For those of you who will read this multiple times, I apologize. Feel free to ignore this if you've already seen it, and move on to the chapter.

Here in my neck of the woods, it is now the 9th day of February, in the year 2012. Ten years ago today, I came across Fanfiction-dot-Net. I proceeded to publish "Lonely, Broken Hero," the first story I wrote that ever felt complete. It was inspired by a song, written for the Square-Enix game "Chrono Trigger," and marked the beginning of a lifelong passion.

Since February 9th, 2002, I have had the honor of meeting some of the greatest people on earth. These people have given me 5,885 reviews, thousands of Favorites, and over 1.8 million hits across 40 projects. These people have supported me, cheered for me, informed me, criticized me, and helped me embark on some of the most memorable journeys of my life. I never would have made it without them.

To celebrate this illustrious anniversary, and to thank you for being the best audience an author could ever ask for, I have written extra chapters for each of my 8 ongoing projects. I present them to you now, and humble myself before you. Were it not for you, these stories never would have come into being, or lasted nearly as long as they have.

Thank you again. You all have changed my life.

Here's to another decade of adventure and exploration.

Enjoy.


1.


Miss Lorwell's lectures were a comfortable routine.

She seemed to be one of those teachers who didn't believe in wasting time. She was quite adept at making things interesting, and she wasn't averse to keeping her classes light and fun, but she also didn't let her students get out of hand. She had a way about her, something Mokuba couldn't really pinpoint, that made even the most boisterous of class clowns quite frightened of crossing her.

"I've been keeping to the textbook these first few weeks," she was saying now, "to allow you the time to read whatever book you've chosen for your report, which I remind you is due after the break. After you come back, we'll begin reading 'To Kill a Mockingbird.'"

Miss Lorwell stopped to allow the exclamations and lamentations of most of her students to quiet down. She looked around at them all with an expression on her face that clearly said: "Are you quite finished?"

"We have to read another book?" someone asked.

"I know," Miss Lorwell said, waving a nonchalant hand. "It was quite a shock to me, too. What were they thinking, assigning such ludicrous work in a literature class? This curriculum is ridiculous. Shall I talk to the principal about maybe teaching you all how to play Starcraft at a competitive level? I hear it's a sport in South Korea."

Mokuba couldn't help it. He laughed.

Joanna Lorwell was definitely his favorite.

She smiled at Mokuba as the rest of the class joined in laughing. "I thought you might like that," she said. Mokuba beamed at her. "Now," she continued after the class had calmed down, "as I said, we won't start reading 'Mockingbird' until your book reports are handed in. I want you all to have the best report possible, and that means I don't want to hear the excuse, 'But I had to focus on that other book.' Some of you may have trouble with 'Mockingbird.' In fact, I all but guarantee it for a couple of you."

"Does it have to be typed?" someone asked. "The report, I mean."

"I would certainly prefer it," Miss Lorwell said. "Double-spaced, 12-point font. Arial or Times New Roman. I don't want to see Courier. Yes, I've run into that trick before. I'm wise to you all. If you can't find access to a computer, then I will accept handwritten. However, points will be deducted if I have trouble reading anyone's handwriting. So be careful. And use pen."

Several hands that had shot up in the air lowered.

"How long does it have to be?"

"I expect at least three pages, front-side only."

Several other questions arose, most attempting to find some way to cheat, but Mokuba didn't pay attention to those. Seto would no doubt look over his brother's report before allowing him to turn it in, and any of the tricks being mentioned by his classmates would offend the elder Kaiba. Seto didn't appreciate shortcuts, and certainly didn't let them slide.

Mokuba could already hear his brother's voice, low and disbelieving, saying, "Do you seriously intend to turn this in?" or, "Did you think I wouldn't catch this?"or—heaven forbid—a simple, quiet, bitterly disappointed, "I expected better of you," as he headed for his office.

No. Mokuba would do this the right way. It would be quicker, anyway, and…less painful.

The last thing Seto needed right now was disappointment.

The last thing Seto ever needed was disappointment.

The lesson continued, and Mokuba sank comfortably into taking notes, as his brother had taught him. His pen scratched across his notebook nearly independent of his mind, and yet again, he didn't notice the boy sitting next to him, tossing quick, fearful glances at him every so often. Mokuba remained blissfully unaware of his latest…admirer for the remainder of the period. It wasn't until the class was dismissed for lunch and he was putting his things into his bag that he even matched Connor Brinkley's name to his face.

"Connor?" Miss Lorwell asked, in a soft tone of voice that might have led Mokuba to believe she was talking to her own son. "Connor, could you come up to my desk for a moment? I'd like to speak with you."

For the first time, Mokuba saw the boy who sat next to him; the blond boy with disheveled hair and despondent eyes.


2.


"Y-Yes, Miss Lorwell?" Connor asked shyly. He looked distinctly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his teacher's eyes, and Mokuba supposed that he couldn't blame him; her face was rather severe, much more so than usual, and his first thought was that Connor wasn't one of her best students; perhaps she just wanted to talk to the blond about his homework?

But Mokuba didn't think that likely.

Miss Lorwell leaned forward on her desk. "I know that you don't talk all that much in class," she said gently. "I guess maybe this isn't your best subject, is it? I bet you're better at math and science, aren't you?"

This caused the slightest of smiles to cross Connor's face. Mokuba had the impression that Connor hadn't been smiling much lately. It looked like one of Seto's smiles, almost physically painful like he hadn't practiced it much. Although it looked as if this boy's discomfort came from fear or sadness, rather than Seto's typical irritation. Connor Brinkley certainly didn't look angry. He looked like he wanted to bolt from the room.

"Yes, Ma'am," Connor said finally, in a quiet little voice that made Mokuba blink.

Miss Lorwell smiled, too. "I thought so. Still, I can't help but notice you've been…well, subdued. Are you okay, Connor? Is something the matter? Is something happening here at school that I should be concerned about? Or at home, maybe?"

Connor looked aghast at her. "No! Nothing like that! I mean…it was…I'm…just…kinda shy, I guess. Maybe." Even Mokuba, only paying cursory attention like he was, could hear the blatant falsehood in the blond's voice now.

He stopped, seemingly deciding that if he kept going, he'd say too much. Miss Lorwell frowned.

"…I see. Are you sure?"

Connor stammered to come up with a reply. Mokuba felt bad for the poor kid. Connor looked younger than even he did, and Mokuba wondered if he hadn't skipped two grades to come to this school. He also wondered if Seto had ever looked this pitifully young when he'd been in school. "I…I…"

Miss Lorwell looked sympathetic. "Okay, Connor. I see that you don't want to say anything more. I do hope you'll come to me, or another member of the faculty, if something does happen. I won't tolerate my students enduring any kind of mistreatment."

Something about the way she said it, maybe the word "tolerate," reminded Mokuba of his brother. Maybe that was why he liked Miss Lorwell so much. A lot of her mannerisms were of the same no-nonsense severity that Mokuba found so familiar. Of course, there was a lot about Joanna Lorwell that wasn't like Seto, but there was enough to be comforting.

Mokuba watched as Connor nodded, saying that he would make sure to tell her and not meaning a word of it, then turned away and slipped out of the room. Mokuba frowned, confused. He looked at his teacher.

Miss Lorwell was looking back at him. "He kept looking at you, every few seconds or so, all through class. Of course, I've come to the conclusion that people often do that. You seem to be quite popular. But it certainly wasn't with admiration that Mister Brinkley was watching you."

Mokuba frowned. "…What are you saying?" he asked, straining not to sound defensive.

Miss Lorwell shrugged. "I'm saying that whatever is going on with that poor boy, it has to do with you somehow. I don't know how, and I don't intend to ask. It just seems like a situation you might want to look into. Whether you know it or not, it has to do with you. I'd bet my job on it."

Mokuba's frown deepened. "I…I see," he said.

He left.


3.


Mokuba followed his classmate out into the hall.

He wasn't sure what it was he planned to do. It was disconcerting to realize that he really didn't have the faintest clue what he should do. He knew what he would have done, back at Oakwood: he would have offered to help. Mokuba liked helping people. He knew better than to say this in front of his brother, but he had come to think of it as an obligation. If he was in a position to help someone, then he thought that he should. Seto, of course, would have been offended by such an idea. Mokuba knew that in this situation, Seto wouldn't have bothered to approach Connor Brinkley at all.

"I have had no interaction with this boy," he would have said. "I know that I have nothing to do with whatever grievances he has. If he thinks I do, that's his problem. Let him deal with it."

Mokuba just didn't think that way.

Connor had reached his locker, seeming to be doing his best to keep his eyes on the lock as Mokuba stepped up to him. The black-haired boy opened his mouth to speak, and was halfway between confused and irritated to find that he had no words. He couldn't think of what to say. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and hung his head, turned around and walked away feeling sheepish. For the first time, he started to understand that his new aversion to strangers was affecting him too much.

When the pack of older students began to converge on the small boy's location, looking like hyenas on the prowl, Mokuba turned to look over his shoulder and felt his heart seize up in his chest. His body suddenly refused to move, and sweat broke out on his brow.

They started talking, and even though Mokuba was too far away now to hear what they were saying—they were almost whispering—he could tell that they weren't having a pleasant conversation. Connor, for his part, didn't look frightened so much as he looked…disappointed. That wasn't to say he wasn't frightened, not really, only that resignation and familiarity took precedence over it. This was nothing new to Connor Brinkley; but that didn't make it fun.

It wasn't until one of the boys, who had a bandana covering his hair even though it was against the school's dress code, picked Connor up by the collar of his jacket and pinned him up against his locker that fear actually showed up on the boy's soft, pale face.

Mokuba felt his breath catch in his throat, and panic began to well up like it was trying to escape right along with the younger boy. The young Kaiba began to shake. Memories that he'd thought were buried rushed up into his mind's eye: a soft, dark little grin on a face that was all too comfortable with it; cool, meticulous arrogance; thin hands with a grip far too strong for their spidery fingers; the freezing bite of gunmetal.

Someone shut a locker behind the black-haired boy with a reverberating crash that echoed in the air, and Mokuba let out a squeaking little whimper as lightning jolted through his body. Connor Brinkley was looking at him now. Mokuba knew well the look in those eyes, recognized it all too easily. A distant part of him said that he could help, that he should help. That it was his solemn duty as a halfway decent human being to help.

The pack of bullies didn't seem to notice that Mokuba was even there. He could have gotten the jump on them. He could have pulled the same card as he had on the kid with the spiked hair. He could have called for a teacher; he could have called for a hall monitor. He could have called his brother.

But Mokuba did none of those things.

He turned away again, and almost sprinted down the hall toward the courtyard.


4.


"You're not looking too good."

Mokuba blinked, surprised, and lifted his head. Rebecca Hawkins was standing beside the table—in a far corner of the yard—where Mokuba had taken to stationing himself. Her group of friends was nowhere to be seen. She saw him looking around and smiled.

"Mind if I sit here?" she asked, gesturing to the seat across from him.

Mokuba nodded. "S-Sure. I mean…no. I don't mind. Go ahead."

Rebecca sat down, set down her backpack, and pulled out a Tupperware container. As she did this, Mokuba was reminded that he had food, too, something he'd actually forgotten, and he reached for his own bag. He said, "How's…uh, how's it going?"

Rebecca smirked as she pulled a slice of watermelon out of her container. "You are out of it today, aren't you?" Mokuba looked at her. "I guess maybe you haven't learned everything from your brother. It's written on your face. You're upset about something."

Mokuba frowned. He didn't respond.

"It's not porcupine-boy, is it?" she asked.

"No." He managed a chuckle that sounded as authentic as voice-box software. "No, not him. I guess…well…I dunno, really. I just…"

Rebecca raised a curious eyebrow. "Wow," she said. Mokuba flinched and looked embarrassed, and her smirk softened into a sympathetic smile. "I didn't think it would be him. You wouldn't let some moron like that guy get you this hot and bothered." At the strange look from Mokuba, Rebecca shrugged. "Grandpa says that all the time. Guess I picked it up."

Mokuba smiled, but eventually grimaced and looked away. "…Well, somebody in my literature class is…having problems. He's…quiet. Like, quiet enough that the teacher noticed. And…and…she says it's got something to do with…to do with me. Right? So I…go out into the hallway and he's…these guys come up to him. Bullies. And they're roughing him up, doing their standard strutting crap, and I…I…"

Mokuba couldn't finish the thought.

Rebecca frowned. "Brought up bad memories, didn't it?"

The black-haired boy blinked. "What…?"

"Forgive me for saying this, Mokuba," Rebecca said, "but…I'm surprised you only went under the radar for as long as you did. I saw that recording from von Schroeder, remember. All I'm saying is…if it'd been me, I'd be an absolute wreck. What you went through, that was trauma. You shouldn't feel bad because it's still affecting you."

Part of Mokuba wanted to cry denial. He wanted to snap at her to quit talking about stuff she didn't understand. Part of him wanted to say that that had nothing to do with it, that he was a Kaiba, that it was nothing out of the ordinary and that he wasn't bothered by it anymore. But the rest of him looked at her with new appreciation as he realized that she—like Seto—could see things in him that he couldn't. The rest of him realized that she was right, she was damn right, and it was nothing but bravado making him feel defensive.

But he said, "…I don't…I don't know if…that's it."

"Well, if it isn't, it should be." Rebecca leaned forward. "I hope you don't take offense. I know I don't know you all that well, you or your brother, but…don't go wasting time feeling ashamed of yourself, all right? You're a Kaiba." Mokuba stared at her. "We all know your brother owns this city. But it's not just him. You're like...an icon. Kids in this city? Not just one or two, pretty much everybody…they about worship you." She smirked. "Cara? And Tisha? And everybody else I know, they're jealous. Not of you. Of me."

"Your friends?" Mokuba asked. She nodded. "Why would they…?"

"I can talk to you," Rebecca said. "You let me talk to you. I'm, like, part of the in crowd or whatever. Look, the point is, you're not just Kaiba's brother. You've played Capmon, you've won tournaments, you've been on TV. People see that, and it's not just the adults that pay attention. They read the stories about what you've done, what you've been through. Newspaper articles and videos and…whatever else."

Mokuba frowned. "And that…means what, exactly? I'm some kind of hero, now?"

Rebecca seemed bound and determined to make Mokuba feel better. "To plenty of people, yes. You are. You're a kid, younger than most if not all of the students here, yet you've seen and done things that most of us can't dream of. I mean, I'm a tournament duelist, and I've had my share of the spotlight, but I never snuck out of Pegasus Crawford's castle. I never got hung outside of a helicopter or piloted a jet. To say nothing of the…most recent…well…" she drifted off.

Mokuba mulled this over.

A sudden mischievous twinkle shone in Rebecca's eyes. "I bet you've read a lot of articles and forums and things on your brother," she said, sounding like she wanted to change the subject, and he nodded. "Well, you'd be surprised what people come up with when they aren't going for the truth. You ever heard of celebrity fanfiction?"

Mokuba's frown deepened. "Uh…no? People do that? Like stories for anime and videogames and movies and stuff?"

"Oh, yes," Rebecca said with relish, nodding. "But see, some of them like to wax poetic on real people. Famous people only, of course. Nobody wants to read a story about some guy's next-door neighbor and his pet cat. But people like you? Like Kaiba? Oh, God."

Mokuba scrunched up his nose. "People…make up stories about me?"

"All the time!" Rebecca said, grinning broadly. "You and Kaiba, and Joey Wheeler, and Yugi, and the whole gang! Even me sometimes. Those are funny. I've left some comments on some of them, actually. But yeah, you and Kaiba are…especially popular."

"Why…am I suddenly nervous?"

"Oh, you should be. I'm not even sure why I'm telling you, except maybe I just want to torture you. I mean, some people are actually pretty good at it. They get things…mostly accurate. But some people…oh, my Lord, if your brother ever saw some of this stuff, he'd start murdering people." Rebecca began to giggle madly, looking for the first time since Mokuba had met her like she was actually twelve years old. She said, "Before you ask, I'm not telling. I'm not having a direct hand in getting one of my best friends thrown in prison. Or assassinated."

The bell rang for fifth period, and Mokuba realized he hadn't actually eaten any of the food Seto had packed for him. He began to put everything back into his bag, suddenly so preoccupied that the name Connor Brinkley had no meaning. He stared at Rebecca as they both stood up. "What are you talking about?" he asked quickly. "What kind of stuff could people make up that Niisama would get mad about?"

Rebecca laughed again. "Let's just say some people like to forget how young you are…and that you and Kaiba are related."

A beat of silence.

Mokuba Kaiba decided that he would never use the internet again.

Ever.


END.


Is this breaking the fourth wall? I'm pretty sure it is.

When I started writing, there was still a Celebrity section on the side. It's been taken down since, and I think I understand why, but I can't help but think the same thing would exist here in this world. It won't do to say they're famous and popular if I don't prove it, right? I also wanted to comment on some of the more…controversial ships in the waters that make up YGO romance.

You know who you are.

This was a fun chapter to work on; effective? Well, that's to be determined by you guys. I hope you enjoyed it, sporadic as it might be.

I'll see you all next time.