Most of my attention in this series has been dedicated to "Lightbringer," and "Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes" to a lesser extent. I assure you that I haven't forgotten about this main story. There's still plenty to do here, and I certainly hope that you'll join me as we continue down this road.
In case you haven't heard, I recently relaunched my YouTube channel, "Story Time with Iced Blood." I'm uploading Let's Play videos there. For the uninitiated, think of a Let's Play as a DVD commentary track, except instead of a movie or TV episode, the footage is a videogame, and instead of cast and/or crew, the commentator is the player.
That is, me.
I'm putting up the videos of my second full project right now (the first was Capcom's "Resident Evil 4," and is complete), which is the much-lauded first game in the "Bioshock" series. You can find a link to my channel on my profile here.
So if anyone's interested, feel free to join me as I play games, and talk about them at the same time! I'm such a multitasker.
Now, then, let's get down to business. This is Part III of the Fear of God arc: "Little Lord Kaiba."
1.
"I don't really see it."
"Oh, come on, you know him good enough by now!" Mokuba stopped for a moment, frowned, groaned and rolled his eyes a little, then added: "Well enough by now. It's all symbolic, right? It's not exact."
"Are we watching the same shows?" Connor gave his friend a strange look. "His whole story's about dating a teenage girl! Your brother's never dated a teenage girl." The look got stranger. "Has he?"
"No." Mokuba blinked. "I don't think so. All right, listen—yeah, okay, he's dating a teenage girl, but really. It's about love. Redemption. He's scared of being happy because if he's happy, he's complacent, and things spiral out of control."
Connor frowned pensively. "See, but Angel can't be happy because he was cursed. If he feels happy, he turns evil. Your brother won't do that. If your brother felt happy, he'd just . . . feel happy. Right? How is that a bad thing?"
"Well, that's why I said it was symbolic. You have this guy, something bad happened to him, and he did some bad things. Then somebody . . . did something, and he changed, and he's spending the rest of his time trying to make up for those bad things. It gets all hyped up and epic with Angel because that's what kind of show it is. Niisama is . . . more real-world, but it's pretty much the same thing."
"What do you mean, did something? The gypsies cursed Angel, but who cursed your brother?"
Mokuba started to answer, and it was obvious that he had an answer, then he got a panicked look in his eye and he clamped his mouth shut. "Ah . . . well. You know." He looked like he was about to say something again, then he closed his eyes and sighed. "There is something that happened to Niisama, but I don't think he wants me talking about it. He doesn't like to think about it."
"That bad, huh?"
Connor wasn't particularly well-versed in deception, but he knew enough. Most people would have blown off the question, said something like: Oh, you know, it's not perfect. It's just symbolism, remember? He was sure that Mokuba had been about to say something just like that. But it wouldn't have worked, and Connor knew it, and Mokuba knew it.
So he hadn't said it. He'd told the truth . . . as much of the truth as he was allowed to say.
If there was one thing that Connor Brinkley had learned about the Kaiba family since meeting them, it was the simple fact that they were complicated. Not just their relationship, which was worth an encyclopedia all on its own, but they as individuals were complicated. Mokuba was the oldest eleven-year-old in Domino City; his path was harder than Connor could figure out, no matter how many times he tried.
The only person to have walked that path before Mokuba was Seto. Seto had blazed the trail that Mokuba was using; blazed it with fire, cooled it with ice, and a bunch of other metaphors that Connor thought he still had written down somewhere. Miss Lorwell had suggested he keep a journal around, for ideas. He kept it by his bed, and every so often he would write down little lines, like poetry.
Like so many other Domino City residents before him, Connor often found himself thinking about the Kaibas.
Even when he was right here, talking to one of them, he couldn't make sense of them. He wasn't sure that he would ever make sense of Seto. But Mokuba was his age, younger than he was, and still he couldn't . . .
"And besides," Mokuba said, all negativity washed from his face like he'd just swiped it away with a wet sponge, "they have the same fashion sense."
"Okay, maybe you have me there," Connor admitted, shrugging his shoulders in his usual gesture of defeat; Mokuba had a habit of arguing him, and everyone else for that matter, into a corner. "Do you always look for your brother when you watch TV?"
"TV, cartoons, books, movies," the young Kaiba admitted. "It's a hobby."
"Strange hobby."
"I've had stranger." Mokuba glanced around at their surroundings; his eyes caught on a stop sign. After checking the street, he started crossing over. "When I was little, I used to build houses out of Niisama's old three-by-five notecards. He didn't really need them. He got all A's in his classes even if he didn't bother. He only made them 'cuz he knew I liked to build with them."
"That . . . is really sad."
"I know, right?"
"I-I mean, it's kind of nice, you know. Sweet, and endearing. And, um . . . whatever else my mom calls you guys."
Mokuba laughed. "It's fine. I know. Plenty of other big words people use to describe us: 'codependent' is one of the bigger ones. I hear that all the time. Unhealthy, creepy. Ooh! 'Emotionally incestuous.' Heard that one once." The boy shuddered. "Don't wanna know what that one's supposed to mean."
Connor scrunched up his nose. "Where do you find this stuff?"
Mokuba seemed confused at the question. He shrugged. "Tabloids. Independent newspapers. Blogs."
"Don't people say that the worst thing you can do is Google yourself? Shouldn't you—you know, avoid reading that stuff?"
"That's what Niisama keeps saying. It's a habit."
"But if—"
"Connor."
Mokuba went stone-stiff; the only thing that moved in his entire body were his eyes. He held up an arm to stop Connor from walking, and all of a sudden he looked like his brother. It wasn't just in his eyes, or his face, or even his essence.
It was . . . everything.
As a group of teenagers—led by none other than William Hunter and Matthew Kerns—approached the two boys, Connor actually expected his friend to pull a gun.
2.
Seto would have appreciated the fact that Joey didn't scramble to make a call as soon as he heard Mokuba's voicemails. Instead, he glanced around to get his bearings, and started to run.
He remembered something the elder Kaiba had said once: "If something has happened, what kind of excuse is 'I didn't want to seem paranoid?'"
Joey had come to realize that, when the subject at hand was Mokuba Kaiba, there was never any room for the old excuses. He, like the boy's brother, had no problem trusting Mokuba to take care of himself; what he didn't trust was the rest of the city. He'd seen the way people acted around celebrities, on reality TV and tabloids, but he hadn't understood until recently that, yes, they still acted like that even if the celebrity in question was a little kid.
Leaving Mokuba unattended in public was never an option.
"I've heard people call him the crown prince of Domino," he'd said to Tristan one day, while he put new price tags on various board games. "And you know the sad part? The fucked part? They're not wrong. I swear, we treat rich people like they're fuckin' royalty."
"Famous people," Tristan had replied. "Not just rich. You can be famous without being rich. That's the only way you can explain most reality shows. Comedians, indie bands, YouTube celebrities. Whatever. They're all on pedestals."
"I swear, though—there's something about that kid. Somethin' about the way he doesn't give two shits what people are saying. Well, okay, he cares if they say something mean. Doesn't like disappointin' people. So if he hears he did something wrong, well, he 'bout falls on himself to fix it. But people who talk about how brave he is, or how smart or how quick or how talented or what the fuck. He don't even hear it."
"Startin' to sound like a convert, Joe."
"I know. Fuckin' weird, isn't it?"
"Seto," Tristan mumbled, "of the House Kaiba, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men."
Joey smirked. "So does that make the Moku-man a prince? Or the Hand of the King?"
"Both, prob'ly."
Joey ran through streets he'd been haunting since he was seven, without even paying conscious attention to them because the pathways and shortcuts were ingrained in muscle memory. He thought about the boy he'd been all but hired to guard. The only thing he hadn't gotten so far was a paycheck and a benefits package; but the responsibility? The obligation? That was all there. Flashes of thoughts ran through his head, as he considered what he might come across if he took much longer to find the young Kaiba.
Was there any chance that he would be perfectly fine? That Joey would show up at the movie theater, get up to the counter, and find out that his ticket had already been paid for, and that he'd only missed the first couple of previews?
Somehow, Joey doubted it. He doubted very much that he would be watching Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom this afternoon. He had no specific reason for this, no particular sense of intuition or even pessimism. At least, he didn't think he did. He just . . . doubted it.
Cutting across a side street and rushing through two crosswalks, Joey found himself a handful of blocks from the theater Mokuba and Connor had chosen for their afternoon jaunt. He passed a restaurant, and a store that sold vitamins and homeopathic medicine—it might have been an apothecary in a past life—all the while keeping his eyes twice as open as they usually were. He wasted no effort watching his surroundings; he didn't need to know them. He watched the people. He watched fathers swinging arms with their daughters; he watched a mother reprimand her son for trying to juggle apples from a reusable grocery bag. He ran past six parked cars and vaulted over a seventh, for no specific reason other than he felt he should hurry.
He didn't know why.
3.
"A lovely day to you, my little lord Kaiba."
Mokuba put on a scowl that would have felt homesick on anyone else's face but his brother's. He stood even straighter than he usually did, because his friend was behind him. He took in the sight in front of him with Seto's detached, clinical analysis, because if he let himself feel anything else but boredom, he was likely to run.
He was still a little boy, no matter what he tried to tell himself.
William Hunter, up front; Scooter Rodriguez at his right. Owen Gregor bringing up the rear. The rest of Hunter's boys made a ring. And in the center of that ring was none other than Matthew Kerns.
Nine. Eight boys, one teenager, all of them puffed up with arrogant anger. This wouldn't end well. Mokuba could sense it in his bones, and in his head, and in every piece of himself. This wasn't like that first confrontation, on the construction site, where all Mokuba had had to do was stall, and prove that he couldn't be manipulated, until his brother got there. He knew that as soon as he put a hand in his pocket, they would move in. They knew the trick. They weren't the smartest boys in Domino, but they weren't stupid enough to let him use the same strategy twice.
"Don't you need to make a phone call?" Hunter asked, as though he'd read Mokuba's mind.
Mokuba drew in an innocuous breath and resisted the urge to cross his arms. He raised an eyebrow. "Don't think so," he said. "How are you doing, William? Can I call you William? Willy? Hunter? Pookie? I'm in a hurry just now, you know, so if we could speed this along—"
Scooter punched him. Mokuba reeled backward, barely kept his feet, and put a hand instinctively up to his mouth.
Wiping away a thin stream of blood, from his teeth gnashing against the inside of his bottom lip, Mokuba almost laughed. "You've got balls, Rodriguez," he said. He dodged the next swing, kicked out a foot and caught Scooter on the side of his knee. The young Kaiba followed this up with a blow of his own, an open hand across the older boy's face. The shocking slap of flesh on flesh was like a lightning crack.
Connor gasped, and a low chuckle emanated through the small crowd.
Mokuba smirked a Kaiba's smirk. "Didn't feel like scratching up my knuckles," he said.
4.
"Sir."
"Aren't you supposed to be at a wedding?" Seto cradled his phone between his right ear and his right shoulder as he typed. "Last I checked, a wedding isn't the sort of event to be canceled at the last minute, so I'm sure you have more important things to be doing than talking to me."
"Delayed," Roland said. "I'll be here for a while yet. Any word on the young master?"
"He'll be touched to know you're worried about him," Seto said dryly. "No. He hasn't called. Neither has Wheeler."
"You sound surprisingly calm, sir."
"It's something of a habit. Zika will be heading to the theater during his lunch break in . . ." Seto lifted up his left hand, glanced at his wrist, and said, ". . . seven minutes or so. I'll be sure to let you know if I have cause to rampage through the city. That is, if you don't hear about it from another source long before me."
". . . Like the police?"
"Something like that."
"Fine. I . . . look forward to it."
Seto smirked, hung up the phone, and set it back on his desk. As he typed, the elder Kaiba felt an all-too-familiar scowl falling onto his face. It wasn't his usual scowl, the one that he didn't feel anymore. This was a scowl that burned, and if Roland had been standing there instead of on the other end of a digital tether, he would have known that worry was sinking its way deep into Seto's guts.
Seto lifted one hand, flexed it, and stared at it.
"I'd better be paranoid," he hissed to himself.
5.
The moment before a shock wore off was pivotal. It was a crossroads. It was the space where changes could be made, and it was the space where history was written. In that moment, after Mokuba slapped Scooter Rodriguez but before anyone really reacted, Connor Brinkley decided—only half-consciously—that no matter what crazy plan his friend had in mind for this situation, he would follow Mokuba's lead.
Part of him insisted that Mokuba had to know what he was doing. He wouldn't have provoked one of them without a plan, would he? Mokuba always had a plan. He never left his house without a plan.
Right?
Mokuba certainly looked confident enough. His stance was easy, his eyes were bright, and he looked every bit like he always did: like a Kaiba. Connor was only just starting to understand what that meant.
The crowd was all oohing and sending jibes and jeers Scooter's way. Hunter looked more amused than anything else, while Scooter sputtered and cursed and started using his favorite insult—"Moku-bitch"—over and over again, both under and over his breath.
Hunter said, ". . . You've got a fun sense of humor, Kaiba."
And just like that, it seemed like the whole thing was over. They'd come looking for a fight, and it hadn't happened. All because Mokuba Kaiba was insane. Connor stayed by his side, staring at Hunter, wondering what would happen next.
Nobody was talking. Hunter had spoken, and that was enough to quell the rest of them. All except Matt, who stayed behind, towering over the others and looking almost imperial in his angry boredom. He had one hand behind his back; Connor couldn't see it. He wondered what his cousin was doing here, with a bunch of younger kids.
"I'm pleased to meet your approval." Mokuba bowed with a flourish, like a proper lord at court, but with the swaggering arrogance that came with having an emperor for a father. He stood up straight again, looked Hunter straight in the eye, and waited.
"We just gonna let him walk away from this?" one of the older boys asked. Connor assumed he was older, anyway. He was tall, and his voice was deep.
"I'm sorry, do any of us have plans that we have to get to?" Hunter asked. "Are we pressed for time? Who said anything about walking away? Little Lord Kaiba isn't going anywhere, is he? And neither is his handmaiden."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Mokuba said. He lifted his chin. "Not until this audience is done. So let's get started. What can we do for you?"
"You can shut your fucking—"
"Oh, shut up," Hunter said, almost casually, punching Scooter Rodriguez in the arm. "You jumped in half-cocked and got your nose thumped. Did Kaiba insult your honor, Scoot? Jesus. Act like you never been slapped before. You wanna tell me your mama never clocked you one?"
"Moku-bitch ain't my mama."
Mokuba quirked an eyebrow. "He's so proud of that nickname. If I didn't know better, I'd think maybe he couldn't come up with anything else to call me." He put on a sweet smile. "Did you forget my real name?"
"Man, fuck you!"
"Nice of you to offer," Mokuba replied, "but I'm saving myself for marriage." He turned his attention back to Hunter. "I have a movie to get to. I'd really appreciate it if we could wrap this up. Maybe my people could call your people. We'll do lunch."
Connor was struggling not to giggle. Hunter kept on a calm, noncommittal face, but it was obvious that he was starting to get irritated. There was nothing worse to do to a bully than treat him like he didn't matter. Mokuba had already played this game, and played it well. Too well? Maybe.
Doing too well seemed to be a longstanding Kaiba tradition.
Just the same, for a while, it looked like everything was going to be fine. It looked like the situation had been defused as much as it possibly could, and despite the obvious foul mood of Scooter Rodriguez, Mokuba had yet again proven that he wasn't an easy target, and that made it easy to step back.
But then, with the suddenness of a lightning flash in a bright blue sky, the young Kaiba's confidence shattered. His face slackened, his eyes went wide, and Connor Brinkley saw something he'd never seen before, except on a single, anomalous occasion when he'd happened to see Mokuba in the grips of a nightmare.
Mokuba licked his lips, drew in a breath, and held up his hands. He looked like he wanted to speak, but his voice didn't work.
So focused on this change, Connor didn't even see his cousin until Matt started talking.
". . . You brats done kissing each other's asses?"
Held in Matt Kerns's right hand, almost daintily, was a gleaming silver revolver.
END.
The discussion that Mokuba and Connor are having in the first scene is about the character of Angel, immortalized by David Boreanaz in Joss Whedon's immortal classics, "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel." The comparison to Seto is . . . well, it's not perfect, but I'm also convinced that it's not entirely out of left field, either.
The "Seto of the House Kaiba" bit, as well as the Hand of the King, is a reference to George R.R. Martin's "A Song of Ice and Fire" series of novels, on which HBO's cash cow, "Game of Thrones," is based.
