Previously on Stars From the Gutter...
In a mysterious, imageless scene involving italicised text, Marik is persuaded to use alchemy to save Ryou's life. Anzu has an unexpected confrontation with quasi-royalty in the workplace; Mai Kujaku, the King's Regent challenges her to a rather meandering card game, and ends with the offer of accommodation at Buckingham Palace. Ryou wakes, unexpectedly alive, and interrupts his saviours at breakfast. It soon transpires that said saviours are in fact itinerant thieves. Despite this, Ryou decides to stay. Not that he has altogether much of a choice, as they are currently thousands of feet above the ground, in a rickety dirigible, on the way towards an unknown destination. Which brings us to...
xXx
"…Hence, the rising price of aluminum is a limit on the current TC-700 engine. Naturally, there are two methods of overcoming this setback. The first: to slave for years on end in an attempt to extract a meagre amount of the mineral from rare, high grade ores. The second: to revolutionise aircraft technology itself. To open the gates to a new age, and radically change Kaiba Corporation's approach. Gentlemen, the rumours you heard in Paris pale in comparison to the truth. Observe: the KC-01."
With an imperious wave of his hand, the curtains part, and the crowd gazes on in awe as Seto Kaiba's newest innovation in unveiled. As he had promised, the burnished silver of aluminum seems distinctly absent from his creation – not that the interior is on display. Light glints in the eyes of a hundred wealthier engineers, and somewhere within the immense halls of the Crystal Palace, a sparrow calls. Fine velvet rustles in the light breeze. For a moment, the calls and cheers of the other exhibitions are inaudible, and the majority of the crowd quivers with anticipation. How soon will it be available? When is the KC-02 to be expected?
And yet, a small minority drum their fingers at another suspiciously formulaic Kaiba Corporation engine. Which, from the look of it, is too clunky to operate in any of the new Giffard dirigibles. Kaiba launches into an explanation of pumps and alternative materials and durability at high altitude, and a few members of the audience start to murmur.
Not overly loudly, of course. That would be improper.
The presentation concludes, and a polite ripple of applause passes through the audience – a prelude, of course, to the most significant aspect of the entire event.
"Any questions?"
A roar of hands. Journalists, engineers and mechanics jostle to make themselves seen, eliciting hisses from passersby and the wealthy gloss of noblemen at the back of the crowd, attracted to the third Great Exhibition by the resplendent domes of the Crystal Palace rather than a thirst for technological innovation, shuffle back in contempt.
"Mr Kaiba, sir!" A harried man with a red nose, tanned skin and an accent, who has been listening intently throughout. Colonial – perhaps Australian. "We heard in Paris that your new design would be revolutionary, but it seems to be a modification of the TC-700, at best. The only difference is in production costs, and that was not what was promoted."
Kaiba smiles soothingly, allowing the fool his say. Around him, the glass panels of the Palace inundate the temporary stage with daylight, and behind him, the new engine's dark, coppery exterior seems to glow. Its sheen reflects in the pale, fragile surfaces of many sculptures of Greek gods, each one lovingly replicated for the Palace's reopening. A few questions will hardly be the downfall of him – not here, with even the architecture on his side. He must look like a holy man, preaching to a devoted congregation. Truly, Kaiba's planning was faultless.
"For the benefit those who have never bought, used, manufactured, fixed, developed or laid eyes upon an airship, I would explain the tedious and convoluted process behind obtaining a pound of aluminum, or indeed the expense of the most archaic engine. However, as you appear to be a in minority of one, I deem it unnecessary. I assume this answers the question?" Titters, largely from the back of the crowd. "And one should never believe what one hears in Paris."
In one sentence, Kaiba has them under his thumb. The hall is filled with laughter at every joke he makes, and each snide question from more cynical audience members is shot down in flames. No doubt every one of them will be flying home in a Giffard by the end of the day, but currently, Kaiba could tell them that the King himself was purchasing a dozen KC-01s, and they would believe him.
The gullibility of crowds never ceases to amuse him.
His shoes click lightly as he descends from the podium, brisk and dismissive, and to the few men who follow him as opposed to politely dispersing with the rest of the crowd, he offers polite nods and a few sentences of small talk. Then, making it abundantly clear that he is very busy managing a personal industrial empire, he strides towards the nave.
Time to write off the entire thing as a farce, and set to work on what really brought him to London. The Crystal Palace is nice – very quaint – but Kaiba sees little appeal in the hundreds of feet of steel and glass. His own exhibit, held in the Grecian segment, was barely put on at all – the sheer dismay at his demands for curtains and a podium was absurd. Truly, Kaiba reflects, the building is a glorified corridor, rebuilt on the words of the people, which are hardly the most eloquent imaginable. Returning to Albion, to England, to London itself… Kaiba had been looking for bigger, brighter achievements.
And he has found them, but not amongst the alabaster statues and archaic pillars of the Grecian segment of the Crystal Palace. Nor, indeed, beneath the trailing leaves of exotic plants, vivid jade and crowned in flushed pink flowers - the expansive decorations of the Palace's nave. Then again, he has not spotted Mokuba here, either, though he told him to be waiting by the water lilies at four o'clock, sharp.
Peering over the hats and heads of the bustle of a bustle of spectators, Kaiba scans the corridor. It is no use: an exhibit on Japanese woodcuts is blocking his view. Kaiba sees the public's adoration for the newly opened eastern nation as mildly bizarre, but would always be willing to comply to their tastes, had he the insight to design a method of channelling them into spending. Nonetheless, the crowd is currently obscuring any view he might have of his brother, should he appear from the south, and that is unacceptable.
"Brother! Seto!"
Kaiba turns, and Mokuba barely manages to halt before crashing into him. He is panting, and grinning ear to ear. "Seto, there are alchemists in the Egyptian segment. Real Kemetic alchemists! They put a girl in a box, and they cut her into three pieces. Please don't be upset: they put her back together. They even had this elixir, that if you drank it every morning, it would make you live forever…" Seeing Kaiba's expression, Mokuba trails off.
"What time did I tell you to be here, Mokuba?"
"Four o'clock, Seto."
"And what time is it now, Mokuba?"
"Twenty minutes past four, Seto."
Mokuba stares up at him, obviously expecting a lecture. After a brief moment of thought, Kaiba speaks. "Next time, do not be late. If I have enemies, you will be their target. However, in a gesture of good faith, I am willing to attribute your delay to the damaging effects of Kemetic beliefs on your brain. Now, if you have seen all the exhibits that interest you, we must be going."
It seems to take a few seconds for Mokuba to process the fact that Kaiba has not only expressed worry for him, but has ignored his rudeness. By the time he does, Kaiba has started walking, and he falls into step, crushing decaying flowers with each footfall.
"Who's looking after the engine?"
"Kumo. I trust him. Not that it matters to our project if the engine is stolen – it merely looks bad for the company."
"So are we going to go work on that thing now?"
Kaiba pauses to glance at the design for a machine to fold envelopes, smirks, and continues walking, choosing to remain elusive. Mokuba has to alternate between jogging after him and matching his even stride. They make their way down the length of the Palace, heading towards the elaborate fountains at its entrance.
Abruptly, Kaiba throws himself to his left, yanking Mokuba after him. Above them, the steel scaffolding of the second floor creaks, and something white flutters from the balcony. Straightening himself, Kaiba glares upwards, and Mokuba hurriedly follows his gaze.
A figure, outline distorted by the glass, darts away. A brown coat is all that is visible, and only that because Mokuba is watching intently – nothing to go on, and easily lost in the masses gathered by dozens of smaller stalls. Indeed, several women are already bustling past the place where Kaiba and Mokuba had been standing, their expansive skirts trailing in the fallen leaves. As soon as they pass, their chatter fading into a background of noise, Kaiba steps forward. Scooping the fallen object from the floor, he turns to face his brother.
Sloping handwriting on a delicately folded envelope, each edge crimped and embossed with golden ink. To be delivered to Mr Seto Kaiba.
Smirking, Kaiba makes a show of opening the it. "Observe, Mokuba. When you become as powerful as I, you will make enemies. Or rather, those unfit to be called enemies, who will attempt to intimidate you with anonymous notes, and the like. Let us read what they have to say."
What can you show, but you cannot see?
His smirk vanishes. "As I said. Attempts to… intimidate."
"Brother?" Mokuba ventures, his face wrinkled in confusion.
"Keep the envelope – should this elusive pest make contact again, we will analyse it further." Kaiba is almost talking to himself, each word contemplative and soft, as if plucked from a dream. "However, I will not place significance on an isolated incident. Most likely, this is some form of practical joke." Waving one hand in a gesture of dismissal, they resume the journey back to their airship in silence.
Kaiba has preparations to make, and if they involve the sudden and inexplicable disappearance of a newfound foe, so be it.
xXx
The accommodation provided is a triumph of self-serving decadence. The Albion authorities have set out to impress - and, in doing so, to intimidate; in arranging a temporary abode for the visiting High Priestess, they have spared no expense. The lavish decor indicates as much: all velvet curtains, antique furniture and fresh roses in crystal-cut vases. England does not offer the rich, gold-drenched voluptuousness of Egypt – but can rise to the occasion with a certain prim stateliness, elegant in the extreme.
Light filters through glistening stained glass, framing the lobby in softly tinged swathes of colour. Meanwhile, the hallway is carpeted thickly enough to muffle the pounding of heavy, booted feet. Stifling elegance. Beauty which shrouds and oppresses; pure Albion style.
Atem fumbles at the door of the hotel suite, managing to slot the unwieldy little iron key into the keyhole on the third attempt. The door, however, still refuses to shift.
He pushes with a little more insistency.
"You're not coming in," declares a muffled voice from the other side. "Not until you've dropped the gloominess. I'm not letting you in until you promise to smile."
Atem slowly allows his forehead to sink forwards and collide with the door, eliciting a thunk of exasperation. "Haven't been gloomy," he yells back. "I was just thinking."
"You were brooding," maintains the voice. "I can tell! Now be good and smile or I'll never open up and you'll have to sleep on the doormat tonight."
"How can you tell?" grumbles Atem. "There's a door between us, Mana."
"Look up, silly! It's got one of those spy-hole thingies – see? I can see you. And you're not smiling."
Most assuredly he is not; he has been up all night, watching the sky shift from indigo to coffee-tinted pink on blue.
Yet Mana gives no indication of relenting, and the door shows no sign of swinging open of its own accord in casual defiance of the laws of physics (even Albian nobility cannot manage to secure that for their guests) so he resigns himself to compliance. Grudgingly, he forces the corners of his mouth into an upward curve.
The door creaks open a crack. "Terrible," opines Mana, peeking through the gap, messy strands of hair obscuring half her face. "More a grimace than a grin."
True enough. A reluctant smile is one of the most nauseating things to force. Duly, Atem lets go of his irritation and allows it to deepen into something genuine at the sight of his irrepressible friend.
"Better," she judges, and accordingly allows him entrance.
The door clicks behind them. "This place is brilliant," says Mana, hopping from foot to foot. "Look in the bathroom. There's running water! And they've filled the shelves with all sorts of creams and soaps and perfumes – not a patch on the Kemetic counterparts, mind, but it all feel so luxurious. And the bed! You wouldn't know, because you were out moping on the streets all night, but all the furniture's great too; for the first time in ages I slept the night." Her unbrushed hair flops oddly over her eyes, in messy testament to the assertion. "Course I'd have made you take the sofa anyway," she adds, tilting her head to the side. "But still! If you'd stayed, you could have been happy knowing at least I was comfortable. And the couch is pretty soft too. You're selfish, you know?" And she smiles, for the accusations have absolutely no malice or meaning.
Atem blinks, taking in every word of the tirade, absorbing the trivialities as though they could accumulate as a thin, disguising layer that just might be mistaken for normalcy. He wonders if she is doing the same. No – no, she just seems happy. She always is, of course – but here she is content in addition to that. Novelty suits her, he decides.
"What's the agenda for today?" he asks, abstractedly.
"The very important duty of lounging around and sightseeing," she says, seriously. "Ishizu won't arrive until later – that's when we've got the welcoming ceremony thing, and we get to meet the infamous Mai Kujaku. Then – to business, I guess. But for now: sightseeing. And lounging. The important stuff."
"I can't relax enough to lounge," mutters Atem, settling on the (admittedly comfortable) silk-lined couch.
"I'll say," snorts Mana. "You're tense as – as a frightened animal, or something." She sits beside him, turning so that they are face to face. "Look," she says, searching for his hand and clasping it tightly. "You'll see your brother soon. But it's impossible until the welcoming ceremony. Even then, you'll only be able to skulk. I know what Mahaado says is eating away at you, and that you're desperate to prove him wrong. Me? I just want to work out the best way of achieving what Mahaado wants - and frankly, your way is better, if it works." Jauntily, she squeezes his hand. "But again – it involves waiting, right? So we wait. And we lounge. And we sightsee. And the shadows under your eyes are appalling, by the way."
"Only up close," says Atem, with the suggestion of a smile.
"If by 'up close', you mean a mile."
"Does it matter? I'm supposed to be lurking; nobody is meant to see me."
"It's not how it looks, though it looks awful. It means you've been forgetting something rather important: sleep." She quirks an eyebrow, expectantly.
"I'll sleep when I stop feeling the need to think."
She rolls her eyes – and he can almost see the variety of possible comebacks flitting around her head like demented fairies – but drops the subject.
xXx
Anzu is spirited into the King's Regent's private airship in a haze of confusion, scarcely aware of her feet scraping the ground; only aware of the way Lady Kujaku's cloak billows over the pavement, narrowly skirting the dust. It is entirely possible that Lady Kujaku is talking, but certainly she could not say for sure. She is too wrapped up in the moment; it muffles the senses with the sheer intensity of the thought: she is to live in the Palace.
She surfaces from this heady introspection just the once, to tell Lady Kujaku that she does indeed have a possession she wishes to retain in this new life: her ballet slippers. Lady Kujaku looks fascinated by the revelation that Anzu dances, assures her that she will have slippers galore at the Palace, and asks if they can please get home already for Anzu looks dead on her feet with limp, glazed eyes; Anzu does not see fit to press the point.
"Sleep," Lady Kujaku commands, helping Anzu into a cushioned seat. (Red velvet – like seats in a theatre.) Anzu has never flown in an airship before – she wishes to appreciate the experience properly – but her eyelids are leaden, and she succumbs to exhaustion before she can even register the decision to close them. And then they will not open again, and sleep is the natural conclusion. Before reality is wholly obscured by dreams, she is certain she can hear Lady Kujaku say something with her usual flippant cheer, but the words bleed into each other. At any rate, the cadences of her voice seem to indicate sanctuary, and safety - and that luck has caught up with Anzu at last.
She wakes – once. She thinks, at least. There is a small disturbance in her dream, slicing it off abruptly mid-narrative and leaving it to sink to the bottom of her memory, irretrievable. For all of a second she is whisked back to reality, and she is certain that someone is carrying her – but weariness and sleep claim her again before she can investigate this impression.
The second time she wakes, the setting has changed entirely. Disorientated, she cannot account for it. She is blanketed in a thick red quilt which seems to weigh on her like an enormous hand – and red stirs something in her memory. Blearily, she struggles up into a sitting position. The material which glides up her calves as she does so is – unsettlingly – silk, and supremely unfamiliar.
As the events of the night before gradually piece themselves together in her mind, slotting into blurry gaps and realigning themselves with this new situation, she gazes about the room. Restlessly, her eyes skim the surface details and little else: ornate, fragile-looking glass table; candy-striped pink wallpaper; four poster bed formed from glossy, dark wood. Her clothes from the night before are folded immaculately on a plump, embroidered chair. Light filters into glaring beams through the patterned window, dancing across heavy curtains and mingling with the gleams from the facets of a miniature crystal chandelier.
The room seems to glow with softly coloured warmth, cushioning her fragmented feelings. Momentarily, she settles, bathing in its subtle luminescence.
Which makes the inevitable panic, once it hits, all the more overwhelming.
Pierced by apprehension, she shoots up and springs to her feet (the alien silk material trickling to the floor and insinuating its way over her feet). She leaps across to the door, clutching at the heavy, antique handle, and prising it ajar.
Once she hits the hallway, she is confronted by a sleek figure in long, feathery skirts, leaning silhouetted against the wall.
"Lady Kujaku!" cries Anzu, accusingly.
"Good morning, Anzu," comes her placid greeting.
"Good morning?" Anzu finds it difficult to logically account for her own sudden fury, but this is of little significance, for the words pour out regardless, seemingly of their own accord. "You force me to play some strange little game. You wait until I'm practically unconscious, and you pack me into your airship. You bring me here and – and undress me and put me in these – night things –"
Lady Kujaku blinks. "Actually it was one of the servants who undressed you," she says, offhand.
"Oh. Well – well! I wake up in the morning, and suddenly I'm in an unfamiliar room, with no warning whatsoever – and, you've, you've disappeared – and it might all have been a bizarre dream for all I know! - and you expect to keep me here like this, no questions asked, nothing! You've practically kidnapped me, d-dash it all!"
Lady Kujaku touches a hand to her lips, thoughtfully, then allows it to drop as she turns to look Anzu full in the eyes. "You're free to go," she shrugs, bemused.
"Oh?" Anzu processes this. "Oh." She considers.
Lady Kujaku waits.
"Well, in that case," says Anzu, firmly, "I'm staying." And folds her arms, as a kind of unconscious defence, lest there be any challenge to this decision.
Lady Kujaku – laughs. "Will you permit me to help you dress for breakfast?" she twinkles.
"Um. Um, well. That is to say –"
"Come with me," says Lady Kujaku, eagerly. "I have a pink frock which would look charming on you. Lace neckline. Pearl buttons."
Anzu narrows her eyes, rebelliously. "All... right," she says, warily.
The second she provides the mere suggestion of consent, she is seized by the elbow and whirled away through another door and into a boudoir, in a dizzying gust of enthusiasm and petticoats.
xXx
Ryou's first thoughts on being ushered into the metal basin are, not unreasonably, something along the lines of how do they even get running water up here? His second thoughts are somewhat more convoluted, including, though not wholly limited to, several key notions:
Well – this is odd.
It's been months since I last properly bathed.
Should I be... embarrassed about that?
Ow, ow, ow – those imbeciles got shampoo in my eyes.
He is rigorously scrubbed, scoured and, from the feel of things, sandpapered, until he feels convinced that he is one layer of skin poorer alongside all the dirt.
Marik holds up a triumphant hank of his sodden hair. "See?" he crows to Bakura. "Sopping wet spun silk. Told you he was pretty."
Ryou is assaulted by a number of oils and creams, heavily scented. A veritable army of lavender, jasmine and patchouli, alongside a not inconsiderable array of other, unfamiliar perfumes. Somehow, the thought occurs that Marik and Bakura are going truly overboard on this.
xXx
In the ensuing moments, Anzu is subjected to fussing and preening of the highest degree. Lady Kujaku's lips purse in concentration as she plucks at Anzu's eyebrows and upper lip with small silver tweezers. Miniscule prickles of pain are punctuated by intermittent darts of warmth from her fingertips, and blunt crescents of pressure from her long nails.
Plumes of soft-smelling powder blossom in the air with each press of the brush, dusting the mirror. Sticky rouge is delicately applied to Anzu's cheeks. Fabric rustles, waterfalls and clings. Her hair is teased, pulled and scraped into submission, sculpted into a perfumed edifice atop her scalp, whilst her waist is compressed into a miniscule, rigidly laced corset, over which stretches a taut, velvety bodice. Through the mirror's spotted surface, she catches tantalising glimpses of a white, porcelain, masklike face; snatches of fragile, butterfly eyelashes, and bold lips, calligraphy-painted.
xXx
Cotton slides over Ryou's skin, rippling with a marvellous softness hitherto unknown to him in the realms of fabric. The edges of the tunic weigh down the material with stiff, intricate embroidery composed of what resembles thread of gold. The rest is a smooth, downy cream. Marik delightedly paired it with white, tailored trousers, laced with a drawstring of gold ribbon.
The entire ensemble is vaguely laughable – not contemptible, but intentionally tongue-in-cheek: a playful pastiche of traditional Kemetic garb. The thieves slide countless gleaming bracelets onto his wrists, hang long, gem-studded necklaces that catch in his newly-fluffed hair over his head. They tie anklets adorned with sparkling, jewelled bells at his feet.
Bakura displays the slyest glance Ryou has ever encountered, holding a diamond-topped pin aloft. Comprehension dawns on Marik's face, followed by an eerie reflection of the same look. Which is... ominous, to say the least.
Ryou blinks frantically as his chin is cupped in Marik's rough hands – whilst, out of the corner of his eye, he spots Bakura fetch two slices of apple and a match. Marik presses two numbing cubes of ice to Ryou's earlobes as Bakura allows the tip of the flame to lick at the glistening pin. The ice is replaced by the apple. Ryou does not attempt any struggle, for Marik's grip is insistent enough to indicate deadly strength, whilst conversely failing to indicate any particularly strong aversion to the snapping of necks. Bakura advances with the pin.
Several rather unpleasant moments later, Ryou's ears are weighed down by heavy gold hoops, and tinged by a slight red soreness. Bakura and Marik are busy painting his fingernails with a viscous, sharp-smelling gold liquid, squawking irritably at each other every time a jolt from the ship causes the brushes to jerk out of their grip.
xXx
Lady Kujaku borders on merciless, with her brushes, clips, paint and laces – all of which act as weapons against the hapless Anzu. Which is not to say that she is not intrigued to view the results. Which is in fact to say that she is aching with curiosity to view her newfound patron's handiwork.
Eventually, after what must be a solid hour of preparation, Lady Kujaku steers her towards the full-length mirror.
"What do you make of this stranger?" Lady Kujaku inquires, fondly.
Anzu peers at the girl poised within the frame. Slender, elegantly curved neck. Hypnotically framed eyes. An expansive, petticoat-crowded hoop skirt, rose-hued, culminating in a dramatic curve at the waist. She is entranced by this altered image of herself.
Lady Kujaku clasps a silver chain around Anzu's neck: a tiny diamond droplet.
Anzu shifts, restlessly, watching the girl in the mirror mimic the movement. "These clothes are so heavy," she breathes.
Lady Kujaku smiles. "You might not believe me, but these are lighter than the norm." She brushes a thumb over the edge of Anzu's eyelid, eradicating an errant smudge of kohl. "The ladies of the court wear gowns that weigh a good third more than this. We're exempt from the worst excesses; impractical, given the strains of our calling. My calling, that is."
"They weigh more?" repeats Anzu, disbelievingly. "How do they move?"
Lady Kujaku considers this. "Daintily," she decides.
Anzu is guided to the exit. As they head towards breakfast, she casts a final look at the gilt mirror that is half apprehension, half longing.
xXx
Marik and Bakura have meticulously powdered Ryou's face until it is so pale as to be luminescent. Now they are painting his eyes with liquid kohl, adorning the lids in a crushed, gold-coloured powder.
"What do you say, Bakura?" asks Marik, tongue between his teeth as he positions the tip of the brush.
"Cat's eye flicks," he responds, promptly.
"And I say you're completely wrong. I say we line the area slightly below his eyes..."
"You simply want him to look identical to yourself. Boring." Bakura snatches the brush from his hands, growling in an almost predatory fashion: "Cat's eye flicks."
"Tch." Marik shrugs, and slides onto the chaise-lounge, seemingly conceding the point.
Minutes later, and it is done. Ryou is pedalled towards one of the many mirrors lining the walls of the living room.
He feels they have dressed him like a god. The elaborate kohl renders his eyes peculiarly inhuman. Every inch of him is swathed or painted over with a thin layer of finery – like a mummy enclosed in a pristine casket.
He watches Marik lurk behind him in the mirror: a looming head above his shoulder. "The demon dressed as an angel," he murmurs. "But with a serpent's eyes, not a cat's. Isn't that some sort of echo of Church of Albion mythology?"
"I wouldn't know," sniffs Bakura.
"The snake who rebelled against Sophia," says Marik, vaguely. "Or something of the sort. Oh, he's going to be dangerous beneath the prettiness."
Pinned by his own demonic eyes, Ryou can well believe the prediction.
xXx
The Blue Eyes cuts through the sky, her envelope pressing against the roar of the wind, and cool air scours her deck. It is cold in London – far colder than it was in France – and not a single living creature stands to face the chill. Below, Mokuba sleeps in his cabin, exhausted from a day of exotic sights and Kemetic magic. Turbulence shakes the ship, but he does not turn or mumble in his sleep.
Deep in the Blue Eye's belly, Kaiba is not so peaceful.
Each step is hideously loud, clanging against the metal walkway, escaping into the shadows and the echoes are his only company. Kaiba walks in a straight line – down, down, as far as the ship will let him go. On either side, gauges click, their figures meaningless, and cogs turn restlessly. A cylinder spews steam, and he does not flinch. Deeper still, and the coppery metal gives way to bright silver. Everything around him gleams, for on every side pipes line the walls, stretching the walkway, spanning the ceiling. Without looking down, Kaiba steps over one that crosses the floor.
An endless network of steam and water and power, all descending into the darkness. Kaiba's small lamp is the only source of light. The walls are meticulously clean, and all that is illuminated is bright, reflecting a blurred image of Kaiba's emotionless face.
Nothing here, it seems, but an endless corridor of mirrors and shadow.
And then, a spark.
Kaiba has seen it before. He knows it. The familiarity stirs an endless well of emotion, of the terrifying, insatiable desire to know; the need to discover; the hope that maybe – maybe just – it will appear to him again.
He breaks into a run.
The pipes become a blur, an insignificant mass of machinery blocking his path. Frustrated, Kaiba clatters past them, hopelessly tall and ungainly, and likely to lose his guiding light, which so very fragile and pure and blue… He will not let it escape. He cannot. It has him mesmerised, and he is powerless before it. If he cannot capture it, he will be empty – a vessel, forever shadowed by the knowledge of his failure.
The spark is distant and weak, but Kaiba knows that it is waiting for him. He is gaining, too, and it is brighter, brighter than magnesium, a flare on his eyes and as blue as lapis lazuli. He runs, feet pounding on the floor until they ache.
Outstretched arms collide with metal, and Kaiba stops himself from careening head first into the engine room door. It is locked, and for good reason. It is not a safe place to be – not whilst the ship is in the air. Mokuba is forbidden from coming down here. And yet, that spark, the essence of his ability to observe and learn and create, brought him here.
All gone, now.
Kaiba turns and rests his back against the metal. He is very, very tired, and surounded on all sides by the glare of unforgiving silver. Ducts and cogs and screws and bolts, and nothing else. Perhaps he has gone insane – but no, there are no other signs of that. A lesser man might collapse, but Kaiba composes himself. He must, for the sake of the corporation, himself and his brother. Drawing together the last of his strength, he stands.
Tomorrow, he vows he will return.
He will capture his spark.
xXx
Extra notes:
- The Crystal Palace is a building in Hyde Park, London, used to accommodate the Great Exhibition in 1851 – a grand display of technology invented at the height of the Industrial Revolution. Basically, we decided that a third Exhibition would be held in 1870, in this universe. Fun fact: in 1936, part of it burned to the ground.