"I'm sorry, Mr. Raptor, but I can't help it that your carelessness caused you to gamble away your rarest cards." The petite man with ridiculously spiky hair sat behind a small café table in the corner booth, his round violet eyes stony. He regarded the taller long-haired duelist, currently drunk and in his face, with a mixture of both pity and necessary condescension. He was not going to let this idiot, a once-proud former champion (with a penchant for dinosaur cards, if he was not mistaken), be a liability.
"Perhaps you should consider better games, like Go Fish. That should be right up your alley." He chuckled, then fixed his glare upon the man's companion, who wisely was keeping calm. "I cannot help you. Please turn in your duel disk to my men here, or find another circle of floating games to frequent. Good day."
Raptor, however, wasn't having any of it. He slammed his hands down on the café table and leaned in close. Something pungent permeated his breath. "That's bullshit, Moto! I'm not gonna let you and your fucking thugs cost me my deck! I'm going to Officer Bakura with your next location, and you, all of you, you're fuckin' goin' down!" He gesticulated wildly around the room, accusing all the other men in the room who averted their eyes out of embarrassment.
Yugi stood up and leaned in, narrowing his eyes. Standing up he was only about five feet, but he carried a gravitas that made men much larger than he feel threatened.
"I am not responsible for your failures, Mr. Raptor. Now, we had an agreement. All of us in my circle, we agree to a verbal contract. You do not talk about the locations. You do not make a fool of yourself. Raptor, I wish I could help you. You were a great duelist once, and this time is hard on all of us, isn't it, boys?" Yugi looked around the room at the other duelists, a weary, true smile playing on his lips. Nods and murmurs of assent.
He cut his eyes back to Raptor. Was it Raptor's imagination, or had Yugi's eyes bloodied through to a shade of crimson? "But you, my poor, poor fellow, you lost my sympathy. You dishonored the game with your incredibly stupid bet. And you broke another rule. You forget, we are civilized here. While under my roof, under my protection, in my circle, you do not fucking swear." He motioned to the tall blond and brunet by his side, who rose from their seats. The brunet grabbed ahold of Raptor, while the blond crushed Raptor's friend's shoulder with his grasp.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Underwood, but your rather ill-advised decision to accompany Mr. Raptor here today has consequences for you as well." Raptor's friend paled the same green as his bowl cut. "Perhaps choose a more intimidating backup next time you choose to threaten someone more powerful than you, Mr. Raptor."
"I am going to be a fucking knife in your back, Moto! You'll regret screwing me over, you son of a bitch!" Raptor continued screaming threats as he was dragged out the back door of the bar with Underwood in tow. Screams and blows soon could be heard inside the bar. Joey and Tristan doing what needed to be done. Just doing their jobs.
The rest of the duelists returned to their business, chatting briskly, while Yugi slumped in his seat and placed his head in his hands. Tears brimmed in his eyes as he heard Raptor and Underwood give out final cries of agony. This was all too exhausting, too much sometimes. Having to call upon that part of himself that was strong, that was commanding, that condoned this sort of violence in order to protect his illegal activities.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep a lid on that side of himself.
He could feel himself shivering, turning green. Stop. Get it together. These men look up to you. They need you, and yet they will welch on you at a moment's notice to save their own skin. Nothing is permanent. You are not safe. Get your act together. Stop it. Already he knew that the night would not end well, that alcohol and maybe something harsher would flood his body. Anything to take the edge off.
The door swung open and Joey and Tristan entered, sweaty, their knuckles dotted with blood. Tristan sauntered up to the register, ordered some stiff drinks. Joey quickly hurried to Yugi's side and placed a hand on his back comfortingly. Just like old times. Just like when they were kids, before shit had really gotten heavy.
"It's gonna be okay, Yug."
But empty promises are the most appealing kind.
Yugi flinched, took a shaky breath. "I just hate this part, that's all..."
He reached into his suit breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He wiped the sweat dripping off the end of his nose and then passed it to Joey, who wiped his rosy knuckles clean. Tristan returned to the corner booth with a tray of glasses filled with ice and something alcoholic. Joey passed him the handkerchief and took a gulp from one of the glasses. Tristan wiped his face and hands. He swung down into the booth with Joey and Yugi. The three men were silent amidst the swirl, the murmur of the other duelists in the bar.
Ignoring the clock on the wall that said 4:15 am, Yugi downed the liquid in the glass as color flooded his cheeks. Still the anxiety piped in hot adrenaline through his veins. He grimaced at the taste of scotch as it roared in his ears. Tristan handed Yugi the handkerchief, who wiped the sweat off his brow with shaking hands.
The other duelists in the room had begun talking amongst themselves, leaning over one another's shoulder, discussing cards. They all consciously ignored the trio in the booth. They knew that during times like these it was best to just wait it out, to pretend nothing was wrong so that Yugi could recover, get back on his feet.
Times like these seemed to be happening more and more often these days. Recovery seemed to take longer.
It was a while before someone in the throng gathered up the audacity to ask:
"So, Moto, where's the next floating game going to be?"