would look like in heels. Preferably red, but black would do. "If you mean to ask if you can call on me, I can't say yes."

"You're not saying no, either." There was black paint around her upper arm in a block pattern; he smudged it lightly with his thumb. She pulled her arm free, and walked inside the theatre lobby.

Seto caught the door before it closed, slipping inside after her, only to watch her disappear down a side hallway. He thought of following her, and even made it to the corridor's edge to see her talking with one of the costumed guards. He turned back and made his way inside the theatre and took his seat near the front, not even glancing at the artifacts inside glass cabinets against the main wall. He waited as the theatre filled for the movie to begin.

Next to her, how could the premiere itself even compare?

He left as the credits began to roll, one of the first out of his chair and certainly one of the first to re-enter the lobby. The movie couldn't compare, but what he saw before him might.

Broken glass littered the floor, tiled in some mock-Egyptian design. The largest case had been smashed open, and whatever was inside of it was long-gone. Worse, Seto recognized the rest of the people that filled the room—a reporter, a few city policemen he identified from an almost too-close raid on a bar in Bunker Hill, and Pegasus and Cecelia. The latter was sprawled on the floor, blood coating the side of her head.

"Didn't I tell you to close those doors?" One of the policemen berated the other, turning to one of the costumed men. "Open up the side door, tell everyone to exit that way. The lobby is closed-off, this is a crime scene!"

Seto inched closer, observing the room as best he could. "Who did this?" He addressed the first to no one in particular, although his second was aimed directly at Pegasus. "Cecelia…how is she?"

"She's got a pulse," one of the policemen answered for him. "But she won't wake up. Now, are you involved in the investigation at all? If you're just a spectator, buddy, I'll have to ask you to leave."

The reporter stepped closer, capitalizing on her opportunity. "Do you think this had anything to do with the curse?" she asked, as innocuously as possible.

"What curse?" Seto studied the broken case again. "What was in here?"

"An artifact from the actual site of Tutankhamen's tomb," she answered. "A gold statuette of the king. They're all said to be cursed. The officer said he believed that the artifact itself was used to bludgeon—"

"That's enough." The policeman gestured down the hall. "Leave out the side door, please. And don't go sharing any of this, it's classified."

"Until it turns up in the Times tomorrow." The reporter bent to study the dislodged label, attached to a broken section of the case.

As Seto left, he glanced down the same side corridor, only to see the slightest flash of disappearing silk as its wearer vanished through a doorway.

True to the reporter's word, it wasn't the premiere that made the front page but the theft of one of the most prized artifacts on display. He wasn't concerned with the statuette, but a brief inquiry at the nearest hospital had informed him that Cecelia was still comatose, but thankfully alive.

The article declared that the curse was responsible—the same curse that had haunted the New York exhibit that highlighted the tomb's relics. Death, destruction, and doubt followed any extension of the tomb, the reporter claimed. They had even interviewed one of the Egyptian performers, who insisted that the curse was real, that while on display the ancient artifacts were not afforded the respect they deserved.

A second inquiry to one of the stage managers at the Egyptian Theatre gave him the names of the costumed performers that evening, although Ishizu Ishtar was already known to him. He sent an aide to the address she had listed, on Maple Avenue, only for him to return and tell Seto that the building was an office complex, and not residential. He played the street name around in his head; while not completely unsavory, it hung to the fringes of the city center. It was likely that Ishizu lived close enough to it that the address came naturally when prompted.

"Reservations at the Derby tonight," he reminded his chauffeur. "And drive by Maple on the way."

Nearly two weeks had passed before he saw her again. He had made a point of driving by the area as often as he could, between lunches and dinners or business meetings downtown and parties on the Sunset Strip. He met more stars than he cared to name and made a few business contacts, but he could not get Ishizu out of his mind. She was a constant presence, lurking behind his closed eyelids, the feeling of her skin smudged with greasepaint beneath his thumb and the smoothness of silk against his skin. He wanted to consume her.

It was impossible to eradicate, and after a few days he even gave up trying. He had to see her again; he had to know more about her, to unravel the mystery she'd set for him to solve just by living. He wouldn't accept anything less, and he was convinced that no more perfect woman existed. The beautiful one has come, Pegasus had said. He was right. Seto hated that, but it was true.

The rain was coming down in a thick sheet against a slate-gray sky, and behind dark limousine windows Seto had glanced down a side street to see her talking to a man heavily bundled up for the weather. Ishizu herself had a hood drawn over her head to replace the crown she'd once worn, but he recognized her eyes; they cut across four lanes of traffic to sear through the darkened glass and directly into his.

"Stop the car." He'd ordered it immediately, but regretted it as he marched through collecting puddles and cracked sidewalks, opening his black umbrella to keep his head dry. He approached them quickly, just to see the man grab Ishizu by the arm and shove her back against the concrete wall behind her.

"Hey, you." He glanced between them, puzzled by how calm Ishizu seemed to look. "Is he threatening you?"

"It's none of your business—"

"It is," Seto promised him. Upon closer inspection he saw that this man shared her height and coloring, but there the similarities ended, as the man before him had much sharper features and bone-colored hair that fell into his eyes. "Leave her alone. She's coming with me."

"Marik, leave us," she said. "I won't help you."

He drew his hood down even tighter to shield the rain, before turning and walking away from them. Ishizu moved closer for the cover of Seto's umbrella, and together they walked stiffly back to his car.

"Mind telling me what that was all about?" he asked. "Over lunch."

He pulled the door open for her, and stood exasperated when she refused to get in. "Ishizu. Get in the car. I'll even take you home afterward."

With some reluctance she slid inside, and he followed after snapping the umbrella closed. A few drops of rain had marred the shoulders of his gray suit, and he glanced at the darker spots with distaste before telling his chauffeur to take them somewhere nice.

They rode in relative silence, just the sound of rain sloshing against the windows and the occasional honk of cars on the road. "Any particular reason why you put a fake address with your employers?"

"I thought you said we would talk over lunch." She leaned back into the leather seat, her black hair and black coat almost lost in it.

"We will." The car stopped before the restaurant, and Seto had never been gladder to see a curved overhang between the door and the road. They walked inside the restaurant, and Ishizu shrugged her coat from her shoulders, allowing a doorman to take it. Underneath the coat she was wearing a dress the color of wine—silk again, he noted—and heels. Black. Not bad.

"So tell me," he said, mere seconds after they'd been seated, "about the gentleman threatening you in an alley."

"What's to tell?" She made a pretext of studying her menu. "It was as you said, although know that I could have handled myself."

"He was Egyptian." Seto had suspected it until then—his suspicions combined with Pegasus's earlier do you know how rare it is to find a native Egyptian in this town had been enough for him, but Ishizu confirmed it, glancing downward too quickly. He decided to press further.

"I saw you in a hallway just out of the crime scene," he continued. "Were you escaping it? Or perhaps pursuing the thief?"

"You only think you saw me." Ishizu regarded him with that same easy charm, drawing him in with no more than her eyes and the tilt of her shoulders as she leans closer. "I bet you see me everywhere." She taps the side of her head with a finger, the motion smooth and languid. "Why were you following me today?"

"It was pure coincidence that I found you." She was affecting his delivery; the words didn't come out as eloquent as he'd like.

"Coincidence," she repeated. "A convenient excuse."

"Will you explain how you ended up near a crime scene? Who you really are? Your connection to that—that Egyptian mobster?" he tried again.

"All coincidence." She tossed the word back lightly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her shoulder. "I swear I've never once lied to you."

"You know more than you let on." And he would get the information from her, any way he could. The thought that Ishizu could be connected to a major crime didn't sit well with him.

"I tend to agree that the curse was responsible for the theft," she said. "I have an idea. How about we just enjoy our lunch and each other's company?"

He really couldn't argue with that logic.

It wasn't until he'd returned to his own house that he learned that a second item had been stolen from the Egyptian Theatre's collection.

Seto placed a telephone call to Maximilian Pegasus, who answered it promptly.

"I have someone you might want to investigate. An Egyptian, named Marik." He paused before continuing. "I'm not sure if he's involved in the thefts, but he might be."

The voice Pegasus answered with was markedly different from his usual, completely absent of cheer, substituted instead by a short-fused anger. "I will. I'll find the ones that did this. Justice will not escape them. Nor will punishment."

Seto ended the call, docking the phone with more force than he'd intended. The sound of plastic colliding was brief, and he realized then that he had no way of contacting Ishizu; she'd insisted on being dropped off at the same intersection, although he'd left her his umbrella to defend against the rain.

If she wanted to meet again, she'd have to find him. He didn't consider himself a very difficult man to find.

Three days later, the doorbell rang at close to eight o'clock, and when Seto didn't answer it immediately it rang again. He thought he'd seen enough for nothing to shock him, but the sight of Ishizu on his doorstep did it. She asked to be let inside and he complied, watching the car parked on the edge of the curb pull away. Not a taxi, he noted, but the driver was recognizable.

"The Egyptian guard on the roof," he said under his breath, and Ishizu's expression turned to shock to match his.

"My brother. How did you—"

That wasn't all, but he didn't tell her that. He had seen her talking with the same man—her brother; the costumed guard—in the hallway before the premiere. Plenty of time for someone to steal a priceless artifact when everyone else would have been engaged inside the theatre.

"It doesn't matter. What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," she said.

"Obviously. You're seeing me right now." He led her into the main lounge, offered her a drink. She declined, and he poured one for himself.

"Two thefts," she said, more to herself than to him. "There's a third case in the theatre—a third artifact left."

"You're not making sense." Not that he wasn't pleased to see her, making herself comfortable on a white leather settee, but instead of fixing a second drink he reached out and brushed a hand against her arm, trying to offer whatever consolation he could.

"If you're worried that a gangster would come after you because of something you saw—"

She glanced downward at her feet, clad again in black heels. "Yes. That's exactly it. I don't feel safe…"

"Then stay," he said. "Stay with me."

He drifted closer, still feeling that something was deeply wrong, but unable to stop as he kissed her. He repeated his earlier offer. "Stay."

She nodded and smiled, a different kind of smile than he'd ever seen on her face before. "Yes."

The call came from Pegasus's office.

"First, I wanted you to know that Cecelia is awake, and will make a full recovery, thank God."

"That's good news."

He continued, "I did a little investigation on the suspect you mentioned. His full name's Marik Ishtar—younger brother to the lovely Ishizu. A petty criminal, from what I've heard, but he might have gang connections that could have supported a theft. Do you think he was involved?"

Seto let the phone hang by his ear, his fingers growing stiff around the handle. Not just another random Egyptian, but a relative, and suddenly it all made sense to him—the connections, the cover-up. If Marik went to jail, Ishizu could not escape implication in the crime. Cecelia was awake. It didn't matter about the artifacts; any justice would simply have to wait.

"No," he answered. "He's small-time, like you said. You could look into one of the bigger gangs. See if anyone's trying to sell the artifacts." He already knew that the stolen artifacts would never be sold. He remembered an article in the paper, an Egyptian performer who revered the relics of their past. He would bet it was the same man, the second brother. Three artifacts for the three of them, but no longer.

"I'll do that," Pegasus answered.

"And one more thing. Remove the last artifact from the exhibit. Keep it in a bank vault or a personal safe for a while. Protect it."

"Before they strike again? Done."

"Goodbye." He signed off the call, placing the phone a bit more gently into the cradle before sinking into his office chair. There was nothing left for him to do.

A light knock on the half-open door and Ishizu entered, in the same wine-colored dress she'd worn to their earlier lunch. If she had been listening at the door, she did a good job of not showing it, not that it was important at the moment. He had offered her his protection, after all.

She took her time to circle the room before settling herself on his desk, crossing her legs. Black heels, like before. He could get used to having her around.

"What's wrong?" she asked him.

"It's Hollywood. I'm sick of it." He glanced towards the broad windows; even the view wasn't as good. Not that it mattered when Ishizu was here, rearranging the contents of his desk to make herself more comfortable.

"What do you think about New York?"

End.

Notes:

1) Happy belated birthday, Mr. Kaiba! xD

2) The Egyptian Theatre is real (1922), as is the Brown Derby (1926). I couldn't find any names of LA speakeasies, so I borrowed Varnish, a modern LA bar that styles itself after one. Before WWII, World War I was called the "Great War."

3) Thank you for reading! I would appreciate and value your reviews.

~Jess