If the previous story arcs were about overcoming the odds, then this arc is about overcoming the aftermath. We always pay a lot of attention, in stories, to the climax. The big event. The car chase, or the rescue mission, or the big battle. It's the fun part. The peak of the action.

But what about after that? What about the long-term repercussions of that? What happens after the credits roll?

That's what I'm trying to address here.

It's . . . kinda what I've been trying to address this whole time, I think.

1.

The first time Connor set foot on the Kaiba Estate, his whole essence was a mixture of tension, awe, and something close to relief. It was like he'd spent so much time coming up with what this place must look like in his mind that he was thankful to find out that his friend lived in an actual, physical building. It was a big building, wide and sprawling and straight out of some period drama, but it was tangible. It was real.

The lawn was sculpted, but it was just grass. The walls were wood and stone and paint and everything else that walls were usually made of. The walkway that cut a path from the driveway to the front porch was just concrete. The car was fancy, but it was just a car. The garage was huge, but it was just a garage.

In short, he acclimated much more easily than either of his parents did.

As the three Brinkleys stepped out of Enid's well-worn but equally well-maintained Camaro—which wasn't quite the same shade of blue as Seto's prized Veyron but close enough to look intentional—the Kaiba brothers came out to meet them as a picture in opposites.

Seto was calm, reserved; a soldier at parade rest. Mokuba was a lightning bolt of energy.

They almost didn't notice the little kitten sitting pretty atop Seto's head.

"Fashion statement?" Enid asked, grinning fit to split.

"I've decided to start wearing fur," Seto said.

Leo let out a sudden bark of laughter.

Mokuba nudged Connor with an elbow. "I'm the one who found him. But what does he do? Suck up to Niisama. Like a traitor! Brutus! Judas!"

Despite the sharpness of his tone, the young Kaiba was smiling. So, Connor grinned in turn. He walked over to the car and retrieved a duffel bag. "I wasn't sure what I should bring," he said, "on account of never staying the night at a mansion before. So I brought everything."

Mokuba nodded amicably. "Good idea."

The two boys made a beeline for the front door, as Seto stepped over to Enid and Leo. "Thanks for taking him," Enid said.

"It's no problem," Seto replied. "I think they could both use this."

"With you on that score," said Leo. "He's been zooming around the house for a week now. I don't think I've seen that boy so excited since he first found out about cookie dough ice cream."

Sausage began gnawing on a lock of Seto's hair.

"Maybe we should get a pet." Enid studied this ritual with a clinical air that would have been more at home on a professional researcher. "Not just now, of course. Unless Connor asks. We don't want to look like we're copying you."

Seto leaned over, eyeing the Camaro. "Naturally."

"That does not count. We've had that car for six years."

Seto chuckled. "Of course. My mistake." Bound and determined to ignore his impromptu haircut, Seto turned his attention back to the house. "Does he have any allergies I should keep in mind?" he asked.

"All the 'cillins," Leo said. "And caraway."

Seto quirked an eyebrow. "Noted."

"He also says he's allergic to raisins and primetime news," Enid put in.

"Aren't we all."

"Thank you again, Mister Kaiba. Give us a call if anything comes up."

Seto offered a salute; Sausage pounced on his hand and started biting his finger.

2.

What Mokuba called "the game room" was nothing short of a theater. A 60-inch television, along with a cabinet displaying every game console known to humankind, dominated the space; but that didn't stop Connor from noticing the chairs. There were five plush, leather-bound recliners, each with a swing-out desk for a keyboard and mouse. Even the cup-holders were impressive; Mokuba informed Connor quite proudly that they were temperature-controlled. He didn't bother to point out the mini-fridge, which was no doubt filled with snacks and energy drinks.

"Rich people," Connor muttered; he'd noticed it anyway. "My family isn't hurting. Dad's got a pretty good job, and Mom sells quilts and stuff she makes. For extra groceries and, like, vacations. We went to Disneyland once. Mom bribed me to try Space Mountain. But you guys are ridiculous."

"Yeah," Mokuba said, shrugging. "We are."

Connor tapped the carpet with one toe. "At least you guys don't have marble floors."

"Yeah, no." Mokuba shook his head. "Niisama says that's tacky. He says there's no point in trying to hide money. But he also doesn't believe in flaunting it with a bunch of stupid stuff that you buy just for the sake of buying it."

"At what point do we talk about the dragon statues in front of his offices?" Connor's eyes glittered, and his lips twitched in a teasing smile.

Mokuba shrugged again. "People who wouldn't spend good money on at least one dragon statue are lying to themselves. Besides. The Blue-Eyes is our mascot. Everybody knows that dragon. He didn't buy those statues just to buy them. He bought them to make a statement."

"Dragon statues are cool, but marble floors are out."

"Exactly." Mokuba sat down in one of the recliners. Connor followed his lead. "See, our, um. Our . . . the, um . . ."

"The old Mister Kaiba," Connor guessed.

"Yeah. That asshole." Mokuba smiled and flinched at the same time, as if he were getting away with something. "He was always harping on Niisama to be smart with any money he was . . . given." Mokuba rolled his eyes. "Niisama decided the best way to break away from the old man would be to throw caution to the wind. Y'know?"

"Mm. I think so."

"Niisama has what he calls the Forbes Frontier. Y'know how there's those lists of the richest people in the world?"

"Yeah?"

"Whenever Niisama hits a certain rank, he starts going around finding stuff to fund so he drops back down. He got interviewed once when he made the top five. The next week he was 16th."

Connor blinked. "What . . . did he buy?"

"He started some scholarships. Founded a charity. I think he bought new computers for every school in Domino. Paid off our interns' student debts. That kinda stuff."

Connor's eyes were wide. "I . . . I had no idea."

Mokuba smiled. "People call Niisama the King of Domino. It isn't because he's on some throne, shouting out orders and forcing out the competition. They call him that because he's done so much for the city. He says: 'No child in my city will ever go without again.' And he means it."

"Whoa."

Mokuba swelled with pride. "He puts up a tough front. He has to. But my brother cares about people. A lot. One time, a restaurant we liked was having trouble keeping up with a new chain that opened up across the street. So Niisama had them cater a whole bunch of company events and gave out coupons at our E3 booth that year. That chain place isn't there anymore. Guess what still is."

". . . Your brother is an interesting guy."

"Yeah." Mokuba's smile turned wistful. "He is."

3.

"How do you . . . deal with it?"

Mokuba was sure that there was a reason Connor wasn't looking at him when he asked this; he wasn't quite as gifted as his brother at reading people, but he knew some things. He said: "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Y'know." Connor frowned, but still kept his attention on the screen. His hands continued manipulating the controller in his lap. "This. Everything. I keep . . . having dreams. I'm back there, and it keeps happening. But. Sometimes it's. Sometimes it's not." The more he spoke, the more Connor's face screwed up in frustration.

Mokuba drew in a slow breath and frowned at the floor for a moment.

"You have to keep reminding yourself." Mokuba toyed with the hem of his shirt for a moment. "You have to tell yourself, like a mantra: it'll be okay. Everything will be okay. Those dreams, that voice in your head telling you it's all your fault, that you're gonna mess up one day and everything's gonna fall apart . . . all of it's just. Noise. Trying to trick you into giving up. Into just accepting it. No more fighting. No more trying. Just . . . let it happen."

Connor finally stole a glance at his friend. "You've had those dreams a lot, huh. Heard that voice."

Mokuba nodded. "Oh, yeah. All the time."

"But you . . . you're always so . . . I dunno. Put together."

Mokuba smiled. "I learned from the best. Niisama used to say the best way to win over the people trying to beat you is to smile at them. Not to be nice, but to spite them. And when it's your own head trying to beat you, you just gotta do the same thing. Smile to spite them."

"Your brother doesn't exactly smile a lot."

"Yeah, well. Niisama doesn't follow his own advice very much. It's kind of the main thing we're working on right now. He's always been stubborn. Keeping himself to a different standard compared to everybody else is . . . kind of his whole deal. There's that saying about being your own toughest critic. Well, Niisama's turned that whole thing into an art form. It's practically a sport."

A smile sneaked its way onto Connor's face. ". . . D'you think I'll learn how to do that someday? To beat it?"

Mokuba returned that smile. "Yeah. Of course. I'll teach you." He shrugged. "And if not me, then Kiko. She knows what she's talking about. She's even got Niisama doing some stuff. He's keeping a diary now. Kinda."

"Mom and Dad said she's your guys' therapist?"

"Kind of. She's a social worker. She works at the orphanage where Niisama and I stayed for a while. Before . . . everything. She just. Also works here." Mokuba shrugged. "We're not too big on the idea of . . . real therapy." He made quote marks with his fingers. "We've both gone through stuff that'd land us in pretty big trouble if we admitted it out loud to a professional." He looked suddenly guilty. "Give me some time. I'll . . . probably be able to explain eventually. But. The point is, since Kiko isn't actually our therapist, things are a little easier on us. We don't . . . have to lie."

Connor didn't really understand, exactly, but he understood enough. He nodded. "Yeah. Okay." He paused. "You don't have to explain anything. Not if you don't wanna."

Mokuba smiled.

". . . Thanks."

4.

Joey's standard setup when he was at the front counter these days involved whatever high-protein food he could manage—he'd learned roughly 53 new recipes for scrambled eggs in the past month—a frankly unconscionable amount of water, and an energy drink whenever he could sneak it past the Mutous. He often looked like he lived behind that counter, and probably would have reveled in making people honestly believe he did, if not for the fact that it was exhausting.

"Can I get some Magic & Wizards cards with this?"

"You betcha." Joey plucked up one of the more eclectic tools in his current arsenal—a long pole with a claw at one end and a grip at the other, which Yugi called a "reacher-grabber," even though Joey was 94% convinced it wasn't actually called that—and eyed his latest customer. "What set strikes yer fancy this time around, bro-ham?"

"Let's go with Nightmare. $15 worth."

Joey nodded, plucked out three packs with the claw, and dropped them into his free hand. He'd gotten rather good at performing basic tasks without moving too much, and for that he was rather pleased with himself. That said, every once in a while he would twist the wrong way or drop something onto his stomach; he'd spend the next twenty minutes chewing on his tongue so he wouldn't curse in front of someone's kid.

"Just sign right there? All-righty, we're all set. Need a receipt? Good deal. There ya go."

Most everything Joey did at the shop was muscle memory at this point, but it still surprised him how draining everything was right now. Even the various sound bites he'd learned—which weren't even phrases or sentences; just long noises that he spouted at certain intervals based on whatever his hands were doing—took a lot out of him.

So much so that when Serenity came into the shop, with their mother in tow, Joey didn't have the energy to react. Truth be told, he didn't even notice who it was at first.

"Hey-hey, party people, welcome to the Turtle. Anything I can do for ya?" He blinked blearily at Serenity for about ten seconds before understanding why something was off. He cleared his throat, looked around as though checking for witnesses, then shrugged. "On autopilot right now. Sorry."

Serenity rolled her eyes. "If I have grey hair by the time I turn 30, I'm suing you."

Joey thought about making some kind of joke about just handing his sister the lint in his pockets and his empty wallet—"It's real leather, so you could prob'ly sell it for something"—but he didn't. It felt like an insult to complain about his finances while he was on the clock. Maybe if he was at a Wal-Mart or something, but he was at the personal business of his friend's family. The rules were different.

Besides. It could've been worse.

He could've had a metric ton of medical debt to worry about.

Joey eventually turned his attention to the last, silent, member of this little show. "How ya doin', Ma?" he asked. It was much easier to be civil when just the thought of anger made him want to take a nap.

The former Missus Wheeler put on a face that Joey remembered well. It was that quiet, resigned fondness you'd see on someone just about ready to say something like: "What am I going to do with you?"

She didn't say that, though.

What she did say was: "It's good to see you on the mend, Joseph."

"Yeah, well. Can't complain too hard." Joey plucked up a grape from a little basket near his left hand and tossed it into his mouth. "Luck's always kinda been my thing. Besides. If I start really thinking about how close I got to bitin' it, I'm gonna start crying on the floor."

She laughed, but it sounded like it wouldn't take too much to get her to cry, herself. "You always were reckless when someone else was in trouble." Her eyes crinkled. "Serenity told me how everything happened. What you were doing out there."

Joey shrugged. "Just doin' what I do, Ma. I'm pretty predictable."

The woman he'd thought he hated, fully and without reservation, covered her mouth to stifle a not-so-subtle sob. "Honestly. Look at you. You jumped in front of a gun to save a little boy, and here you are back at work. No fuss, no muss."

"Gotta set an example for my baby sister, y'know. S'just how life goes."

". . . I'd be a fool to think this means as much as it might have, if things had gone differently. But . . . I'm very, very proud of you, son."

Joey felt something burn the backs of his eyes, and he started on the arduous path toward ignoring it. "Nah. That . . . it means a lot, actually." He grinned. "I'd hug ya, but I still got this situation going on. Rain check, huh? Say in about three to six months."

He wasn't sure if Serenity was crying now, but it looked like she was.

Someone new came into the shop. That bell was so familiar that Joey often heard it in his sleep. His eyes immediately went to the front door. They stayed there. Joey wasn't sure how many thoughts ran through his head in those next few seconds, but he did know that counting them was a lost job.

"Hey, uh. Gimme a sec, huh? I gotta go handle somethin' real quick."

Joey stood up, slowly, so slowly.

For the first time, he took up the cane Missus Mutou had lent him when he'd first left the hospital.

5.

Walking had taken on a whole new meaning, since The Incident. Joey had always thought of it as the physical equivalent of liminal space, just something you did in between actual stuff. You didn't even think about it. The only time anybody actually paid attention to walking was when they couldn't. Oh, sure, his legs worked just fine. It wasn't like he'd sprained an ankle—again—or broken a fibula—again—but fuck if it didn't take it out of him. He wondered if this was what he had to look forward to at 80.

"Get me one of those motorized scooters or somethin'," Joey muttered to himself. "Or a warhorse. Yeah. That'd be cool. Name 'em Lorenzo. Ride everywhere like a frickin' desperado. Wonder if ya gotta wear leather when ya ride horses. Is it a rule, like with motorcycles? Safety first, kids."

He'd started talking to himself more and more often lately, given that so much of his time was spent in bed. Sometimes it just made more sense to carry on his own conversations instead of helping other people track the random-ass, stream-of-consciousness nonsense that his pain meds tended to get him on about. Like whatever this was.

Frickin' . . . Lorenzo?

Oh, whatever. Like he knew what you were supposed to name a horse.

Joey forced himself back into tangible reality and leaned on his cane like a Victorian Gentleman. He found himself wishing all of a sudden that he had some kind of wide-brimmed hat to hide his face under.

"Yo," he said. The Turtle's newest customer flinched. "Hunter, right?"

The kid couldn't even look him in the eye. "Y-Yeah. That's . . . that's right." He drew in a breath, squared his shoulders. "Could I, um . . . talk to you for a second?"