Ramblings:

I really shouldn't start this one until I've finished Puppy Love, but I just couldn't let the plot bunny go homeless!

Oh, this one is a little...umm...volatile, to say the least. Warnings include slash, character death (oooh...I wonder who it will be this time...), a teensy weensy bit of language, some violence and a lot of law-breaking. Pairings include SetoJou (come one-sided, some not one sided)and SetoHonda. Oh, by the way, I do not and never will own Yugioh, and I really don't mind...

The story is set 5 years on from the series finale, meaning people are aged between about 20 and 22.

Well, enough talking, here is the prologue...

"Do you have anything to say in response to the facts read by the prosecutor?"

Presiding Judge Saruwatari Takumi had recited this necessity countless times before: almost every day for the past ten years, in fact. It was hard for him to recall a day when he hadn't, despite the fact that a day when he didn't might actually interest him. It wasn't that he found such a job boring; no, he was honored to be a Judge, especially a presiding judge. It was just that since he had started his job, he had been working the same cases over and over again, partially because some of the cases he worked, more often than not petty theft, went on for weeks longer than they really should. It was amazing the lawyers that these criminals could afford, despite the rather unprofitable nature of their work…

Why, just last month Takumi had been faced with a rather frustrating case against a woman who had been found guilty of stealing tobacco from the local market: she managed to get hold of the man considered fourth best lawyer in Japan, and probably would have escaped her sentence had it not been for a torrent of witnesses and a suspiciously large amount of Tobacco found stashed in her attic.

He almost smiled remembering the episode; however the situation unfolding in front of him was not something he should have been smiling about: today was probably going to be the most important case of his career.

Takumi had been shocked to the point of almost choking to death on his lunch, which that day happened to be Ramen, when he had been informed of the case he had at the same time next week: he hadn't had Ramen of any form since.

Takumi sat at the front, or back, of the courtroom, depending on whom and where you were. Either way, he was sitting atop a large redwood chair, partially enclosed by a small wooden booth. To either side of him were the two Associate judges. About three meters forward of them, the defense counsel and public prosecutor sat in their opposing boxes, the Defense counsel to his left; the Prosecutor to his right. Directly in front of Takumi, there was a smaller, lower booth housing the Clerk and his suitcase filled with forensic tools and evidence, and the Stenographer, her hands poised over the keys of her typewriter, waiting for words.

At the moment, Takumi was not concerned about the other inhabitants of the courtroom: certainly not his colleagues or the lawyers. Even the spectators were disinteresting to him, despite some of the prolific, often infamously so, faces he could recognize in the crowd.

At the moment, all Takumi could see was a boy standing across the courtroom.

He was young, reasonably tall and had long vivid blonde hair that evidently hadn't been properly brushed for weeks. Even in his fitting black suit he looked scruffy: he sported a plain white blouse, only partially tucked into his trousers. He had the top button undone, and there was no evidence of a tie anywhere on his person. He was fiddling, presumably out of nerves, with his hands. However, his face looked anything but nervous: it was as hard as a rock, concentrated and determined. Takumi had seen this before, especially when it came to Financial Fraud cases where the accused was often righteous and egotistical; but it was the intensity of the blonde's eyes that differentiated him from the rest: they were honey brown, flashing with the same tenacity found in his face and, unlike the usual guilty cowards Takumi faced, they were looking directly into his, not a trace of fear or regret to diminish the sparkle.

It was an ardent gaze that unnerved Takumi somewhat: yet it also gave him the comfort of knowing that the boy hadn't committed the awful crime of which he was accused: how could a guilty party look so confident?

Suddenly, Takumi's attention was diverted from the boy's eyes, and to his own ears. The boy spoke:

"The evidence is entirely correct,"

Takumi's train of thought stopped in its tracks: what did he just say?

Composing himself, the judge took a deep breath to speak, but a sound had barely passed his lips when the boy spoke again.

"I therefore plead guilty…"

Takumi opened his mouth to speak, but once again, the boy beat him to it:

"…To all charges,"

.:'':.

The smell of vomit was almost overpowering: you had to hold your nose every time you passed within a few yards of the first floor washroom, and that didn't stop your eyes from watering. Even opening your mouth caused some of the vulgar odor to enter your system, often causing severe retching and a trip to the clean bathroom downstairs to do some more, with a similarly pungent end result.

Despite the awful smell, the bathroom still needed cleaning, especially as the regurgitations had been fermenting in it for the last three days. It wasn't an impossible task: it was just really, really hard to bring yourself to even approach the room, and it required a large amount of pleasant things to sniff afterwards. Besides, those inhabiting the house really had no time to be cleaning, or doing anything else for that matter, and so had decided the abandon the corridor occupying the bathroom until further notice.

Apart from the increasingly unbearable stench of the first floor, the rest of the house was as normal as the largest house in Domino City could be. Almost directly beneath the offending bathroom lay the large, open plan kitchen and dining area.

Currently eating the first food he had had in 72 hours, Seto Kaiba was sitting in that very room, a cup of pitch black coffee in one hand, and a slightly nibbled, dry bagel in the other. He was sporting a fluffy royal blue bath robe with "KC" embroidered in gold on the hem, collar and cuffs. Apart from a pair of brilliant white boxer shorts, also embroidered with "KC", but in silver, he was wearing nothing underneath.

On the table in front of him was a pile of newspapers. He was picking them up one at a time, scanning the front covers, and occasionally grunting in mild distaste. There was a pile of discarded papers on the floor next to his stool.

Until he came across the penultimate newspaper in his pile, the most he had done was mutter something about a lawsuit or two. But after just one glance at the headline on the cover, his mug was sent flying across the kitchen, closely followed by his bagel. The mug hit the wall with an alarmingly loud crash as it broke into hundreds of pieces, sending white porcelain skidding across the floor.

Kaiba rose to his feet shakily, his eyes not leaving the paper in his hand for one second. Slowly, he bent down and retrieved the pile of papers from the floor.

He made his way out of the kitchen and down the parallel corridor, which lead to the front door. Upon reaching the monstrous white arch, he flung the doors open with his free hand, steadying the pile of newspapers in his arm with his right leg.

He marched out onto the front porch and staggered down the marble steps. There he dropped the newspapers, save the front cover of the top one, which he had somehow detached from the rest of the paper.

One last look at the emboldened words in the center of the page was enough to send the man to his knees. He cried out, angry tears streaming down his face. His voice was hoarse and worn, and, not only physically painful to experience, but emotionally wearing: this wasn't a note to shatter glass; this was a note to shatter hearts.

Screaming dissolved into abnormally loud growling, which in turn faded into dignified sobbing and hiccupping.

Kaiba rose to his feet and discarded the page to the wind. He watched for a moment as it floated and tumbled through the air, until it landed on ground and continued to roll calmly along the lawn to one side of the gravel driveway. Letting the tears continue fall from his eyes and roll down his cheeks undisturbed, he turned and made his way back indoors, silently closing the doors behind him.

Upon reaching the kitchen, he purposefully began to rummage through cupboards, pulling out various cleansing products, sponges, scrubbers and brushes, throwing them into a surprisingly neat pile in the center of the room. Donning a pair of yellow latex gloves, Kaiba gathered the pile of equipment and carried it out of the room, down the corridor again and up the spiraled staircase on the right of the main entrance lobby. He continued down another corridor, turned left past a recently abandoned bedroom of his and a similarly discarded office, which was devoid of light due to a distinct lack of window. He passed another two rooms with their doors closed.

Suddenly, as if he had been punched in the nose, Kaiba clumsily dropped his load and practically slapped himself in the face trying to cover his mouth and nose. His already wet eyes were stinging with tears. Once again, he retrieved the items from the floor, and continued to waddle down the hall, breathing through a sponge clenched in his teeth.

Of course, he was on the first floor: and the particular corridor he was traveling down was home to the soiled bathroom. Still, he soldiered on, just about managing to avoid breathing in the odor, instead being forced to inhale what smelled like a mixture of bleach and toothpaste, which he presumed, and hoped, was from the sponge.

This time, deliberately, Kaiba stopped and dropped his things outside a white door which was slightly ajar. With the sponge still in his mouth, he took a deep breath and entered the bathroom.

The worst thing about this room, he presumed, should have been the smell: but what he saw made the vulgar stench seem the most fragrant thing in the world, and maybe even worthy of its own perfume bottle.

Kaiba stifled a retch, and swallowed some vomit of his own that burned the back of his throat. The room looked like bomb had exploded: inside a human head. The walls, floor and occasionally even the ceiling were splashed with a now almost solid, grey, red and green substance, some of which lay in pools of yellow bile and what could only be described as blood. The toilet appeared to be the worst hit place: despite the evident poor aim of the vomit-tee, the toilet was covered in a congealed layer of the same Technicolor regurgitations. Upon closer inspection of the toilet bowl, sink and bath tub, Kaiba revised his earlier thoughts: several bombs had exploded, in several human heads.

He was crying again: not the silent, solemn tears of before, or the slight wetness caused by the awful stench. No, instead he was literally sobbing; taking shallow, sudden breaths, torrents of huge, round tears rolling down his cheeks, his sobs muffled by the sponge still in his mouth, which he promptly spat out. Suddenly, the anguish was replaced with anger.

"I'll kill him," He growled, "I'll kill him, just like he killed you,"

Kaiba flung open the door and picked up a bottle with a spray attachment. It was filled with a pale green liquid. Upon noticing the color, a smirk flickered into being in Kaiba's face.

"He loved pistachios: Nut allergy my ass."

Kaiba a bit Ooc, I hear you say? You'll understand why later. Please R&R: I like to hear your reactions, as long as they are justified.

C.c