A "Remix" challenge by Mamono: Take the general idea of her one-shot "Gunshot" which can be found at http/ w w w .fanfiction . net /s/ 1979451 /1/ (spaces removed, of course.) All credit for the original idea goes to the wonderful Mamono. Of course, standard disclaimers apply.

Rain Falls

Picturesque. The word came to mind as lightning ripped its' gleaming yellow talons through the thin fabric of the sky. The echoing thunder resonated in every droplet of rain; every pitter-patter of the liquid hiding a muted explosion. Torrents, sheets of rain fell from the heaven, presents from an angry God, covering everything in sight, tracing every feature of the landscape. Like tiny fingers, it mercilessly stroked the gray stones of the graveyard as if to taunt onlookers, touching the names of those that would never be able to reach out and touch again.

From stoney surfaces to the furrowed brow of the nightly visitor, rain water traced the every crevice. It dipped past his stoney gray-blue eyes, falling off his angular nose. Unlike the graveyard's usual visitors, no blooming roses or letters filled with promises were clutched in his hands. He was a realist. There were no such thing as spirits who would cherish the perfume of fresh flowers or whose eyes would linger on the painstakingly placed wording of a note. Everything that needed to be said, every action needed to show emotion, must be provided in the unstable time provided us.

1993 - 2005

Time cut far too short.

But the realist knows there is no time for regret--- it changes nothing. The realist knows that nightly visits to a tombstone do nothing to bring a twelve year old boy back, yet he visited none the less. Tonight would be the last "goodbye". His grip on the metal briefcase shifted slightly at the thought. Tonight he'd let go of the past the only way he knew how.

His thick brown hair, matted with water, clung over his eyes like a quickly growing moss, making it difficult to see in front of him. His hair, the rain, these things obscured his vision. Nothing foolish like te---

Rustling and a low murmuring voice sounded out. Quiet, so quiet, that if one were wrapped up in their mourning they'd have never heard it. Brushing his long bangs from his eyes, the Realist searches around himself for the source of the sound.

'Perfect,' he thought, gazing through the haze of the storm to yet another person crazy enough to visit the graveyard without the protection of an umbrella. The figure, clad in a soaked ,green canvas coat, kneeled down at the base of one plot several feet away. Mud seeped into the fibers of his blue jeans and onto the sky blue bauble he placed next to the stone, calloused fingers gently working it further into the sludge. Not securely, but none the less anchored, the balloon whose string was tied around the blue weight began to dance around in the wind, seeming for the moment, impervious to the rain. The man standing far away from the scene could recognize with slight disgust the balloon's familiar silhouette: the Dark Magician.

Despite the pounding rain, the other boy's mutterings traveled through the air just clearly enough to be understood. "... to get you something more manly today to make up for Téa's roses." A laugh escaped his lips, thin and pathetic, like a whimper, "I told her she could at least give you something tougher, like a cactus, but no... you know Téa..." An uncomfortable silence, as if he expected a disembodied voice from the great beyond to reassure him that he did indeed know the slim-legged dancer. He spoke again, his voice raw and rattling, "I... Yugi, I'm so sorry. I mean, if I'd had known, I'da never! You and Mokuba... God, what have I done?"

The Realist has heard enough. Blood courses through his being at such a rate that every last drop of rain that passes his sight is edged in crimson. His boots make suction noises as he trudged closer to the figure in mourning. Two sharp clicks signal that his hand had found the clasps to the metal briefcase he held. Eyes still trained on the distracted boy in front of him, he could mentally picture the smoke-blue surface of crushed velvet, dented perfectly to the surface of the revolver entombed therein. The slick surface of the gun slid easily from the suitcase into his open hand.

'Put your finger on the trigger.'

Though already chilled to his very marrow, the feeling of his flesh on cool metal elicited a shiver. His finger steadily reached up and connected with the trigger as he reached the kneeling figure. Undetected, he slid the cool muzzle of the gun to the nape of the mourner's neck.

"Sit still like the mutt you are," he whispered icily, and the figure who's life he held stiffened at the sound of his voice.

"Kaiba." The name is stuttered, but not with its usual edge of contempt.

Lightning clawed in a frenzy at the sky, illuminating the scene in eerie beauty, contouring with its lights and intense shadows.

'Pull back the stop.' The formulaic instructions played in his head like quotes from an instruction manual. Cool, detached, inhuman in his reactions and urges, even murder...

"Slowly face me," he demanded, though he didn't raise his voice. In compete compliance, the blonde turned, still kneeling, the mud beneath him making thick sounds as he did so. Slowly, he raised his head, eyes staring up at Kaiba in silent defiance, daring him to do it. The tip of the gun moved from his neck, swaying lazily between his head and heart, as if trying to determine which would make a better target.

A long scar, still raw, pink and fresh, traced from the side of the blonde's face, carving precariously down his neck, its end hidden safely beneath the boy's shirt. Idly, Kaiba wondered if it continued beneath the shirt's collar, trailing down his chest, ending just inches, no, centimeters above his heart. How close had he been to completing the deed himself? Killing himself, his best friend, and an innocent child all in one fell swoop?

The breathing of the boy in front of him became ragged, "Just do it," He shouted, his arms cast out to either side of him, not trying to prolong the inevitable, but instead accepting his death as penance for the lives he'd accidentally taken.

The gun settled over his heart, Kaiba's figure towering over him. "What did he say?" he demanded, rage laced in his words.

"Wha--? What did who say?" The kneeling boy asked, taken aback at the question.

Another painful moment of silence. The rain began to gently pry Kaiba's grip from the gun, but he clung to it harder still.

"My little brother. Mokuba. What did he say..." the finishing words hung unspoken between the pair: "before he died?"

Guilt tore the mourner's eyes away from Kaiba's face. His words were quiet, slow, thought out, "He was wedged between Yug' and I, they were sharing the shotgun seat, and I was showing 'em how fast my dad's new car could go. The seat belt wouldn't fit over the two of 'em together without goin' real tight against Yugi's neck, so we decided we'd go without. An'... that car came from nowhere... I didn't..."

"I know what happened, Wheeler! What. Did. He. Say?"

"He... he said he didn't blame me. I was trying to help, but there was so much blood... I couldn't see through it. Yugi was holding him, whispering something I couldn't hear or can't remember, and then he... Yugi told me to tell everyone that he loved them. Even you, Kaiba. An' Mokuba told me to tell you he was sorry for skipping dinner, and he still loves you. I can't remember anything else... it happened so fast. One minute, we're all so alive, the next..."

The realist knows life's cycle. One is born, and as one grows, he or she must find his or her motivation to carry on. Yugi's was friendship, Mokuba's; his big brother. But Kaiba's motivation for life was split in two, yin and yang. His love for his little brother, and thirst for revenge.

With one motivation so unceremoniously removed, he was one shot away from finishing his life's purpose.

A final plea from the kneeling blonde as he fought to keep emotion from his face, "Just do me a favor, all right? Not here. Don't shoot me in front of Yugi..."

Revenge made a man a ravenous beast, searching for the next vendetta, the next competitor to devour. Without his life's counterbalance, always there to keep him from the worst of himself, Kaiba knew his hatred would know no end. It would take root in the parts of his heart he'd saved for his brotherly love alone.

'Fire.'

Not one for theatrics, a single bullet was needed. Thick crimson liquid ran red, then pink as the rain pounded ever harder, heaven's tears at the injustices it had seen.

One bullet to the temple, and the ultimate revenge was compete. Killing the murderer of his brother wasn't enough. Instead, one shot killed the desire, erased the purpose from his head.

Seto Kaiba didn't consider this a suicide. It wasn't an attempt to see his brother in some afterlife. If one existed, he'd be going to hell anyway. He just wanted to die with the memory of his brother still fresh in his mind, before his visage clouded over with time.

And the rain fell, but it couldn't wash innocent blood from the cemetery grounds.

And oh, how the rain still falls.