Author's Rant: Here's the next chapter everyone!
Decisions
He said he'd be back, and here it's been days since they last spoke. No call, no text, not even a smoke signal. Every out call went straight to voicemail. How had been left three, four, maybe five? They'd spoken once, only once single Joey left and he'd been adamant about not talking about where he was or what he was doing.
Tristan flipped his textbook shut after all the words began to blurring to scribbled blotches. His mind kept wandering off to other places, or rather, other people, and one in particular who has had his head spinning since their last encounter.
His lips, especially, remembered the sensational flutter that tickled his stomach. Just a thought of those firm, thick lips caused a stir like nothing Tristan has ever experienced in his life. He'd kissed before. Lots of times. However, none have ever left him feeling breathless, eager and craving. Several times, Tristan caught himself brushing his fingers over his lips just to revive that warm vibe.
He was doing it now, eyes drunkenly closed and body flooded with the remembrance of Joey's lean, strong body, aligned with his. The hairs prickled on his arms, a rushing chill from the house's air circulation aroused goosebumps on his skin and still, this feeling couldn't compare to what Joey manifested inside him.
Tristan reached that point of desiring the blond more than he thought he'd ever want anyone and it sickened him how often he'd look at his phone waiting for it to brighten with Joey's name. Hours would pass, every minute the same as the last and none would produce what he wanted. Now, it was nearing the third day and nothing.
Tristan growled under his breath and roughly slapped his books off his bed. He dropped his head in his hands, rubbing his palm over his eyes. At the rate, his patience his was thinning, he would drive himself to insanity.
Joey said he'd be back. He said he'd be back. Wait for him, he had said. Wait for him, but how long of a wait would it be? Tristan swung his legs over the edge of the head and climbed to his feet, stalking over to his window. He peeled back the curtains, staring out at the technicolor nightlife. It seemed like no one else in the city seemed to have as much stress as he did, worrying about someone who had probably just used him for a quick feel.
"Damn it!" Tristan smacked his fist over the window's frame and leaned his forehead on the glass. "Where you are?" he whispered. That dreadful feeling in his gut hadn't settled since Joey left. Had something bad happened? Where had he'd gone that he couldn't tell Tristan? Not that they had reached that point in this . . . this relationship, but something or anything would have been better than nothing.
What if he was hurt? What if something has happened and Tristan had no way of getting to Joey to help. Was he worth keeping Tristan worried sick? Was this the sort of thing he would have to go through with being with him? Here it was only the beginning of their relationship and Tristan was already feeling anxiety grip his insides.
That wasn't the way to live. Tristan couldn't keep putting himself through this kind of worry. He didn't have the heart to do it. Just as he didn't have the heart to give up on Joey either. Tristan sighed and went to sit on the edge of his bed. Flopping back, he deemed this night to be another without any contact from the blond. Why should this night be any different from the previous three?
Tristan flicked off his lamp and sighed. He was so confused, being stuck in this emotional tailspin. Throwing his arm over his eye, Tristan resided himself to trying to sleep. Anything to purge his head of Joey.
Rough knocks on his bedroom window startled him out of his attempted nap, making him shoot up in an upright position with a frown. The curtains kept the culprit covered from Tristan's glare. If it was Joey, he knew how to get in. He'd come through the window uninvited numerous times. It didn't make sense. It definitely wasn't Yugi. He had a key to the home and knew just to welcome himself inside. That left some stupid fool looking for a beat down.
Tristan reached under his bed for his Dodgers Baseball Bat and gripped the handle firmly in his hand as he stomped over the window. Nerves grated like needles inside his stomach as he grabbed the hem of his curtain and yanked back. Before he could raise his bat, though, the window was sliding up and a size eleven Jordan shoved through.
The rest of Joey stumbled inside, clothes tattered, face flushed red and covered all over in bloodstains. Tristan's eyes widened. He nearly lost his footing when Joey pushed pass him, wobbling from left to right until collapsing on Tristan's bed.
His slanted dark brown eyes were squeezed shut and his arm thrust over his forehead. His teeth were clenched tight in angry sneer, breathing heavily as his chest rose and fell in sharp pants.
Tristan tossed the bat to the side and hurried over to Joey's side, hands skating all over his chest and stomach. "Joey, what the fuck happened? Are you hurt? Where did all this blood come from?"
No response from the blond besides a rough sniffle and stubborn turn of his head. Tristan flicked on the lamp light and noticed right then, the evidence of tears streaking down Joey's cheeks. All the anger he'd had ready to lash out at the blond gang member quickly evaporated, now replaced with concern.
"Joey, talk to me," Tristan shook him, almost desperate to know what could reduce this man to this state. "Come on, man, you're freakin' me out."
One brown eye appeared, shiny and red. Joey's teeth bared tighter. He opened his mouth and a hiked choke prevented the words from coming.
Tristan touched Joey's chest. "You're scarin' me. . ."
Finally, after a few harsh breathing moments, Joey said two words. "Yami's down."
Tristan leaned away, stunned. He shook his head and licked his lips. "Down, what do you mean down?"
"Fuckin' shot," Joey coughed and sucked in a shuddering breath. "Motherfucka' shot 'em. He's—he's in the hospital. Doctors performing surgery, but there's no way—there's no way he's gonna survive that." Joey's voice lowered for every word spoken. Tristan leaned in and strained to hear the rest of what he said. "The bullets blew his chest out. Three quick shots, no way he's gonna live through dat. No way."
"Did the doctors say that?" Tristan asked. "Did they say he wouldn't make it?"
Joey revealed both his eyes, neither holding that mischievous glint Tristan knew. "Nah. . ."
"Then don't count him outta the game so soon."
"He ain't gonna survive that. Blood was all over the place. His eyes looked like fuckin' hell pits. I never saw that on his face before. . ." Joey's fist wound into a thick ball.
Tristan licked his lips again and suddenly it dawned on him. "Joey, where's Yugi? He went with Yami didn't he? Where is he?"
Joey sighed. "Hospital too. He got caught up in the scrap. We took 'em to the hospital. He had to be operated on to." He sniffled.
"How? What happened? You're not telling me anything!"
"He'll live. That's all that matters." Joey shook his head and rolled his legs around to sit on the edge of the bed, head bowed. "This shit ain't over, though. Hell no. I'm gonna kill 'em. That shit's for damn sure, I'm takin' every-fuckin'-body out!" His voice had taken on this ominous, terrifying deepness.
Tristan stepped back from him when he rose to his feet and started going to the window.
"Where are you going?"
Joey paused a few steps from the window and glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were dead cold.
"I'm leaving for a while."
The words cut right through Tristan. "Wait, wait, wait, are you fucking serious right now? You come in here covered in blood, tell me someone's shot your leader, my best friend is in the hospital and, just like that, you're leaving?" Tristan walked up to him, mere inches from his face. "You're not going to keep putting me through this Joey! You tell me to wait for you to come back, and I do, only to be shoved to the side like I don't matter! Why the hell did you wanna start something with me just to half-commit—?"
"Like you don't matta'?" Joey snarled and stepped directly in Tristan's face, so that every word he said was a practical kiss. "I'm leavin' to take care of the assholes who killed my leader! That man's been like a brother to me and one thing he's taught me is to care for what's mine. So that's why I'm leavin' I'm gonna get my vengeance to make sure they don't do to me what they did to him!"
"By ending up shot up or dead in a ditch?"
"If that's what it takes then that's it!"
"But what about me!" Tristan shouted through the salty lump in his throat. "Damn it Joey, what the hell about me? You put me in this with you. I didn't want to like you this much, but I do. What am I supposed to do if someone comes and tells me that you're dead? Is that what all this ride or die bullshit is about? Getting yourself killed and leaving your loved ones to mourn over your fucking grave? Tell me if that's the kind of future I gotta look forward to before I get in this too deep. . ."
His throat wouldn't allow anymore, so tight with anger at himself, anger at the man before him and the deepest anguish for a pitiful heart that had hoped for too much too soon.
Joey held his gaze. "Then we probably need to stop while we're ahead."
"What?"
"I can't have you always on my mind. I need to be prepared for what's about to go down. We need to end this now."
"But . . . you started this with me . . . why hurt me like this—that doesn't make sense—it's not fair!"
"You think I wanna stop seein' you Tristan?" Joey ran his hand through his hair. "You don't get it. All I've thought about since we met, is you! Fuckin' you, you, you! Yeah, I started this, but that doesn't mean it's over for good. I need a little more time—"
"Time for what?" Tristan snapped.
"Time to handle business before I can settle down with you!"
"Why even bother when you said—"
"I know what I fuckin' said Tristan! But I said it because I wanna keep you!"
Blood roared straight into Tristan's ears as his entire body warmed over. "What?"
Joey reached out, cupped the back of Tristan's neck and pulled him in. "I wanna keep what we got goin' for as long as I'm breathin'. I want you. Yami told me he would sacrifice himself for Yugi without thinkin'. I didn't know what he meant until I thought about you. That's how I feel for ya. I wanna take care of this, so I won't suffer the way he did. No one's gonna take you from me and ain't nobody gonna take me from you."
"But you said," Tristan swallowed. "You said you wanna break up. . ."
"Only until this shit dies down. If someone tries to use you against me, I'll go outta my mind. No one needs to know you're my weakness. I can't have that kind of disadvantage on me and . . . I'm not tryin' to lose another person I care for."
As much as it hurt to agree, Tristan knew Joey was right. He didn't want to be the cause to anything that could lead to the blond's death. It still hurt knowing that what they'd started would have to end so fast. He lowered his eyes and dropped his forehead on Joey's.
"You'll come back . . . for good this time?"
Joey hesitated, then said. "Yeah, for keeps." He kissed him. "For always this time." He kissed him a second time, this one lingering, full of meaning and perfect.
It was too short for Tristan. Joey pulled away, rubbing his thumb on Tristan's bottom lip.
"You better come back to me."
"No doubt."
Tristan held on tight where his arms and draped around Joey's sides until distance tore them apart. Joey leaned through the window and shut it behind him. He stalled on the side, watching out of the corner of his eye as Tristan turned off the light in his bedroom and laid in bed. His finger traced over the gun's handle, thinking, and for the first time in his life, praying he'd be able to keep his word.
"I'm sorry."
Sorry meant guilt. Sorry meant sorrow. Sorry meant weakness. . . Sorry meant . . . regret.
Something that Yami never felt when he made decisions pertaining to anything. Yet, those were the two words he said before he fell. Atem knew what 'I'm sorry' meant, how to define what Yami was truly saying. Caught in such an unguarded moment, he hadn't been able to foresee the danger.
"I'm sorry."
Sorry. Yami, for once in his life, had a regret, something hadn't meant to happen. He tried to recover his repentance after being unable to protect Kisara, being unable to protect Yugi. If regret was what Yami felt, even know as he laid behind those pastel patterned walls, what was it Atem was feeling, being the only one without a scratch to this whole ordeal.
There was a feeling, though. Something so cold and foreign invading Atem's chest, that left a void, a deep emptiness he couldn't explain.
The hospital waiting room was full of family members, friends and other loved ones of those caught up in the heated altercation between the Brotherhood, Red Eyes and Blues, patiently biting their nails, stroking their hair and pacing the floors for news.
They shivered, mumbled and quaked at the sight of the Blue Eye insignias displayed on Atem's arms and the royal blue clothes he wore. The designs, the symbols, the few old scars on his body were dead giveaways even when the citizens had never seen him. They knew who he was and had this unnerved feeling to be wary of his distant behavior.
Atem sat alone, on the last metal connected bench near the wall, hunkered over with his head bowed on top of his fisted hands. He hadn't moved since arriving with Seth, Yami, Yugi and Kisara. Seth managed to escape with little damage and ordered down for bed rest. Staying in the hospital wasn't an option for him. Isis arrived to pick him up and left as soon as the operations were finished to let him recover at home.
Little by little, more Blue Eye Aces arrived at the hospital, lurking outside the doors, watching through the windows for any signs from the doctor on the condition of the littlest of their clan. Then, in small groups, the perimeter of the hospital began to populate with Red Eye Spades, peeking through the windows, pacing along the entrance, and mumbling in silence for word on their leader.
No one was brave enough to go inside. The tension emitting from Atem could practically be felt in the air. His anxiety, his anger, his sadness were rafting off him like tidal waves, and the gang members, with their street-embedded sixth sense, could detect his emotions real easy. It wouldn't be wise to go near him when he was like this.
However, a few gathered up the courage to make it to the entry frame of the waiting room and stand there. Joey, Seto, Mahado, Marik, Isis, Raphael, and Yusei maintained their temporary truce a while longer for the sake of news of their fallen comrades and family. Seto, Joey and Raphael leaned against one all, while Isis, Marik and Yusei stood on the opposite, none of them making eye contact or gestures toward the other that could trigger a possible brawl.
The double doors to the ICU often broke open, the rubber doors battering against the walls. It'd be a doctor with a gloomy expression on his face and news for whatever family waited outside in the waiting room. The tears would come, the gasps of despair and the howls of disbelief. The M.D. never came with pleasant news about the victims.
Atem's hopes, his prayers for redemption of his crimes, kept being hacked at whenever the doctors came and none called out his name. He couldn't remember the last time he'd prayed so hard, begged for forgiveness or the exchange of his life for anyone else. There wasn't just one life behind those double doors. There were three, each holding a part of him so raw and vulnerable—he didn't know what'd happen if even one was lost to him.
Sensations were numbed, his mind clouded. When someone finally called his name, the touch of a calloused hand on his shoulder stirred him out of his mental fog. Atem blinked, pupils dilating at the surge of bright ceiling lights. He stared at the doctor's wrinkled mouth a moment. He didn't hear the worlds coming from his mouth.
His voice seemed to take years to reach him, muffled, as if erupting in bubbles from beneath the ocean. Atem shook his head and wiped his hands over his eyes.
"What did you say?" he said.
The doctor straightened, grimly thinning his lips. "Are you Mr. Atem Hassan?"
Atem stood. "Yeah."
The doctor pressed his palm heavily on Atem's shoulder. "Please sit."
Atem didn't budge. He set a hard glare on the doctor that made it clear he'd stand. The doctor remained unfazed and kept his hand where it was, giving it a firm squeeze. Atem balled his lips tight and nodded. He and the doctor chose the chairs furthest away from prying ears and sat.
Atem clasped his hands over his mouth and looked straight ahead. "What'cha gotta tell me?"
"I'm Dr. Hawkins, the M.D. for this division—"
"Doc," Atem started slowly. "I don't give a damn who you are, where you work, or none of that. Just—just give it to me straight."
The doctor nodded. "Of course. You wanted news on the patients, Yugi Muto, Yami Sennen and your daughter, Kisara Hassan." A clipboard came from under his armpit. He flipped to the documents holding the health charts of each patient. "Yugi Muto's operation was difficult. His trachea cartilage was severely lacerated at three different junctions. We did what we could to thread every muscular strand, but breathing may be difficult for some time."
"He'll live?"
"Yes, he'll survive, but we recommend his stay here to monitor his recovery."
Atem closed his eyes. Yugi would be OK. His chest grew tight and a shudder left his lips. Thank goodness. "What about Yami?"
The doctor flipped to the next page, a dark gleam settling in his old eyes. "The projectiles went straight through his ribcage, except some bullet fragments were scattered in his upper torso. His spinal cord was nicked, and so was his right lung. The last bullet ricocheted off his third rib and pierced his upper right lung. During the operation, he suffered slight organ trauma. There was much shearing and compression. We managed to get as many of the fragments as we could without causing further damage, but Mr. Sennen's health is unstable. He's been placed in Critical Care to keep constant surveillance of his condition."
"Is he gonna live?"
"His chances are sixty/forty, but that has the chance of changing," the doctor softly murmured. "He may worse or recover. We have hopes of him pulling through, but not without respiratory distress. It'll be a while before he can go without breathing assistance. However, we're confident because of his physical strength and youth that he pulls through fine."
Atem squeezed his eyes tight and dragged his hands through his hair. His eyes glossed, his teeth gnawed hard on his bottom lip and through a clogged throat, he whispered. "And my baby girl?" he finally looked at the doctor and wished he hadn't.
Dr. Hawkins rose to his feet and beckoned Atem to follow. The Blue Eyes Leader reluctantly climbed to his feet and trailed behind the doctor with his hands shoved in his pockets and one long glance over at the people waiting near the entrance. They stared at him, matching his worry. He pushed through the double doors and was welcomed into the wintry chill atmosphere and sickness.
The hallway was long and wide. Glass panel windows opened to patient rooms, operating tables with victims sprayed over the top. Doctors and nurses were huddled over them, faces hidden behind masks and rubber gloves covered in blood, using scalpels, and wiping across their brows. He was lead further down the hustle and bustling activities, to a quieter section of the ICU.
They made a right turn. Dr. Hawkins stopped outside a large window. Atem's feet glued where they were, a mere step from just turning his head to the side to see what the doctor was looking at with an expression so dark, forlorn and pitied. Atem's body wouldn't listen. His vision blurred, his chest felt compressed within the iron.
"No," he groaned, wobbling from side to side. "No, no, man no. . ."
Dr. Hawkins reached out his hand. Atem slapped it away and angrily glared to the side.
"Mr. Hassan."
Atem threw his head back and sucked in a sharp breath, shoulders buckling and nails digging into his palm. Dr. Hawkins carefully approached and placed his hand on the center of Atem's back. With a gentle press, he guided Atem gradually to the window.
Atem lifted his head. His heart stopped. Unbidden tears welled up in his eyes that he refused to let fall. He struggled to stand, the world spun and he was left leaning his head against the hard glass, to stare through a watery gaze at the metal table holding his pale-skinned child.
Sallow toned, broken and seeming ever so small beneath the white sheet, was how she looked. Wires by the dozens looked to be growing from her arms, her chest and a breathing mask strapped across her face. Her bright white hair spread around her head, blended into the pillow's pallor tone. All of her seemed to vanish on that bed. If it weren't for the colorful monitors, the beeping sounds and consistent pumping of the air, Atem had no doubt he'd already believe his child, dead.
He laid his forearm over the glass and shuddered. Atem couldn't believe that was his child. Not his baby girl. The tears fell, each spiritually weighing him down as they dripped off his chin.
"Please understand, Mr. Hassan," Dr. Hawkins began softly, "we've done all we can to correct the damage to her bronchial tubes, but her body's small stature puts her at a disadvantage. Any further operating would most assuredly lessen her survival. The shots ruptured her ribcage and disable the function of her right lung. It's by the grace of God she's able to breathe at all with the respiratory systems hooked to her."
Half the sentence was drowned out by a harsh choke from Atem.
Dr. Hawkins sadly looked at the young father. "We've stressed all of our options. We've even considered a lung transplant but—"
"Then do it," Atem hoarsely said. He straightened from the glass, rubbing his wrist under his nose. "How does that work? You gotta pay someone to do it, right? Find a donor. Money is no object. I'll pay for the operation, whatever the hell it takes—"
Dr. Hawkins raised his hand. "We've stressed all of our options, Mr. Hassan, the lung transplant being one of them." At Atem's deep confusion, the doctor explained. "The chance of finding a match within the allotted time she's on top of the donor's list is astronomical. Many factors play into finding a decent donor. Age, health, lung size capacity, blood type and whether her body will even accept the foreign organ. And worse," the doctor glanced back into the quiet room, "for every moment she breathes, her body is wracked with immense pain. In her subconscious mind, it's all she's aware of."
"Jesus Christ," Atem mournfully groaned. He leaned on the glass again. "Don't tell me that. Do not tell me, there's nothing else you can do. I don't care how hopeless it is, find me a damn donor! I'm not about to leave my child like this!"
"If it were that easy, Mr. Hassan, don't you think we would have tried? Kisara's health is as important to us as with any of our patients, but we have to look at the big picture—"
"Which is what, Doc?" Atem whipped around, face flush and eyes wild with redness and tears. "Huh? Unless you got something to say that's about keeping my child alive—"
"She's only suffering the longer she remains on the breathing system—"
"Damn it!" Atem slammed his fist against the glass. "Find another solution. Don't stand here and tell me to kill my fuckin' child! I'm not gonna do that!"
"Mr. Hassan, I would never ask you to do something so horrible," Dr. Hawkins calmly said. "But realize that that little girl is suffering. The longer she is left to breathe on her own, the more her nervous system relays pain throughout her body. She's in silent agony."
"Don't—fuckin', Christ—just stop!" Atem ran his hands through his hair, nearly frantic. "Doc, please, please, find another way. I'll pay you. Whatever this fuckin' hospital is payin' you, I'll double that shit, triple it if that's what it takes, but please, please, fuck, don't tell me this! Don't tell me there's no way to save my child!"
"If there was more we could do, we would Mr. Hassan. . . I'm not suggesting you make this decision now. You have all the time you wish. Just keep in mind that for each day you refuse, you're not the only one who's hurting." Dr. Hawkins gently patted Atem's shoulder. "Think about what's best for your daughter, Mr. Hassan."
Atem shrugged the doctor's hand away, heard him leave and turned to gaze inside the patient's room, eyes narrowed with deep anguish. Kisara's machines were hooked to every part of her body and what was possibly the most gruesome connection were hidden beneath the sheets. She was in pain, silently screaming and howling for doing something so simple. The decision was left to him. One word and he'd kill her. He'd be the murderer, not Zigfried.
How could do that? Kill his own baby . . . how the fuck would he live with himself?
"I can't. . ." he cried. "I can't. . . I can't, I can't, I can't. I can't do this to you, baby girl. I can't. . ." He choked. "Daddy wants to make it better, he wants to take your pain away, but I can't—I can't live without you baby. . ."
Why? How the fuck did it come down to this? Were his prayers not worthy? Were they not worth the millions reaching out for their own selfish gain? He prayed harder, made vows to right all of his wrongs, to do whatever it took for his baby to live, and for what? To be the one who'd ultimately cause her end at the expense of delivering her from this pain?
"Baby girl," Atem croaked an ugly tone, unrecognizable in his ears. "Don't make Daddy do this Kisara, please." He grew numb, felt weak, felt nothingness. Atem crumbled to his knees under the crushing agony. He had to kill his own baby. "Kisara, baby, please. Oh my God, please!"
He didn't realize he was howling, didn't notice the arms that eventually wrapped around him from all angles or the merging cries from anyone else. He didn't comprehend anything. Being his daughter's murderer . . . it was his entire mind registered.
"You expect me to evacuate a city of 650,000 people in one night?"
"If not sooner Mayor, yes. It's within the citizens' best interest to leave their homes by tomorrow, or else I can't guarantee their survival."
Mayor Gerald Longhorn skeptically glared at his desk phone. "Over one man, you think it that serious to—"
"Mayor Longhorn," Pegasus stressed the name like pulling a rubber band, "I don't believe you understand how crucial it is that you heed my warning. You weren't elected around the time of the first incident. The property damages were catastrophic, thousands of lives were loss, and I strongly believe a similar event is upon us. If we were to act quickly enough, we could salvage at least half of—"
"This is absurd, Pegasus!" The mayor barked. "I've read the reports of the event six years ago. I heard of this Atem Hassan and Yami Sennen, but aren't they your responsibility? Do something about it. And what of Zane Truesdale? I didn't hire him just to lollygag about the city. Have him set a perimeter around the city and arrest those two fools before such a problem occurs!"
"And have them in control of an even bigger army!" Pegasus snapped. "There are just as many of their men incarcerated as there are many out on the streets!"
"Then find another way, blast you! I can't order a sudden evacuation of the city in one day! Such a large order would take at least a week to execute!"
"If you want a city to reelect you back in officer, Mayor, I highly suggest you do what you can before there isn't a city left for you to run for!" Pegasus slammed the phone down on its cradle and slumped in his chair. This was hopeless, he knew that. How the devil could he vacant an entire city full of men, women and children? There's no way to spare them all, but the few he knew he could, would be better than nothing.
"You waste your time with this fruitless attempt, Max. Say you do convince the mayor to clear out the city? Atem no doubt will have organized a way to prevent their escape. No one knows how you think better than he, Yami and myself."
Pegasus lifted his head and let his hazel eyes burned holes into his lover's back. Zigfried stood before the largest window of the mansion, hands clutched behind his back, gazing out at Domino City's horizon.
"The day of cleansing is upon us," Zigfried whispered with trembling thrill. "The unclean will be purged, the unnecessary wiped away from existence. It'll begin anew, free of these deadly gangs, dark life and scandal. Can you imagine how wonderful it'll be?"
"No, and nor will you." Pegasus reached inside his drawer, sighing quietly. A manila envelope with Heba's name was retrieved and placed on top of his desk with a small wrapped box. "I should have delivered this sooner. God help us all, if I'd know this would happen—that you could be so twisted as to bring about this Armageddon—"
"Not Armageddon, mon ami." Zigfried whirled around with a manic smile, spreading his arms out. "Cleansing. I bring upon this dirtied land purity, a chance for renewal and hope for older brothers who never have to see their younger brothers murdered like dogs!"
Pegasus panted shortly. "You incredible fool. For the sake of meaningless vengeance, you'll be the cause of what you wanted to prevent. Mothers and fathers will lose their children. Brothers and sisters will be torn apart. Friends will turn on one another—there is no purity in that! Only mass destruction and chaos! There will be no one left for a cleaned city! Such a thing doesn't exist! It'll only be soiled with bodies and blood!"
Pegasus stood, pulling a briefcase from under his desk. In it, he placed the manila folder, the small box and several documents out of his top desk drawer, inside. From the second side drawer, he retrieves a 9mm handgun, a loaded cartridge and cell phone.
Zigfried eases from the window and approaches the desk. "Where will we go?"
"We shall be going nowhere." Pegasus dialed a number in his cell phone and waited for an answer. He quietly speaks in code to Duke, ordering that he leave the city and take whomever who wants with him. After the call is finished, Pegasus stood and grabbed his gun.
Without warning, he holds the gun up and pulls the trigger twice.
Zigfried howls in shocked agony and falls to the ground, trashing and flopping on the floor, clutching his penetrated legs.
Pegasus stood over him, unmoved and unaffected by his lover's squirming pleas and wide eyes. "I'll be the only one leaving, mon ami. You shall stay and enjoy your created destruction. You and that fool, Ushio, can rot in hell together." Annoying the screams of mercy and pleas being flung at his back, Pegasus left his office door open, but locked the front door.
Zigfried may run all over the house if he wants. He won't be leaving the mansion. Not alive. He'll answer to his crimes the best way fit. At the hands of Atem. Pegasus ducked inside his car and signaled for the driver to leave.
He typed in a text, selected the designated names and sent it off. Studying the city before him, he readied himself for what will be left of the city by tomorrow evening.
A meeting was ordered for every known gang member within the city walls.
One phone call sent a chain of rumors and gossip of a flock of Blue Eyes and Red Eyes meeting in a single large unit in one large location. Come to the place it all ended and began, was the supposed message. The older gang members recognized the connection instantly, and interpreted the meaning to the younger recruits.
Atem wanted everyone to meet where the first rivalry ended, but where it also began again. The abandoned Watt's Gymnasium gradually swelled with the colors red and blue. Members snuck in through broken doors, cracked windows, holes dug beneath the building and others made openings for themselves. The old building hadn't been used in years.
Dust layered the floors. The old bleacher stands were shoved into the wall. Basketball hoop nets were ripped from the metal rings and tons of school chairs were overturned in every which a way. In the middle of the dark, gloomy center, there stood two people and between them were two giant cardboard boxes.
Joey and standing by his side was Marik, neither were wearing their family colors. Atem wore a sleeveless plum purple vest, a white Nike spandex shirt, black jersey sweats and purple high top Jordan Retros. Marik was wearing a bright purple wife beater, low riding blue Levi jeans, and black low top Air Force Ones. A purple bandana was tied around their upper arms and around their foreheads.
On one side of the room, the Red Eyes stood glaring at the opposite side of the room where the Blue Eyes were scowling at them. Regardless of the previous truce, a momentary peace couldn't erase decades of anger, death and bitterness.
Joey stepped forward and raised his hands for silence. Respect was given. Everyone stopped talking and all eyes were on him. The aura radiating off him was demonic, terrifying. He made eye contact with every single soul in the room.
"Let's get one thing clear ya Blue Eyes AIDS," he appointed glared at them. "I still don't like you. Real talk, I hate you with all my heart. Wouldn't piss on you if you caught fire." He shrugged. "The only reason I even invited you motherfucka's here is because we have a mutual enemy and I got a task that can't be done with just my crew." He went silent a moment to let it sink in. "For the small few of you who don't know, my leader was put down by Zigfried. Yeah that's right," he confirmed for the shocked expressions and low murmurs. "Max's bitch took out Yami, but he also laid out Atem's child. And, for the majority of you who didn't know, Atem and Yami were lovers. Yep, surprise, surprise, our leaders were fuckin'. They also had another lover, and guess what, Zigfried shot him too. So, apparently what's happenin' here is a clear case of someone trying to make show of who has power and who doesn't. Good ole' Zigfried's proven that none of us are exempt from the bullet. Not you, not you, not you and for damn sure not me."
Marik stepped forward and continued from there. "I can't stand you, Red Eye Gays. In fact, it sickens me that we gotta be reduced to this shit, but you heard what the fool said. The leader of the Medium's Gang is supposed to represent peace and equality, but how do they expect us to obey rules that they don't give a shit about. Why should we follow them? If they would shoot an eighteen-year-old boy who isn't in either gang or murder a five-year-old girl, what's to stop them from taking out your mothers, grandmothers, children, brothers, fathers, cousins—anybody just because they feel like it? No one is safe. So, here's what's gonna happen." He gestured at the two large boxes. "We're going to prove to Pegasus and Zigfried that we don't give a shit either. We'll show them that our bullets don't discriminate whom they're fired at and who dies. If they're willing to kill anyone, then so are we! Tonight, there are is no blue or red. Tonight we erase that rivalry shit. Blue and red makes purple. Spread the fuckin' word. The Purple Fiends are back in full effect!"
Shouts boomed off the gym walls, whoops roared from every direction and stomping feet echoed like speed drills on the floors. The gangs intermingled, merging into a mass of blues and reds, wearing nothing but determined expressions, ready for orders.
"All of you's come to the box and take off your blues and reds. One gang, one shot!" Joey yelled over the commotion. He reached inside the box closest to him and pulled out half a dozen cans of purple spray paint. "Everybody, you got until midnight to mark the house of the ones you don't want involved. Tell 'em not to come out tonight, 'cause I can't guarantee they won't get killed. Put B.R.P in that exact order on the front doors of the houses. Now here!" He threw the cans in the middle of the crowd. "Turn the fuck up!"
They howled and cheered. Yusei ran up to the front and tore open the boxes.
Purple shirts were thrown out like Mardi Gras gifts and spray cans were spread out to grabbling hands. Everyone abandoned their previous colors and united as one solid color, ready to define their fallen family. Seto Kaiba arrived moments later with his gun full of handguns, ammunition, and purple bandanas. He was wearing a long purple trench coat, black pants and white undershirt, holding up an assault rifle.
In the distance, Marik and Joey shared a single heated look. Tonight, there were one differences, no hatred among them. Tonight they were one color, one gang, one shot.
The Purple Fiends were back in full effect.