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LOGIN THREE:

In the Cards

XXX

"And this is supposed to help her regain her memory. . . how?"

"I dunno. But it gives us something to do, right? And it helps her learn—isn't that what Ryou advised on the phone?"

The pale-locked man shrugged lightly, shuffling though the busy streets of Domino with Malik and an awe-struck Trish. She gaped open-mouthed at the buildings, hands tightening around her masters'. It had been a mere three days since the female computer had rebooted, and already she was walking, talking, and working. True, she currently had the mental capacity of a four-year old, but it was better then what the two had started out with. Kura wondered in passing if all persocoms were like this. . . maybe he'd ask Yami at work tomorrow.

"What that? What that? What that?" Trish sang, looking every which way with an excited air. Malik grinned, amused by her innocent curiosity, before naming and explaining everything she inquired about. Bakura, too, had enjoyed the little game, until he noticed how the 'com's eyes grew rather glassy whenever they spoke—absorbing and memorizing the information with a frightening hunger. He didn't know why this made him so uncomfortable. . . perhaps because it made him remember the corny 50s horror shows he used to watch. Or maybe it just reminded him of how inhuman this 'girl' really was.

Probably the latter.

"What that?" the persocom repeated, ripping her hand from Malik's and pointing at a small shop across the crowded street. Pausing amidst the throng, the boys glanced in the indicated direction.

"Oh, that's a tarot booth," the blonde replied, sticking his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, trying not to look too dejected at having lost the warmth of Trish's fingers. "People go there to have their fortunes told." He paused, turning to face Bakura with a slightly arched eyebrow. "We have one of those around here?"

"I guess so," Bakura blinked, startled as well. "Maybe it's new."

Trish perked, giving the boys' jackets a pull. "Go!" she begged. "Go! Fortune! Go!"

"Er. . ." the Egyptian hesitated, faltering a bit. "Trish, I don't know if persocoms HAVE fortunes to be told. . ."

She tilted her head, raven hair cascading down her shoulders. And adorned in her overly-large parka and flimsy shirt (the only clothing they could find her) as she was, she looked simply too cute to ignore. Even Kura blushed a bit. (He blamed the color on the unusually harsh breeze. Winter had come at last. . .)

"Um, well," Malik started again, smiling rather drunkenly, "sure. We can try. . . let's go."

"Go? Go! Yay!" Trish squealed, grabbing the students' elbows and skipping with them towards the crosswalk.

"What have we gotten ourselves into?" Bakura grumbled tonelessly, glaring at his best friend. "We wanted help, not a kid!"

X

The little shop was warm and quiet: brightly colored shawls draped over the lamps and windows. From somewhere deep within the bowels of the store an easygoing sort of incense burnt— fragrant and soothing, the scents mystery accenting the soft, haunting music. Melting candles glowed from the corners, white and red and blue and violet; chimes and talismans spinning lazily from the ceiling. Crystals sparkled atop silk-covered tables. The three customers took all of this in with wide eyes, feeling a fuzzy sort of tepidness overtake their senses.

"Can I help you?"

The small group stiffened at the quiet voice, turning on their heels in surprise. A girl. . . a girl had managed to sneak up right behind them, a sweet smile on her pretty face. She was young—perhaps 15 or 16, with pale skin and thick, dark gold locks that tumbled past her shoulders; pulled into twin pigtails that fell to rest upon the back of her head, much like a young child's. She was dressed in a short gothica outfit: made of black satin and styled like a maid's dress, its multiple white ribbons curled up and down her lithe arms, long legs, and trim waist. Dusting down the lacy apron that matched her knee-high socks, she began to fiddle with the pocket watch that rested upon her bosom, waiting for some sort of answer.

Trish was the first to reply, a thrilled beam quickly returning to her lips. "Fortune!" she informed. "Fortune told!"

"Oh?" The girl smiled patiently, moving away from the group and towards the wooden podium that stood in the center of the foyer. "You'd like your fortune read?" Turning to Bakura and Malik, she added: "And you two gentlemen, too, I presume?"

The Egyptian applied a suave grin, leaning lightly against the stand. "Wow, you're good," he purred. "Are you psychic, too. . . ?" He glanced at the nametag on her chest, allowing his eyes to linger there for a moment. "Melissa?"

Melissa's lips thinned; she snapped open her planner with a noise loud enough to startle a statue. "Enough to know that someone terrible will happen to you if you continue to harass me."

He winced, surprised, before quickly moving away. Bakura snickered. A minute passed.

"Well," Melissa continued following a deep breath, smile returning; jotting down a few notes. "I thank you for your business. Unfortunately, the mistress of this shop isn't here right now; she had a previous engagement. However, she should be home shortly—would you like to join me for a drink while we wait?"

The invitation caused looks of shock to reappear on the threes' faces. "A drink?" Was she planning on poisoning Malik? Said boy shifted anxiously.

"Sure," Melissa chirped kindly, sweeping a hand towards the back of the shop. "Come with me."

X

"It certainly is odd to see a human worker nowadays. . . Why doesn't your mistress own a persocom?"

Melissa laughed softly, the cross-shaped earrings on her "normal" ears tinkling softly as she poured sweet tea into four highly decorated china cups. Nearly half an hour had passed since Trish, Malik, and Bakura had entered the shop—and surprisingly, the time they'd spent there had been rather enjoyable. Following the initial unpleasantness Malik's flirting had caused, the girl—who they'd been told to call 'Lissie'—had warmed up considerably, and their tea party had become quiet fun. Sitting around a low table on soft maroon poofs, Lissie had served them sponge cake and tea until they felt they were about to burst—her melodious giggles easing them into a state of drowsiness.

"My mother isn't fond of technology," Lissie explained passively, tracing the rim of her full cup with an idle finger. "And so she only employs human help."

Bakura paused, looking up from his 9th piece of cake. "Mother?"

"Yes," the girl nodded, moving to pour Trish more tea—before remembering that she didn't need or want any, being a computer. So instead, she handed the 'com a spoon to play with. Trish was thrilled. "Though we're told we look like sisters. She's around your age, actually."

Malik's eyes bulged. "How old was she when she had you—ten!"

Melissa giggled. "No, no. But I probably shouldn't say anything else. It's rather personal information, isn't it? Now. . . tell me about your persocom." She pushed another spoon towards Trish, chuckling at how happy the girl became. "Certainly a unique build. . . She has the body of a newer model, but the ears of an older one. Where did you get her? Or was she custom made?"

"We fou—" the Egyptian started proudly, but shut up when Bakura's foot connected with his toes. "Ow!"

"My cousin gave her to us," the brown-pooled male interrupted calmly. "He designs persocoms; she's probably some sort of combination of the two."

"I see. . ." Lissie pursed her lips, interested. "Well, if that's the case, I suggest that you be very careful."

"Huh?" Malik glanced towards the girl again, forgetting his overacted pain. "What? Why?"

Melissa arched an eyebrow. "Haven't you heard? There's a persocom killer around these parts. It's been all over the news!"

Bakura's eyes widened. "Killer. . . ? How do you kill a computer?"

"It's insane," Lissie whispered, suddenly looking a bit frightened. She started to tinker, again, with her watch—it appeared to be a nervous habit. "It's not even the work of a virus or a hacker—that people are used to. No, this killer seems to just take a knife and. . . and slash them up!" Shivering, the blonde continued, forcefully gripping her own forearms. "It's strange. . . there's no pattern to the deaths or to who they happen, so it doesn't appears to be corporate espionage or a planned assault. The victims have all been random 'coms that are just out on the street. . . and by the time they're found, they're beyond repair."

A chill raced through the room.

"That's sick. . ." the younger male spat, face contorted in disgust. "Who would do such a thing?"

"Don't you think if the authorities knew, the attacks would have stopped by now?"

The new voice broke through the comfortable haze like a knife; shivers of shock racing up and down the two boys' spines. Trish and Melissa on the other hand, calmly glanced up with an air of happiness. (Though the raven haired persocom was simply delighted to see a potential new friend.)

"Mahlissa-sensi!" the blonde child cheered, leaping to her feet with a slight bow. "When did you get back?"

"Just now," the new woman replied smoothly, her sharp navy eyes lingering on the guests. "And these are. . . ?"

"Oh!" Gesturing to her left and right, Lissie curtsied. "Misters Bakura and Malik of Domino, and their persocom Trish."

Bakura began to nod, but then paused—head whipping around. "Wait a minute. . ." he choked, hacking up a bit of cake. (A little chest pounding was needed to do so.) "When did we tell you our names!"

To this, Melissa just winked. "Bakura-san, Malik-san, Trish-chan, I present the mistress of Tsuki no Kodomo, 'Child of the Moon', Mahlissa-sama."

"Welcome," the indicated woman purred, a small smirk tugging on her full pink lips, allowing the three guests a moment to drink in her presence. It was a lot to absorb, after all: she was tall, thin, and as pale as Melissa—with hair just as gold. But instead of hanging in straight waves, it crimped dramatically, cupping her chin and shoulders. And though her body itself was incredible, her outfit was nearly as fantastic: a form-fitting, off the shoulder dress made of lace and indigo silk, black ribbons looping her poof-sleeves and dangling from the silvery corset around her waist. Pearls, opals, and sapphires sparkled on her wrists and ankles; her throat home to an amethyst on a leather thong. A shimmering black shawl was draped lightly over her bare shoulders, snapped into place with an ankh-shaped brooch of silver—and matching slip-on shoes of the same material. "I do hope Lissie has behaved herself?"

"Wonderful hostess!" Trish beamed, completely unfazed, giggling as she clinked her spoons together. Malik and Bakura could only nod their agreement, throats suddenly dry.

"Oh?" Another smile pulled on Mahlissa's mouth, but this one was much more gentle. Gliding inside with a rustle of fabric and a waft of tiger lily perfume, the psychic seated herself comfortably beside Melissa, facing the three customers. Nothing was said for a minute, as if the strangers were trying to size each other up. Then the medium's dark blue eyes gave an amused flash. . . and the lights, as if on cue, dimmed—until the candles were the only break from darkness. "Most excellent."

Another hushed lull filled the room, Mahlissa's thick black lashes fluttering to a half-lidded state. Reaching into a hidden pocket of her dress, she pulled out a worn pack of tarot cards—laying them out on the table. "Shuffle them three times," she told Trish quietly, pushing the pile in her direction. "I will, too, after you. Then we'll see what your future holds."

"Kay!" The persocom happily threw her spoons to the side in favor of messily jamming the tarot cards together in a weak imitation of shuffling. Malik flushed; Bakura rolled his eyes; Lissie chuckled; Trish remained oblivious. Then she handed the deck back.

"All right, then," Mahlissa breathed, expertly snapping the cards into place. "Let's see what it says here. . ." And with that, she began to draw cards.

"The High Priestess is your significator," she began, unperturbed by the stares of the others. Instead, she was seemingly possessed by the fortune she was divining. "The card that symbolizes you. And it shows so much about you. . . Your path is clouded, miss. Secrets fill your mind; mysteries that need to be deciphered. And science. . . well, I suppose that's understandable, if you're a persocom." The woman smiled slightly, but it looked a bit strained. Bakura stiffened in his seat, as if ready to leap to Trish's defense. ('But why? It's not like Mahlissa-san is lying. . .')

Trish simply giggled.

The second card was flipped over, placed across the first like a 't'. "The Hanged Man," Lissie murmured, as if desiring in on the action. Her employer didn't appear to mind. "It is your obstacle card. Wisdom. . . trials. . . sacrifice. . . prophecy."

"Sounds occult. . ." Malik muttered, chewing nonchalantly on the tongs of his fork. No one paid him any heed.

"This crowns you," Mahlissa continued, the snap of the card echoing through the lingering silence. "The Emperor— you desire stability, and a special person. Perhaps one from your past. . . ?" Her eyebrow cocked. "Such odd wishes for a machine."

Bakura felt a retort wedge in his throat, but swallowed it harshly down. Why should he react so virulently to a true statement? He cast the persocom a sideward glance, and was surprised to see she'd put her spoons down. She was actually listening; digesting and absorbing this information. As if trying to remember. . .

"This is beneath you. . . The Wheel of Fortune."

"Like the show?" the Egyptian perked. Lissie bopped him on the head. "Ow!"

"Stupid," Melissa rolled her eyes. "It means she has good luck on her side."

"Oh. . ."

Mahlissa, too, took a moment to loath the stupidity. Then she continued laying down Trish's fortune. . . "Your recent past," she whispered, "The Lovers. . ."

Trish stiffened instinctively. . . then relaxed, looking confused as to why she'd reacted so strangely. Shaking it off, she nudged a finger at the card. "It's not up right."

Lissie acknowledged this sympathetically. "No, it's upside down. But that's for a reason."

"Yes," the medium confirmed. "It changes the meaning of the cards. There was an attraction, perhaps, and trials over come. But these trials soon became failures. Defeat. Foolish choices. . ." She shrugged, not really caring what sort of affect this had on her clients, before moving along. "And your near future. . .The Moon." She frowned. "You have hidden enemies," the woman informed. "There is danger and deception close to the surface, waiting for you. . ."

The psychic's assistant paled, fingers clenching near her pocket watch. "Could it be those persocom killers on the news. . . ?" she hissed, leaning towards her employer. But the words traveled easily to the two men, ensnaring their interest. . . and fear. Both listened intently, yet, again, Mahlissa simply shrugged.

"It could be. . ." she agreed quietly. "I'm sorry to say it could be."

Trish did not respond. Her eyes were wide, blank, staring off into the distance. . . at a mirror in the corner. . .

"The seventh card is this computers feelings on her future," the blonde clairvoyant relayed, staring directly at Bakura and Malik. The boys were starting to feel rather frightened. . . "The Hermit, reversed. She's concealing something from you. . . but whether it is good or bad, whether or not she even knows she is. . .Her heart is full of fear that she tries to disguise as amnesia."

"Wait," Malik attempted to interrupt, brow furrowing. "Wait a minute—so she's not really broken? Is her hard drive—?"

"Her environment at home," the young telepath pressed on, "is represented by. . ." Another card flew from the pile. "The Star. . . ?" A smirk tugged on the woman's lip, piercing blue orbs glancing up from the reading. "You found her? How interesting. . . and this brought great hopes, didn't it? But I suppose you're not very computer savvy, are you?" She chuckled at the blank (and somewhat baffled) expressions on their faces, but quickly allowed seriousness to overtake the playful giggle; tapping the card with a manicured nail "Her previous owner abandoned her."

"No sh. . . crap," Bakura grunted sarcastically, though he found it rather unsettling that a street performer knew this.

"Her hopes—" Mahlissa chirped, now amused by this reading, "—The Empress, reversed. Aww, she wants a nice ending. . . a 'happily ever after,' if you will. She wants to know the truth about herself, and to see the lies surrounding the others' in her life unraveled. How quaint!"

The persocom—who had for so long been quiet— glowered a bit at the woman's tone, a face her masters had yet to see on her. "Don't," Trish muttered, sounding annoyed; her eyes suddenly 'older.' Lissie glanced in her direction with interest, apparently surprised by the note of disdain in her voice. After hesitating for a moment (considering whether or not to offer more spoons, probably), Melissa patted the 'com's hand.

And, oddly, the robot relaxed.

"Finally," the psychic announced, apparently unaware of what had just gone on beside her, "we have the future card. . ." With a little grin, Mahlissa lifted the card—

But rather then place it on the table with the rest, she stopped. Froze. Staring. Her face paled slightly. . .

And then she laughed, slipping the card into a pocket. "Well, that was a waste," she sang, ignoring the taken aback expressions that surrounded her. "It seems persocoms' futures can't be divined. Excuse me."

With that, she swept out of the room—gone before the others could even react.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Malik finally managed to snap, leaping to his feet. "What's the last card? What a rip off!" He spun around in a rage, trying to find someone to stick the blame on. His eyes landed on the store employee. . .

"I— I'm sorry," Lissie apologized, looking just as confused. "I've never seen her pull that before. . . it must have been a. . . er. . . well, never mind." Clearing her throat, the pretty apprentice attempted a smile. "Let me make it up to you. I've got some lovely jewelry; maybe Trish-chan would like a piece or two for free? I could even find something to match her outfit."

Outfit. . . ?

"Actually. . ." Bakura began, flushing a bit, "what she really needs is—"

"Excellent!" Melissa giggled, not having been paying attention. Bustling happily over to a corner, she lifted an ornate wooden chest out of a hiding place, gently blowing off a thin layer of dust. "I think these will suit her. . . stylish, and they double as protection charms—to keep that nasty persocom killer away."

Grinning widely, the girl placed the box on the table and took Trish's wrist in her hand, knocking the persocom out of her daze. "Let's see. . ." Rolling up the robot's sleeve, Lissie moved to take a beaded bracelet from the box—when she paused.

"Is she wearing short sleeves?" Melissa inquired with a small frown. "It isn't good for her in this weather. Even 'coms get cold—she'll freeze up." Glancing down, her jaw dropped; horrified by Trish's equally bare legs. "And shorts!"

Both men looked away, uncomfortable. "Er. . .well. . . technically no," Malik coughed, also blushing. "To be honest, under that coat she's. . . um. . ."

Two and two made four.

Lissie gasped. "WHAT!" she roared, eyes popping furiously. "Good lord!" Pulling Trish swiftly to her feet, Melissa yanked the poor 'girl' down a dark hall, ranting and raving. "Well, at least now I know how to help!"

X

"I think this one will look fantastic on you!" Lissie cried happily, whipping a tube-style school girl dress out of a large closet. The additional, decorative sleeves came out a second later. "And this one, and this one too. . ." A frilly maid dress similar to the one Melissa was wearing; a goth-styled jumper with a corset covered in lace; a flowy summer number of scarlet silk. Each with its own 'protective charm' and enough gold jewelry to humble a sultan. ("I don't even know why we have it," Lissie snorted. "Mahlissa-sensi and I much prefer silver.")

Trish, even in her state of ignorance, was startled by the display. "Pretty. . ." she breathed, allowing herself to be pushed into a changing room— a small cupboard hid from the world by a curtain of violet velvet. "For me?"

"Yes," Melissa chuckled at her shock. "If they fit, they'll be for yo— eek!" The girl's face flamed, whipping around in the middle of helping Trish out of her parka. "Don't you have any underwear!"

"?" The persocom tilted her head, mystified. "I wear," she insisted. She lifted the edge of her shirt a bit to prove this.

Still facing the wall, Lissie shook her head. Her face was burning— Trish tilted her head, concerned. "No, I mean a bra— it. . .er. . . well, you need one. Stay right here, okay? I'll be right back!"

Watching Melissa skitter away with a quick titter of mystification, Trish hesitated, unsure of what to do now that she was alone. For a few moments she stood there, baffled, but then decided she might as well continue stripping—for lack of anything better to do. So off came the jacket, and the shirt that she proudly unbuttoned by herself. . .

She paused, catching sight of another mirror in the corner. The object was a mystery to her; she watched the person within it for a moment. It was the same lady she'd seen earlier, while having her fortune read. . .

The second woman waved.

Trish started. Was it supposed to do that. . . ?

"I'm back!" Lissie sang, pushing carefully through the screen; slipping inside. "And I've brought you two bras, in case your masters accidentally—!"

Again, the girl froze, eyes widening.

But this time, it wasn't from embarrassment.

"Trish. . ." she whispered, pale face draining of every ounce of color. "Oh God. . ." Taking three swift strides over, she harshly grabbed the 'com's forearm—the one with the serial number.

The persocom watched this with interest; mirror forgotten. "What's wrong?" she asked, "What does Melissa see that's bad?"

A gulp.

"It's not. . ." Lissie shook her head, a finger lightly tracing the numbers and letters. "It's not bad," she murmured waveringly, looking deep into the other's eyes. "But I will worry for you."

Trish blinked, chewing on her bottom lip. "?"

". . ." Melissa whimpered soundlessly before taking a deep breath, gingerly covering the humanoid's shoulder with her own palm. "Trish. . . promise me something."

Trish started, baffled. "Promise. . . ?" she echoed. Another new word. How exciting! "What is a promise?"

The assistant didn't respond for a beat or two, instead choosing her words very carefully. Upon selecting them, she slowly opened her mouth. . . "A promise is. . . a contract," the blonde explained kindly, softly—looking slightly worried. She locked their hands together, pressing them to her chest. "A bond made by words; an agreement to do or not do whatever I request because we're friends."

The child-like computer perked at the word. "Friends? We're friends?"

Lissie nodded, swallowing hard. "Promise me," she desperately whispered, fingers tightening. "Promise me you will not show anyone else your serial number."

"My number?" Trish repeated, more confused than ever. She cast said code a glance, brow furrowing. "Why?"

"It's special," the maid replied quietly. "Too special. And if anyone else knew of it. . . you could be hurt."

The persocom frowned. "Is hurting bad?"

Blue eyes crinkled sadly. "Yes."

Trish beamed. "Then I promise!"

Relief flooded Lissie's face like the evening tide, swift and thankful. Throwing her arms gratefully around the nearly-naked girl, Melissa released the breath she had been holding—then pulled away with a heart felt: "Thank you."

X

"Well, that was lucky."

Bakura couldn't help but nod in agreement, carrying two large paper bags of puff, frill, lace, and jewelry. But at least he didn't have to carry the dress hoop. . . "Saved us a bunch of money, anyway."

"Fun! That was fun!" Trish sang, her time with Melissa having cheered her up. And though he was happy that the veil of depression had been lifted from behind the 'girl's mechanical eyes, Kura still felt a little. . . odd. . . in the afterglow of the visit. "I made new friends! I wanna visit again!"

"Let's give them a while to recuperate from this afternoon, first," Malik teased, biting happily into an apple he'd swiped off of a passing fruit cart. "But sure, we can go again. I'd LOVE to go again. . ."

The silver locked boy snorted, fixing the bags with his left arm and locking his right around the 'com's. "Pedophile."

Flushing, the Egyptian shot him a dirty look. "Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am NOT!"

"Are t—!"

Trish squeaked inquiringly, alerting the boys' attention. "Masters," she began innocently, "what's a pedophile?"