Chapter Four

Life began again, it seemed. The Tournament was over. Thanks to the grave sacrifices of Yuugi's pharaoh and many of the others, the God Cards were destroyed, and could never again be raised. Yami was gone. Bakura's darker half was gone as well, torn from him forcibly, so they explained later. Malik and Isis returned to the temples they were blooded to guard.

Honda didn't remember most of it. He and the others had been unconscious at the time. They usually were when important things were happening, he thought cynically. He awakened, with Jounouchi on one side, Otogi on the other, and a pounding headache worse than any hangover he'd ever had. Ever.

Yuugi explained patiently that Yami no Yuugi had agreed to sacrifice himself to lock the magic of the God Cards away forever. They were an abomination, he said – voice soft and toneless – a control over things that should never have been leashed.

Jounouchi demanded to know how, voice thick and rough. With tears just welling up now, the others agreed. It seemed too sudden – too quick and terrible an ending for the spirit.

Yuugi didn't have an answer.

They heard Bakura's howl then, from deep in the belly of the blimp, and pushed their pain aside at the unexpected parting in order to find him.

Afterward if anyone asked, Yuugi would not answer.

School seemed pale competition to the excitement and danger of Battle City, but at least it was safe. And there was always food, and a bed to sleep in at night. And no evil spirits and crazy-ass monsters boiling to take chunks out of anyone who got in the way.

Shudder.

Best not think too much on that last bit.

Faced with the morning and the self-appointed duty of assembling boxes of cereal on the counter, Honda had to admit that his dreams seemed far less earthshaking. It didn't matter what he'd seen. He'd seen everyone in this house in a dream, one night or another. He'd even seen Anzu and Mai in a few…not that he was going to tell them that.

Milk. Where was the milk? Didn't Yuugi's old granddad keep milk in this joint? Ah, there it was. Honda dragged it out of the refrigerator from where it had cornered itself, and splashed it over his cornflakes. He passed it to Jounouchi and moved on to the kitchen table with a spoon. Ancient Egypt and reincarnated friends with eyes the wrong color faded out of memory, replaced by sugary frosting and the lethargic boredom that never failed to find him on Saturday mornings.

Jounouchi drowned his bowl to the rim, eliciting snickers as mummified marshmallows flew out of the soggy mess and onto the counter. He scooped the refugees back into place and tottered precariously to the table. Honda watched him in disbelief.

That…couldn't have been him, could it? The man with the swords had resembled him, a little…but that fellow was collected and self-assured, and walked without a wasted movement. Liquid steel. And he was hot. No…hot didn't even begin to measure his temperature.

The dream-Jounouchi probably ate leather for breakfast, not marshmallow cereal and milk. And either way, he surely never spilled a drop. The blond was even now suctioning milk and candy bits off of the tabletop with his mouth.

It was a hard lesson in reality. But all the same…comforting.

Honda palmed his eyes with a groan. "Didn't anyone ever teach you table manners?"

"He sits up now when he eats…what more do you want?" Ryou quipped in a rare moment of humor, and the kitchen reverberated with laughter.

Jounouchi didn't find it all that funny.

"Well, at least I don't cry in my sleep," he retorted, and immediately dropped his eyes with a flush of shame.

Honda stared at his bowed head in disbelief. Jounouchi had seen the tears. He knew something was wrong, but he'd just…

Hah. Some friend.

And if he let the others in on it, they'd press him to explain. Honda didn't know what in the name of God this was, and he sure as hell didn't want to try and explain it to anyone!

Honda's face burned as two curious pairs of eyes – Yuugi's and Ryou's – leveled on him. He shoved his bowl away and stood up with enough speed to nearly knock his chair to the floor.

It was too much. Though he tried to ignore it, the dream was still fresh. Too much to hear his own best friend practically order him into slavery and have him betray something so personal now.

"I'm going for a ride."

And out he went, snatching up his helmet to a distant yelp of "Wait!" from the kitchen.

The side door of the game shop slammed behind him.

"Honda, wait!"

He shrugged on his jacket.

"C'mon, stop!"

The voice grew nearer with the sound of thundering feet. Honda ignored it. A glance at the helmet, and he set it gingerly on the garage workbench, and threw a leg over his motorcycle.

"Wait! I'll go with—!"

Otogi threw himself out the side door just in time to be drowned out by the gunning roar of a powerful Yamaha engine turning over. And Honda was gone. The words he'd meant to say died in his throat.

A brilliant spark of red on the workbench caught his eyes. He turned.

Honda's helmet.

Otogi stared. Cursed. And dashed inside for his keys.