Happy Halloween, everybody!
More experimentation with Seto this time. This happened a lot throughout the course of the story, particularly during these later sections. Picture it this way: the Seto I usually write is generally disgusted by, and feels superior to, everyone in Domino City . . . except Mokuba.
This Seto is generally disgusted by, and feels superior to, everyone in Domino City.
Period.
.
Mokuba had to be led into the house; he would have been perfectly content—so to speak—to sit listlessly in the back of his brother's car for a month, if Kaiba hadn't unbuckled his seat belt and lifted him up again. The elder Kaiba carried the younger across the grounds, through the thick oak front doors of their mansion, and into the parlor.
Frustration began etching its way across Kaiba's face like hieroglyphs. He glanced cursorily down at his brother, lying half-comatose against him, with something suspiciously resembling hatred in his over-bright eyes. As quickly as it appeared, though, it vanished. As he marched imperially through the parlor, up the stairs to the second floor, and down the hallway toward Mokuba's bedroom, Kaiba blatantly ignored the house staff.
The thought crossed his mind that if he made eye contact with any of them, the tenuous hold he had on his temper would snap. The longer he felt the dead weight in his arms, the more offensive it seemed to become. More than once, he was tempted to just drop the boy onto the carpet and command him to walk.
By the time Kaiba had just about convinced himself to do just that, though, he was already inside Mokuba's bedroom.
He lay the boy down onto his bed—partially thankful that he could at least keep up a façade of common decency—and stared down at Mokuba like he was a particularly large cockroach. The sympathy that had been summoned in him during the morning, as if it were a fuel tank somewhere in his heart that was running low, had all but vanished. The last remains of it were lit to cinders in his eyes as he watched, and waited.
Mokuba turned his back to his brother, curled into the fetal position, and lay there silently.
Kaiba sneered, then turned on a heel and left the room. He was eventually accosted by one of the maids, who bowed and said, "Seto-sama, when should we wake the young master?"
Resisting the sudden urge to rip the woman's head in half, Kaiba clenched his teeth and gestured dismissively. "Let him sleep."
He made his way into his study, sat down behind his desk, and picked up the land-line phone. Punching in a number like the device itself had offended him, Kaiba cradled the handset against one shoulder and reached over to turn on his computer.
"Tsukuda," Isono offered by way of greeting.
"Report," Kaiba ordered.
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. They never arrived at the convention center, there's no trace of Cecil Normack anywhere. Not at the building, not our hotels, not his condo. He's gone, sir."
Kaiba closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and counted to fuck you. ". . . What are you telling me, Isono? Are you telling me that that dime-store hair-gel addict beat us? Is that what you're telling me, because I hope not!"
Isono didn't dignify his employer's sudden rant with a direct answer. He asked instead, "How is the young master doing?"
"He's . . . sleeping."
"You're going to have to get him checked out, sir. Should I have Doctor Himura make a house call?"
Kaiba grimaced, swallowed back sudden bile.
". . . Not yet."