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Chapter 3

Mokuba was so deep in his remembrances that he did not notice how tightly he was clutching his opened card locket. He also was never aware of the small, light footsteps outside his door.

A small body leaning over his hand caught his attention, and Mokuba quickly snapped shut the necklace and sat further back. Before him, no more than five, was a boy with the same black hair as his own, only shorter. But it was mainly the dark blue eyes that caught Mokuba's gaze. They were a little darker than his brother's, but they still seemed so similar.

"Are you alone now, too?" the boy asked. A few other young boys were crowded behind him.

"No…"

The boy stared up at him with round eyes. Then, he pointed a little finger at the card around Mokuba's neck. "Is that your dad?"

"No…it's my…brother."

"Did he leave you here?" the boy persisted, leaning far too close into Mokuba for the young Kaiba to be comfortable.

"No."

"Did something happen to him?"

The other kids behind the young one whispered when Mokuba stopped answering. Swiftly, he put the card necklace under his shirt, hoping that once it was out of sight no one would remember it.

"Is he here too?" Apparently, this kid was too old to be fooled that the necklace was just "gone" when he put it away.

Sighing, Mokuba pulled his knees up to his body and shook his head.

"Can I see him again, please?"

Startled, Mokuba's hold on his legs slackened. "Why?"

Again, the large pair of deep blue eyes, close to navy, peered expressionlessly into his face. "I don't have any pictures."

Instantly, the young Kaiba understood. No pictures of his family, who must have died. Or, at least, they had left him here for a different reason. Slowly, he changed his position until his necklace was out once more. The young boy crawled up onto the bed and sat down beside him to see. The other boys crowded in closer, whispering and giving furtive glances at Mokuba.

The first child, the only one with a real voice it seemed, asked seriously, "Can he be my brother, too?"

"Well…"

Before he could even try to answer his own trailing off, a much older boy came into the room. This one looked familiar, and suddenly Mokuba recalled having seeing him sweep the floor. He had to be around fifteen—older than Mokuba himself.

He took one glance at Mokuba with the crowd of boys and sneered. "What's the matter, Kaiba, couldn't afford your silken sheets anymore?" He strode forward, effectively scattering the boys like a fox leaping into the midst of pigeons. Well, all but the first boy who clutched Mokuba's shirt tightly.

"Don't try to hide who you are. I know you're a Kaiba! What are you doing here, huh? Why would some rich brat be in an orphanage?"

"Leave me alone!" Mokuba burst out, jumping to his feet.

"I don't have to. I owe all richies something, and nothing you can say will persuade me you don't deserve it."

Behind him, still cowering, was the five-year-old boy. Hands tightening to fists at his sides, Mokuba tried to emulate his brother's effective glare. However, he must not have gotten it correct, for this bully did not blanch or crumple in a pile but strode forward.

"I owe all richies this!" he cried, swinging his fist forward.

There was not enough time to duck. The full blast knocked Mokuba's face askew and sent him backward. Because of the young boy's presence, Mokuba tripped backward and lay on the ground sprawled, trying to gather his wits.

"I guess not even Kaibas are immune to just a poor boy's fists."

The other group of young boys was vacant from the area, completely hidden away. The one Mokuba had tripped over remained, but he was motionless, just staring at the older boy.

"Leave him alone, Sven!" he finally piped out, looking terrified to have said anything.

The bully narrowed his eyes. "Shut it, Jumi, or you're next. I don't have a problem teaching rules to five-year-olds."

He was trying to be tough, but Jumi fled at the threat. Sven forgot him immediately and glowered down at Mokuba.

"Ready for some more?"

"SVEN!"

The adolescent froze in place. Then, still glaring, he turned to the speaker, Mr. Guy. From his position on the floor, Mr. Guy appeared no more a savior than he had the first time Mokuba had seen him. Not even the squinting haze surrounding one eye could manage to give the orphanage owner a halo.

Behind the man, Jumi poked his head out, midnight blue eyes glancing at Sven once before concentrating on Mokuba. Then, hesitantly, he tried a smile.

The young Kaiba tried on his own smile, but it hurt. Besides, before too long, Mr. Guy had Mokuba on his feet and was marching him down the hall as well as Sven.

"You're both in huge trouble."

Silent, both of them walked stiffly down the hall.

The orphanage.

Ages five and ten, a sanctuary of rowdy boys and fierce gang-like loyalties to surround us within its tender arms. There was no crevice, no loop to worm your way through to the outside world. True, the outside world would have welcomed me with silence and stern disregard, but at least there would have been a semblance of order, a pretending going on by everyone that this was a democracy and blessed world holding dreams that can be accomplished if you work ever so diligently. Within, there was only the blunt truth: we were urchins cast aside with no hope unless it was to just barely avoid becoming scoundrels on the street.

Of course, not all orphanages are like that. At least, where the infants are kept, where there is a constant sale of tender softness, they are kept with better hope. After all, everyone wants to adopt babies. It was older children that had such problems. Already so aware of the hypocrisy of the world, no one wanted a child wiser than he or she was. Wiser in the ways of bitter truth and negligent hope. Instead, they went for the false love of infants who could not stare at them with eyes filled with reveries of failed dreams and ruined lives.

Sometimes, I thought of it all as a sale, a market. Orphanages carrying older children still had procurers, most likely because of the reduced time needed to actually purchase the item. Waiting for an infant could take years. At least with older children it was see and take.

So, adults came occasionally and looked us over. Those were the bad days, the times when someone came in with false cheeriness and tried to put a slight upward curvature onto the faces of countless, impassive boys. The end result was always the same: someone would be leaving with a dull glance back at the place, abandoning former "brothers" as someone whispered borrowed dreams of delightful hope in his ear to comfort him who had already gone through more pain than the one adopting will ever go through in life.

And yet, Mokuba dislikes to recall what I told to him so often there and afterwards: "Always be on your guard. You'll be finished if you show any weakness."

There was only one way to adapt, and that was to remain above the system. Feel nothing, expect nothing for your benefit, and cease to be so attached to your dreams.

That is how you survive.

Mokuba will tell you that at the orphanage I was happy, that I smiled back then. So I showed him. It was only to him that the time at Gozaburo's wiped the weak, tiring grin from my face and replaced it with the natural, easy smirk and iron-held, immovable glare. But the smiles had been gone for a long time before that. It was only because Mokuba never saw a true smile that he believed these, the false ones that were the best and only I had to offer, were true delight.

I've never set him straight.