Yu-Gi-Oh is the intellectual property of Kazuki Takahashi and Konami, and is being used in this fanfiction for fan purposes only. No infringement or disrespect of the original copyright holders of Yu-Gi-Oh! or its derivative works is intended by this fanfiction.
Warning: This series has references to physical/sexual assault/abuse.
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Beholden 2: Arrangements
by Animom
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Mokuba had accused him years ago of not understanding what made people tick unless Millie, the KaibaCorp computer AI, collected and analyzed data for him—and while that had been true once, he had long ago learned to do his own observation and analysis.
Doctor Stanton had clearly started with the intention of focusing on him—which made sense, he was not only the elder but the intended custodian—but when Seto did not participate in the American handshake custom, and kept his sunglasses on against the relentlessly-bright California sunlight and fluorescent lighting, the doctor had hesitantly switched his attention to Mokuba, glancing back and forth between them until it sunk in that Seto had willingly conceded the conversational lead to Mokuba's superior social skills.
The clock ticked loudly. "Is there a problem with the paperwork?" Mokuba asked.
Doctor Stanton licked his thumb, using the moist finger to turn a page. "Not really. Just some points I'd like to go over. I see that a Mr. Kurosuke is listed on the discharge form? I assume he is the same Kurosuke who was stipulated as the preferred caregiver in the power of attorney document?"
"Yes," Mokuba said. "Kurosuke was Crawford's chief of security once, but he also has medical training. He's arriving tomorrow evening."
"A licensed physician's assistant, I see," Stanton said. 'That's all well and good, but you do know that you will need at least two additional caregivers for around-the-clock care? Considering Mr. Crawford's diagnosis, you might want to forgo the clinical trial and just place him in hospice straightaway—I can recommend several excellent facilities."
"If we did that he'd be surrounded by strangers all the time," Mokuba asked. "Didn't you say that familiar faces would help bring back his memory?"
"I said Mr. Crawford might recover his memory," Stanton corrected. "Might. There are no guarantees even in a healthy individual. When you factor in the progression of his illness, the potential side effects of experimental treatments, the stress and chaos of being relocated to a strange environment—"
"There will be no chaos," Seto said firmly.
Doctor Stanton looked down at the papers again. "But I already see chaos, Mr. Kaiba. You expect us to release Mr. Crawford to your custody without providing the local address where he will be taken?"
"We're looking at houses tomorrow, " Mokuba said. He took out his wallet and removed a business card which he held out to Stanton. "This is the realtor we're working with. I'll have an address for you in a day or two."
Stanton made a note of the number, then handed the card back. "One other thing puzzles me," he said, adjusting his glasses. "You two obviously knew Mr. Crawford well enough to agree to become his guardian. Why didn't you ever report that he was missing?"
Seto didn't like the insinuation. "I wasn't aware that this was a police investigation."
"I didn't say it was," Stanton replied. "Should it be?"
"Hey hey, calm down everyone," Mokuba said. "Doctor, my brother and I participated in a gaming tournament Peg ... er, Mr. Crawford ... hosted when we were teenagers, and we had occasional business dealings with him, but once he retired we lost track of him."
"I see. It seems odd that he held on to this document, then."
"It was a joke," Seto said. "He had a childish sense of humor."
Mokuba nodded. "That's my take too."
"Yet he seems to have treated the document very seriously," Stanton said, frowning. "He had it witnessed and sent to his lawyers for safekeeping." Stanton looked down at the papers on his desk for long moments before continuing. "I must be honest with you. I have reservations about releasing Mr. Crawford into your custody."
"Why?"
"Because it seems to me that you clearly are unwilling to take on this guardianship." Stanton folded his hands and leaned forward. "In fact, it has been suggested that we file an injunction to prevent Mr. Crawford from being removed from this facility."
The comment was a slap in the face. "Who is making that suggestion?" Seto demanded.
"I cannot say."
"Until last week, Doctor," he said, careful to keep his voice calm, "every minute of my every waking hour was spent running my multinational corporation and its subsidiaries, yet this unexpected responsibility has forced me to set everything aside."
"Is that an admission that you resent having to take care of Mr. Crawford?"
"Of course I resent it," Seto said angrily. "It's an inconvenience. But that will not prevent me from doing what needs to be done." Mokuba was looking at him strangely. "I'd think you'd be relieved, doctor," Seto said, forcing himself to sound casual, "to have such a disagreeable person removed from your ward and the state's ledgers."
Stanton, it seemed, had no sense of humor. "That's not how—"
"Oh, he didn't mean it," Mokuba said quickly. "He's trying to be funny."
"It's hardly an appropriate subject!" Stanton said, but they were saved from further scolding by the telephone's ring. "I'll need to take this," Stanton said, "Would you excuse me?"
"Of course," Mokuba said, pulling Seto out into the hall and closing Stanton's office door. "You look like hell today, big brother."
"Blame the temperature extremes," Seto said, removing his sunglasses to rub his eyes. "Too hot outside, too cold inside."
"Hey, I had an idea," Mokuba said. "I don't think Pegasus ever sold Duelist Island. Instead of trying to rent something, why don't we see if his mansion is—"
"No."
"Why not?" Mokuba kept going. "It's ideal. Familiar surroundings, plenty of space, a helipad ... the tech probably needs updating, but that's easy to do. Hell, I'll bet we could even get most of the gang out there. It'd be like a reunion party."
"I will not go back to that place."
Gleaming under the blinding fluorescent lights,
steel tables with piles of dishes,
flashing knives and angry hands …
"Seto, I know something's going on." Mokuba had his serious face on. "I'm worried about you. Talk to me."
He needed, once again, to be careful. Mokuba didn't need to know about things that could never be changed. "Talk about what?"
"Pegasus. You two were close when we were kids—I even remember being jealous that he got to talk to you in e-mails all the time and I didn't—and now it's like you hate him. Why?"
Mokuba was never going to know about the loser who was too weak to avoid being fucked over by five men in the Duelist Kingdom kitchen. "He kidnapped you and tried to destroy our company. That's reason enough."
"No, that was business. There's more to it than that," Mokuba insisted. "I know there is."
Seto put his sunglasses back on. "No, There isn't."
"Fine. You win. Topic dropped." Mokuba pointed toward the front of the building. "Go back to the hotel. Get some sleep. I'll finish up with Stanton. Any opposition to enrolling Pegasus in one of the experimental clinical trials?"
"Pick whatever will make best use of him." Let the lab rat die in agony. "And—"
"And you want me to call you so that you can listen in." There was affection under the exasperation. "You're such a control freak." He took out his phone.
"I trust," Seto said, answering the call as he walked away, "that you will tell Stanton only what is necessary to get him out of our way."
"Funny how your trust involves eavesdropping," Mokuba said as he slid his phone into his pocket.
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The car was on the freeway before Stanton called Mokuba back into his office and the conversation resumed.
"Your brother isn't joining us?" Stanton asked.
"No, I sent him off to get some rest. This past week has really worn him out."
"The disruption must be stressful on you both," Stanton said. "Surely your company's staff could help with the arrangements?"
"We don't feel like it's something that can be delegated."
There was a long pause. Seto glanced at the phone to make sure that he hadn't been disconnected or muted, then realized from the faint rustling sounds that Stanton was still going over the paperwork. Couldn't the man read faster than 20 words a minute?
"If I ask you a question off the record," Stanton said unexpectedly, "would you answer it? Off the record?"
"That would depend on the question," Mokuba said.
"Would you tell me about your brother's relationship with Mr. Crawford?"
Seto gripped the phone.
"We had a tough time when we were kids," Mokuba said. "Our parents died when I was a baby. Our relatives screwed us over and we were sent to an orphanage. We were adopted by Gozaburo Kaiba, who didn't want my brother to do anything but focus on studies. Gozaburo didn't let us hang out with other kids, since he believed that having friends isn't productive. He even kept my brother and I apart most of the day so I wouldn't distract him."
"That must have been a painful, lonely childhood."
Seto scowled. What was Stanton doing? Mokuba didn't need psychoanalytical bullshit.
"It sounds worse than it was, but I'm getting off-topic. You asked about Pegasus."
"Pegasus?"
"Oh," Mokuba chuckled. "That was what Mr. Crawford preferred to be called back then. Anyhow, despite the obstacles, he and Seto became pen-pals. Pegasus was like a big brother to Seto—they're only eight years apart."
"I see. But I assume they had a falling out?"
"Yeah, when my brother was in high school."
"Did something inappropriate happen, or did your brother simply outgrow him?"
Seto took the phone away from his ear, holding it with both hands at he stared at the Mute button. A slither of nausea uncoiled in his stomach. Inappropriate. Well, that was certainly one way to describe it.
"After Gozaburo died Pegasus started trying to take over our company."
"That type of behavior could certainly destroy a friendship."
The pompous old fool had no idea. Nausea turned to rage: Seto gripped the phone so hard his hands hurt.
"As we said, Pegasus probably dared my brother to sign that document," Mokuba said, "just to mess with him."
"But … " Stanton sounded offended. "Why would your brother go along with such a charade if he was no longer on good terms with Mr. Crawford? And why is he willing to honor such an arrangement now?"
"Because," Mokuba said, "Seto likes to win. Even if he doesn't know what game he's playing."
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"Are you sure you don't want to see the inside?" The realtor, a tiny blonde woman in pastel business attire, hurried after them. "Five bedrooms, six bathrooms, three fireplaces, eight thousand square feet in the main house, three bedrooms in the guest house for the nursing staff, a helicopter landing pad, a pool house—it's everything you asked for!"
"A pool house?" Seto muttered to Mokuba. "You asked for a pool house?"
"Yes. Swimming is very relaxing," Mokuba answered. "And we could be here for weeks. Months."
"Doubtful," Seto replied. "He'll die soon."
"Getting your hopes up, huh?" Mokuba teased.
The realtor was determined to continue her pitch. "The owners are very flexible about the lease, you can set your own terms ..."
"She's still talking?" Seto got into the car and took out his phone.
"I don't understand why your brother won't take just five minutes to look inside," he heard her say to Mokuba. "It's beautifully decorated. All furnishings one-of-a-kind, made by local artisans. I assure you, it's the best house on the market."
He waited a few beats in case Mokuba was going to answer, then said, "And yet you held this so-called best until last. You may wear other clients down by showing them garbage until they are desperate, but that will not work with us." He began scrolling through his messages. "All you have accomplished is to waste our time."
Mokuba leaned down to scowl at him through the car window. "Seto? Participate. This should be your decision too."
"Why? You provided criteria," he said. "They obviously have not been met."
"Actually all the houses we've looked at have been exactly what we need," Mokuba said. "I was just hoping there'd be one that you'd like more than the others."
"Houses are all the same to me. Boxes with carpeting. I have no preference."
Mokuba straightened up and said the realtor, "I guess this one will do, Sherrie, since we've gone through everything else."
"Well, there is one more, but—"
"Of course. There is always one more," Seto muttered.
"What type of property is it?" Mokuba asked.
"You wouldn't be interested," she said. "It's in the middle of the desert, miles from the road and neighbors. The house is small. No pool, no high-tech. I suppose you could land a helicopter there, but the guest house is—" She paused. "Well, trust me, it couldn't be less of what you want."
"Her conviction that it is unsuitable most likely means that it is ideal," Seto said, not looking up.
Mokuba ignored this. "Tell me more about it."
She sighed. "It has—well, it has what we usually pitch as a 'colorful' past. Built by a wealthy eccentric—although for legal reasons I can't give you his name—it's very odd architecturally."
"Odd how?"
"The rumor is that it was designed for private parties at which, um, unusual entertainment was provided."
"Entertainment? Really?" Mokuba chuckled. "Now you've made me curious."
Seto didn't understand why his brother got into these sort of conversations with strangers.
"After the original owner died," Sherrie continued, "the property was used for a while by various federal agencies as a safe house, but it hasn't had regular tenants in decades. We don't show it unless specifically requested, since the place pretty much gives people the jitters. A movie was shot there about fifteen years ago, and every few years someone rents it for weird weddings, but mostly the local kids go there to drink and fool around." She paused. "Which means that it's ... well, there's likely to be trash and graffiti. It's not what I'd consider showable. "
"I'll take that into account. Let's go!"
Seto waited until Mokuba was in the car to ask, "Why are you prolonging this ordeal? Didn't you just agree to lease this house?"
Mokuba shrugged. "Yeah, but another half-hour isn't going to kill anyone, and it'll be fun to check the freaky house for mysterious stains."
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They followed the realtor's car as it turned off the main road and drove across the desert toward foothills speckled with clumps of low vegetation, finally stopping near a dry stream bed at the base of a cliff.
"Out of the way is right," Mokuba said, grinning.
"I don't like the look of this, sir," their driver said, discreetly taking something out of the glove compartment.
Seto—who assumed that the driver had retrieved a firearm—replied, "Yes, but It's the first thing today that hasn't been boring." He watched 'Sherrie' wobbling as she stepped carefully across the rocky ground to them.
"We'll have to walk the rest of the way," she said. "It's not far."
"Want me to tag along?" the driver asked.
"No, stay here and keep watch," Seto said as he got out of the car. "Fire a warning shot if there's danger."
"Warning shot?" Sherrie's eyes were comically wide.
"He's joking," Mokuba told her. "Lead on."
The stream bed led through a narrow passage, then took a turn into a box canyon whose relatively smooth sides and floor had clearly been excavated by heavy machinery. A long, one-story shed with a slanted roof was at the far side of the canyon, a structure with no visible doors or windows in its vandalized walls.
"Ugh, I apologize for all that," Sherrie said, paging through a small notebook. "Just let me find the keycode."
"Written on paper. How quaint." Seto folded his arms, then walked past her to the far side of the shed. "There's no need to go inside."
The wall he faced was transparent. Behind the spray-painted gang symbols and crude pornographic drawings was a spartan interior. Dirty white walls, devoid of any decoration. Two metal bed frames without mattresses, a metal table with four metal chairs. In the back corner a steel washbasin and toilet. There was a metal door—he assumed it was a door, though it had no visible handle—set into the side wall. The floor was tiled, with a number of small drains. "The government had poor taste in decorators."
"I've heard they actually improved it," Sherrie said, still searching her notebook. "I know they added the, ah, facilities."
"It was built without a toilet?" Mokuba asked. "Why would anyone agree to live there? It would be like being an animal at the zoo."
"Or," Seto said, "that was the entertainment."
The realtor, with a surge of false cheer, said, "Oh, here it is, the code for the house—do you even want to bother seeing it?"
"The house?"
Sherrie pointed at the canyon wall: what he'd taken to be irregularities in the stone were in fact small, very deep-set windows. "So this—" He turned back to the small building.
"Is the guest house, yes."
"So not only did he put people in a cage, he designed the house so that he could spy on them?" Mokuba now had the look of pained outrage he usually reserved for endangered species and rainforests.
Sherrie looked distressed.
"And now," Seto said, "show us the house behind the peepholes. My brother wants to check the rooms for bloodstains."
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The silver-haired prisoner had been confused at first.
Confusion transitioned to panic once he noticed that the room's only door had no handle. He pounded on the heavy transparent plastic wall, then tried reaching the corrugated tin ceiling by standing on a chair atop the table. When neither of these allowed him to escape he began shouting and throwing the chairs.
The entire performance was eerily soundless to the watcher who sat hidden in the cool shadows of the main house.
When the prisoner finally tired he went to the sink, raging when the faucet gave him no water. He spent several seconds looking down into the metal toilet, but apparently could not yet bring himself to drink from it.
The watcher smiled. Someday soon, hunger and thirst and pain and terror would drive the silver-haired man to debase himself in many, many ways.
At last, his sweat-soaked shirt evidence that the temperature inside the guest house was well on its way to being unbearable, the prisoner curled up on the tile floor, utterly defeated ...
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Seto opened his eyes. He was lying on a leather couch, covered with a soft blanket, in a huge open room. A three-story wall of glass gave a panoramic view of the surrounding hills, gold with purple shadows in the late afternoon sun.
Mokuba sat a few feet away in a deep leather armchair. "Welcome back," he said quietly, closing his book. "Feeling any better?"
"What ... " Seto sat up, fuzzy-headed. He was disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings: tables made of boulders, lamps made of driftwood, rustic woven rugs swirling with blue and green. "Where am I?"
Mokuba chuckled. "This is the house we rented. You don't remember? You passed out in the car after we left the hotel yesterday. I let you sleep while we went to the airport to pick up Kurosuke, and since you were still in dreamland when we got here, we just carried you in with the rest of the luggage, stole your shoes, and dumped you on the couch."
"How long was I asleep?"
"About twenty hours," Mokuba said. "I was beginning to wonder if we'd have to scrounge up a spare bedpan."
"Kurosuke?"
"He's in the guest house," Mokuba said. "Along with the two nurses."
Seto was annoyed. "You sat reading for an entire day instead of waking me?"
"Nah, I've done lots of things. Yesterday I signed for the medical equipment, called Becky, calmed down your PA, went swimming."
"The pool is adequate?"
"More than adequate. You should try it."
"So this house meets your criteria?"
"I guess," Mokuba said, getting out of his chair to lift up the stone disc in the center of the massive stone coffee table. Under the disc was a charred hole. "Hey—I think this is a firepit table! I didn't think you could use these indoors."
"Focus, Mokuba." It seemed that there would always be a part of his brother that was an exuberant child. "There's something wrong with this house?"
"Nah, it's fine. Not as exciting as the Freaky Human Zoo House, but the view's much better."
"Agreed."
"Anyhow, this morning Kurosuke and I picked Pegasus up from Doctor Stanton and took him in the 'copter over to to Loma Linda."
"And that ... went well?"
"You want details?"
"I suppose I should hear them." He shrugged.
"The treatment is definitely aggressive," Mokuba said, settling back into his chair. "They packed radioactive ceramic pellets in his eye socket, and gave us IV bags for chemo. On the way back the helicopter scared him and he threw up a lot. He's been pretty out of it since." Mokuba shook his head. "He looks old, Seto. Really old. As if he's aged thirty years the past few days. He must be in a lot of pain."
Good.
"Want to go over to the guest house to see?" Mokuba was pretending to be nonchalant, but was watching him avidly.
"If you wish."
As they walked across the flagstone patio separating the main house from the guest house, Seto acknowledged that he was just as apprehensive—perhaps more apprehensive—about seeing Kurosuke as he was seeing Pegasus again. After all, Kurosuke had been the one who'd rescued him after the Big Five and Pegasus were done with him; cleaned him up, tended his wounds, hidden him from further harm until the tournament was over and his soul had been returned. Kurosuke's only acknowledgment of their shared experience had been, year after year, a simple New Year's card. The sight of that envelope had at first worried Seto, thinking that Kurosuke would require bribes to keep silent, but as time went by and Kurosuke made no attempt to blackmail him, Seto's disbelief had turned to relief, then gratitude, and finally a muted indifference, as the memory of what had happened to him became like seeing a photograph, a photograph of something that had happened to someone else.
But now here he was, about to be face to face again with the one person who had not only saved his life—and thus was owed a debt that could never be repaid—but who knew all the secret details of his ordeal. If he wasn't careful, Mokuba would pick up on the hidden connection, and would want to know why Kurosuke was more than a dim face from his past.
"We set Pegasus up in the master bedroom, " Mokuba said as they walked across the flagstone patio separating the main house from the guest house. "It had plenty of space for the medical equipment, and it's insulated from the noise in the main living area. Obviously Kurosuke took one of the guest bedrooms, and though the two nurses are commuting they said they appreciate having the second bedroom in case they need to stay overtime."
"And you're telling me this why?" Seto asked, though he was secretly relieved to have had his spiraling thoughts interrupted.
"No reason," Mokuba said. "Small talk."
As they entered the guest house Seto noted its efficient design. A central foyer opened into a combined kitchen and dining area that adjoined a living room. Mokuba pointed to a doorway on their left. "Hallway to guest bedrooms. The master suite is at the other end of the house." He crossed the living room. "You coming?"
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Mokuba was right; the man on the bed looked much older than the Pegasus they had seen at Sheridan State Hospital less than a week ago. It wasn't just that his shaved head was dusted with faint silvery stubble; it was the overall impression of frailty and defeat. Oxygen tubing was looped over his face, an IV dripped into the back of one hand, and most of his face was covered with an orange bandage stamped with the symbol for radioactive material. Various small displays against the wall on either side of the rented hospital-type bed monitored pulse, heart rate, blood oxygen level.
Wouldn't it be easy to make all the numbers go to zero?
"Hello, Kaiba-san."
Kurosuke was shorter than Seto remembered, and his dark gray hair had gone white, but he still had the same patient eyes.
"Everyone will know what he did to me."
"They will not, unless you tell them. You will see.
Have courage young man. You will persevere."
"Is he still unconscious?" Mokuba asked.
Kurosuke nodded. "Yes. Under great stress the body shuts down to conserve energy for repair."
"Like sleeping?' Mokuba asked.
"A similar principle."
"Do you think he'll be awake at all?" Mokuba asked. "Before he, you know, passes?"
"I can't say."
"Why?" Seto asked. "You have things to say to him?"
Mokuba, surprised, looked at him for several seconds, then said, "I guess not. Kurosuke, let us know if there's any change in his condition."
"Of course."
As they went back to the main house Mokuba said, "Look, I know that this isn't the most thrilling way to spend a vacation, but the Pegasus that tried to screw us over doesn't exist anymore."
"No, he's not who he once was."
But he was that man once.
"I didn't like him either—he stole my soul too, remember?—but in there is just a sick old guy who's dying, and we're responsible for him until he does."
It can't happen fast enough. "I'm already bored."
Mokuba shook his head. "I figured as much. Well, I'll have to tell Becky that I'll be staying out here until the end."
"You weren't going to?"
"No, originally I promised go back until she finished teaching for the semester, but if Pegasus might not last that long..."
"There's no need to stay." You don't trust me to be alone with him. "Unless you plan hold his hand while he dies," Seto said.
"It doesn't seem right."
"You've already done more than enough—" more than he deserves "—in arranging for the house and the nurses and the clinical trial. Go back to New York."
"It'll only be a couple of days," Mokuba said.
Seto could see the dawning eagerness in his eyes. Mokuba's emotions were far too transparent, but the advantage was that he received immediate gratification when Mokuba was happy
"What are you going to do while I'm gone?" Mokuba asked. "I hope you won't just sit around sulking?"
"I have ways to deal with boredom." Seto said, and then, "I'll have a pod shipped out."
"A pod?" Mokuba shook his head. "I swear, Seto, you and your VR. Go hiking in the real world for a change."
"The real world has far too many bugs."
"VR has bugs too."
"Yes, but those are the kind I can control and eliminate." Seto shrugged. "I'll dust off the ken-do program Millie designed for Tantalus."
"That old thing? With the cave and the Immoveable Master?" Mokuba laughed. "Don't overdo it, okay?"
"Of course not."
"We'll be back with cookies and ungraded student essays before you know it." He hugged Seto. "Take care of yourself, big brother."
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He waited until Mokuba had left for the airport before he went back to the sickroom.
The sun outside the windows had set, and in the twilight Pegasus was lit just enough by the glowing monitors to look like a corpse. A ridiculous, empty husk. Seto could barely stand to look at him, yet at the same time he felt driven by a strange compulsion.
Kurosuke came into the room and stood beside him.
"If he doesn't remember who he is," Seto said, "he doesn't remember what he did to me." The words sliced out of him, but in the pain also felt ... good.
"And if you could restore his memory?" Kurosuke asked. "What then?"
Seto stared at the bony hand, the thin skin stretched by the cannula that had been inserted for drawing blood. "I don't know."
But that was a lie.
He would make Pegasus see how his betrayal had warped Seto's life, made it impossible to trust anyone. He would demand that Pegasus explain why he had done what he had done, and then force Pegasus to apologize until he asked—no, until he begged—for forgiveness.
And then he would crush him and send him to hell.
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~ To be continued ~
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Many thanks to my relentless and exemplary beta Dark Rabbit. Special thanks this chapter to Nalan for medical details.
I touched it last, though, so all mistakes are mine.
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(10) 11 Feb 2013