It was exhilarating; it was vile. Two magnets pressing against one another, warring for dominance, and he was between them. The emptiness in the center. Squeezed by the infinite pressure til his guts spilled out. Hollow.
He hated flying; he loved it. Motion sickness had its way with him. He ruined his stepfather's shoes, and his stepfather ruined his right ear, his right cheek. But he could turn his other cheek toward the impossible beauty of Earth from 40,000 feet. The ocean glittered; the sun burned and comforted him. He'd take care to vomit on his own shoes next time.
He felt important and worthless at his stepfather's right hand, striding through another foreign city, oozing through it like tar, withering plants and people and hope in their wake. A five-star hotel met them, two blocks from the slums. He saw row upon row of ragged tents from his window.
He was ordered to present his own work. He was honored and disgusted; nervous and impassive. He borrowed makeup from his stepfather's mistress. He'd added eyeliner to spite his stepfather. The heavy men glowered at him, smirked at him. Impressed, or offended? Intimidated or insulted? Why had he wiped the eyeliner off?
Like wolves or vultures or hyenas or some other baleful predator like that, they picked apart the corpses his technology would spawn. Like wolves or vultures or hyenas, it was only natural for them. And like the worm he was, he let them eat their fill. Waited. Savored—and despised—the last laugh he knew was his.
Food was the last thing he ever thought about. The heavy men lived for it. A homeless woman drifted in, wailing, a haggard prophetess. Security dragged her out. She didn't belong in here. He didn't belong in here. The menu leered at him. Still illegible. He copied his stepfather; a safe bet, childish desperation. Foie gras. Sure. The toilet didn't discriminate.
He was already sick from the thought of their morning flight. No one questioned him, no one stopped him from leaving the hotel at 3 A.M. and wandering through the barren night. He found a bench, curled up, waited for someone to kidnap him—to remove him from his decadent prison. Mokuba would be alright. A net positive for him.
Cold sleet woke him before the sun did. It stung his battered cheek, painful and revitalizing. So was his hasty shower back at the hotel. No soul had seen him come or go. Maybe it took having a soul to be noticed by another. His face looked awful, but the mistress had gone.
The elevator stopped on every floor. His stomach flopped. Descent, ascent, what did it matter. Every direction led to Hell.
Over mimosas and espresso and smoked salmon benedict: "Good job, Seto. We got the client." Good job? His face felt hot. Maybe he had a fever.
Their flight was imminent. He'd left his presentation in his room. Racing, staggering up the stairs, too weak to run and too frightened to walk. Thank God no one had come in to clean yet. Hauling the briefcase back down, no god-forsaken claustrophobic death-trap elevator this time—where the stairwell let out was an arcade. Three kids watched a fourth kid play. Donkey Kong Jr.
One of them noticed him. "Wanna play?" she asked.
He sneered. Do I look like a—
—child? They were his height. They were his age. He was their age. He was—
The depth of the chasm between them made him dizzy. Sick—always sick—in a thousand different ways. Some perverse vision of smiles, laughter, bright colors and high scores, so sweet it would rot his brains out. He needed his brain. Good job. He left them.
On his right, the briefcase; on his left, another smarting cheek. Warmed by the sun that shone forever above the sea of wintry clouds. Triumphant and utterly bereft. The client, won; the war, ongoing. His childhood, still there—and not there at all. His stepfather made him shut the window.
END
Doctor's Note: This is darker than usual for me. I cannot imagine how painful a time this must have been for Seto - the terrible hopelessness and desperation that led to Death-T and the like. I wanted to attempt to understand it a little better. Thank you for reading! - Dr. MP