Disclaimer: Following the example of someone very wise, I am sending my ninjas to law school. Perhaps when they because lawyer ninjas I'll have better success at gaining the rights to Yu Gi Oh!? Until such time, I'm satisfied with my fanfiction.

A/N: We get introduced to another character in this chapter. Not saying who. However, take note of this: the events that happen here are not setting up for next chapter. Nor are they setting up for the chapter after that, the one after that, or even the one after that. In fact, after this chapter is done, they bare no relevancy to the rest of the story. So don't get your hopes up.

Why did I include them, then? Two reasons. One: I listen to most of my whims. Two? There's this sequel I'm planning, you see… And I could tell you about it, but then I'd have to kill you. Or have my ninjas kill you, once they graduate from law school.

This is my first time ever writing any kind of fight scene that is more than, say, half a page long. Any advice you can offer is most welcome.

I have also raised the rating on this fic from T (PG-13) to M (R). If this chapter doesn't warrant it, than I have no doubt one of the next ones will.

Caorann, because you keep asking, the numbers: Mokuba's was totally and completely random, as are most of the others to come. There are certain guidelines which will be explained later in the story itself, but other than that, I had nothing prior in mind when deciding on them.

Seto, though, I had a reason behind. One of the Japanese words for four, shi, has a double meaning of "death." Now tell me, how many lives does a cat have?

And boys and girls, what does four plus nine equal?

Are there any triskaidekaphobiacs in the crowd that can tell us what thirteen is supposed to mean?

And that, dear friends, is how you get S(first letter of his name, of course)4913.

On a totally and completely unrelated note, whoa! We just lost power. Neat. I get to type by candle light. Fun!


There were four of them. They sat around a rickety card table, gambling their wages away. One of them was obviously drunk; the stench of hard liquor was evident even from a distance. Only he and one of his sober comrades had weapons close to hand. A single rifle – belonging to one of the other two men – leaned against the far wall. The fourth had no visible weapong. All four were smoking; a tobacco-laden haze filled the room, smoke from their cigars. They were focused on their card game; a bomb could have gone off under their feet and no one would have been the wiser. It was clear that no one was expecting an attack.

Rule number three of fighting a war – right after "death before surrender" and "never betray your partner" – was "expect the unexpected."

His first shot struck the drunkard in the back of his head; the silencer on his KC957 made a muffled clicking as he pulled the trigger. The guard slid down in his chair, dead before he hit the ground.

His second shot blew the arm off the other armed guard, hitting him in the shoulder before he could bring his own weapon to bear. The man screamed, clutching the bleeding stump. Their attacker winced and shot him in the chest, both to silence him and as a mercy stroke.

By this time, the other two guards were one their feet. The one closest to the wall the rifles leaned against had grabbed his weapon, while his companion dropped to his knees to make himself less of a target.

The rebel frowned at this. The guard was up to something, he was sure. He couldn't think of what–

The heart stopping sound of the other guard's rifle being fired, accompanied by a sharp pain across his cheek, reminded him that he didn't have the time to puzzle over such things. He snapped his attention back to the now cursing rifleman, who was desperately reloading his weapon.

The rebel lifted his blaster, ignoring the slight trembling in his hand – he must not think of how close he had just come to losing his life – and shot his enemy dead in the chest.

He had no time to savor his victory, however. The sound of pounding footsteps rapidly approaching him reached his ears, and he turned to face his next opponent.

The guard who had been on his knees a moment before was bearing down on him, a knife flashing in his hand. The rebel gulped. His small build gave him a huge disadvantage in hand-to-hand combat, but the man was upon him before he could bring his gun to bear.

He stumbled backwards, dodging a sideways jab at his head. His momentum sent him falling to the ground, a most undesirable position in his present circumstance. He automatically broke into a roll, carrying him away from his attacker.

It was lucky for him that he did. The guard swooped in on him, slashing furiously with his blade. The young rebel had nothing to fight him with; he had not been supplied with a knife. All he could do was continue to roll, dodging the rapid attacks.

It wasn't until he actually hit it that he realized his roll had sent him on a collision course with the card table, somehow still standing in the center of the hallway despite the flurry of activity around it. His impact against one of the chairs resulted in a domino effect, knocking over chair, table, and subsequently the rest of the chairs before something soft and relatively yielding stopped him. The entire mess collapsed in a cloud of cards, gambling chips, dust, and wood, most of it landing on top of him.

He lay still underneath the board that had been the tabletop (its legs had been knocked off in the fall), shuddering and trying to catch his breath. He didn't think his opponent would risk coming after him, digging through the debris and waiting for him to leap free. More likely, the man would wait for him to free himself and ambush him before he had his bearings.

He decided to take advantage of the brief respite. He needed to find a makeshift weapon, and he knew just the thing to use. His eyes, which had been squeezed shut, opened, and he looked around him, searching for a table leg or a piece of a chair which he could use as a club. He smiled as he found the perfect piece, grasping it in his right hand.

Suddenly he froze. His left hand, which had also been groping about him in his search, had brushed against something that felt strangely like cloth. He blinked, recalling that his roll had eventually been stopped by something much softer than the hard tables and chairs. Slowly, he turned his head, wondering what it was.

He nearly screamed at what he found. It was the body of the first soldier, who had slumped to the ground after the rebel's bullet had ended his life.

The young rebel stifled a scream only half successfully. Completely forgetting where he was, he threw himself away from the corpse, bursting free of the rubble and stagger blindly backwards.

The enemy guard greeted him with open arms – literally. The rebel found himself engulfed in a stranglehold, one of his foe's arms pinning his own limbs to his side while the other wrapped around his neck, cutting off his air supply.

He struggled in vain for a moment before he realized that he had somehow had enough sense to hold onto the table leg he had found prior to his discovery of the soldier's body. He reacted instinctively, his right wrist flicking to slam the shaft into his captor's kneecap.

The man shouted, dropping his prisoner and clutching his knee, releasing a string of obscenities. The rebel quickly back away from him, leveling the table leg at him in preparation for his next attack.

The enemy guard glared at him, tentatively placing his weight on his injured led. Redrawing his knife, which he had sheathed during his attempt to strangle the boy, he ran it in a menacing mime across his throat, his intentions clear.

They began to circle each other, searching for openings in the other's stance. It was the soldier who made the first move, the deadly blade arcing towards the rebel's stomach. He leapt backwards, not wanting to block and risk his only weapon being hacked in two. Unlike his previous attempt to dodge, however, this time he managed to keep his balance.

The next advance came before he could collect himself, a low swing at his legs. He sprung into the air, effectively avoiding the attack. At the same times, he brought his table leg crashing down towards the soldier's unprotected back. The guard, off balance from his effort to separate the rebel's feet from the rest of his body, was unable to get out of the way in time. The shaft struck him square between his shoulders, and he dropped to the ground.

Before the rebel could press his advantage, his foe had rolled to the side and staggered to his feet once more. The two combatants eyed each other warily, and began to circle again.

The rebel frowned as he watched his enemy walk, noticing something he hadn't before. The man was limping – and limping badly. Apparently, the rebel's earlier attack had injured the man worse than he had thought.

This was definitely to the younger's advantage. If he could strike his foe there again, he might be able to end this battle now. Narrowing his eyes in determination, he braced himself and lunged forward, thrusting his weapon towards the other combatant's abdomen.

His enemy smiled thinly. The boy, obviously an amateur, had left himself wide open. He skillfully twisted around the incoming table leg and drove his blade towards the young rebel's heart.

It was exactly what the rebel had been counting on. He mimicked his rival's twist in a daring escape attempt, positioning himself so that the blade, impossible to evade completely, sliced into his shoulder instead of his heart. Following the downwards drive that this twist had forced upon his body, he dropped to one knee and sent his staff shooting forward, delivering a devastating blow to the man's injured leg.

There was a sickly cracking sound as the joint shattered, sending the stunned victim tumbling to the ground. Before any unlikely retaliation could be mounted, the rebel drew his blaster and grimly shot the man between his eyes.

He stood still, as if frozen with paralysis, staring at the man he had just killed. Slowly, his eyes sifted to take in the other three men, all of them now nothing more than corpses.

A wave of nausea swept over him. His body convulsed, and he retched with revulsion at what he had done.

When his stomach had finally finished ridding itself of the little he'd been able to eat before leaving his apartment, agent M7123, beloved younger brother of the infamous S4913, newest member of the "terrorist" Revolution, rocked back on his heels and sat curled in a ball, shuddering with battleshock.

He had never killed before. The numerous target dummies and holographic simulations – however realistic they might be – didn't count. The targets did not bleed; the simulations didn't have families expecting them to return.

A sharp pain growing in his cheek and shoulder, ignored in the heat of battle, finally forced him to move. He touched his hand to the gash on his cheek, the result of the third guard's rifle, then clamped his hand over the knife wound in his shoulder. Both injuries were deep and were in need of medical attention. He could do nothing about his cheek, however; that would require bandages, and he wouldn't have access to any until he returned home. He didn't even bother to wipe the blood away; its clotting would stop the bleeding better than his sleeve could.

His shoulder, on the other hand, he could mend, at least temporarily. Wincing as he fought against the bile rising once more in his throat, he leaned onto his knees and crawled to the nearest carcass.

It was the fourth guard, his knife still clutched in his now cold hand. He had fallen forward, and he now lay near the card table wreckage, his blood turning into a paste as it mixed with the sawdust. Mokuba averted his eyes from this and tentatively stretched his uninjured arm towards the corpse. He tore a strip of cloth off the guard's uniform and began to clumsily wrap it around his shoulder, creating a makeshift bandage.

When he was finish, he climbed unsteadily to his feet. He stepped around the bodies, staggering drunkenly. When he reached the far wall, he leaned against it, taking deep breaths and trying to calm his nerves. He closed his eyes, shaking his head to clear it. He needed to compose himself if he was to make it through this alive.

He glanced anxiously at his chronometer; it read 3:36. He noted this with numb surprise; he had thought the skirmish had taken longer than that, but when he added the amount of time needed to set the other three charges, his first shot had been fired less than five minutes ago.

He ran through everything that needed to be done, feeling his nerves quiet and his resolve strengthen as he did so. Four bombs had been set: one level down, three to go. The door to the next floor lay right in front of him, leering at him mockingly, while the stairs leading back to freedom were behind him, beyond his reach. He himself stood in a small hallway that served only as a guard post between one level and another.

He had no doubt that as soon as he pressed forward, as soon as he opened the leering door, he would be met with machinegun fire trying to destroy his every particle. The guards on the other side would surely have heard the sounds of the battle, especially the loud, reverberating bang of the second guard's unsilenced gun.

Well, he wasn't going to be used for target practice without putting up a fight.

He walked over to the wreckage in the center of the hall, sliding the tabletop free of the rest of the debris. He ignored the first soldier's body, knowing that if he looked at the corpse his newfound strength would fail.

He propped the wooden board againstthe door and began to reinforce it with the rest of the wood. When he finished, he stepped back to observe his handiwork. It looked frail, unstable, and he highly doubted its capabilities as a shield, bit it was the best he could do. There was nothing else to reinforce it with, save for the four dead soldiers, and at the moment, he would have rather joined them in the afterlife than look at them again, much less touch them.

With a deep breath, he knelt down behind the shelter, braced himself, and stretched the table leg he had dueled the last guard with up to the door release. Mokuba squeezed his eyes shut as the door hissed open to reveal…

…Silence.

Slowly, Mokuba reopened his eyes. What was going on?

Thinking that perhaps his enemies were waiting to ambush him at the first sign of movement, he raised the table leg into the air so that it was above the barricade and cautiously waved it back and forth.

Still nothing.

Had they not heard the gunfire?

Mind reeling in confusion, the young rebel shook his black-haired head. He didn't understand… but he should have expected the unexpected.

He drew his KC957, took a deep breath, and leapt over the barricade.

He landed in a crouch and dropped immediately into a shoulder roll, carrying him away from the doorway. When he came to a stop, the young Revolutionist pressed against the wall, training his blaster on the figures he expected to see below him.

There was no one there. The second level of the enemy supple warehouse was filled with boxes, crates, and sacks – but no people. There was no sign of human life at all.

Still expecting a trap, the rebel cautiously stepped into the center of the room. He was met with no resistance. No one tried to stop him. No shots were fired. The warehouse was as silent as a tomb, and Mokuba didn't like it.

Sighing, the boy began to set the four detonators for this level. A little over five minutes later, he was descending the flight of stairs that led to the third level.

That floor was exactly the same as the one above it. By the time he had depleted his supply of explosives to a single bomb, his head was spinning from confusion. What in the name of the Revolution was going on?

His blaster was still in his hand, as he refused to let his guard down. What if this was all a ruse to lure him into a false sense of security? He was uneasy, and he felt as if unseen eyes were watching him.

A glance at his wrist chronometer put the time at 4:01. He still had fifty-three minutes left before the timer reached zero, more than enough time to set the last explosive and escape. He knew exactly where to place the bomb, too: through the door looming right in front of him. He bit his lower lip – if they were going to ambush him, this would be the place to do it – and opened the door.

An armed task force was what he feared; silence was what he expected. What he got was neither. He openly started at the first human being he'd seen since he had left the corpses behind.

It was a little girl. She couldn't have been a day older than he himself, though it was really hard to tell. While her blond hair, drawn up into pigtails, gave her a puerile appearance, the red-rimmed glasses perched on her nose combined with the slightly arrogant body language to give her the impression of someone much older.

She was smiling at him, a thin smirk that reminded him vaguely of his brother. He voice startled him when she spoke.

"Took you long enough."

Feeling more perplexed by the minute, Mokuba casually pointed his blaster at her. Furrowing his brow, he asked, "Excuse me?"

Glowering at the weapon, she scoffed, "Oh please. I'm no threat and you're too curious to shoot me, anyway."

"Maybe," he replied, and though he kept the gun's nozzle tipped in her direction, inside he acknowledged that she was probably right. "What do you mean, 'took me long enough?'"

"Just what I said," she returned, leaning back in the swivel chair she was seated in.

"You were expecting me?" he asked hesitantly.

"Of course. Everyone else left ages ago."

He stared. Then it clicked: "That guard! The fourth one – I wondered what he was doing! He sent you a message, didn't he?"

"There, you see? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

He scowled, annoyed at her attitude. "I'd watch myself, if I were you. You're not the one with the blaster."

She waved a hand. "Empty threats, Rev, empty threats."

His scowl deepened. "Rev" had become an extremely derogatory nickname for a Revolutionist. "You willing to stake your life on that?"

The girl raised her eyebrows. "Yes." She gestured behind him to where he could see numerous computer screens and monitors. "I was watching you. You're no killer."

He flushed. Great – some obnoxious girl had seen his battleshock. Ashamed, he ducked his head and mumbled, "Yeah, well…" Suddenly curious about something, he asked, "Why didn't you evacuate with everyone else?"

Her tone turned bitter. "I wanted to see whatever filthy Rev was destroying my life."

Going on the defensive, the rebel shot back, "Yeah? Well what about all the lives your stupid government has destroyed?"

The two children glared at each other, each nursing their own wounds. Finally, the stranger sighed.

"Whatever. Can't do anything about anything, now."

Mokuba opened his mouth to protest – that was what the Revolution was all about! – but she pressed onward.

"You got a name, kid?"

"Kid?" he squeaked. "You can't be a day older 'n me!"

She smirked. "That doesn't change the fact that you're a kid. I was surprised that your Revolution would send someone so young into combat."

He shrugged. "Gotta start somewhere." His eyes shining with enthusiasm, he added, "Just you wait, I'll be as good as my brother someday!"

The girl absently pushed her glasses further up on her nose, raising an eyebrow at him. "Who's your brother, S4913?"

"Of course," was his automatic response. He held back a wince; that was not the type pf information he should be throwing around.

The girl was quiet for a moment. Apparently deciding to ignore this statement, she frowned at him, asking, "So what are young going to do now?"

He looked at her determinedly and freed his last charge. "I'm going to finish what I started. I'm going to set this. Don't try and stop me, either. It'd just be a waste of time. There are fourteen other detonators throughout this place, and nothing you can do can stop them from going off. If you're half as smart as you pretend you are, you'll get out of here now."

They engaged in another glaring match. This time, it was the boy that stopped it.

"Look, just go, okay? Please? I don't want anyone else to die."

"…" The girl stood and walked over to a computer terminal. She glanced over her should at him. "I already know it's too late. That's why everyone left, you know. They guessed about the bombs. They'd have just killed you, if they thought it would do any good. No need to have anyone stay behind and get killed with you, though."

He opened his mouth to reply to this, but before he could, she pressed a button on the computer keyboard, and the machine released a small silver disk.

"Hey!" Mokuba shouted. "I can't let you take that!"

She whirled around and shot him a glare that would have made his brother proud. Calming down, she said, "Relax. This has nothing to do with the government. It's for my own private research. I'm the only one who knows about it." She hesitated, then added, "Please."

The raven-haired child fidgeted. He should let her, he knew. Just because she said the government didn't care didn't mean she was telling the truth. But they didn't have time to argue. He spared a glance at the chronometer. He was running out of time.

"Fine," he finally decided. "Now get out of here."

"Thank you." She pulled the disk free, tucked it into her lab coat, and walked to the door. Her hand touched the door release and the silver jaws swung open, but she paused in the doorway, looking back at him.

"You never did tell me your name."

"…M7123."

"No. Not your number. Your name." Seeing him hesitate, she added, "If it makes you feel any better… I'm Rebecca Hawkins."

"…Mokuba. Just Mokuba." He gave her a dry grin. "Not all of us are lucky enough to have surnames."

She smiled. "Okay. Thank you. Don't worry; I won't tell on you."

He returned the smile with one of his own. "Yeah… Thanks. Now get lost… and don't get killed."

"Ditto." With that, she stepped through the doors.

Watching them slide shut behind her, Mokuba shook his black-haired head.

Talk about expecting the unexpected.


Rebecca Hawkins sighed. She stood on a ridge overlooking the Domino docks, her eyes fixed on warehouse number thirty-three.

She closed them as the building burst into flames, hugging herself as the sound of the explosion washed over her. She hoped, despite herself, that the agent responsible had made it out in time.

She fingered the disk in her pocket. Her grandfather would be interested in what she had learned. It was time for her to return to him.

"I hope your Revolution is worth it, Mokuba," she murmured, and faded into the night.


Secret agent number S4913 paced back and forth across the apartment flat. He was worried; Mokuba should have been back by now.

He looked at the chronometer on the wall, double-checked it against his wrist chronometer, and glanced at the door.

Seto stopped his pacing, closing his eyes and rubbing them with his fingers. He was nearing frantic now, but he mustn't lose control. If he panicked and set out after his brother, their superiors wouldn't be satisfied that the boy could take care of himself.

He stalked over to the cabinet and threw open the door. Reaching inside, he drew forth a single chess piece.

The rook.

His fist clenched around it. If his baby brother had been killed, so help him, he'd make them pay. Whether "them" would be the government for killing him or the Revolution for putting him in a situation to be killed remained to be seen.

Suddenly, he stiffened. Someone was at the door. The rook fell from his hand as Mokuba stepped into the room.

Relief washed over the young rebel, and he took a moment to collect himself before striding over to meet the boy.

"How did it go?" he asked as gently as he could, his eyes taking in the bloodied cheek and patched-up shoulder.

The ten-year-old looked up at him with wide grey eyes, remembering the men he had killed that day. With a strangled sob, he fell into his brother's embrace, buried his face in the older boy's shoulder, and cried.


A/N: No, I don't hate Mokuba. I just like making life difficult for him. Shoot me.

Actually, please don't. The return of our power when I was halfway through was punishment enough. :(

And so, Rebecca-chan makes her (short) appearance! As far as I know, she is about three years younger than Mokuba, but this is AU, so they're the same age here. Again, this will have no relevance on this story, but it was interesting. Oh, and just for my information, does anyone know her birthday?

Mwa. Puerile. Watch me use my Latin class to improve my vocabulary. (maniacal cackle)

Review, or my ninjas will pay you a visit.