Chapter 39: Aftermath
Yuugi had tried to go back to Domino. Really. But he already knew who was behind the monsters (even if he didn't understand Haku's motives), and being around the god was unnerving, first of all because he was a god and second because it wasn't only the cobra who seemed ready at any moment to bite.
"What did you ever see in that guy, sis?" He shuddered. Even if Yori had been awake, she wouldn't have heard him, so he was left without an answer.
And he was left to choose—either watch monsters wreck his hometown and feel his heart break, or watch his friends face danger and feel the same.
He chose his friends.
And his heart did break.
But something else happened.
As Yami used the puzzle to help Seto, Yuugi felt a simultaneous rush of pride and a metaphorical lightbulb.
Because the answer to his puzzle, the answer he'd been searching for all this time, was the puzzle.
"I know the answer," he told the sky, "to what limits a god."
Just like that, he stood once more in the throne room of the sun god.
The original tournament schedule had only contained a ten-minute intermission between the first and second matches, with a forty-minute intermission-and-lunch-break before the grand champion match, but after the unexpected events of the first match (namely, the unexplainable appearance of sand dunes on the dueling field), the lunch break was moved forward, and everyone was sent to get cleaned up while Kaiba's employees handled the field.
Yami had an impossible decision to make, and just because he now had an extra thirty minutes to make it didn't ease the matter in any way.
He followed the others into the elevator, down to the ground, silent as his friends chatted. Everyone had their own method of coping with the impossible—some falling silent, like the Ishtars, some determined to cover the discomfort with loud amusement, like the Wheelers. Yami was on the silent side, and as he walked behind the others, he watched Joey laughing and wrestling with Tristan.
After the intermission, Yami was slated to duel Joey in the second match of the finals.
But Marik had been knocked from the tournament.
He glanced at the path back to the tower and saw the Egyptian trailing along beside the referee, who had apparently taken it as his personal responsibility to keep an eye on the unruly participant. Marik lazily spun his rod, and though he was as silent as Yami, his smirk said volumes.
Yami looked forward once more. This time he met Joey's eyes, though only for a second as the blonde laughed. While Tristan shrugged his jacket off and shook it free of red sand, while Mai and Duke did the same with their vests, Joey kept his jacket on. He always did.
Yami could forfeit his match to Joey, allow the tournament to proceed without him, and focus on Marik. But he'd never surrendered a duel. Ever. The very idea curdled something inside him—to stand across the field from not only a worthy opponent but one of the only friends he'd ever had—a friend who looked up to him, respected him, made him feel like he had a unique identity and something to offer—to look at all of Joey's blood-won progress and answer that diligence and sacrifice by callously tossing victory at his feet, robbing him of even the chance to prove himself, all because Yami had "more important" things to manage. It didn't take much observation to know people had been telling Joey all his life that this or that was more important than him; if Yami did such a thing, how would he ever look his friend in the eye again? It wasn't about the tournament. Not for Joey.
In the preliminaries, Yami had stood face-to-face with his friend as they shook hands and agreed to fight in the finals, not for a meaningless victory but for Joey's pride in himself, for something deep that Yami couldn't explain but could certainly feel. Joey's Red-Eyes Black Dragon was still in Yami's deck, a weight that grew heavier with each passing moment.
The most selfish part of his mind wished Joey would have been eliminated in the Qualifier. No one to blame, no need to look him in the eyes and give a heartbreaking answer.
What an incredible king he must have made, full of selfish desire to avoid responsibility.
As everyone filtered up the ramp, Mai hung back, eyeing Yami. Quietly, she asked, "Are you alright, mon cher?"
His heart twisted, remembering a moment when he'd had Yori in his arms and asked the same thing, wiping a tear from her cheek.
He could not abandon her to the shadows.
"Oui, mademoiselle," he said, voice deceptively light. "Strange weather we've been having, though."
"What is August without a sandstorm?" she quipped back.
But her eyes were on Marik, and she didn't smile.
Yami gestured for her to take the ramp ahead of him. Marik spread his arms as he approached, as if ready for an embrace.
"Shall we have a beachfront duel, Pharaoh? The views of the wreckage are lovely in the mornings."
The referee spoke up with a stern frown. "Remaining finalists will need to have their Duel Disks inspected to ensure performance hasn't suffered from the . . . er, sand. We also want to keep things clean and aboveboard, so we ask that finalists do not participate in any extraneous contests until after the official matches are played out."
Marik stuck his lower lip out in a pout, but his eyes gleamed. "Sounds like I'm off-limits, Your Majesty. Guess I'll have to find some other entertainment to occupy myself."
"You're talking big"—Yami gave an empty smile—"for someone fresh off defeat."
Marik itched his neck, leaving white scratches above the gold bands. "How's poor Yuugi? Have you told him you're putting the girl's life first, or have you changed your mind after all?"
"You think you've backed me into a corner. But you thought the same about Kaiba, and I rather enjoyed how that turned out for you."
"Don't think I didn't notice how you held his hand through the victory."
Marik came closer. He was taller, but Yami had already stepped onto the ramp, and the advance brought them eye-to-eye. He itched his collar as he leaned in.
"Too bad, dear pharaoh, there's no one left to hold yours."
Yami clenched his jaw. Before he could speak again, the referee cleared his throat and firmly asked them both to proceed into the blimp.
"After you." Marik bowed. "I promise not to put a knife in your back." He lowered his voice and winked. "At least not while stick-in-the-mud is watching."
At the top of the ramp, a maid offered Yami a towel and a fresh change of clothes, but when he looked at the Battle City T-shirt, all he thought of was Yori, so he declined. He did surrender his Duel Disk, which received a sticker to mark it as his and was carted off to some inspection. The referee went with it, and the maid returned to whatever duties she had, since there were no more contestants to greet. Marik gleefully draped the white towel over his neck and announced he might pay a visit to the showers.
"Sure hope it's empty." He itched his side. "I'd be much too tempted to slit someone's throat to watch their blood run in the water. I dumped a body in the Nile once, and it was like watching a painting of the sunset unfold, all these ripples and swirls of murky pink. Mmm." He smacked his lips. "Those were the days. You know, pre-death. I do hope you look back on yours with the same rosy nostalgia. It would be a shame if you were dead with nothing to show for it."
The longer Yami stood across the field from an opponent, the easier they were to read.
And the easier to bluff.
"Nice try, Marik. I know you're going after Kaiba for revenge. It won't work."
The glint of satisfaction he received in Marik's return grin was the same he'd seen in a dozen opponents. They loved to think how clever they were to mislead him about their intended strategy.
"As long as I'm alive, Pharaoh, your every friend is in danger. Don't forget it, and do find me when you're ready to make your choice. I can't promise no bodies in the interim."
He waggled his fingers and headed down the hall, almost crashing into Ryou, who'd just rounded the corner. Ryou swallowed and edged around him. Marik raised an eyebrow, but in the end, he continued walking without even a blustered threat. That in itself was enough to confirm his intentions.
So Yami allowed himself to focus on Ryou. For the moment, he had time.
"What of Yuugi?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.
"We should talk . . . in private." Ryou glanced over his shoulder as Marik disappeared. "Is he—I mean, is it really alright to leave him alone?"
"For the moment, I believe." Yami smirked. "He's just headed for a shower."
Ryou blinked. "Not quite the fiendish plan I expected."
"He can't stop itching. Something tells me he really hates sand."
"Oh." Ryou blinked again. "It just seems too . . . normal."
Yami could have gone for a shower himself, and it was only at Ryou's statement that he realized he'd never taken one. Such an activity may have been too normal for whatever Marik was, but it was too normal for him as well. Existence as a spirit: no sleep required, no food, no showers.
It was like a sign on the door to life: No body, no memory, no service.
"We can speak in my room," he said quietly, leading the way.
Once they were settled at the table in his room, Ryou said, "It's not great news, mate."
He briefly recounted his experience, ending with the spirit's offer—an item for the truth about Yuugi.
"I know it's impossible," Ryou said. "I tried to think of—"
"I'll do it," Yami said.
Ryou's brown eyes rounded, his mouth copying the shape.
"I'll do it. Let me speak to him."
"But the bracelet is . . . it's . . ."
With his nerves raw as they were, it was a struggle to keep his voice even, but Yami tried all the same. "Bakura, let me speak to him. Please. I don't have much time."
At last, Ryou nodded. He closed his eyes, and the transition was evident in a moment. The spirit bared canines closely resembling fangs. No doubt he would have loved to throw out taunts and blusterings like Marik, but Yami had had more than enough for one day. For a lifetime.
So he pulled the Millennium Necklace from his pocket and slid it across the table.
"As promised," he said. "An item for information. Everything you know."
The spirit's jaw hung just as Ryou's had. He reached hesitantly, glancing up like he expected Yami to snatch the necklace away. Yami held still as a statue, yet the spirit still poked the item with a finger and then scowled, leaning back.
"This is a trick."
"No, this is my partner's life. I'd give you the puzzle were it possible."
"Trade your life for his. How noble." The spirit shifted, eyeing the necklace once more. "Your tombkeepers would be mortified. All that sacrifice, a lifetime of diligence, and then you surrender it all to your worst enemy without a thought?"
Yami raised an eyebrow. "Are you my worst enemy? So many people try to claim the title, I lose track. Life might be simpler if it were up to me to decide."
"The king wants control. How unsurprising."
It was like talking to a wall—if walls held grudges and made judgments and had canines.
"Look, I don't care what you think about me. I just want my partner back."
"It isn't my practice to make deals with cold-blooded killers."
Yami stiffened.
"Ah"—the spirit's brown eyes gleamed—"so you do care after all."
It was always one game after another.
He swallowed. "Whatever happened in the past, I don't remember. If you want an apology, I'll give it. If you want a shadow game, I can do that, too. But not until Yuugi's safe."
The spirit snarled. Yami knew he was being too callous, too indelicate. Yuugi had an eternal listening ear and could muster compassion on a deadline, but as Yami was constantly being reminded, he was not Yuugi.
But it was plain to see if he continued a reckless charge, the spirit of the ring would refuse to help altogether.
"I'd be happy to jog your memory, Pharaoh." The spirit leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Our first meeting, perhaps."
A listening ear. Compassion.
Yami bit his tongue, ordered himself not to think of Marik or Joey or even Yuugi. And he let the other spirit speak.
No matter how unpleasant the story.
"I broke into your father's tomb," the spirit said, "and dragged his mummified corpse from its sarcophagus while it was still fresh enough to smell. Then I rode into your throne room on horseback, dragging that corpse by a rope around its neck. Of course I lost bits along the way, but I wasn't as torn up about it as he was."
He bared his fangs once more, watched intently for a reaction.
Yami gave him nothing even as his heart twisted, remembering a sunlit balcony and the man standing beside him.
"Remember now?"
"Can't say that I do," Yami ground out.
The spirit frowned, as if he'd genuinely expected the gruesome image to spark something. Perhaps he'd just expected a different response.
With a sudden twitch, the spirit whipped to the right and hissed, "You're not part of this conversation."
And the thought of Ryou interjecting on his behalf was enough to get Yami to breathe.
"If Yuugi were here," he said, "he'd be heartbroken, and he'd wonder what could have happened to make you do something so intentionally awful. I'm inclined to believe psychotic is as psychotic does."
He took another stabilizing breath. "But maybe we can . . . meet in the middle. If there is no possible way to make up for the past, I'm content to leave it in the past. If you aren't, that's your right, but I can't pretend to care. That isn't who I am. However, if . . . if there's something I can do, some amends I can make or some help I can extend, then I'm willing to try."
He gestured at the necklace. "So where does that leave us?"
The spirit was silent. His expression betrayed nothing.
Yami tried not to think about the invisible hourglass and the choices left to make.
Until—
Like the strike of a viper, the spirit snatched the necklace. It disappeared from his hand just as quickly, and he stood.
"If your host were dead, you'd be trapped in the puzzle." His voice was flat, like someone reading an ingredient list from the back of a carton. "He's severed. It's a godly parlor trick, an extended out-of-body experience courtesy of the head god himself, who isn't content to do anything without flash. Never trust a god; they play games, but they won't tell you the rules."
Ra. A chill crawled up Yami's spine.
"How do I get him back?" he asked.
"There are plenty of ways to sew him back into his body. The stakes of a shadow game could do it. I'm sure the rod would give you a sporting chance."
You can save only one, Marik's voice cackled.
Yami set his jaw. "Something else."
"If you go to battle against an all-powerful opponent, what weapon do you choose? You're the almighty pharaoh; you figure it out."
"One more question"—because Yami could tell he was about to disappear just like the necklace—"how do you know?"
Still that blank expression, that blank voice: "Because I was severed once, too."
Then he was gone, leaving Ryou in his place.
And leaving Yami with all his decisions still to make.
Mokuba felt like he couldn't really breathe until he and Seto were back in the blimp, alone in that corner control room. Seto hadn't said anything since the duel, and the déjà vu was heavy in the air as he shrugged his trench coat off (somehow still littering the floor with sand even though he'd already shaken it out before boarding), took a seat at the small table, and laid out the pieces for a travel chess set.
Just as before, Mokuba sat across from him, and he made the first move.
But Seto just stared at the board.
"What was it like?" Mokuba finally asked.
Seto reached out, then stopped, pulled his hand back, and sighed. "I once sat at a board like this with Gozaburo on the other side. Winning meant a home for us. Losing meant . . ."
Mokuba remembered all too well. There had been a couple who'd come to the orphanage the week before; they wanted to adopt Mokuba, thought he was sweet and charming and the perfect age.
But they didn't want Seto.
"It was a bit like that," Seto murmured.
Mokuba shrank in his seat. "You've always done everything for me."
"Not everything."
Seto frowned, and Mokuba hated to see his brother sitting there like that—like there was a weight across his shoulders, pushing him down more with every second. He looked away.
"Is it true?" He swallowed. "All that stuff about, you know, priests and . . . Is it true?"
The second sigh was answer enough.
"Well, if it makes you feel better"—Mokuba forced a grin—"I think it's freaking cool you can read Egyptian."
Seto snorted. The weight certainly didn't disappear, but he reached out and moved a pawn forward.
"It's nonsense." He shook his head, his frown still in place. "All of it."
"Like God and science."
When Seto raised an eyebrow, Mokuba rushed on: "In one of my classes, some of the kids were talking about God and science. The one guy said the world was created by God and there's stuff we can't explain and all that, and the other guy said it's all nonsense, and then this girl said, 'Well, what if that is the truth? Like, really, what if?' And then the science guy said, 'Then the truth is nonsense.'"
He shrugged. "We all laughed, but . . . maybe the truth really is nonsense."
Seto was silent while they played out the rest of the game. He won, like always, and it made Mokuba smile; somehow he felt certain that even if Seto had been a different person once, he still would have won at chess. The core of Seto would always have to be Seto.
Even if the rest of the truth was nonsense, there was at least that much solid ground: Seto would always be Seto.
As his brother rotated the board and reset the pieces, Mokuba couldn't help a devious grin.
"So you know if Joey beats Yuugi, that means you'll face Joey in the Battle City finale."
Just as expected, Seto let out a growl, and Mokuba giggled.
Seto would always be Seto.
Luck had not been on Krisalyn's side. Zigfried had not found what he was looking for early, so she'd been forced to come up with an excuse for why the standby pilot really needed to check on something in another control room right away. Though she hated to do it, she'd even played the "I'm deaf; I can't tell what you're saying" card in order to make it so he couldn't argue. In the end, he threw his hands up in defeat and wandered off to either check the room she'd listed or find someone who could explain the nonexistent situation.
She plugged her laptop in and said, You don't have much time. Guard will be back.
So Z didn't even bother replying, just set to work, the screen flashing through commands and numbers faster than Kris could track them even if she wanted to.
She turned her gaze instead to the large bay windows. The island outside was a nightmare landscape of twisted wreckage, but the ocean still glimmered like it did back home. Should she call it home? Domino City was technically her coach's home, and Krisalyn flew out to train with him for months at a time when he couldn't come to Germany. Though she missed her brothers, she loved waking up to a view of the sparkling ocean. Her coach told her the waves crashed, and she didn't need to hear it clearly to know it was the perfect word—she could see it in the white caps driving themselves madly against the shore.
Did Joey like the ocean?
Ears burning, she focused on the screen once more. Zigfried was still searching.
She glanced at the door. No pilot yet.
There was a qualifying match first, then two matches immediately following. Had she missed them already? Win or lose, she hoped to—
The screen lit up with an email: Found it. Thanks, sis. Now get out of that wretched place.
She rolled her eyes, but there was no point in reminding Z she was on an island. She would play out the rest of the tournament as a maid, and once she was home again, maybe her older brother would finally explain his plan in its entirety.
In the meantime, she was free, and she couldn't help a breathless grin.
She snatched her laptop and hurried back to the staff room, stowing the device in her locker. Another maid was gathering a stack of white towels from a storage closet.
Kris caught the other girl's arm and asked, "Are the matches finished?"
The girl gave her reply to the closet interior, which did Kris no good. She shook her head and went to find Himari, who was busy cleaning finalist rooms (the job Krisalyn was also meant to be handling; odd-numbered contestants were just out of luck). Himari was the type of cheerful person who adopted anyone and everyone in her vicinity like a cute mother hen, and as soon as Krisalyn had joined the team of KaibaCorp staff working the Battle City finals, Himari had taken the responsibility of showing her the ropes. Kris never minded a friendly face—especially one versed in sign language.
You all done with your rooms? Himari signed, grinning as she exited the last of hers.
Yes, Kris lied, trying not to wince. Are the matches finished?
Someone wants to see her CrUsH~
Kris elbowed her, ears burning. Himari's grin widened.
No, she signed. Something happened during the first match, so they called an intermission.
Hopefully nothing bad. Kris's stomach sank. What happened?
Freak sandstorm, I guess? The radio announcement was vague. She wagged her eyebrows. Want to know if your cute American made the Qualifier?
I know he did, Kris signed coolly.
But it was still comforting to see the way Himari's easy laugh confirmed it.
He's dueling after the intermission. Better go wish him luck.
Kris elbowed her again, but it didn't stop her from heading off.
Freak sandstorm was apparently right—when the contestants and guests returned to the blimp, they all trailed in a path of red particles like a sand-art project gone wrong. Joey spotted her just as she saw him, and his brown eyes warmed in a way that made her mouth dry.
I'll catch up, he told his friends.
"Are you alright?" she couldn't help asking.
Eh, nothing fazes Joey Wheeler.
"You have a . . ." She pointed at his bangs, where a patch of sand had clumped in his honey-gold hair.
He blinked, then followed the direction of her finger, going cross-eyed. She bit her lip, trying not to laugh at the adorable expression.
"Here." Quickly, she reached out and brushed the sand free.
Oh, thanks. He shook his fingers through the rest of his hair, but there were no more clumps at least.
"I'm sorry I couldn't watch the Qualifier." She smiled. "But I'll be there for your match, and the one after this, where you win Battle City."
His ears blazed as red as the sand. But he frowned. He ducked his head when he spoke, so she missed whatever he said, other than something about the match.
"What? I couldn't hear." It was a stupid phrase, but she'd learned that hearing people responded to it quicker than when she asked them to repeat themselves.
Sure enough, he stiffened and faced her directly once more. Sorry, I forgot. Like an idiot.
"It's not a big deal. What did you say about your match?"
Just that . . . I might not have one.
Her turn to frown. She waited until he spoke again.
He gave a small shrug. It's complicated.
Not much to work with there. She didn't want to press for details if he was hesitant to give them.
So instead she said, "Hey, did you ever hear about the runner-up from Duelist Kingdom?"
He raised an eyebrow. He even glanced over his shoulder, like she might have suddenly turned the conversation on someone else.
Kris smiled. "Before that tournament, no one even knew his name, but he went on to make the Battle City finals. The two highest-profile tournaments of the year, and he placed in both. That kind of winning streak opened all kinds of doors—sponsorship, international invitations. The next year, he competed in the American championship; they flew him out to New York, and he dazzled the city that never sleeps."
Hang on. Joey's eyes had grown increasingly bigger until they seemed like they might pop out. I ain't done any of that!
"Not so. You placed in Duelist Kingdom, and no matter what happens from here, you placed in Battle City. The rest of it is yet to come."
Zigfried was a dueling champion, and what she'd described wasn't far off from her brother's experience. He'd competed in America just the year before, Duelist Kingdom this year. And he'd been the national champion in Germany for two years running.
I ain't won anything yet, Joey protested again.
"You haven't won the tournament yet," she gently corrected. "That doesn't mean you haven't won anything. Maybe you're fighting so hard, you can't even see the victories."
His eyes went wide again, but not so panicked this time. Slowly, he slid his hands in his pockets, and he looked down with a frown, thinking. Kris felt no need to rush him; she certainly wasn't bothered by the silence that made others scramble to provide conversation.
In the end, he startled her by grabbing both of her shoulders, his grip tight but not painful.
You're the . . . the best girl, he said.
His face flushed red along with hers, so at least that was comforting. He released her in the same awkward, sudden way that he'd grabbed on, and before Kris could catch her bearings, he sputtered something she didn't catch, spun on his heel, and practically ran down the hall and out of sight.
After he was gone and Kris found the ground again, she pressed a hand to her mouth, but it couldn't quite hold back the vibrating laughter.
Note: Sorry I'm late, guys. Things have been really crazy lately. REALLY crazy. 2020's not over yet, I guess, haha. I'll do my best to stay on top of things.