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PART ONE
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LOGIN ONE:
The Find
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November 12th, 2198.
The streets of Domino, as always, were bursting with life: full of shoppers, vendors, pets, traffic. Every color a person could imagine decorated the billboards and stores, flowers blooming in the Indian summer; emphasizing the bare brown bark of the carefully potted trees. One or two cars honked, but most of the white noise came from the underground—subways making the sidewalk tremble in their wake. People and persocoms smiled and waved to one another in the loitering crowds, children clinging to their guardian's gentle hands as they walked. It was a perfect sce—
"OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY, YOU ASSHOLES!"
. . . except for him.
Pedestrians and drivers alike gasped and squealed as the silver haired male pushed through throngs of strangers, screaming bloody murder at all whom stood in his way. Panting and looking as though he'd just sprung from bed (which he had), the young man returned his attention to the ancient flip phone in his hand, ignoring the giggles of those who saw his "outdated piece of trash."
"Okay, I'm on third," he snarled, still out of breath as he began to sprint once more, making it across the street just before the light turned red. Growl deepening when a chuckle crackled in his ear, his chocolate eyes flashed. "Shut up!"
"Sorry, Kura-chan, but you're so cute in the mornings!"
The pale locked boy—evidently "Kura-chan"— began to grit his teeth, wishing vainly that he could kick his boss's ass. "Don't give me that shit, Yami. You're just happy that you now have a legitimate excuse to dock my pay!"
"Well. . . yeah," the amused voice of Yami continued without a hint of guilt, "There is that. And it's more than a legitimate excuse, you know—this will be the fifth time you've come in late this month, Bakura! Most people would fire you with that track record."
Bakura glowered, hurtling over a robo-puppy. "Gee, I'm SOOOO lucky to have such a kind employer."
"Damn straight. But seriously. . . You've really gotta upgrade, man. What're you using, an alarm clock?" The other man broke into peals of laughter—before pausing, realizing there had been no response. ". . . you're not seriously still using an alarm clock, are you?"
". . ."
"Oh my God!"
"SHUT UP!" the tardy employee snapped, cheeks flushed (and not just from fatigue) as he rounded a corner. Only two more blocks to go. . . "You know I can't afford anything new!
"How can you not afford a simple 'com when you managed to take a lavish vacation to India a year ago?" Yami asked, voice dripping with exasperation (and jealousy).
"You know very well that my parents sponsored that stupid trip!" So what if it had been free— it was still stupid. He would have preferred the cash. It was a waste of time—too hot, too crowded, too. . . much. The only thing he really enjoyed had lasted a second. Less then that.
He'd bumped into an angel; hidden beneath a maroon veil. A native girl, he assumed. . . he'd passed her on the street; her scarlet eyes still haunted his daydreams.
Suddenly embarrassed, the boy pushed the musing away. "And in any case," he continued bitterly, "if I wasn't broke then, I defiantly am now. I'm still paying off restaurant bills! I don't even have enough cash to change my mind, let alone buy a persocom!"
A snort. "I doubt it—you can buy older models for practically nothing, nowadays. And ANYTHING is better then that antique shit you're using. Hell, I bet you're talking to me on that pwip-fone thingy right now—"
"Flip phone."
"Yeah, whatever— we ALL know that has to go; don't be such tight ass! Look, I'm glancing through a magazine right now; notebook style for $$350, platinum laptop series for $$400, and the 2345 desktop models are down to $$1,900!"
Bakura rolled his eyes, growing bored with this recurring argument. "That's fucking swell," he panted into the mouthpiece of his phone, slowing to a jog as the familiar shop came into sight: Dark Duels: Disks, Virtual RPGs, Antique & New Card/Board Games. A sign just beneath it announced "Now Supporting Six 'The World' Servers!" The building's aluminum roof and cream-colored walls had been splotched with navy designs a few years ago; wild shrubs and vines crawled over its face and wooden porch. Bright morning sunlight glinted off of its stained-glass windows and red brick sidewalk, giving the place a quaint, rustic feel—much like the other stores in this district. "All right then, where do you suggest I get the money to pay for THAT? From the money tree? No. . . ? Well, you can't possibly mean from working HERE. With all the cuts you've put me through? Yeah, right. I can barely afford groceries! And it's not like I could buy a 'com with my good looks."
The golden door jingled as Bakura pushed it open; both men turned off their phones without missing a beat.
Yami— the young, tall, lean owner of the store— ran a nonchalant hand through his tri-colored hair before continuing the conversation; acting as if nothing had happened. "Bakura, I keep telling you—I'll give you a loan. Hell, if you can actually get to work on time for once, a persocom would pay for itself. And hey, you shouldn't have to earn the cash all by yourself; get your lazy-ass roommate to help with expenses. I'm sure he'd benefit from a persocom around the house, as well." The older man straightened, glancing vaguely around his store, making sure everything was in place. And it was: the server ports for online RPGs were plugged in by the sensory-perception goggles; Kaiba Corps new puzzles, games, and cards were neatly piled and sorted on racks and shelves; the rarer merchandise had been dusted and locked safely away in the glass display case on which Yami was currently leaning. As always, Yugi had beaten Bakura to the punch. (Metaphorically, anyway.)
'Not like the little punk needs the money; he lives with Yami for Christ's sakes!' the silver locked man mentally grumbled, irritated. 'Yami just makes him do it just so he can rub it in my face.' And that was probably true.
"Mmm. . . yup!" the shop-owner suddenly grinned, giving a languid stretch. "Persocoms are well worth the cost. I don't know what I'd do. . . without mine. . ." His grin saddened slightly, depression clouding his amethyst eyes; fingers darting to the card-shaped locket resting against his collar bone. But he quickly perked up, beaming wildly when—speak of the devil—his persocom walked back into the room, having left to fetch coffee once Yami had cut off the previous phone conversation.
"Hey, Kura-kun!" the machine greeted cheerfully, carefully setting the silver tray near the register. He smiled, apparently oblivious to Bakura's expression. . . one of mild discomfort. A discomfort that didn't, surprisingly, stem from the persocom itself, though on some level it probably should have: it was frightening how far technology had come. And sometimes, when he looked out the window, Bakura did feel a little twist in his gut that had nothing to do with alcohol. But no, when it came to Yugi, it wasn't what he was that bothered him—it was who he "replaced."
"Morning, Yugi," the Brit returned flatly, taking a mug from the counter with a sigh. He allowed his eyes to trail over the boy-shaped robot for a moment, setting his mind adrift.
Persocoms. It was astonishing how much they'd evolved in so short a time. Only 10 years. . . from rods-n-screw arms to androids who looked, felt, talked, and acted like humans. In fact, they were almost more human-like than humans—if not for their mechanical insides, programmed brain, and (nearly) constant cheery attitude, they could have passed as them. Hell, sometimes it was hard to tell a computer and a mortal apart. In fact, it would have been impossible if not for the robot's data import "ears": triangular encasing usually placed on the android's temples that allowed a person to hook their 'coms (if not a newer, wireless version) to the house's main electricity unit, enabling them to surf to the web. Still, data import "ears" were getting smaller and smaller with each model—Yugi, even as the first male prototype (all persocoms models up until 13 months ago had needed larger chips, and, therefore, "additional anatomy")— barely had "ears"; more like "nubs" right behind his decorative ear-shell, with buttons to open his mainframe in case Yami ever wanted to rewire him. Though that was unlikely— Yami loved Yugi more than any real person.
. . . That was the problem with most people and their persocoms. They simply loved them too much. After all, why bother befriending someone with flaws when you can have perfection, a phone, wireless internet connection, voice mail, e-mail, digital camera, calculator, dictionary, thesaurus, and companion all in one? Heck, you could even have more then that if you were willing to dish out the money. You could program persocoms to do anything. . . to be anyone. . .
Bakura frowned, so deep in thought that he didn't realize he'd burnt his tongue on his drink. 'To be anyone. . . keh, why can't he just be happy with the memories he has?' Though it wasn't his place to pry. . . that had never stopped him before. He started to open his mouth—
When Yugi turned on the neon "open" sign and kids (and their 'coms) gushed inside, already thinking of Christmas underneath the strangely hot fall sun.
The pale haired man was barely able to fight off a groan. 'Just another day. . . . Lord help me.'
X
Malik Ishtar couldn't take it anymore.
"GOD DAMMIT, BAKURA!" the blonde Egyptian bellowed furiously, throwing the front door open in a terrible fury. "Why didn't you fucking WAKE ME UP!" Oh, Prof. Pegasus was NOT going to let him get away with sleeping through class again. . . Fuck, he could hear him already: "Pressed 'snooze' too many times, Maky-boy? Those 21st century contraptions are just as reliable as you!"
". . ." Sighing heavily, the young man tore down the dingy apartment's many staircases, finding himself on the ground floor in less than a minute. 'Maybe Bakura and I should start saving up,' he mused bitterly, pushing out into the bright sunlight of the busy Domino street. Pausing for a moment on the sidewalk, he groaned and spun on his heel, deciding to take the short cut to the quad through the ally. 'We really could use a persocom. Our electronics are falling apart, and nobody around here fix them anymore— unless it's for a museum display.' Panting softly, he hefted his bag a little higher on his shoulder—
When a strange raven glimmer caught his eye.
"—!"
Skidding to an abrupt halt, Malik whipped his head around; following the odd shimmer down. . . down. . . down. . .
To a large green garbage dump. Or, rather, to something leaning against the large green garbage dump.
It was a girl. A girl of around 17; naked except for a thin bandage of rubbish-smeared gauze encircling the more private areas of her anatomy. Obviously unconscious, her thick ebony lashes were pressed firmly against her high cheek bones; her curvy, bronze body lay limp, slack; her long charcoal hair was strewn around her on the trash-covered cement.
His eyes widened, horror squeezing his insides. "Oh shit—!" he choked, falling beside her on the ground. Hand darting out, Malik began to shake her furiously. 'Please don't be dead—I don't have time to help you!' "Miss, miss, are you okay? Mi— oh my God."
For the second time in less than thirty seconds, he did a massive double take. It. . . WASN'T a girl. . .
"It's a freakin' persocom. . . !" the Egyptian gasped, face paling. And it was—the cat ear-shaped data ports located where her ears should have been proved that without a doubt. (She was probably an older model, judging by their size.) But big or not, old or new, she didn't seem damaged. . . just "off". And with no one around to claim her—heck, she was in the trash— . . . !
No way in HELL he could be this lucky!
A large smirk slowly began to crawl onto Malik's face, hand sliding to his duct-tape covered cell phone. ". . . I think. . . I'm going to be absent today."
X
"That'll be $$5.63, please, mi—!"
Yugi unexpectedly straightened, blinking, as if only just noticing something. Then he grinned; turning to face Yami, leaving the customer temporarily baffled. But the little girl and her palm pilot understood moments later, just as the rest of the store did. "PHONE CALL. YAMI, YOU'VE GOT A PHONE CALL." the 'boy' sang cheerfully, humming what sounded like "ring ring!"
"Really?" The shop owner cast his 'com a glance from over his shoulder, holding up an apologetic hand to the young man he'd been helping. "Put it through, please."
"YES, MASTER!" The persocom beamed jovially before mellowing, eyes growing blank and dull: a fading violet hue, information racing through his mechanical mind and unseen sensors. After a moment of silence, however, he opened his mouth. . . and another male's voice flooded the room.
"Yami? Yami, hey, man, are you there?"
Bakura— who had been organizing magazines in the back— looked up, confused. "Malik?" he called loudly, dusting off his hands. "Malik, is that you?"
"Bakura? You are there?"
"Malik, what're you doing, calling my store?" Yami frowned, making his way towards the register (careful to avoid the little girl's 4 inch palm pilot, which was twirling frantically on the countertop), turning down Yugi's volume.
"I need to talk to Bakura—and his freakin' cell wasn't getting any reception!" Malik replied quickly, excitement evident in his tone. The amethyst-orbed man smirked, opening his mouth to retort— but was cut off by the Egyptian. "Oh, save it, Atemu! This is really important! Put Bakura on, wouldja?"
Temporarily taken aback, Yami paused—no one ever used his real name unless they were serious—. . . before shrugging and ushering a baffled Bakura closer. "You're getting a deduction for this, too," he murmured when the British man neared, grinning sadistically. Kura cursed bitterly under his breath, flipping his employer off as he flounced 'evilly' away.
"What the hell do you want, Malik?" he hissed, furious at how much money he had already lost today. At this rate, he wouldn't even be able to buy a freaking soda from the vending machine without taking out a loan. "I can't afford to lose any more m—"
"I found one."
". . . ?" Bakura felt his complaint die on his tongue, staring flatly at Yugi's blank face. "Found what?"
"A persocom."
His eyes bulged. "What!" he yelped, before quickly smacking a hand to his mouth.
. . . oops.
A hush fell over the store, all heads turning towards him. The employee flushed a bit, grabbing the small robot's hand; leading him into an empty room in the back before continuing in a whisper—nearly bashing his knee against a hidden cabinet. "WHAT? What shit are you talking now! How did you bu—!"
"I told you— I didn't buy one," Malik cackled gleefully, pride evident in his tone. "—I FOUND ONE."
"—!" Bakura felt his chocolate pools widen once again, fingers tightening around Yugi's fingers. ". . . I'm on my way."
X
"So? What's the damage?"
Malik shifted uncomfortably as his friend asked the question, glancing uninterestedly around what appeared to be (to the untrained eye) a normal doctor's office. However, if you knew where to look, one could catch glimpses of incredibly advanced technology (and its corresponding toys) hiding beyond secret panels and behind cabinet doors. Well, it was to be expected—this wasn't a room for normal humans.
It was for 'coms.
Yes, he and Bakura knew "so much" about persocoms, they had to take their find to a professional. Even THEY had to admit that it was pathetic. ('I'll have to buy a "For Dummies" book on the way home,' the Egyptian thought blandly, shivering a bit. He wasn't fond of any sort of physician.)
"Hmm. . ." Carefully fixing his round glasses, the doctor pulled a pen out of his lab coat pocket and jotted a few hesitant notes down on his clipboard (all while muttering something that sounded strangely like "what the hell—!"). The lights gave an odd flicker. Doe-brown eyes narrowing in shock, he let out a startled sort of sigh, turning to face the speaker with unidentifiable expression. "I. . . um. . . am not really sure."
Silence.
"What!" Bakura finally managed to snap, gaping at his cousin—the legendary Dr. Kimura. "Ryou—how the hell can you not know? You fucking invented persocoms!"
"No, I didn't," Ryou replied calmly, bypassing a crestfallen Malik on his way to the supply cabinet. After fiddling with a few hidden buttons and switches (still shaking his head and murmuring strangely to himself), he retrieved three new tools of peculiar shape and size, moving back towards the garbage-smudged 'com. She had been placed carefully on a stainless steel table, cords and tubes connected to her ear-ports and chest. But those cords and tubes had begun to smell weird. . . like burning rubber. "That honor belongs Seto Kaiba. I simply help improve them."
"You made Yugi. First male prototype!" Kura pointed out in frustration, rolling his eyes when the young man flushes modestly. "Oh, don't give me that. I only remind you for motivational purposes!"
The silver haired scientist chuckled darkly, fiddling with the cords connected to the wall. "Oh, don't get me wrong, Kura—I'm motivated. Never before have I run into a persocom who defied my diagnostic machines. Nor have I ever found one without an on-switch! No. . . I'm perhaps more curious that you as to what this 'com's secrets are; I'm just being honest. If I can't revive her, I can't. Perhaps that's why you found her in the trash. . .?" He arched a suggestive eyebrow, but was quickly shot down by optimism.
"No, it's probably because she's an older model," Malik jumped in, sounding a bit exasperated—and embarrassed when the other's eyes fell upon him. "Well, duh—can't you tell by the ears? Her master most likely wanted a newer one."
". . ." Ryou said nothing for a moment, instead gliding over to the table— crossing his arms beside her head; resting his chin upon them. "Normally I'd agree with you. . ." he then whispered, fingers playing thoughtlessly with a strand of her silky hair. "But. . ." A frown marred his features; brow crinkling. "But. . ."
"But?" Bakura pressed, walking closer when his cousin moved, pointing to a mark on the girl's shoulder.
"What is it?" Malik inquired, turning away from the window and glancing towards the two men. He made a curious noise in the back of his throat as he took a step forward, joining them beside the humanoid. "What's so exciting about a smudge?"
"It's not a smudge," the pale locked doctor quipped, sounding slightly irked. "It's a serial number. All persocoms are required to have valid codes, but . . . well, I've never heard of this one before."
The elder snowy-crowned male cocked an eyebrow, unimpressed. "So? I'm sure all 'coms have different numbers for referencing purposes."
"True, but there are guidelines," Ryou embellished, definitely annoyed now. "Though their barcodes and numbers are all unique, each is supposed to have one of three 'anagrams': SIC, semi-conscious information computer—those persocoms in stereotypical robot movies, you know, with the ability to function independently but with no personality?— PAL, pre-programmed artificial life— laptops and notebooks that come, as the name suggests, pre-programmed with information and individual traits— or CAT, character attributes 'to-be-decided'. Those are the 'coms that most people want: the human-sized ones that can be made to do anything the user wants. The newer models and the like."
"CAT? Is that where the 'ears' on the originals came from?" Malik asked with a trace of a smile. The scientist nodded with a soft laugh.
"Kaiba does have a sense of humor somewhere inside, it seems. . ."
"Not to interrupt this fun-fun conversation or anything," Bakura suddenly cut in, scowling, "but some of us don't plan on having missed an exam at school for nothing. What's so strange about this one's number?"
Kura's cousin groaned, all patience gone. "Did you hear nothing! Look at her shoulder!"
". . . ?" The roommates tilted their heads, craning their necks to look over Ryou's head. And then they saw it. . .
00 T R; I S H
"TRISH?" Malik murmured, baffled. "But. . . what does that stand for?"
"I don't know!" the doctor cried, now thoroughly irritated— fist clenching around a lock of the 'com's hair. "Even custom models like Yugi need to go through the government and receive a specified code—without it, the maker shouldn't be able to receive the equipment to install the persocoms' 'brain' and 'heart' units! And even forgetting that—she still defies sense! She has no visible 'on' switch, and her circuits completely blew mine! Not only did she reject them—which has never happened before, let me tell you— but she managed to crash my main hard drive without even being conscious!"
The Brit and Egyptian could think of nothing to say to that.
"I. . . I just don't know," Ryou continued, though he was speaking more to himself than anyone else. Squinting, he stared deep into the slumbering machine's face, biting his thumb nail. "She must be a special model. . . but I've never heard of. . . ? Why was she in the garbage? What secrets does she hold. . . ? And how do you. . . how. . . oh my God."
Straightening abruptly, the young man gasped. "It couldn't. . . no one's ever been able to make that work— but she seems advanced. . . !"
"!" Bakura and Malik stiffened, slightly nervous— never having seen Ryou this excited. (Actually, he seemed past excitement— standing, toying with his hair, grinning, flexing his fingers. . .) "What are you talking abo—?"
"Boys," he breathed, tears nearly glistening in his eyes. "I figured it out. We may still be able to revive her, if my theory is correct. . . ! It's a long shot, but the rest of her is so high-tech. . . and many researchers have wanted things to reach this point. . ."
". . ." The blonde shot his friend a deadpan look. "Just turn her fuckin' ON!"
"Oh, will I!" the scientist sang, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Watch this, you two, as you may never see it again!"
With that, Ryou took a deep breath, leaned foreword—
And pressed his mouth to the girl's in an unmistakable kiss.