This story, like any number of projects that I start, has turned out to be a bit bigger in scope than I anticipated. There's a lot more involved in this than I counted on, which on one level is kind of irritating, because the whole point of starting this story (even though I have plenty of others demanding my attention) was to have something easy to write, something light, something . . . simple.
I should know myself better by now.
1.
The nature of crime is . . . delicate.
"For instance," Pegasus murmurs thoughtfully, "consider the nature of our current errand. Is it intent that makes the difference? That makes it illegal? Is it a lack of permission?"
"I believe, ah . . . intent has a fair amount to do with it, sir."
Croquet has been standing in the same position, in the same far corner of the same unlit office, for the past three hours—with his arms clasped behind his back—and he looks like he would rather pull out his own teeth than be here any longer; but he has no choice. The master has spoken.
"And that, I suppose, would be why an assassination attempt is still a crime, regardless of the outcome."
"I would suppose the same."
"But consider this: suppose I am merely here to give a friend some much-needed advice? What is that called? An intervention? What if I am merely staging an intervention?"
"The fact remains that you fully intend to see a man dead by sundown, sir."
"I'm merely hoping for that particular outcome. Is it a crime to hope?"
"That seems to fly in the face of staging an intervention."
"Be that as it may," says Pegasus, eyeing the fingernails of his right hand as though convinced that some dirt has managed to sneak underneath them in order to spite him, "what I mean to say is, modern society seems quite obsessive when it comes to labeling things. Consider, Croquet, what my intent tonight would be called some hundreds of years ago. You might well call it divine providence. Am I not simply a servant of the old gods, blessed with their sight, such that I can see when a human being proves cancerous to his fellows?"
The master's language often reflects his mood. The more flowery his soliloquies, the more potent his rage.
"I suppose you're referring to your prized golden eye, sir," Croquet says softly. He feels a shudder go up his spine; he doesn't like to remind himself that his master is haunted by delusion. This is particularly troublesome every time he remembers that he actually doesn't have any proof that Master Crawford is delusional at all.
No more delusional than Croquet himself, that is.
Croquet has seen just what the Millennium Eye can do.
What it can see, and more importantly what it can make other people see.
"My prized golden eye . . ." Pegasus repeats, softly, to himself. He reaches up with his left hand, and touches two fingers to the golden symbol protruding from his left eye socket. "Prized," he repeats, as though he is testing the taste of the word.
The master is currently seated behind an expensive oak desk so impeccably presented that it's impossible to believe that anyone uses it to work. The entire office is a sham, a political statement. In Croquet's experience, a true worker's private space is a prime example of function as form. The higher up the corporate ladder one climbs, the more likely one is to find those who care more for their image than their productivity.
Invariably, people like this have perfectly organized desks.
In short, Croquet would have been far more likely to argue against murdering a man who worked in absolute chaos, because it would have implied an actual loss.
As it is, however . . .
The office's single door opens, and Pegasus Crawford leans back in the chair he's currently occupying.
Croquet thinks about reaching for his sidearm, but eventually decides against it.
There is, after all, no need.
2.
"Someone's in a good mood today."
Seto Yagami schools his expression into something resembling its natural state; Kristine wonders if the poor boy thinks he somehow doesn't deserve to be happy. She's met plenty of children who think that way in her line of work.
Their families have been shattered. Their lives have been ruined. What possible reason could they have to be in a good mood? Smiling is a direct insult to everything they've lost.
"I met a kid at school who plays the game," Seto says slowly, looking at everything around him except Kristine's face. "His grandfather owns a little shop across town."
"Well, that's lucky, isn't it?" Kristine smiles. "Did you get to play?"
Seto blinks, tilts his head to the side, and looks like he hadn't actually considered that question until now. "Um . . . no. Actually. We didn't get that far. He told me about strategies and deck designs he's come up with, and we just . . . well . . . we didn't have time."
Kristine wonders if Seto realizes what this means. Has quiet, cynical little Seto Yagami made a friend? Has he spent a day at school just talking to someone his own age? Such a concept is doubtlessly foreign to this boy, who has a chip on his shoulder so wide and jagged already that Kristine half-expects it to make him bleed.
The only person at the Domino Children's Home with more bitterness woven into the cleft of his heart is Director Kelvin.
"What would you say to a mug of tea?" Kristine offers suddenly.
Seto finally looks at her. ". . . Okay. That would . . . that sounds fine."
Kristine feels as though she's approached her boss and asked him to lunch. Like he has such a thoroughly packed schedule that he has to consult his ledger for every little thing. She wonders when he will start calling his own principal to inform her that he won't be able to make it in today.
Seto stops. "Where's Mokie?"
"Hm?" Kristine raises an eyebrow. "He's down for his nap."
"I have to check on him," Seto says, and disappears before Kristine has a chance to say anything else.
Fifteen minutes later, Kristine steps into the room that Seto and Mokuba share with two other boys to find Seto seated in a chair, watching his tiny brother sleep. She hands the little genius a mug of black tea, which he takes distractedly. Without looking up, Seto says, "Could you leave, please? Mokie's a light sleeper."
Kristine sighs, puts on a long-suffering smile, and bows at the waist. "At once, Seto-sama," she says.
Seto finally looks at her again, without humor. He doesn't seem amused by her little jab, nor insulted. In point of fact, he looks imperial. As though he's simply relieved to find someone finally giving him the respect he deserves.
"Thank you."
3.
"What the hell are you doing here?!"
The master raises his single visible eyebrow. "Some might say I'm doing your job for you."
Gregor Kelvin's eyes go wide, then narrow. His voice comes out in a slathering hiss, through clenched teeth. "My job is to sneak onto government property after hours to stalk people?"
Pegasus laughs. "My dear little idiot, please don't make more of this than it is. I'm hardly stalking you. No. Your job is to keep this place running in top shape. To ensure that the people under your command are able to do their jobs properly. A rather unfortunate truth has been made evident to me. To wit, there is a rather large and ugly obstacle standing in the way of this orphanage's true purpose: you."
". . . Just what do you think this orphanage's 'true purpose' is?" Kelvin demands stiffly. "What do you think you know of our work here? You can't be older than eighteen. You don't know jack shit about what we're doing here!"
Pegasus was smiling. Now, he is not.
". . . Gregor Kelvin, I think you actually believe that. My. That's a surprise."
"Don't fuck with me!"
"Don't fuck with you?" Pegasus stands, and leans threateningly over Kelvin's desk. "Firstly, Mister Kelvin, you would do well to keep that tongue of yours in check. You run a children's home. It's hardly in your charges' best interests to fill their minds and mouths with filth. Secondly, check your self-indulgent rhetoric at the door. This room is no longer your private cesspool. It is your hall of judgment. You would do well to put your best foot forward. If you have one."
Kelvin's throat works quickly, bulging with indignant fury. "You're insane. Get out, right now, before I call the police!"
Pegasus reaches over, rips the phone from its place on the corner of the desk, and flings it across the room where it shatters against the wall in so many splintering pieces.
"What the hell is your problem? Who are you?!"
Pegasus Crawford's grin is a savage grimace. "I am your deliverance. I am your Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. Listen closely, Gregor Kelvin. I won't repeat myself. This is the one plot of land where the needs of children rise above the petty grievances of their elders. This is their palace. Your job, you pitiful insect, is to give yourself to them. And if they elect to feed on you, to pick you clean and leave your bones for the sun to bleach, then you'll let them do it with a song in your heart."
Kelvin's face goes slack. "You're a lunatic!"
Pegasus's grin softens, and his voice turns silky.
His left eye glitters like the dreams of a false god.
"May I take that as an indication that we don't see . . . eye to eye?"