Mokuba stopped speaking several times before he started. He told himself he didn't want to rope Seto into a potentially volatile conversation while he was driving, but even he had to acknowledge the weakness of his excuse—the way it seemed to leak and sway around in his mind.

"Seto…" he began cautiously, feeling heat rise to his checks and a thin sheen of sweat sprout down the back of his neck.

"What?" He replied gruffly, tightening his grip on the steering wheel but refusing to take his eyes off the road. The rush-hour streets were clogged with an iridescent syrup of sluggish motorists and dawdling pedestrians, all conspiring—Seto was certain—to seal off all possible escape routes.

"Well, I was talking to Yuugi back at the museum and he said something interesting…"

"That's a first," Seto snapped. He shoved his foot into the gas pedal in an attempt to sneak under the glare of the red light, but was met with the sharp groan of honking horns and angry expletives. "Fine, fine," he sighed, shoving the car into reverse. "Fuck you too, man."

"Uh, Seto, is now a bad time?"

"No, it's fine, Mokuba," he replied, unable to completely shake the irritation out of his voice. "Never do that," he added abruptly, gesturing to the road beyond their windshield. "That was very dangerous of me."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks. Anyway, he told me, uh…"

"That he housed the spirit of an ancient Egyptian pharaoh?" Seto drawled. "It's just an availability cascade of his little convoy—don't get caught up in it."

Mokuba considered this statement for a moment before continuing delicately. "Is that really true, though?"

Both let the question hang, allowing their thoughts to be swallowed by the blistering groans of traffic.

"All the things that happened to us…" Mokuba continued. "It never would have occurred to me at the time, but when you think about it, it explains so much! Especially at Battle City, I knew something crazy had to be going on—"

"Pareidolia and subjective validation," Seto snorted. "Yuugi and his friends all think that they're taking communion with some great spiritual entity—they're just gawking at clouds and embers," he grumbled.

Mokuba pushed out his bottom lip and balled his fists. "Reactive devaluation! Backfire effect! Belief bias! Semmelweis reflex!" He exclaimed. "You're guilty of all those, you know that?"

Seto eyed him sharply from the corner of his eye, but did not immediately reply.

"You do know, don't you?" Mokuba continued, his tone now somewhat calmer and more dejected. "I mean, you went to Egypt after Battle City—you wouldn't have done that if you really thought there was no connection, would you?"

He gaped up at Seto's face, which was impassive except for a small tremor that stole across his eyelids and raced down his throat.

"Cognitive dissonance." He replied mutely, struggling to maintain a sour glower on the road.

"Oh." Mokuba nodded. Not taking his eyes off his brother's painfully rigid face.

When their car slowed under the next stop light, Seto sighed and draped his arms—as if deflating—over the steering wheel. "I should have told you, I know. Everything was just very…ridiculous."

Mokuba laughed softly. "It's alright, big brother." He paused. "Will you tell me now?"

"I'd rather not." He sighed sullenly. "But fine, fine whatever: Yuugi claims that when he assembled the Millennium Puzzle, he—inherited—the spirit of an Egyptian pharaoh with it. Who didn't have any memories or any knowledge of who he was or why he was there. And who helped him play Duel Monsters. Does this sound convincing yet?"

"Keep going."

"Well," Kaiba had reacquired his tense stance at the steering wheel and began to direct the car in abrupt jolts and lurches, electing exasperated honks and gripes from the nearby vehicles. He continued through tightly gritted teeth. "Bakura had a similar experience with the Millennium Ring, Malik with the Rod, and Pegasus with the Eye. Shortly after establishing contact with these artifacts, it appears that one's mental faculties rapidly begin to deteriorate.

"The unifying mythology was that all of these items were instilled with magical powers by their ancient Egyptian creators, and it was the duty of their owners to return them to Egypt in order to restore peace and love and harmony and all that," he waved his hand dismissively. "So that's what happened."

Mokuba eyed him skeptically. "That's a very condensed synopsis."

"That's the essence of it."

"That's hardly anything!" Mokuba protested. He sat back in his chair for a moment, stunned. "Wow," he whispered. He gazed at the buzzing crowds streaming past their windows. They moved and mingled just as they had mere moments before, only now his way of seeing them had changed. To think that these crowds of people, leading lives that felt as straight and simple as smooth planes of concrete, were bathing in a secret sun of magic, were hovering millimeters above the dark greedy jaws of danger.

"How did that relate to us, though?" he asked. "You never had a Millennium item, but that guy on the stone tablet in the museum looked exactly like you."

"Supposedly, I was supposed to have one. It…fell into the wrong hands."

"Really?" Mokuba's tone hovered somewhere on the borderline between excitement and trepidation. "Which one was it?"

"The Millennium Rod. It was stolen by Malik before Isis had the opportunity to give it to me."

"Oh…" Mokuba's face darkened. His memories of Malik from Battle City—his hollow, metallic laugh, the way lightning seemed to snap at his footsteps, the piercing darkness that lurked in the corners of his eyes and the shadows of his face—were still brutal enough to make his stomach feel bruised. "He was…horrible. Well, he was up until the end…" Mokuba mused as he recalled Malik's final duel with Yuugi, the way a soft and supple clarity had settled over his shoulders as his life points drained away. And after the duel he had spoken in gentle lilac tones and draped himself in a cloak of demure remorse.

"That was the effect the Rod had on him." Seto's words seemed to pick up where Mokuba's reminiscences left off. "Possession of the items, Isis tells me, endues their owner with the—essence—of their previous owner, clouding their mind and affecting their behavior—sometimes turning people against themselves. Yuugi is unique in that he found a way to—bond—with the—thing—inside him.

It was necessary for me to return to Egypt because—despite the fact that the rod never fell into my possession—I was still the vector of its—spirit," he simmered. "A hollow vessel," he added to himself.

"That's so cool!" Mokuba exclaimed. "And not, I guess." He sighed. "I'm glad you never got the Millennium Rod—when Malik had it he was totally insane! And even afterwards he seemed so—lost."

Seto didn't respond.

"But why did he look like you?" Mokuba continued. "And the pharaoh looked like Yuugi. Does that mean, like, you are—"

"I am not that man!" Seto exclaimed. He lost sight of the lines of the road and swerved abruptly into the neighboring lane, narrowly avoiding the prow of an oncoming semi-truck that honked furiously as it skidded by.

Seto hastily pulled over and collapsed into his seat, groaning softly behind his hands.

"I'm sorry. Don't do that, either."

Now that they had come to a stop, Mokuba had the opportunity to take stock of his brother completely. The sight of his trembling fingers, slumped shoulders, and dropping neck struck him deeply, as if someone had pried apart the bones and muscle that encased his heart.

"Seto?" He ventured. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." He stammered. "Let's just sit here for a little while."

Mokuba counted the minutes, alternating between gazing out the window and at his feet—anywhere but Seto. He had to occasionally remind himself to breathe. When Seto finally did speak again, Mokuba nearly jumped in his seat.

"It's a complicated issue." He muttered icily. "We seem to have somewhat of a…dialogic relationship."

"You met him?" Mokuba was careful to keep his voice cool and soothing.

Seto straightened up and nodded, taking several deep breaths. "Briefly. In Egypt. We established some sort of rapport, I suppose."

"Was he like Malik, when he was—possessed?"

Seto gazed thoughtfully into the distance. "Yes and no. He was at first, but he was possessed himself, I think…" Seto's voice slipped away to a time and place that Mokuba sensed was blooming and bustling in Seto's mind, but would wither under the harsh heavy glare of reality.

Mokuba extended his hand, clasping Seto's shoulder. "It's okay, y'know, to not know everything all the time. To not be able to explain it."

Seto gritted his teeth. "That's never what I had a problem with," he replied grimly, brushing Mokuba's hand away.

"Then what was it? What's the problem that keeps you from believing them—even after you've seen so much evidence?"

Seto shook his head. "The problem is that I do believe it."

"But, why is that bad?" His brows furrowed. "I don't understand."

"Neither do I." Seto shuddered slightly. "I can't articulate it, not right now."

Mokuba nodded. "I understand. Will you tell me when you can?"

Seto smiled softly, reaching out to tousle Mokuba's hair. "I promise."

Seto slowly returned to the metallic flow of traffic, making sure to make a show of checking his mirrors and activating the turn signal. The two sat in silence for a few moments, appreciating the steady beat of time against their skin.

"I don't want to see you…run away, Seto."

Seto turned to him. "What do you mean?" he asked, straining to keep his voice artificially casual.

"Moving to America. The way you talk to people."

"We're moving to America for the business opportunities. I address people with the exact level of cordiality that I determine they deserve."

Mokuba scoffed. "Big brother, you know how when people get into arguments, they're always supposed to ask themselves whether they want to be right or be happy?"

"Sure," Seto replied dryly, giving Mokuba the impression that he had never heard of such a line of reasoning, nor did he particularly care to.

"Well, right now you're not either of those things. But if there's a chance, even a small chance, that someone could help you get there, wouldn't you want to take it?"

Mokuba's question hung in the air around Seto's ears, piercing and expectant. "I'm not sure," he muttered grudgingly.

"Do you want to find out?"

Seto grimaced. "No. I can figure this out on my own."

Mokuba sighed in exasperation. "Irrational escalation. And illusory superiority."

Seto scoffed. "Hardly illusory."

The two peeled away from the congested heart of the city like a shuttle launching itself off from the skin of its planet and plunging headlong into the welcoming darkness of space. They were going home. As Seto pulled into the garage of their apartment complex, Mokuba was struck with a sudden thought—wrenched from the dusty corners of his memory and now thrust into full view.

"Isn't it like that game we used to play, when we were little? When we pretended that we were dragon tamers—wielding monsters with incredible powers—the ability to obliterate evil and transcend time!" He giggled under the soft caress of his childhood memories, then unhooked his seatbelt and reached for the door. Speaking over his shoulder, he continued, "You know, if we had never been adopted by Gozaburo I bet you would have loved the idea of having a connection with an ancient Egyptian spirit, and getting to save the world. You would have thought that it was the most awesome adventure ever!"

Mokuba shut the door behind him, leaving Seto to ruminate in silence. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel—letting Mokuba's final message roll over in his head— then frowned.

"Hypothesis contrary to fact."

Title for this chapter comes from the song Devil the Details by Bright Eyes