Chapter Eight: Crazy or Unwell?
Game Shop
Located on Lavaca St.
4:30 a.m.
Lazy eyelids fluttered, squeezed themselves together, and beckoned their comfortable cocoon of sleep to stay wrapped around them longer. Just a little more rest, was that too much to ask for? Obviously it was, if you were a high school student who was forced to sleep in a loft above a store. Kame Game Shop was infamous for providing around the clock services to just about anyone who knocked on the door--duelists haggling for the hottest monster cards in stock, otaku freaks that couldn't be cured of their classic cases of insomnia unless they purchased a horde of Pocky Sticks (or manga, either would do for those hyperactive Cosplayers), even die-hard Internet junkies that couldn't possibly find a reason to continue living until they were a proud new owner of blank DVDs or CD-ROMS. If the PC dorks were really desperate, then they'd sigh dramatically, chew their lower lip, and then grudgingly pluck their wallet out of worn-out jeans to retrieve their allowance in exchange for a Zip disk. Yup, almost every walk of life bought or sold items at the small entertainment business, whether they were corporate executives, electronics geeks, anime worshippers, or cute elementary school kids looking for something new to play with--like the one who was in bed now. Well--that's not a completely accurate synopsis of the student, but he certainly fit the physical description. Looking like a child who just graduated from the fifth grade, the petite adolescent appeared to be an adorable replica of a Precious Moments figurine. Big purple eyes, childish body proportions, and fully equipped with a voice that obviously hadn't gone through puberty yet, the grandson of the shop's owner was usually mistaken for someone younger. Normally, that meant six or seven years younger, but who has time to keep track of that sort of thing? Not this small boy, this dozing angel, this cutie-pie that was having a difficult time finding a comfy position to lie in. Beddie-bye hours were a precious commodity to him, especially since he was feeling the stress of forfeiting relaxation for good grades. Teachers at his school were piling assignments on him so quickly, layering the essays; research papers, calculus equations, and other activities one on top of the other, making his course load a very sour parfait to sample. Coffee was his only lifesaver, his happy-pill medicine, the steamy beverage of go-go juice that helped him keep his eyes open during his homework episodes. By the way, speaking of those stacks of worksheets, texts to read, and notes to take, the entire mound was never-ending. Exams were next week, too. He was doing nothing but getting very well acquainted with the term "cramming," a technique he swore he'd never use to achieve his desired GPA, but found it to be more and more useful as the semester was coming to a close. And what individual was responsible for handing down this extremely irresponsible teaching method? Who else but the one and only master of being a gifted slacker: Joey Wheeler. This was a teen who had slept or literally skipped through his high school career, lived at places that sold video games, ditched his household chores to hang out downtown, and still managed to pull a passing score out of all of his professors. How lucky could one guy possibly be? Too damn smart for his own good, if anyone ever asked the gothic-haired child. When he busted his tail to get by in a class, Jonouchi sailed through the course, no sweat. While he had to concentrate on learning a concept better, Katsuya simply glanced over the material once, was miraculously able to commit every minute detail to memory, then took the test over the subject weeks later and aced it. It just wasn't fair. Then again, what the hell was in this life? Obviously not much, if freeloaders like that could always find an easy way to skate through existence, have time to basically do whatever the hell he wants to, or bounce around the city looking for fast food to cram down his throat. How come nothing bad ever happened to the constantly energetic blond? Why did he seem to fall ass-backwards into fortune? Was it possible for anything ill fated to catch him, or was he simply too quick for terrible luck--
Again the strained lids moved, actually accomplishing greater movement than a few rolls of the eyes. Gradually, the blinds to the windows of the soul opened, revealing twin red-violet orbs. They stared out blankly from their sockets, hovering somewhere between the dueling planes of the tangible and intangible. Their sight reflected the peaceful slumber of someone content in the creation station of dreams, clashing with the dull structure of the four walls surrounding them. Even registering where he was took several more seconds than it should have, proving his theory of exhaustion very thoroughly and efficiently. If he was so tired, then why couldn't he just close his sweet lil' peepers and wait until dawn to wake up? What possessed him to peer into the starkness of his private quarters? He didn't know, just didn't have a freaking clue as to why he had lifted his fatigued lids--and that's when it hit him. Rather, that's what was hitting the outside of his house-turned-retail-combo--knocking.
And some very insistent rapping, at that.
Shaken into a haphazard state of consciousness, the short male strained his ears, listening hard for the sound to echo in his brain once more. Lucky for him, the ever persistent drum roll continued, jarring him into reality at last. Lifting two chibi-sized palms to his worn face, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He dreaded answering the door (namely because he couldn't see unlocking it to explain what a floppy disk was to a supposed veteran of using laptops), but knew he was going to have to eventually. There just wasn't going to be any way around it. Besides, he didn't want to be a pain in the ass for Grandpa, a kindly old man who had lovingly rescued him from his childhood hell, supported him, and treated him like family. Getting a nicely furnished room with a job and some spending money happened to be a lovely added bonus, too.
/We've only been together about a year, but he has taken me into his home and his raised me like his son. / the wild-haired teen recalled, sitting upright on his box spring mattress. A miniature smile accented his features, pulling his lips up enough to give him the image of a cherub. The treasured recollection of his grandfather embracing him flashed inside his head, a mental picture he adored, a cherished photograph of happiness. No matter how childish or immature this memory of his seemed to others, he would always hold it dear in his heart, a simplistic representation of his first true encounter of being loved. Nothing had ever felt so wonderful to him than that, the sensation of feeling affection for someone while having it all returned to him at least ten-fold. His grandparent wasn't just his legal guardian, but also one of his best friends, and a special individual that would never have to be unsure about having a place to reside at in the boy's soul. Content with the flashback, he thought happily, /No, I am his child. And I'm not ashamed to admit that, either. I'm glad that someone wants me to be his relative. Grandpa will never let me down, so I always want to be the one who can do the same for him. /
Before he could forge another hearty vow of valor to his relative, the banging below resumed its steady tempo.
"Alright!" moaned the spiky-haired adolescent groggily. "Alright already!"
Swinging his legs from underneath himself, he set his feet flat on the floor. Using his open hands, he balanced part of his weight on his arms, expelled most of the tension from his upper body, and then slowly lifted himself from his heavenly sheets. As he began fumbling across his not-so-clear-carpet (homework took up the free minutes he used for basic hygiene, being messy was a recent add-on to his daily routine), the pounding on his humble abode resumed. Of course, it could have just been his imagination (he had a pretty active one when he wanted to), but the hammering on his dwelling sounded much louder than the noise he heard earlier.
"Relentless bastard." muttered the youth under his breath, hobbling around in the dark. Unable to see where he was headed, the purple-eyed male collided with a wall, thumping his head right into the hard surface. Not learning his lesson from before on the usage of foul language, he whined, "Owww, fuck that hurt!" Ruefully, he clamped a hand over the fresh bash on his visage, massaging the throbbing skin. If Grandpa heard him even whisper that sort of obscene dialogue, then the guy would probably be using his head as a door by now, whacking his forehead so fast and painfully that he wished he would have never uttered a syllable even remotely similar to what he vocalized. But that was only an event to fear if he was listening. Lucky for the short student, the old man retired to his bedroom hours ago, so he had to have fallen asleep--or so that was the preposterous notion--
"Yugi!" called Sugoroku Mutoh from his side of the house, "What was that?"
"Someone's at the door downstairs!" the youth replied quickly, hoping that his relative would forget about his slip of the tongue. Highly unlikely, but it was worth a try. "I think it's a customer!"
"Really?"
"Yeah, didn't you hear it? They've been clobbering the entrance of our shop to get someone's attention!"
Waiting for a response, the amethyst-eyed child exhaled. So far, so good. Grandfather was never one to sweat the small stuff whenever new business opportunities came knocking for him. That was something that the gothic-haired male was grateful for--his old man's love for trade--which was doing a very nice job of distracting the owner's attention. On the flip side, Mutoh's hide was saved.
At last, his relative shouted back, "Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Christmas?"
"No--"
"Then go greet them and take their order!"
"I know, I'm going, I'm going."
Shuffling over the store tiles on floor one of the two-story building, the petite adolescent found a straight and easy path to the entrance of their condominium. In the moonlight, he watched as the large moveable surface of the business vibrated, echoing the impatience of a rowdy consumer. Face-to-face with the synthetic structure, he stared at the shadowy shape behind the glass. It was too dark to play guessing games with the figure, although, as bizarre as it seemed, the outline outside felt weirdly familiar to him. Shaking off the queasy feeling settling in the base of his stomach, he reached for the brass bar in front of him, slid his fingers over the cool metallic pole, then--
Suddenly, an elderly voice blared like a foghorn, causing the poor thing to jump.
"Yugi, are you listening?"
"Yes, Grandpa." he answered obediently.
"You know what using bad words gets you."
Mutoh's countenance turned a sickly shade. Yes, he knew exactly what that meant--he would be awarded a beautiful one-way trip to his room, a paradise in No Man's Land where every last speck of his sound files, CD's, radio, and puzzles would be confiscated in a nifty package most teenagers identified as grounding. Harsh, but to be expected. He should have known better, too. Nothing ever got past Sugoroku Mutoh. Some people may call him an old duck fart, but he was as sharp as college kids were. No pulling any fast ones on that eagle-eyed, rabbit-eared man.
"How long am I down for this time?" asked the lavender-eyed youth after sighing.
"We'll talk about it later." his grandfather replied coolly. "Just tend to the client so you can send them on their merry way."
Oh, shit. He was in for it now. When Grandpa didn't inform him of the consequence right off the bat that generally meant he was going to suffer.
/Damn, and I just got myself that MP3 player! It took me months to save for that stupid thing! / he cursed to himself unhappily. Thrusting his hand into his pajama pocket, he rifled the contents of the fabric, plucking a silver key out as he completed his momentary search. He jammed the uneven metal into the keyhole, wiggling the lock to and fro. /Consequences are consequences, though…/ thought the short teen logically. /He's only looking out for my best interests. That's part of making me a functional member of society: taking responsibility for my actions. / With a last twist of the key, the security device was overrode, allowing him to let in whoever the hell had the nerve to show themselves at his home at such an ungodly hour. /It could always be worse. / he told himself; attempting to find some consolation for the punishment he was indirectly thinking of. /One or more of my friends could be severely injured or hurt--/
Upon jacking the door to his place open, he promptly received his most horribly fabled premonition brought into reality.
"Jonouchi-kun!" gasped the high school student. "What are you--"
"Doin' here?" offered the blond.
"Yeah, that's the question I had on my mind." Leaning against the frame of his store, the gothic-haired child said, "I can tell you're not here to buy anything."
"You're right 'bout that."
"Then why--"
/Yeah, how I used to be/
Motioning with his gaze, the other male directed his friend's eyes to the added weight in his arms. Yugi's mouth dropped open, instantly registering the identity of the person his companion was carrying, who was none other than the notorious leader of the top-selling dueling technology internationally--
/How I used to be/
"Yeah, it's who ya think it is." the amber-eyed teenager stated. "It's him, the one, the only--"
"Seto Kaiba of KaibaCorp." breathed the petite adolescent, clearly astonished. He sounded as if the king of England himself was visiting the Kame Shop. Violet orbs full of endless questions regarded Katsuya cautiously, irresolute and uncertain. "How--What happened--?"
/Well, I'm just a little unwell/
"You don't wanna know, and I don't wanna repeat it." replied Joey vaguely.
"Why not?"
" 'Cuz you'd have nightmares for months if I told ya the truth."
Judging by the serious look in his comrade's hazel orbs, Yugi could see that his friend wasn't exaggerating. Maybe that's what was scaring him so badly, the tell-tale signs he was faced with--the seriousness in Jou's visage, his rigid posture, steely, unwavering gaze, strangely bitter expression--all components of a very nasty crime scene indeed. To make things worse, he was carrying his rival, someone that mutually despises him, a well-known male that could order Jonouchi's death on a golden platter. So what did his buddy have to do with the mangled frame he held? And just who was to blame for marring the executive's neck so savagely that he may even require stitches--
Although he didn't wish to accuse his best friend of any harmful actions, the shorter teen just had to have his impulsive thoughts settled. In a quiet tone, he asked, "You didn't--"
/How I used to be/
"No." replied the honey-haired male, shaking his head as he spoke. "Not on my life would I do anythin'--" He gazed down at the battered structure of the once sophisticated businessman he held. His eyes reflected a painful mixture of empathy, compassion, and something else, another emotion Yugi couldn't quite place-- "like this. Not on my life." he finished, his voice barely audible.
Pressing a palm to his chest, the shorter male expelled a breath of relief. "Thank the gods." Raising his line of sight to his companion's countenance, he glanced briefly at Kaiba's torn flesh, then fixed a worried look on Wheeler. "Then who--"
"You wouldn't believe me if I said it."
"Try me." the purple-orbed person said, folding his arms huffily.
/How I used to be/
"I don't know."
"Know? Know what?"
Gazing at Yugi with glittering amber eyes, the troubled male answered brokenly, "I don't know if Set's crazy or just a little unwell."
/I'm just a little unwell/