Dib07: This chapter is dedicated to AtemLotus and all those who wanted more. :) Enjoy! This is probably my most fav chapter so far!

Hypercat: Here it is!

YamisFutureIsMe: Now! XD

Guest: Now too! XD

Peanutbutter: Thanks!

Guest: You guessed right, this story fits nicely bewteen Damaged Goods 1 and 2, so Yami doesn't have a cat of his own yet in this story. Lol puzzlingshipping always gets me in the end. Or does it? XD Anyway glad you love the universe and their developments. That makes two of us!

yami victor yugi: Sounds cool!

xxx

Chapter nine:

xxx

Yami's determination and foolhardiness were his strengths and his weaknesses. He was not one to sit idly by and wait out his problems. He needed to get home, and he was going to get there somehow, taking whatever it took, even if he'd be dead from the outset.

He stood by the slightly open door as Emily slept deep dreams behind him. Then after taking a breath to steady his nerves, he walked through the opening and into darkness.

Without the noticeable glow of the nightlight, the landing was almost black with night. Yami had to rest himself against the wall as he tried to charter a path forward. He needed to get to some stairs; he remembered that Emily's house had stairs. He also didn't want to trip into anything just out of his sight. He was alone, and tiny. This vulnerability made him angry, and bitter. And it also made him grossly resolute. This challenge was like all his others.

And he'd win it just the same.

Clutching his bad arm against his side, he began to walk forwards as his eyes began to adjust to the choking darkness. Before him was another doorway. It too was open like Emily's, and he could hear snoring within. He tiptoed past it quietly, even though he had no need. He was still trying to adapt to being the size of six inches.

Inside was probably Distracted Mother snoozing away, and dreaming about mobile phones.

The carpet was full of dirt and crumbs this side of the landing. Yami grimaced slightly as this ineptitude of cleanliness. Yugi and Grampa kept their home super clean, and as such, Yami had become a fan of hygiene.

Soon the newest challenge presented itself: stairs.

If he was ever brave of heights, that time seemed long past. The stairs acted as steep, hilly intervals which seemed to narrow as they descended, lengthening like a nightmare down into the distance: a distance he had to reach.

The thing was, he was still drained from Emily's play, and having to climb down book shelves. How was he to conquer these as well? With one arm and a pounding headache?

He gave an annoyed sigh and began.

Like before, he presumed he was descending a cliff face. So he carefully lowered himself down, using his good arm as an anchor. Each step wasn't so bad – for each step was roughly his height, just an inch or so higher. In this way he was able to descend them one at a time, but progress was very slow. If someone – anyone – were to get up and use the bathroom during his tedious journey they'd see him and freak, or step on him and freak.

His good arm grew too tired, and so he ended up using both arms. He wanted to get out. Each moment wasted was another moment struck from his own clock. He did not have the luxury of 'taking it slow.'

Blood leaking from his tourniquet, he made it finally to the bottom. He took a moment to look up and admire his achievement. The stairs were like a reeling stairway to a dark and sullen heaven. The arduous endeavour had cost him a lot of time.

Yami sat down to regain some energy. He was tired and spent, but he was far from done.

His urge to see Yugi was likened to an overdrive mode. And so once he had got his breath back, he stood up once more.

Hope of escape pressed him on, and so he walked across an immense hallway towards their monolithic front door. To Yami it was a huge gateway to Hades. But the door – though massive on a godly scale, would have proven a dead end to him even if he had been his normal height. It was bolted shut and locked tight, and without the keys there was no way he could get out that way. However, he did not let this defeat him. He had come too far to give up now.

As he made his way back down the hallway towards what he hoped would be the kitchen, he passed potted plants that looked like trees, and overturned boots and shoes that provided cave-like inlets.

He walked closer towards the kitchen but when he stepped over the lintel he shrieked to a stop.

Directly opposite him, against the far wall some forty feet away by the back door was a big, fat cat. It stretched in its wicker basket, extending wicked, curved claws, and then it began to groom itself. It was a Persian cat.

Yami whisked himself back round the corner into the hallway again, his little heart hammering against his ribs.

He had to remind himself to breathe.

He peeked round this time, and saw the cat lick its forepaw. It hadn't seen him.

Yami concealed himself again as he desperately tried to think of a solution.

And this cat was no Bast: it was most likely the offspring of Sekhmet. So the cat would kill him on first sight. Yami was slightly larger than a mouse, but he'd still taste good.

And cats were quick. How was he going to get past it?

He could not return to Emily's room.

And he could not stay here.

Then he discerned his arm that was laced with freshly pouring scarlet.

The King helplessly looked round the corner again to reassess the situation. By the cat was the back door. And in the backdoor was a cat flap. If he was still alive at the end of this debacle, all he had to do was push the flap forwards and tumble outside.

Freedom...

"You can do this, you can do this..." He growled to himself, wondering how fast he could run when the time came. But he knew the cat would be quicker. And he had no magic on his side, nothing he could use. Just his small size.

Shoring up his confidence, Yami looked around the corner. The Persian cat was still licking itself. It was obviously a well-concentrated business, as each paw was tended to, as well as each patch of fur on its body. Yami partly wanted to remain in hiding, and wait for the heavenly creature to fall asleep. Then he'd have a much better chance. But he couldn't wait. He was feeling sick to his stomach, and his sight was a mess of powdered colours and glazed kaleidoscopes. Trying to 'see' the cat was hard enough. He felt that sleeping would get him better, but he didn't want to sleep another second in this dangerous place.

This is bad! Bad, bad!

His thoughts and fears whirring together into a clustered panic, Yami slowly began to step over the threshold and into the kitchen. The kitchen floor was all sunburnt yellow tiles. It made his bare feet very cold. But he ignored it and padded over, as silent as a mouse. The cat still had not yet seen him. It wasn't a particularly hungry cat, as food still remained in its bowl that had been placed by the fridge. Yet still, live prey was a delicacy not to be ignored.

Yami tiptoed over to the first table leg which was the closest bit of furniture he could hide behind after entering the room. His fear made his nausea worse.

He looked up at the table leg and saw its vertical greatness. There was nothing to climb with, so elevation was out of the question.

Take your time! He groaned to his ever-impatient self. But he felt that he must hurry, for surely daylight was not far away?

He tiptoed from the cover of the first table leg and went towards the other one, which felt like a mile's distance. And he was slowly heading in the cat's direction. He wondered that if he shouted at the cat before its claws met vital organs, he could somehow stop it? After all, mice and other small vertebrates did not talk. But he doubted the cat would listen.

The floor was slick and cold, but provided a soundless approach. The cat, unaccustomed to having its kitchen shared by intruders, had no need to be alert, and it continued its grooming with dedicated vigour.

However, despite Yami's tenacity and stealth, he still had got nowhere fast. The cat was still between him and the back door. And he could imagine the cat lying or sitting in that wicker basket for a long time yet, at least until Distracted Mother was up making breakfast. Then if she saw him, he'd be flattened by a frying pan or whatever solid object she could find in two seconds. And she'd be on the mobile phone while she did it.

He froze against the last table leg, and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to die. Not like this.

Why did he have to read spells out loud? And cause himself so much trouble? Why couldn't he have been more normal, and ignored the tomes of his own culture and practises? He was so overwhelmed by modern life and a stranger to his own history.

He started whispering in Ancient Egyptian, hoping an antispell would undo this dark curse. But words left his lips, and he remained no different.

Next, he tried peering round the huge dungeon of a kitchen for help; though what kind of help he wanted he had no idea, and his vision kept blurring at the most inconvenient of moments.

There, on the floor miles away it seemed, beneath the counter in a dark spot of floor was a ball of some kind. He swallowed thickly. Then glanced at the cat. The Persian had settled down now, and was no longer in a fit of grooming. Its flattened face was closed in sleep, or a fake doze.

Yami shivered.

Then he took a step, then three, and slowly made his way to the counters. As he went, he came across the cat's feed bowl and water bowl that were so big their sides came up to his waist.

Yami looked enviously at the water. He was so thirsty! But drinking from it invited his own doom if the cat heard him and started to creep up from behind. Plus, the water wasn't fresh. Hairs – cat hairs floated around in it, and the odd cat biscuit was softening down there at the bottom, and disintegrating.

But his thirst was so extreme.

He cupped both hands in the fluid and started gulping down warm, foul-tasting water. Just taking one gulp made him even thirstier, and before long he was guzzling it down with his mouth in the water.

Once his thirst was sated, he leaned away from the dish. But his nausea remained strong.

He glanced over his shoulder. The cat hadn't moved, but two eyes had begun to open into small, black slits.

Panic slammed into him, and his heart rate went through the roof.

He pushed himself off the bowl and ran towards the ball. When he got to its dark, vague shape, he saw that it was no bouncy toy ball. It was someone's old meat ball that must have fell off the table one dinner time and had rolled its way here to gather dust.

The cat slowly sat up, its eyes much wider. Its nostrils were beginning to come to life while its dozy owner began to wake up.

The meat ball was disgusting. It was old and smelly and probably made out of sacred bull. But Yami had no time now. He rolled the meaty thing away from the counter, and then aimed. He was good at all kinds of games. He just hoped his skill would hold true here as well.

With a wild kick, he sent the meat ball rolling happily along the floor. It didn't go nearly as far or as fast as Yami had initially hoped, for such meat balls were never made for aerodynamic speed, but it grabbed the cat's attention. Asleep to wide awake in two seconds, the cat leapt from its wicker basket and zeroed in on the bait with alien speed.

Yami saw his one chance, and headed for the cat flap as fast as he was able. He was so far a distance! Any second now he expected the cat to leap upon him from up high like a God. And he didn't even look behind him to see if his trick was still working.

He rocketed to the cat flap at full pelt and then pushed hysterically against the thick, square plastic that to him acted as a buttress to some castle.

It didn't give, and hot terror raised his stress.

He pushed – harder. The bottom of the flap started to incline towards him.

Thinking quickly, he stopped pushing and grabbed the rubber lip with his hands. He began to lift it, but the weight was extreme. However it was working. The flap was slanting upwards, revealing cold, dark air at his legs. He heaved it higher, and then ducked, crawling through as the flap fell back down on him.

The force hurt, but as he fell into gravel and dirt, he knew he had made it out.

He was free!

But Yami, small and helpless, still retained his uncanny wisdom. And even though he was stung all over with bruises, he knew that he had to move.

He brought himself to his grazed knees, then to his feet. He swayed for a moment, and then dashed off, along hard gravel and moist soil. He was straining his body beyond exertion, but he had little choice.

The gravel ended, and though it was mostly too dark to plan his destination, he kept going north. Soon he plunged into tall, swathes of grass.

His breathing was too fast. He could feel the energy leaking out of him like the blood in his arm. But he could not stop.

Above the grass was a monolith of nature. It was in fact a rose bush, but to Yami it was more like a huge tree that governed this whole area. Yami began to scramble up it, using his hands and feet to find purchases as he twisted and winded his way up. His bare feet scrabbled painfully against bark. His fingers were soon pained with splinters.

While he was still climbing, the cat powered effortlessly out through the cat flap. Once it was on the gravel, its tread was silent. A warrior cat indeed.

Yami climbed as high as he was able, hoping it was enough. Droplets of blood marked each step he made.

Finally he could climb no more and he collapsed on a long, horizontal bough.

Below him, the cat stalked through the immediate garden. It had got his scent, but it had not yet seen him.

But Yami was no longer worried about the cat. He was waging a war with his own body. Because he felt terribly sick.

He wasn't sure if he had ever vomited or not. He could not remember. But he had never felt quite so nauseous before.

The cat returned, regarding the bottom of the rose bush, and the grass he had come through with overzealous excitement. It combed through the area with precise footsteps, its tread always silent. When it came to the rose bush again, it started to climb. Yami felt the bough he was on begin to wobble as the bush took the strain of a cat. Yami was too exhausted to climb any higher. He was done-in.

But this time he lucked out. The bush was too thin, and too unyielding for the weight and size of a cat. It struck the boughs with its claws, hoping to snag its injured prey. And then it meowed a few times in evident frustration.

But hungry it was not. Such was the fortune of a fat, well-groomed house cat.

So the Persian eventually gave up. But it did not return to the cat flap. Instead it ran off into the darkness like something truly feral, and was gone.

Too afraid to get down, Yami rested on his bough for some time, his breathing starting to labour.

He was out, he was free. His arm had stopped bleeding.

But what had he accomplished – really? He couldn't possibly know his way home from here! It was a jungle out there, with grass as tall as himself, with other cats out there, and more people who'd sooner take him away like Emily had done, than help him.

Now he was in the dark, in the cold.

But his instincts did sense daylight. Dawn wasn't that long behind.

He just had to hope that his sixth sense would take him home, especially when his sight could not.

"Aibou, where are you?" The night crooned above him, lonely and vast like his own soul. If he got too sick to move, at least he'd die part-way free. That was better, he supposed, than dying in some little girl's room choked with dolls.

Even as he rested, trying to nap briefly in fits and starts, his breathing grew more deep and laboured. It began to frighten him.

Daylight began to fringe the world in gold highlights. Yami slept through it.

Bird song burst into the air in a million different symphonies. Yami slept through this too.

As Joey and Anzu gave up, for so weary were they that they staggered more than walked home, the sun rose into the blue, golden sky, heralding a new day.

Yami woke, finding himself hidden and safe in a net of twigs and branches. A soft wind rattled the dried leaves that still clung to the twigs, adding to the morning cadence of the birdsong. Some of his energy had returned, but his nausea was thick and constant while his stomach hurt badly. He still had an overpowering urge to breathe in deeply, as if he was suffering from air hunger. But why, when all he had done was rest for awhile?

His gasping however was too profound. He had to keep his mouth open all the time to suck in air as if he had been drowning all night.

But he was alive.

Home couldn't be far. When he had dropped from Yugi's bag, he had been just across the road. And then Emily had picked him up, so if he could just get to a road and follow it... surely he'd remember the way from there?

His unusual breathing made him upset and then angry. His nails bit into the bark he rested on as fury wrinkled his features. Why did he have to read stupid spells? How did he end up in such a mess? And what was happening to his body?

Yami's dim eyesight scanned the world below. He would have to climb back down, knowing that he could not give up.

He could not rest anymore.

And he feared that he was already out of time.


TBC?