Part Two
*******
It took a little time for him to prepare for the meeting. Firstly, he had to find out where Yugi and Kaiba lived. It would probably be better if he just chose one, preferably the first he ran into so the rejection would come quicker. That way, if necessary, he could return to his island with fresh emotions. Whether they rebuked or accepted him, he'd have something to go on in life. Any assessment was better than none at all. He found their personal information within the files of those who had registered for the Tournament, and a little extra digging revealed the critical information: school, homes, and places of employment with office hours. He smiled and clapped his hands, twirling in his rolling desk chair. He kicked off from the computer desk and whizzed across the parquet floor to his filing cabinet. This was assignment number two: how to make amends. "The best way to make up for something," he reasoned as he fished around the disorganized folders, "is with a peace offering!"
When he found what he'd been searching for, he leapt from the chair and laughed. "Perfect! How can Yugi-boy resist when I come bearing such a pretty present." Pegasus tucked the card in the lace of his poet shirt beneath the cuff of his jacket sleeve. "Alright, that's done. Now what else . . . oh yes. The drudgery of masquerade."
Boots clicking on the wooden floor, he strolled across the expansive chamber to his bathroom. He stared in the mirror and frowned. "I doubt even hair can cover it forever, and I don't need children crying at every turn. They'll give away my position." He studied himself in the mirror critically, then snapped his fingers. "I've got it! A glass eye - no . . . no, that's far too gaudy."
He'd enjoyed gaudy art for a long time. His father had decorated the entire mansion with all manner of high priced tasteless trash. All had changed when he'd met Cecelia and had begun to study the masters, picking up techniques here and there, searching for his own unique style. He eventually settled on a sort of Romantic Realism inspired by the masterful work of Rosetti. Like that lovesick fool, he too had been obsessed with a woman who, consequently, appeared in nearly every single portrait. Every woman had her hair, her eyes, her lips. Every goddess and nymph in mythology had taken the shape of the woman he loved.
He thought of the expansive portrait of Cecelia that hung across from his bed. He had long ago memorized every curve, every nuance of light in her golden hair and the blush in her cheeks. Memories of sunny days spent working in the field and then the studio as she sat so patiently. So still. He wondered, if he had just spent less time painting and more time being with her, would things have been any different? He closed his eye and could almost feel the sun on his back and her soft hand in his own, laughing as she pulled him away from his work. "You'll never get anywhere if you paint all day. Besides, why do you need a picture when I'm right here?"
Right here. Yes, at the time. Now all he had left was a portrait. Perhaps he'd misjudged his feelings. Perhaps he still longed for her as he had always longed for her, the feeling growing more keen since her death. The pain well of pain shifted a little, and he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose and taking deep breaths. "No. No point. Don't get distracted. You are on a mission. You've drawn your hand, now play it. No sense in acting like a fool." He sighed, trying to focus on the matter at hand as the pain which suddenly threatened to overwhelm him dwindled once again. "My eye. I have to use something. I will not be seen with a gaping hole in my face."
In the end, Croquet provided a simple black patch.
Pegasus arrived in Tokyo before noon. The helicopter pilot had dropped him off in a local park. When he was needed, Pegasus would contact him via cell phone.
But oh, how would he ever find his little dueling companions? He looked to the left, then the right, and with a shrug began walking straight. He'd memorized the layout of the city and the exact location of each important spot, but somehow the theatrical side of him always wanted the appearance of innocent confusion. He smiled, looking up into the glorious sun as he waited for the streetlight to indicate that crossing the street would be safe.
"Hey you!"
Pegasus smiled most charmingly at the fellow pedestrian near his elbow, "Hmm? Yes?"
"The friggin' light's changed. You've been standing here for fifteen minutes!" The man snapped his fingers in the face of the platinum-haired man. "Wake up, fag-boy!"
Pegasus just shrugged. People never seemed to change.
*******
It took a little time for him to prepare for the meeting. Firstly, he had to find out where Yugi and Kaiba lived. It would probably be better if he just chose one, preferably the first he ran into so the rejection would come quicker. That way, if necessary, he could return to his island with fresh emotions. Whether they rebuked or accepted him, he'd have something to go on in life. Any assessment was better than none at all. He found their personal information within the files of those who had registered for the Tournament, and a little extra digging revealed the critical information: school, homes, and places of employment with office hours. He smiled and clapped his hands, twirling in his rolling desk chair. He kicked off from the computer desk and whizzed across the parquet floor to his filing cabinet. This was assignment number two: how to make amends. "The best way to make up for something," he reasoned as he fished around the disorganized folders, "is with a peace offering!"
When he found what he'd been searching for, he leapt from the chair and laughed. "Perfect! How can Yugi-boy resist when I come bearing such a pretty present." Pegasus tucked the card in the lace of his poet shirt beneath the cuff of his jacket sleeve. "Alright, that's done. Now what else . . . oh yes. The drudgery of masquerade."
Boots clicking on the wooden floor, he strolled across the expansive chamber to his bathroom. He stared in the mirror and frowned. "I doubt even hair can cover it forever, and I don't need children crying at every turn. They'll give away my position." He studied himself in the mirror critically, then snapped his fingers. "I've got it! A glass eye - no . . . no, that's far too gaudy."
He'd enjoyed gaudy art for a long time. His father had decorated the entire mansion with all manner of high priced tasteless trash. All had changed when he'd met Cecelia and had begun to study the masters, picking up techniques here and there, searching for his own unique style. He eventually settled on a sort of Romantic Realism inspired by the masterful work of Rosetti. Like that lovesick fool, he too had been obsessed with a woman who, consequently, appeared in nearly every single portrait. Every woman had her hair, her eyes, her lips. Every goddess and nymph in mythology had taken the shape of the woman he loved.
He thought of the expansive portrait of Cecelia that hung across from his bed. He had long ago memorized every curve, every nuance of light in her golden hair and the blush in her cheeks. Memories of sunny days spent working in the field and then the studio as she sat so patiently. So still. He wondered, if he had just spent less time painting and more time being with her, would things have been any different? He closed his eye and could almost feel the sun on his back and her soft hand in his own, laughing as she pulled him away from his work. "You'll never get anywhere if you paint all day. Besides, why do you need a picture when I'm right here?"
Right here. Yes, at the time. Now all he had left was a portrait. Perhaps he'd misjudged his feelings. Perhaps he still longed for her as he had always longed for her, the feeling growing more keen since her death. The pain well of pain shifted a little, and he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose and taking deep breaths. "No. No point. Don't get distracted. You are on a mission. You've drawn your hand, now play it. No sense in acting like a fool." He sighed, trying to focus on the matter at hand as the pain which suddenly threatened to overwhelm him dwindled once again. "My eye. I have to use something. I will not be seen with a gaping hole in my face."
In the end, Croquet provided a simple black patch.
Pegasus arrived in Tokyo before noon. The helicopter pilot had dropped him off in a local park. When he was needed, Pegasus would contact him via cell phone.
But oh, how would he ever find his little dueling companions? He looked to the left, then the right, and with a shrug began walking straight. He'd memorized the layout of the city and the exact location of each important spot, but somehow the theatrical side of him always wanted the appearance of innocent confusion. He smiled, looking up into the glorious sun as he waited for the streetlight to indicate that crossing the street would be safe.
"Hey you!"
Pegasus smiled most charmingly at the fellow pedestrian near his elbow, "Hmm? Yes?"
"The friggin' light's changed. You've been standing here for fifteen minutes!" The man snapped his fingers in the face of the platinum-haired man. "Wake up, fag-boy!"
Pegasus just shrugged. People never seemed to change.