I Am Become Death

by Masterdramon

For seven chosen individuals, death was but a new beginning; a chance offered by the Gods of old to join a mission greater than themselves, and to bring a final end to an inescapably chaotic world. Seven-part miniseries.

6. Part VI: Bommer

I Am Become Death – Bommer

Disclaimer: In case you haven't figured it out yet, I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! 5D's. All Yu-Gi-Oh!-related characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of Konami and Kazuki Takahashi.

[-]

Edgar:

The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices

Make instruments to plague us:

The dark and vicious place where thee he got

Cost him his eyes.

Edmund:

Th' hast spoken right, 'tis true.

The wheel is come full circle, I am here.

– William Shakespeare, King Lear, Act 5, Scene 3

[-]

Across all its centuries of existence, in periods of great bounty and in ones of great strife, his tribe had lacked a name for itself.

It was a question that, he knew, had fascinated anthropologists and linguists who'd come to study their culture for decades. But fundamentally, they approached naming differently than most other societies.

Names in their culture were earned, not given, and there was nothing the tribe as a whole could possibly do to achieve one.

Their ancestors had had one, of course. A string of Quechua that roughly translated to "The People of the Stars." But it was hardly an appropriate title, these days. Their gods, good and evil alike, had long since abandoned them, and it was with their own feet alone that they forged a new path.

This suited him well enough, because though he knew for a fact that the gods were very much real, a constant presence at the periphery of their society, he could not truly call himself a religious man. What was the point of faith, when you could see the marks where the gods slumbered, etched into the desert sands?

It would be like worshipping the sky, or the dirt. At least, that's how he thought of it.

He himself didn't earn his name until very late in life. Ironically, both of his siblings had taken on theirs at a much younger age, despite the vast age gap between them.

Two of the aforementioned anthropologists, an English couple named Max and Annie McGregor, had come to live with their tribe for several months as part of an ethnographic study. A freak rockslide nearly killed them both, but his brother and sister had pushed the two out of the way at the last second.

In honor of their heroism, the village elders had bestowed upon them the monikers of the people they'd saved. At only seven years old, in Max's case, and six in Annie's, such a thing had been an incredible honor; only perhaps a few dozen other tribesmen had ever earned their names so young. Which was rather impressive, when one considered a timespan going back centuries.

Technically speaking, to be overtaken in naming by one's younger relatives should've been a source of great shame, but he found that it barely bothered him. The ironic truth of the matter was that he'd never really cared about his place amongst the tribe…

Until after he'd lost it all forever.

[-]

"Big brother, what's that?" Annie asked, her bright, innocent eyes wide in wonder.

He turned to the young girl, wiping the sweat and grease from his face with one of his broad forearms.

"It's called a D-Wheel," he said, patting absently at the metallic skull he'd just finished sculpting onto the frame. "People in the cities use them for Riding Duels."

"Riding Duels?" his sister repeated, sounding confused. "What's the difference between them and regular duels?"

It was a deceptively complicated question, now that he thought about it.

He'd constructed his D-Wheel entirely by himself, and if he was being perfectly honest, he thought he'd done a damn fine job. Especially given how few he'd seen in person. Virtually all the plans, schematics, and pictures he'd drawn inspiration from had come straight off the web.

That was something a lot of people outside the tribe failed to understand. Just because they still preserved many of the old ways, didn't mean they were some kind of primitive savages. They had computers, phones, and the internet – much as many of their elders tried to resist them.

And though their village was remote, dead in the center of the Nazca Desert, it was only a few hours' drive from any number of bustling Peruvian cities.

The upshot was that "The Beast" – as he'd taken to calling it in his head – was something truly unique, reflecting a mix of Japanese, Chinese, and American engineering coupled with his own personal design sensibilities.

And more importantly, it was his ticket out of this godforsaken dump.

It might've been hard to imagine, for someone who'd only met him later in life, but as a young man he'd loathed the rest of his tribe. Well…perhaps "loathed" was too strong a term. But certainly, he'd resented the hell out of them.

That was the burden of being the chief's son. Others could run off to seek their fortunes in the big city – and in his generation, very often had – but he would never get that choice. To continue their way of life, and their guardianship over the gods of old, he could never leave.

It didn't "help" that he'd grown up to be the tribe's strongest, smartest, and most attractive member – or so the elders kept telling him. At age twenty-four, there was already significant pressure for him to take a formal position of leadership with the tribe…as well as to choose a wife and start a family. The sooner, the better.

Neither prospect particularly interested him.

Truthfully, to the degree he had them, all his dreams lay outside the barren confines of the Nazca Desert. Outside of Peru, if he was being perfectly honest.

"One of them represents the past," he finally answered his sister, looking deeply into his reflection in the chrome. "And one of them represents the future."

[-]

Like many of their institutions, their tribe's political structure would best be described as "antiquated."

A single chief, always male, was the ceremonial and symbolic leader, but a council of seven elders made all the real decisions. The chief would typically be elevated to the council once he grew old and tired of the role, but otherwise he was little more than a figurehead, tasked only with making regular speeches about the glories of the old ways.

Upon the previous chief's abdication or death, the council would select a new one from the tribe's young men. The position wasn't hereditary, though bloodline was certainly one of the factors they took into account.

If he'd been born scrawny or slow, then, he probably could've managed something resembling an ordinary life. The elders strove to keep around as many able-bodied young people as possible, to maintain the tribe's numbers if nothing else, but they couldn't actually stop most of them from leaving if they chose.

But for him? Between his naturally titanic build, quick wit, and line of descent, the council made little secret of their top choice for the position.

Which really felt, to him, like the worst of all worlds. His obligations to the tribe kept him from setting off on his own to do…well, anything. Yet those obligations would ultimately saddle him with little more than a fancy title – in a world that was doing its best to render such titles irrelevant.

He couldn't even bask in the glow of recognition or accomplishment, because he hadn't actually "accomplished" a thing. His lack of a name was proof.

How embarrassing would it be if his father retired, and he ascended to the role of chief without one?

Worse, what if they gave him his name specifically for that day? In their tribe's history, there was a long line of chiefs with the name "Uma." Not because the title had some kind of long and storied legacy…

But simply because it meant "leader" in the Quechua language.

Anyone with more than a passing knowledge of their culture could tell in an instant what it meant to have a chief named "Uma." How was he expected to lead the next generation of his people, when they'd all know he hadn't done anything to earn his position?

Not that that was ever going to be an issue. Because he wasn't going to be chief.

He loved his siblings dearly. He loved his mother, though she was over five years passed. Maybe he even loved his father, after a fashion.

But as for the rest of his tribe? They could all go screw themselves, so far as he was concerned.

That's why he'd created the Beast. For years now he'd fantasized about stealing one of the tribe's handful of cars – their treads modified to function properly in the desert sands – and driving off into the sunset, never looking back. Technically, he could've at any time.

Yet he'd always been held back by the fear that he might not make it out there. Despite his physical prowess and keen mind, his actual work experience was severely lacking, and demand for job-seekers with no formal education whatsoever wasn't exactly high these days.

Nothing could be worse than burning all his bridges to escape this hellhole…and then being forced to come crawling right back.

But amidst all the staleness and monotony of their relic of a village, the one thing that'd always brightened his days was Duel Monsters. The elders frowned on but didn't outright ban pieces of entertainment from the outside world – knowing, perhaps, that with a smartphone or tablet in the hands of every member of the tribe, any such ban would've been doomed to failure from the outset.

So while he wasn't sure if Max had ever heard of Batman, or if Annie had the faintest clue what a Barbie was…even in as remote a place as this, the game of Duel Monsters couldn't help but be ubiquitous.

He'd learned English, Japanese, and Spanish, at least in part, through his cards – Industrial Illusions didn't typically print them in Quechua – and for many years a poster of Sho Marufuji, his favorite pro-duelist, was the only adornment on his room's otherwise bare wall. His own personal deck wasn't particularly good, scrounged mostly from discarded commons during trips to the city, but it'd always crushed those of his siblings.

Which they took fairly well. Most of the time.

Still, it damn sure felt more like his "calling" than anything his father or the elders had ever tried to foist onto him. And that's where the D-Wheel came in.

Because if he could strike out on his own as a Riding Duelist? If he could carve a pathway to success and glory at international tournaments?

Then it wouldn't matter that he didn't have a day of school or professional work to claim. It wouldn't matter where he came from, or what he'd had to leave behind.

He could finally be somebody. Somebody more than just a shadow, forced to take on responsibilities he never asked for.

Somebody with a name.

[-]

Of course, the D-Wheel was only one component to achieving his dream.

He'd need a better deck if he wanted to stand a chance in the Pro-Leagues. Right now he was running a hodgepodge of whatever decent Machine-Types he'd been able find; machines being the one other thing besides cards he'd always been able to wrap his head around. Antique Gears made up the backbone, but he'd had to throw in some random Gadgets and Machiners just to get the total to forty.

Still, it never felt quite "right" to him. And there was no question it'd get creamed in an instant if he went up against a real pro.

Some Speed Spells would also be necessary, if he wanted to make it as a Riding Duelist. He knew the rules of Speed World from articles and videos online, and there was no way to succeed under its format without a powerful toolbox of Speed Spells.

And lastly…well, he needed some way to get noticed by the international community. He didn't know much about the business side of dueling, but he figured agents and sponsors didn't go scouting random South American villages for talent.

Somehow, despite having almost no money and even less of a clue how to do it, he needed to get himself out to them.

That was part of why he was cruising through the desert right now. In addition to being good practice for when he made his eventual escape, riding his D-Wheel always helped clear his head. And with nothing around him as far as the eye could see, apart from the etchings of the Nazca Lines in the surrounding sands, there was little to distract from figuring out his path to pro-dueling glory.

At least…he hadn't been expecting to find anything else around him.

When he first laid eyes on them, far off in the distance, he thought the billowing white shapes to be dust clouds. It was only after he drew closer that their identity became obvious: enormous tarps and tent-covers, spread over a distance of at least a square kilometer, shining so brilliantly white that they practically seemed to glow in the desert sun.

Someone had set up camp here, only a few minutes' ride from the spider geoglyph. And based on the sheer amount of material and equipment they'd brought with them…

They were planning on staying a while.

The elders, he knew, would want to hear about this. They liked to keep track of any and all foreign visitors to the Nazca Desert, and while they generally permitted archaeological research within reason, they preferred not to be surprised by any unauthorized parties.

Nobody – not the Peruvian government, and certainly not his village's council – had forgotten the damage done to the lines over the years by everyone from miners to illegal settlers to Greenpeace. And they'd all collectively held their breath three years prior when a Senrigan Group operation nearly destroyed the lizard geoglyph entirely.

Thankfully, none of those events had ever managed to free the gods entrapped within…though several had been very near misses. Still, it meant it was a good idea to keep an eye on any new "visitors."

Knowing that – with its massive frame and polished bull's skull at the head – the Beast didn't exactly project a "friendly" image, he parked it some distance away from the camp, and made the rest of the way on foot. He kept his helmet on, however, to protect his eyes from the blowing sands.

There were no walls around the camp, though the tents were packed so densely together that there was only one obvious way to enter. One arm raised to help block away the midday sun, he made his way toward the opening.

It took him a few minutes to realize there was already someone standing right outside it.

The man seemed to be holding binoculars, which he was pointing in his general direction. There was no question, then, that the foreigner had seen him arriving. He'd probably been tracking him for the last several minutes.

Knowing from experience how intimidating his appearance could sometimes be, he raised both arms in the sky, signaling that he came in peace. The stranger didn't lower his binoculars, but seemed to nod in understanding, so he continued forward.

As he approached, he began to pick out a few more details about the other man. He'd had difficulty doing so from a distance because, as it turned out, said man was dressed almost entirely in pure, stainless white. White business suit, white slacks, white shoes. His cufflinks were a powder-blue, trimmed with gold, but those were the only splashes of color on his entire body.

No wonder he'd blended so well with the white tents behind him, and the gleaming sands below. Without drawing close, the man was very nearly invisible.

Slowly removing his motorcycle helmet as he finally made it within speaking distance, he said to the other man in English, "I wasn't expecting to see any other people this far into the desert."

Though they were less than five meters apart at this point, the stranger hadn't moved his – naturally, white – binoculars. Instead, his lip merely curled as he replied, his voice slightly accented, "You should always expect to meet others along your travels. That way, solitude can be a welcome surprise."

He really wasn't sure what to say to that. Needless to say, he didn't dabble very often in philosophizing.

So instead, he moved to the obvious question. "Who are you people?" he asked. "And what are you doing here?"

Another smirk, deeper this time. "Well now, that second question's actually quite the tricky one, all things considered," spoke the stranger. "But I can answer the first one easily enough. Here's my card."

The other man flicked his wrist and tossed something small and thin through the air with perfect precision. On instinct, he caught it.

At first, he thought it might've been a Duel Monsters card, but a second glance proved it was a little smaller than that. After thinking for a moment, he realized it must be a business card. He'd seen them in a movie once.

But didn't business cards usually feature a person's name and contact information? This one appeared to be entirely blank – as white and featureless as its owner.

After flipping the card around in his hand a few times, however, he realized that if he held it up to the sunlight at just the right angle, the reflection of a logo could just faintly be seen. A stylized Latin "K," overlapping a "C."

He turned back to the white-suited man in disbelief, that ever-present smirk having widened even further.

"Yes, my friend," he said, turning back to the camp and beckoning to follow. "We represent the Kaiba Corporation."

[-]

Despite knowing that it was nothing more than an assemblage of canvass and poles, he couldn't help feeling like he'd stepped into a labyrinth from which there was no escape.

Density certainly played a large factor. The tents were packed so tightly together that he could scarcely catch a glimpse of the desert beyond, and each towered something in the neighborhood of five meters.

Most of them were closed shut, but a number were a simple tarp draped over support poles, so he could peer inside quite easily. It reminded him of a bazaar, with rows upon rows of tented stands peddling their wares – though he doubted very much that any of this stuff was for sale.

All around, he could see other people bustling about, running from tent to tent to fiddle with equipment. None of them were wearing uniforms, preferring practical shirts and jeans in light of the blistering heat, though white was definitely the favored color. That same "KC" logo was emblazoned on each chest.

Alone, his guide seemed woefully overdressed for the weather, but it didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. The man, who'd swapped his binoculars for overlarge white sunglasses, seemed to notice him staring, and smiled.

"I suppose I should introduce myself formally," he said as they walked. "My name is Wheatley Yuraq, representing KaibaCorp's South American branch."

"Yuraq…" he repeated quietly. "That's Quechua – for 'white.' Do you…share blood with our people?"

Wheatley chuckled lightly, before replying in flawless Quechua, "I suppose you could say that."

From that point, their conversation shifted smoothly into his native tongue, which brought him a great deal of relief. His English was comfortable, but hardly fluent. And because of the source, he recalled words like "Cemetery" and "Tuning" far more readily than colors or numbers.

"So were you chosen for this mission because of your familiarity with the native tongue?" he asked.

The white-suited man looked thoughtful as they paced slowly down the rows of tents.

"More a happy coincidence, really. When KaibaCorp was putting together a team of translators, they were a lot more focused on Spanish," said Wheatley. "No, I'm here because I'm the one the board of directors sends when something needs…doing. And our interests in this area are acute."

He raised an eyebrow. "What kind of 'interests'?" he murmured.

"Oh, the only one that ever really matters," answered Wheatley, slowing his pace by half a step so they were walking side-by-side. "Power, my friend."

"That doesn't really explain…" he started to say, but the other man interrupted him with a single raised palm.

"As I'm sure you know, KaibaCorp is the world's leader in both commercial and industrial energy," Wheatley continued on, as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Thirteen years ago, our company learned to harness the infinite power of Momentum, and our society has changed drastically because of it. But even though it's the cornerstone of our modern world, there's still so much we don't understand of Momentum."

The other man stopped short and directed his attentions to a fancy piece of equipment, which a maintenance person was using a fan to keep stable in the sweltering heat. It had a green display with dozens of blinking dots, none of which he could make heads or tails of whatsoever.

"Momentum exists naturally in the world, though it can and is strengthened by the process of dueling," Wheatley told him. "Certain areas have concentrations far outside the norm, however. We're still trying to figure out the reason for that."

"And so this valley…?" he said quietly.

"Has Momentum readings the likes of which we've never seen," confirmed Wheatley with a nod. "We had to come and investigate. To uncover what secrets lie beneath these desert sands."

Alarm bells suddenly started going off in his head. "Not every secret should be uncovered," he stated, trying to be as vague but emphatic as possible. "Trust me. Some things get hidden away for a reason."

To his surprise, however, Wheatley was smirking again. "Oh, you don't have to worry," he whispered through tight lips. "If you're concerned about the Earthbound Gods, we already know about them."

His jaw nearly dropped to the floor. "H…How did you…?" he stammered.

"Much of the world may be trying to ignore it, but KaibaCorp hasn't forgotten the events of the last twenty years," said Wheatley. "Monsters appearing in the sky. Everyone on Earth, stolen away into Darkness. The gods of Egypt, reborn. The signs have been there, plain as day, for anyone willing to see them."

As if from nowhere, the white-suited man produced a thick folder, which he handed over without another word.

Flipping through the file, it appeared to be a dossier on all the extant Nazca Lines, with a full-page spread devoted to each. Satellite photos were heavily annotated, with circles and arrows pointing to damage from weathering or vandalism, and a section designating "threat level."

Most ranked a three or a four, but the killer whale was marked with a seven; the hummingbird, lizard, monkey, and giant with an eight; the spider and condor with a nine.

His blood chilled slightly as he turned to the last page, outlining the serpent geoglyph. While sparser in information than most, due to its relatively recent discovery by archaeologists, the "ten" underlined several times in red pen was hard to read as anything but ominous.

It was, overall, an impressive array of data. But it was also more than a little disturbing. The existence of the wicked gods was supposed to be a closely guarded secret, known only to the descendants of the People of the Stars. And to the next generation of Signers, whenever they decided to make themselves known.

This opened up hundreds of new questions.

"Rest assured, we'll exercise the utmost care in ensuring the Nazca Lines are not disturbed," Wheatley said, taking back the dossier with pale, uncalloused hands. "In truth, we're not even here for them. Not exactly, anyway. Tell me, my friend…"

He slightly adjusted his sunglasses, producing a curious effect upon his face – as if it'd all suddenly become a blurry mirage. It all seemed normal a moment later, however.

"Have you ever heard of the Crimson Dragon?"

[-]

They were seated now within one of the larger tents, at a simple plastic folding table. This was, Wheatley explained, a place for the on-site KaibaCorp employees to hold meetings, complete with a satellite uplink to their bosses in Japan.

The screen blinked to life, and a bleary-eyed man appeared upon it. He was short, with lavender hair and garish makeup, and was clearly very irritated by the call.

"Do you have any idea what time it is here?" he demanded in shrill Japanese, rapidly trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. "You'd better have woken me up for a good reason!"

"My apologies, Vice-Director," said Wheatley, setting himself down upon a cheap folding chair. "I simply hoped you could help me with a quick matter. It shouldn't trouble you long."

"It'd better not! You may've come from the board with sterling references, but Director Goodwin and I are far too busy to babysit every last operation we've got across the globe!" the little man exclaimed, punctuating his words with a lengthy yawn.

A moment later, however, his eyes bulged out, as he seemed to finally have noticed his agent wasn't alone.

"And who in the world is this guy?" he added, gesturing wildly. "Did you bring a civilian into our secure research site?"

"If you'd read my briefing packet, Vice-Director, you'd be able to identify a member of the local tribe. His clothing makes it obvious," Wheatley told him. "And you'd also know that said tribe takes personal names only in response to great deeds. Since he offered none when we met, I must assume that he's presently nameless. Or am I mistaken?"

His cheeks burned with shame, but he nodded slowly. "No, you're right," he whispered.

Wheatley, however, just smiled even more brightly. "Don't worry about it, my friend," he said. "I tend to find names such bothersome things, myself. More trouble than they're worth. Why limit yourself to just one face?"

"That is a…very strange way of putting it," was his murmured response. He really wasn't sure what to say to something like that.

"Geez, Professor Adler wasn't kidding about you being annoying," the Vice-Director cut in, pinching his cheeks and stretching his face out of irritation. "Alright then, kid, listen up. You might not have a name, but I do, so you'll address me properly. Jaeger Dokeshi, Vice-Director of Neo Domino City and CFO of KaibaCorp. I'm sure you've heard of me."

After he didn't react for several seconds, Jaeger turned to Wheatley and asked, "Wait, does he even understand Japanese?"

"A…A little bit," he answered in the same tongue, his accent terrible. "I…know what you are saying."

"Well, that's a relief, at least," said Jaeger with a sigh. "But you still haven't told me what he's doing here in the first place. Or why you needed me on this call."

"Oh, it's quite simple, sir," Wheatley replied. "I'd like to have a little discussion of matters related to the Akaki Ryu."

The Vice-Director practically blew a gasket right there.

"Wh-Wh-Wh-Wh-Wh-What…?!" he stammered, his voice so high it was practically a screech. "You know that information is tip-top secret! You can't just go blabbing to some…some literal no-name vagabond you picked up in the desert!"

"Vice-Director," Wheatley called out sharply, his tone shifting quite dramatically. Now he sounded like a stern parent lecturing an ignorant child. "His village is descended from the People of the Stars. He knows what the Crimson Dragon is. There's no point in playing coy with secrets."

"B…But I still don't think…" Jaeger attempted to protest, but the man in white didn't allow him to finish.

"I said, Vice-Director…" he interjected, intoning every syllable with intense gravity. "That there's no point in playing coy."

He was seated behind Wheatley, so he couldn't see exactly what happened next. But it seemed the agent was leaning so far forward in his chair that his sunglasses slipped off. They were retrieved a moment later, but in the meantime Jaeger's expression seemed to slacken, and he quietly slurred, "I…guess that makes sense."

"That's better," said Wheatley, the corners of his mouth turning upward. "Now, my young friend. Can you tell me everything you do know about the god in question?"

"The Aztecs called it Quetzalcoatl. That's probably the name it's best known by," he explained, struggling to recall his father's stories. He'd never much cared for them. "But other cultures had different names. Kukulkan or Q'uq'umatz for the Maya, Awanyu for the Pueblo, the Rainbow Serpent for the Australian aborigines. All over the world it used to travel, bringing blessings and good fortune."

"But it always began its journey here," added Wheatley, leaning back in his chair and curling his neck back, so that his face appeared upside-down. It seemed a remarkably unprofessional way to sit, but no one was calling him on it. "And here, too, it ended."

He nodded mutedly in return. "Our ancestors prayed to a star they identified with it. The Crimson Star," he continued. "When evil gods slaughtered livestock, withered crops, and stole away children, they beseeched it for deliverance. And time and again, it granted their prayers. At least…if you believe the stories."

"Oh, always believe in stories when you get the chance," said Wheatley, his tone casual. "Even if they aren't true, it's much more fun that way."

"Anyway, I…think that about covers it," he responded, choosing again to simply move past the suited man's odd turns of phrase. "Big benevolent dragon that helps people and fights evil. That's why the Earthbound Gods are…well, earthbound. Because that was the best chance it had to seal them away."

"An excellent primer. But I'm afraid I can only give that explanation…oh, perhaps a 'B' plus," Wheatley stated silkily. "You're missing one giant piece of the puzzle. Or, surely, you didn't intentionally omit the matter of the Signers?"

The breath caught in his throat. Where were these people getting their information? Unless…

"You…You aren't…" he muttered.

Wheatley just smiled and pulled up his sleeve. The exposed skin was bare, if remarkably pale.

"We are not, ourselves, touched by the Crimson Dragon. But it is our job to keep track of the people who are," he said, before turning back to the video screen. "Tell him what we know, Vice-Director."

Jaeger coughed in surprise, but after only a moment of hesitation, seemed to decide he had no choice.

"Director Goodwin believes we've tracked down at least three of the five marks. Maybe even four," he told the pair. "All of the bearers are currently in Japan. One way or another, it shouldn't take long for the Akaki Ryu to appear here."

"Which is part of why we're in this country," Wheatley added on. "We must be prepared. This is the land where the Crimson Dragon first came to Earth…and it's the greatest apex of Momentum energy on the planet. That isn't a coincidence. We need to understand more – and we don't have a lot of time."

"What makes this so urgent?" came the obvious question.

Jaeger, now, was sweating slightly. "The Director has been studying this for some time. It seems the war between the Akaki Ryu and the Jibakushin is cyclical. On a timescale of five thousand years," he said. "And based on his best research…we'll hit the next deadline quite soon indeed."

He blinked, several times, looking upon the white-suited gentleman and his clownish superior as if seeing them properly for the very first time.

"You guys…aren't just KaibaCorp employees, are you?" he asked, clenching his overmuscled fists.

Wheatley's expression seldom seemed to vary too far, his self-satisfied grin never disappearing but merely shifting in size. And right now, it was the biggest he'd ever seen it.

"All things in due time," replied the man in white. "If there's one thing I know better than anyone…it's that good things come to those who wait."

[-]

He stared at the piece of paper for several minutes, gaping in disbelief, before he finally found his voice again.

"This…This is…" he murmured, still trying to gather his thoughts into something remotely coherent.

"A job application. I know one normally completes it before the interview, but since you're our only candidate I see no issue in suspending the regular order," said Wheatley. "Fact of the matter is, we're going to be here for a while, and we could use a guide who knows the area. Are you interested?"

He didn't answer for a while, his eyes instead drifting back to the paper. Education, references, employment history – this was all so real, all so sudden.

And all absurdly over his head.

"I'm flattered, of course, but…" he began, trying to assemble his thoughts together into something coherent. They were speaking Quechua again, now that it was just the two of them, which helped a bit. "But don't you want someone more qualified? I've never gone to school…never had a real job. How could I work for…for…"

"For the company whose most celebrated CEO took the reins when he was thirteen? KaibaCorp values results, not numbers on a page," Wheatley interjected, waving a hand dismissively. "And I'm betting the results you deliver us will be magnificent."

"I think you're overestimating me," he said quietly, unable to meet the older man's gaze. Not that he could, of course, given he was still wearing those pure-white sunglasses.

"And I think you need to learn to relax, my dear boy," replied Wheatley. "Really, you're far too hard on yourself. Let me guess – issues with a father-figure? Just a hunch. It seems to come up a lot in my line of work."

He blinked, several times, before looking back down at the application and sighing. "We…don't have the best relationship," he told the older man. "Stubborn doesn't even begin to describe him. He'll stick to the ways of our ancestors up to the point where it gets us all killed…and probably beyond that. And he wants me to be the same way."

"Ah, tale as old as time. And one that never seems to have a happy ending," stated Wheatley with a long, drawn-out sigh. "But you shouldn't worry. You're not your father. There's no reason to shackle yourself to his foolishness. Make the decisions you want to make."

He kept his head dipped down, rereading the same sentence on the form over and over without taking in a word of it. "And what if I don't know what those are?" he asked quietly.

Wheatley's lip slowly curled upward. "Well then, my boy…" he said, cracking his neck as he did. "Just decide something. Really, what's the worst that could happen?"

At that moment, he realized that – without consciously thinking about it – he'd already filled out nearly all of the application. It hadn't taken him long. After all, for the sections regarding education or work experience, he'd nothing to write but "None."

There was just one blank space left, staring back at him like a flat, taunting grin. It was right at the top of the page, and for anyone else would've been the easiest question of the bunch. Yet it had him completely and utterly stumped.

And that space, of course, was next to the word "Name."

"You don't have to put anything there if you don't want to," the man in white suddenly spoke up, as if he'd read the young man's mind. "Although I suppose it'll make printing your nametag a little awkward…"

But instead, he found himself gritting his teeth, suddenly furious for reasons he couldn't fully articulate. It all came down to this, didn't it? The ultimate symbol of how fully and truly fucked his life had always been, simply by virtue of being born in this stupid sand pile.

By the gods, how he hated it all. The expectations of the village, the council, his father – trapping him in an inescapable cage since the day he was born. Outside of their judgment, he had no worth.

Outside of their judgment, he had no life.

Well…fuck that.

"I…I…" he stammered, eyes darting around the tent. Seeking, searching, needing some kind of sign to appear. "I'll…I'll be…"

And then, there is was. Sitting upon one of the hinges holding the structure together, in big English block letters:

BOMMER INDUSTRIES

"That…That word…" he said. "Does that mean…like, a 'bomber'? A warplane?"

Wheatley frowned slightly. "Not quite. Spelt a little different, for one thing," he answered. "It's actually named for the company's founder, a New York engineer named Lorenz Bommer."

"Oh. I…see," he murmured, disappointed. He rallied back quickly, however. "Well…I don't care. It's as good a name as any."

He grabbed for the pen and, face set hard in determination, slammed its tip upon the paper. Each character was drawn slowly, deliberately.

"Are you…certain about this, my boy?" asked the man in white, leaning down so their faces were level with each other. "This is a big step. You wouldn't want to get it wrong."

"I'm done letting other people decide my life for me," was his growled response. He didn't turn his head to face the other man, but kept his focus on each pen stroke, making them perfect. "Doesn't matter if it's completely random. If I got it off the wall, or a book, or a cereal box. It's mine, dammit. I chose it."

He shoved the completed application toward the other man, feeling surer of himself than he ever had before.

"And that's what matters," said Bommer.

[-]

"Tell that to me one more time," ordered Chief Allpa, his voice rumbling dangerously as he towered over his son.

This was something of an accomplishment, since Bommer – by the gods, it still felt so strange to call himself that, even in his head – was already six-foot-eight, and built like an ox. But in that regard his genes clearly came from his father, as Allpa stood a full five inches greater than that, with muscles that bulged and strained underneath tight-fitting robes.

His name meant "earth" or "soil" in the old tongue, a reminder that he'd spent most of his life as a farmer, working tirelessly to keep his tribe self-sufficient for at least one more generation. The elders smiled on that sort of thing.

True, these days getting a bite to eat was as simple as driving to the nearest city and visiting a convenience store or restaurant. Hell, if you had internet access – and just about all of them did, whether or not they swallowed their pride and used it – even that much effort was unnecessary. A few clicks, and a drone could drop off a fresh meal right in his lap.

But the elders didn't care about that. Convenience and efficiency always took a distant backseat to tradition. That's why Allpa, a man who'd never spent a single day of his life working smarter when he could've worked harder, had been chosen to "lead" them.

And that was why he stood here now, arms crossed, as he struggled to hold in a clear and evident flood of rage toward the man he expected to follow in his footsteps.

"I said that I've been offered a position with KaibaCorp's research team. And I'm going to take it," he said, his tone defiant. "Under the name Bommer. My name."

"You named…yourself," growled Allpa, through slowly grinding teeth. "Spit on our people's most cherished tradition. What's next, hmm? Bleach your skin? Convert to one of their false gods? Tell me, son…what won't you do to bring shame to your ancestors?"

"That's not why I'm doing this," Bommer told his father. "Though if it brings shame to you, it's a nice side benefit."

A vein pulsed violently within the chief's temple, and Bommer was able to track – in real time – the impulse to strike his son across the face, as it rapidly bubbled up, reached a boiling point, and ultimately receded. Allpa wasn't frequently physically abusive, but he had a temper that wasn't exactly…difficult to provoke.

"You always think you're so clever," the chief sneered. "Don't you realize all I've ever wanted was to keep you safe? To keep our people safe? The outsiders may have honeyed tongues, but their words are empty. Any 'offer' they make is a trap in disguise. Poison that'll bring the last descendants of the People of the Stars to ruin."

"That's why you won't let them build on tribal lands," said Bommer, his tone far from approving. "KaibaCorp could bring real jobs to our village, you know? Good jobs. We wouldn't have to change our way of life. We wouldn't even have to move. But we'd have more to look forward to than…than this."

It wasn't clear, even to himself, what exactly Bommer was referring to. He gestured vaguely around the simple stone dwelling he, his father, and his siblings shared, grunting in frustration. Maybe he meant all of it.

"You know why I can't allow that," Allpa replied stubbornly. "What our tribe does is too important. Inviting in outsiders could risk everything."

"Oh, for the love of…the Jibakushin aren't going to escape just because of a few construction projects!" Bommer shouted at his father, taking a step forward. "And what is it exactly that we're 'doing,' anyway? From where I'm standing, if someone got the bright idea to free the gods somehow there's not a damn thing we could do to stop it!"

He slammed a massive fist down upon the wooden table that separated them.

"I mean, if you really think about it, joining with KaibaCorp would be the best way to keep the seal intact," he went on, not waiting for a response. "If we had money, we could invest in protecting the Nazca Lines better. Set up barricades, or even guards. Stockpile weapons, so that if one did get free we'd have a chance to defend ourselves. Better than your current strategy of doing jack shit."

This time, Allpa wasn't able to master himself in time. His fist swung out reflexively, accompanied by a guttural snarl.

But long past was the time when Bommer had no choice but to take this sort of thing lying down. With a deftness that belied his titanic stature, he caught his father's punch, twisting his arm until the chief cried out in pain.

"How…How dare…" he grunted, trying and failing to wrench himself out of Bommer's grip.

"Let's get one thing straight, father," Bommer said, cutting him off. "I didn't come here today asking for permission. I came to tell you I'm leaving."

There was a beat of silence. Then, in a lower voice, Allpa demanded, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"KaibaCorp has set up some temporary housing in their compound. And they're paying me more than enough to afford it," he answered. "I only came back here to get my things, and to say goodbye to Max and Annie. And…"

Suddenly, he released his hold on his father, who fell to the ground in a raggedy heap.

"Because I wanted to give you one last chance to see reason," finished Bommer, his eyes filled with pity. "Didn't really expect it to work, but…I had to try."

And with that, he stormed out of the house he'd grown up in for the very last time.

He didn't spare it a single look back.

[-]

Walking out on his father was the easiest decision Bommer had ever made in his life.

What happened next was far harder.

"Big brother!" Max and Annie cried out at once, both rushing forward and seizing their elder sibling around the midsection.

Despite everything that'd just happened, Bommer couldn't help but return their earnest, overeager smiles. He'd loved them – still did love them – in a way he'd never loved anyone else before, and very much doubted he ever would again.

And they returned that love with full and equal vigor. Despite the wide age gap between them, they'd always been close; a result, most likely, of their mother's early death in childbirth with Annie. With their father…distant at best, it'd fallen to Bommer to raise his brother and sister from infancy.

He could admit, with a bit of shame, that he'd resented them at first. What seventeen-year-old wouldn't, when forced to suddenly take on a life of changing diapers and wiping up puke? But they'd grown on him, in time.

Bommer didn't have a lot he cared about in this world. Nor any real sense of purpose. That was the entire reason he'd chosen to join KaibaCorp, after all – to find one.

But for his siblings, he'd gladly lay down his life. In a heartbeat.

"What's wrong, big brother?" asked Max, his eyes now shimmering with concern. "You look sad."

The muscular young man cast his gaze downward, unsure why he didn't have an answer. He'd known, in the back of his mind, that this moment would come, back when he finally made his decision. But knowing wasn't the same thing as knowing – as confronting, really and truly, that this might well be the last time he ever saw his siblings.

"Max. Annie. I…have to go away for a while," he eventually said. "It's what's best for the tribe. And…what's best for me."

The two children just looked hopelessly confused. "How long will you be gone?" muttered Annie in a little voice.

Bommer bit his lip, unsure how truthful he should be. Whether he should admit he wasn't certain he'd ever return at all.

Because Wheatley had been pretty upfront about that. He'd need to stay at their complex while the research project at the Nazca Lines was ongoing, of course. But once that was all over with…

Well, KaibaCorp was one of the largest multinational companies on Earth – a leader in not only dueling, but all the incredible secrets that were slowly being unfurled out of it. Young as the game might be in modern form, it was becoming increasingly clear to certain scholars and scientists that the history of Duel Monsters was the history of humanity…and that they'd only just begun to scratch the surface of what it could offer.

With his foot now firmly in the door, there was no limit to the number of places he could go. The opportunities he could explore.

And opportunities meant money – money he could send back, and ensure his tribe continued on. He didn't much care for them, all told, and with scattered exceptions he had the distinct impression the sentiment was mutual.

But he didn't want them to die, or to fade away into the annals of history. And if his father kept leading them down this same, stubborn path…

In any event, Bommer knew he'd kept his little sister waiting too long already. With some trepidation in his voice, he said, "At least a year. Maybe more."

Max sniffed. "I…I don't understand," he mumbled. "Where're you going? Why?"

Bommer covered his face with his overlarge hands, letting out a deep breath. This was even harder than he'd expected it to be.

"I…need to find my place in the world," he answered his brother. "And it isn't here. It never was."

He shook his head, trying not to get sucked into their bewildered, anguished faces.

"Look, I…I want to be here for you two, always. You know that," continued Bommer, his powerful muscles shaking slightly. "But right now I have a chance at something great. For me to become more than this village's useless figurehead. For our tribe to become more than a vanishing relic. KaibaCorp is…is…"

"KaibaCorp?" repeated Annie, a sliver of light poking out from her hurt expression. "They're the guys who make the cards, right?"

Ever since they'd bought out Industrial Illusions in 2010, that'd indeed been accurate. Of course, today KaibaCorp controlled much more than a single card game. But Duel Monsters would always be the face of its empire, if nothing else.

Relieved at the – however slight – change in her mood, Bommer seized upon the opening. "Yes, that's it," he said. "They want to make Duel Monsters bigger and better than it's ever been. And your big brother is the guy they chose to help them."

Annie still seemed torn, but Max's expression did a one-eighty the moment these words were spoken.

"Wow, that's so cool!" he exclaimed, pumping a fist in the air. "Does that mean you're gonna become a champion Pro-Duelist after all?"

"Well, I'm still thinking about it," replied Bommer. "This certainly can't hurt my chances. I'm just gonna be helping them out with their research for a while, at least at first. But after that…who knows?"

"If…If it's really what you want, big brother…" whispered Annie, a bit uncertainly. But a moment later, her other brother's enthusiasm proved infectious, and she broke into a broad smile. "Then we're with you. We can handle ourselves with papa."

"I'll email and text every day," Bommer assured his siblings, pulling them in close. "And don't hesitate to call if father is giving you a hard time, or…or if anything else happens. I shouldn't be too far away, at least for the first few months."

The young boy and girl embraced him again, nearly as excitedly as they'd done before he'd shared the bad news. Bommer felt a strange tug at his heart; he really didn't deserve them.

"And I'll work something out with KaibaCorp. Some account I can send my wages back to," he added, returning the hug. "You'll both be taken care of. You'll all be taken care of. It'll be a better life for the whole tribe, you'll see. A new chapter. A new dawn."

The words were just tumbling from his lips, now, but the children didn't seem to mind. Nuzzling into the crook of his arm, Annie said quietly, "We love you, big brother."

"I love you too, Annie. And you, Max," he choked out, through tears he hadn't realized he'd been forming. "I love you so much. But…one more thing, before I leave…"

He blinked the tears away, then rose up slightly, so that he was looking at both of his siblings dead on. A smile that was equally sad and hopeful played upon his desert-chapped lips.

"My name is Bommer," he told them both, his smile spreading wider with each word. "Your big brother's name is Bommer."

[-]

"And this is…?" asked the eldest of his three guests, his voice heavy and breathy – as if spoken through an unseen respirator.

"The hummingbird geoglyph. About 93 meters from beak to tail," said Bommer dutifully, gesturing as they passed it with their jeep. "Our people recognized the beast for its unmatched ferocity and vitality. The Aztec war god, Huitzilopochtli, was identified with the hummingbird. Though of course, these lines long predate the Aztec Empire."

The man who'd asked the question stroked his beard thoughtfully, as if considering this information. The second of his guests, who looked about Bommer's age, seemed incredibly bored by all this, leaning an elbow against the side of the jeep and sighing audibly.

Still, he was a better sight than the youngest of the trio, who couldn't have been much older than Max and wasn't even pretending to pay attention. Instead he pounded his fingers upon a portable game system, occasionally muttering things like, "Shit, shit, almost got the Smash Ball…" or "Can't believe how fucking hard they nerfed Inkling this gen…"

All in all, there were worse things in the world than playing glorified tour guide. He'd been doing this job for five months now, and that'd been the main thrust of his work so far – showing various KaibaCorp VIPs around the site of the Nazca Lines, and answering any questions they had regarding the region's history or geography.

This particular trio hadn't bothered to give him their names, but Wheatley had assured him they put the "I" in "Very Important Persons." Only Rex Goodwin himself, he said, would've been a bigger deal to show up out of the blue like this.

As such, much as they did little but raise questions in his head – really, who brings a grade-schooler to a World Heritage Site? – Bommer was careful to use the utmost respect and deference in speaking with them.

Thankfully, his Japanese was improving significantly, mostly out of sheer proximity to all the researchers from Neo Domino he was now working alongside. He didn't want to start an international incident by using the wrong honorific for one of these men.

"Question, little one," spoke up the second man. It seemed an odd term of address, given that he was a full head shorter than Bommer, but he didn't comment on it. Perhaps it held meaning in Japanese that hadn't translated well.

"Yes, sir?" he said. He tended toward those sorts of clipped responses for interactions like these; it was safer that way.

"Have you experienced any anomalous effects in this area recently?" asked the young man. He was turned away from Bommer, so all he could see was the bottom half of his face, with a white hoodie covering up the rest. It reminded him somewhat of Wheatley's crisp suit, in so far as it was equally impractical for a trek through the Nazca Desert. "Say, within the last few years or so?"

"I guess that depends on what you mean by 'anomalous,' sir," replied Bommer. Mostly because he literally didn't know what that word meant. If he'd heard it in Quechua or even English, maybe, but his Japanese vocabulary was decidedly…

Limited.

Thankfully, the elder man seemed to have parsed the real meaning of his answer, and whispered the Quechua equivalent into Bommer's ear. While he'd no further identified himself than the other two, Bommer had to imagine he was a scientist or professor of some kind. He had that sort of "air" about him.

"Ah, well…I suppose there've been more earthquakes lately than there used to be, if that counts," he added hastily. "There was a really bad one when I was eleven. Destroyed half the village. And ever since then, they've come along every few months."

"Interesting," said the old man. "Now, these earthquakes…has a scientific cause ever been determined?"

Bommer shook his head. "Not that I'm aware of," he answered. "We had a few seismologists looking into it some years back, but I don't think they ever found out anything for sure."

"I wonder if our research into Momentum will turn up the answers you seek," mused his guest, continuing to stroke his long, flowing beard. "It has a great many properties we still don't fully understand, you know. Some believe it could even breach the bonds of space and time."

"Guess anything's possible," Bommer stated with a shrug. He decided to pretend the ominous tone with which those words had been spoken was all in his imagination. "Anyway, we've mostly just gotten used to them, at this point. They haven't been too severe in recent years."

"Yeah, that's cuz most of 'em ain't hanging around this dump anymore," remarked the boy, snickering loudly. Bommer was sure that he didn't imagine the other two immediately shooting him warning glares, as if he'd overstepped his bounds.

No idea what that was about, but Bommer wasn't about to ask. He was suddenly quite eager for this particular "tour" to be over with, however.

He didn't think he liked these three very much.

"Now, switching gears," said the man his age, once the younger one had returned excitedly to his game. "Our agent informs us your people have been…resistant, to expansion of our projects here?"

That was an understatement. Since he'd left the village, Allpa's opposition to KaibaCorp had only increased in volume and intensity, and the rest of the tribe had largely followed suit. According to the texts he'd been receiving from Max and Annie, their father's daily speeches no longer concerned any other topic, with the chief railing for hours on end that the foreigners' interference would be the death of their way of life.

Allpa always stopped short of calling for direct violence, but on several occasions younger tribesman had taken it a step further, slashing tires or pissing on tents. Nothing life-threatening, but it wasn't doing much to warm relations between the two sides.

And while the chief might not have directly endorsed any of the vandalism, he certainly wasn't condemning it, either.

If Bommer had more cache with his tribe, he expected he might've been asked to help mediate things. But Wheatley seemed to understand his reticence, and consented to keep him far away from the negotiations, interacting only with their international guests.

As he tried to figure out a quick way to explain all of this, however, he found the jeep he was driving had slowed to a crawl, the speedometer ticking down unsteadily. A few seconds later, they came to an unceremonious halt.

"Hey! Why the hell are we stopping?" demanded the boy, shaking a fist in the air. "You made me lose the match!"

Bommer didn't answer immediately, but instead examined his dashboard again. The speedometer wasn't the only dial that'd ticked back to zero, it seemed – the fuel gauge, too, showed they were suddenly running on empty.

Swearing under his breath, the muscular man climbed out of the vehicle to perform an inspection, dreading what he might find. Why now, of all times? He was a fairly deft hand with machines, especially engines, but he didn't much like the idea of having to go under the hood while three corporate bigwigs scrutinized his performance.

Fortunately – or perhaps unfortunately – the cause wasn't hard to diagnose. A small puncture had been made in the fuel tank, and it seemed they'd been steadily leaking gas for the last several kilometers.

"Sabotage," said the old man, peering over the side of the jeep with narrowed eyes. "Another result of your peers', shall we say…overzealousness?"

"Can't think of anyone else it could be," Bommer murmured through clenched teeth. It was bad enough his father was holding back the rest of the tribe from embracing the future. But did they have to drag him into the mud with them, too?

"Yes, well…one can hardly blame you for your upbringing, young man," he responded, waving a gloved hand dismissively. "Still, I suppose this means we should really have another word with the 'locals.' Out of principle, if nothing else."

"Y…You're not going to…?" asked Bommer, unsure how to complete the question. He just knew that, though the old man's tone was light and casual…there was something about his words that sent a chill down his spine.

But the other man just shook his head once. "Do not worry, my dear boy," he breathed out, his voice still throaty and reverberating. "We simply must remind your people who legally owns this land. It was purchased through due process with the Peruvian government. We, of course, wish only to coexist harmoniously – does not our taking you in demonstrate proof? But at the same time…you know we can't allow behavior like this to stand."

"I…suppose that's true," said Bommer, unable to find fault with the man's logic, despite himself.

"Wonderful," declared the old man, now slowly lowering his heavily robed form out of the unmoving jeep. "Now, since it doesn't look like we have any choice in the matter…I suggest we begin walking."

Uncertain what else to say, Bommer did as he was bidden.

It was a refrain he'd grow to know well over the next few years.

[-]

Perhaps sensing his unease after his conversation with the enigmatic trio, Wheatley had elected to send Bommer out on these "guided tours" far less frequently.

Instead, he was given a number of new assignments, few of which he understood but all of which he was paid well enough to perform without question.

Driving strange devices out into the desert and placing them at very specific locations. Researching as many alternate names for the Crimson Dragon as possible, and writing them onto individual papers in Quechua. Drawing deep grooves in the sand, almost as large as the Nazca Lines themselves, circumscribing his entire village.

At least that task's purpose had been easy to deduce: a reminder for KaibaCorp's field researchers to keep their distance, now that tension with his tribe was at an all-time high.

Then came the most unusual request of all: to construct a rough track around their facility, build a new deck, and perform a few test Riding Duels with other KaibaCorp staff.

"I…err…I mean…wait, what?" had been his reaction, when Wheatley first gave him the news. "How in the world is that going to help KaibaCorp?"

"We need test data for how Momentum engines react in an environment such as this," he answered easily. "This close to the epicenter of the unusual readings, Duel Disks and D-Wheel engines may well function differently than normal. We've a shortage of talented duelists on staff right now, so I volunteered you."

"Talented?" repeated Bommer, his face falling a little. "As usual, sir, I think you give me too much credit."

"And as usual, I don't think you give yourself nearly enough," said Wheatley, waving a dismissive hand. "You've been hamstrung, thus far, by a barebones budget and subpar deck. But those are no longer a concern. You do remember who you work for, yes?"

Then, without further preamble, he pulled a briefcase out from underneath his desk and flipped it open. Inside was a staggering array of some of the rarest and most powerful cards in the game.

"Treasure of Nibelung…" he whispered, completely in awe. "Didn't this go for $50 million at auction in America a few years ago?"

"A fake, actually – though don't tell the poor bidder," responded Wheatley, a playful smirk dancing upon his lips. "Truthfully, there's only one legitimate copy left, and this is it. Siegfried von Schroeder's personal deck was one of many things we…acquired, when KaibaCorp bought out his company."

He deftly caught the infamously overpowered card between two fingers and flipped it around. "Would you like it?" he asked, his tone casual. "It's yours for the taking."

Bommer actually gaped, taking another look at the sheer range of incredible cards included in the briefcase. Effects that allowed you to draw an absurd amount of cards, or skip opponent's turns, or fill the field up with monsters from the Extra Deck without spending a single card.

All this…all this could be part of his personal deck, if he chose. A deck where he still had to rely on cards like Reactive Armor or Dimension Wall because even a simple Mirror Force was out of his price range.

But though the temptation was strong, ultimately he stayed his trembling fingers.

"Dueling is about honor. When I become a Pro-Duelist, I want it to be on the back of my own talent – not just because of all the rare cards I have," said Bommer. "That being said…I'd be stupid to turn down an offer like this completely. If you'll allow me, I'll build the deck that's right for me out of your collection. Taking no more and no less than is necessary."

The man in white chuckled, clearly pleased. "Now you're beginning to talk like a true duelist, Bommer," he declared, before taking out a key and unlocking the file cabinet behind him.

Inside were a number of other cards, commons and rares alike, sorted alphabetically – and judging by the sheer number of rows and columns, it seemed to be a complete collection.

"Have at it, my boy," he added with a quiet flourish.

[-]

Unsurprisingly, given his general affinity, he'd gravitated instantly toward the Machines.

There'd been a great number of Machine archetypes over the years; a fact he knew well, given that his current deck was a motley mix of three. But instead of focusing on expanding and refining one of those, another set of mechanized creatures soon caught his eye.

When he was four, he'd watched a jet shoot through the sky above their village, and found his imagination utterly captured. Ever since, whenever he was able to avoid the prying eyes of his father – which wasn't hard, since it wasn't like Chief Allpa had any clue how to block websites – he'd enjoyed looking at pictures of modern and vintage aircraft, particularly military planes.

There was a sleekness and elegance to them, a perfect marriage of form to function, that was unbelievably cool to a child growing up in the middle of nowhere. Apart from tourist helicopters they were a rare sight here, given that Peru was hardly at war with anybody, but on the rare occasions he did spot one it'd stick with him for weeks afterward.

It was why his attention had perked up when he saw the English word "Bommer": a perfect encapsulation of power, finesse, and awe-inspiring beauty all rolled up into one. And why he'd decided to keep the name, even after learning the word wasn't quite spelt that way.

Before commencing any Riding Duels, he'd tested these new cards – these "Reactors" – against a dueling program he'd pirated to his laptop, and found their playstyle immensely satisfying.

They were powerful, sure, able to counter a wide range of opposing moves and punish the opponent at a steady pace. But they required real strategy to use effectively, and a sufficiently bold adversary would be able to match it blow-for-blow in a fair match.

In short…it was exactly what Bommer needed.

Wheatley seemed to approve of the choice, though he didn't seem surprised by it. Not that Bommer could ever recall the unflinchingly cool man being surprised, but still.

Just to be certain he knew all the ins and outs of his new strategy, over the next few weeks he tried a few standing duels with his coworkers, handily winning nearly all of them. One advantage of employment at KaibaCorp was that Duel Monsters tended to count as work, rather than play.

But soon enough, for the very first time he was inserting a handful of Speed Spells into his deck and slotting the cards into the Beast. He'd be facing another unnamed VIP, a thin young man who never removed his dark-visored helmet, and Bommer found himself struggling to keep his hands from shaking.

"Nervous?" asked Wheatley, a few minutes before they were scheduled to begin their match.

"Never had a duel this…well, big, before," said Bommer, wiping sweat from his brow with a ragged cloth. "I know we've got bigwigs watching, both here and in Japan. It'd be a really great time to screw up royally."

The white-suited man waved a dismissive hand. "You shouldn't get so hung up on the end result. Win or lose, we'll get the technical data we need either way," he told him. "Just go out there and have some fun."

Bommer couldn't help but glance at his phone – from which he'd learned via texts with Max, only a few moments ago, exactly what the villagers were saying about him these days.

"Guess it's just been a while since I've had any 'fun' at all," he admitted quietly. "Sometimes…I wonder if I made the right call."

"Well, then. I think the World of Speed is exactly where you need to be," replied Wheatley with a knowing smile. "It has a way of providing…clarity. Trust me on this."

Bommer still looked a little unsure, but ultimately he nodded. "Might as well," he said. "You've never steered me wrong before."

Several minutes later, as he finally walked out onto the improvised track, he found seats had been set up on a cliff overlooking the action, filled with about two dozen KaibaCorp employees. He recognized the multi-aged trio among them, their leader holding a whispered conversation with a blond man in a mask.

When he looked again a moment later, however, the man was gone, and a bespectacled woman was sitting in his place. He signed, figuring anxiety must've been playing tricks on his eyes.

Not a good sign of how this was likely to go.

He met his opponent and shook hands, tensing over his surprisingly powerful grip. For a man more than a head shorter than him, he seemed abnormally strong.

Still, he said no more words upon mounting his own, sleekly designed D-Wheel than, "Duel!"

To Bommer's surprise, as the match began to unfold, he actually seemed to be winning the first few exchanges. The visored man's "Tech Genus" monsters had tricky effects and could be summoned en-mass very easily, but in terms of raw power they were fairly weak – and easily countered by his Summon Reactor – AI.

Soon enough, he had the first two components to his ace card on the field, and the last in his hand. With Delta Reactor already set face-down and his opponent's Life Points numbering a mere 600, all he needed was one more turn, and this game was over.

But then came the other man's final turn.

Once, twice, three time he Synchro Summoned in quick succession, drawing a card off of each thanks to one of their effects. In one moment, his entire field was wiped out, and in the next his Life Point counter ticked all the way down from 4000 to 0.

With a slow, unpleasant lurch, Bommer found his engine grinding to an anticlimactic halt.

"It was a good duel," his opponent said without looking at him, using the same, clipped monotone he'd declared all his moves in.

Then, without another word, he accelerated again, leaving Bommer and the track behind.

[-]

"I told you. The victor of that duel was essentially meaningless," stated Wheatley, as he examined a tablet full of recently gathered data. "We got what we needed, and the Board is very impressed."

"With the data?" Bommer mumbled, pulling off his helmet and staring at it dejectedly.

"With you, my boy," the other man corrected him. "You fought quite valiantly, regardless of the end result. No question it turned some heads. Important heads."

"Who do you mean?" said Bommer, his tone skeptical and muted.

Wheatley flashed his spotless white teeth, before whispering, "Would you believe…Rex Goodwin?"

Bommer's mouth fell open. He'd never met the silver-haired CEO of KaibaCorp, but of course he'd seen his face through news posts and videos many times over. He represented a new era, a better era, for untold members of Bommer's generation – one guided by science and progress, and unburdened by all the trappings that still held humanity back.

And he'd been watching him?

"The Director wishes to sponsor you personally in a series of tournaments around the world," the man in white continued on. "Culminating – should you succeed well enough, of course – with a final bout at Neo Domino's Fortune Cup. Sixteen of the world's finest duelists, competing for the chance to challenge the King of Riding Duels himself: Jack Atlas."

Bommer couldn't think of a suitable reply. He just sat there, looking back upon his mentor in a daze.

"Of course, if you do say yes, we'll have to move quickly," said Wheatley, swiping to a map and set of dates on his tablet. "Events in Beijing, Moscow, and Barcelona are scheduled over the next three weeks. I've think you've got a good shot at gold or silver in each. But it'll mean leaving Peru on a red-eye, if you want to make them all."

The young man's attention perked up. "You mean…" he murmured. "I have to go tonight?"

"In about three hours," Wheatley confirmed with a nod. "I've already taken care of the flight arrangements, and set up transport for your D-Wheel. Just pack a personal bag or two and we can be on our way."

He tilted his head slightly, the fluorescent lights of the tent reflecting off his white sunglasses. The effect was more than a bit eerie.

"That is…" he added in a lower voice. "If you do want all this."

Bommer tensed up, his throat suddenly very dry. It's true that this was, almost to the letter, exactly what he'd always dreamt of: to stand on his own two feet, a proud and strong duelist. It was an opportunity, not a handout, and with it he could seize a better future for himself, his head held up high.

And not just for himself. For Max. For Annie.

For his people. Whether or not they deserved it.

"I…I don't know what to say," he ultimately answered, completely honestly. "It's not that I'm not grateful, but…"

"It's a lot to take in, on such short notice," Wheatley finished for him, shrugging a shoulder nonchalantly. "I certainly understand. But I'm afraid there's not much to be done about it. Unless you want me to toy around with the fabric of time and space a bit."

Bommer sighed and ignored these words, as he did most of Wheatley's jokes. He'd grown to like the man, after a fashion, but he'd never met anyone with a stranger sense of humor.

"In any event, I'll leave you to ruminate," he said, crossing his arms and turning away. "The helicopter will leave at eleven o'clock sharp – whether or not you're on it. You have until then to decide."

And with that, he stepped out of the tent, leaving Bommer completely alone.

The young man continued to stare forward, simultaneously stunned and listless. Then, silently, he reached for his phone, and typed out a quick text.

Whatever he chose…

He knew there was one thing he had to do first.

[-]

It was the first time he'd seen his home in over a year.

Thanks to his siblings he knew, with rather acute detail, what his father had been saying about him to the village over all that time, and as a result he was in no hurry to be seen. He'd come late at night, on foot rather than using a jeep or his D-Wheel, and moved as silently as a man approaching three hundred pounds of pure muscle possibly could.

Fortunately, the year had done little to improve Allpa's willfully dismal understanding of technology. So it wasn't difficult for his two young children to slip away to meet his eldest, as soon as they received his text message.

It was only a few minutes before he was hugging them both tightly, almost surprised at how much he'd missed the feel of their tiny hands lacing around his.

"You've…grown," he found himself saying, rather lamely.

Annie put those adorable little fists upon her hips and puffed out her cheeks. "Well, that's what happens when you go away for a year, big brother Bommer!" she exclaimed, her words somehow both a shout and a whisper. "Why didn't you ever come back here before now?"

"I wanted to!" responded Bommer, just as quietly and just as stridently. "But, I…well, I got busy, and…"

He looked askance, not sure what he was saying. That wasn't a very good excuse.

But Max stepped in, showing his sister the latest text he'd sent to their big brother. She'd been copied on it, of course, but he seemed to think she could do with the reminder.

papa says youre a dirty trader that sold out the tribe plus some other bad words but i know hes wrong we still love you big brother bomber

Though the words were disconcerting, Bommer couldn't help the corners of his mouth from twinging a bit. Since there was obviously no Quechua language option for their phones, their texts were always in English, and the autocorrect from "traitor" to "trader" was passingly amusing.

"Papa's been saying all these mean things about him for over a year," said Max. "It was too dangerous to come here and see us. What if they, like…burnt him at the stake or something?"

Bommer chuckled briefly. "Well, I've no doubt I'm not exactly popular here right now," he told the boy. "But I think you've been watching too many American movies lately, Max."

"I don't know. It sounds like a pretty tempting idea to me," spoke a low, rumbling voice from behind them.

Bommer's blood just about turned to ice.

Knowing who the voice belonged to – for really, how could he have possibly forgotten? – didn't make turning around and confirming it any easier. Still, he wasn't quite expecting the nigh-monstrous look of fury upon Allpa's face.

Or the shotgun in his hands.

"I may not understand all your fancy technology…" his father continued, holding the firearm at the ready. More distressingly, he was flanked by a dozen other members of the tribe, all of whom held the same. "But it doesn't take too many smarts to follow after empty beds and an open window."

"Papa, don't hurt him!" yelped Annie, instinctively wrapping herself around her big brother's legs. Max did the same.

Allpa cocked his head to the side, seeming to find this curious. "That all depends on him," he said. "I've never wanted to hurt any of my children. But that doesn't mean I'll hold back if he gives me no choice."

"Sounds like a convenient excuse to me," Bommer snapped back. "Don't try to play the concerned father now. It rings hollow and you know it."

This actually seemed to wound the older man, just a little bit. But the moment was brief and fleeting.

"I tried to be a father to you. I won't pretend I was any good at it," replied the chief. "But my mistakes don't justify what you've done. What you continue to do."

"I…took…a job," growled Bommer, crossing his arms. "And no matter how hard you try to make that sound like the gravest sin of all time, I'm not sorry I did. Father, I'm happy there. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"If we all just did what made us happy, our world will collapse in a day," said Allpa, thrusting one arm out toward the desert. In that direction, there was only one thing he could be referring to. "Our people have a responsibility. A duty, to the gods. You used to understand that."

"Just because I've become a duelist…because I'm helping KaibaCorp with their research…doesn't mean I've forgotten my duty!" Bommer shouted out. "That research is doing a hell of a better job securing the Nazca Lines than we ever did! But you just can't accept that, can you? Because it would mean there might be a flaw – any flaw – in the 'ancient ways' you're so obsessed with!"

"The wisdom of our ancestors…!" the chief started to lecture, but his eldest cut him off.

"Save it. I already know the speech," he declared, fingers curling into tight fists. "That 'wisdom' is a relic, and the sooner we throw it out the better off we'll be. I care about this tribe. But it's 2026, not 1926. If we can't adapt to the modern world, we die. It's that simple!"

"If we do as you say, and lose our soul as a people, then we might as well be dead," said Allpa, who didn't flinch even slightly. "That's why we must resist the outsiders at every turn. Even one who wears our face."

Bommer hadn't expected that one to sting as much as it did. He tried not to let it show on his face, however – not wanting to give his father the satisfaction.

"And I guess that 'resistance' includes sabotage and vandalism?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. "Yeah, don't try to act blameless in all of this. Those 'outsiders' have as much a right to be here as we do. They've done nothing to us. And this is how we respond?"

Bommer coaxed his trembling siblings away from his legs and took a step forward. Several of his father's cohorts readied their weapons in response.

At the moment, he didn't care.

"You have any idea how much you cost KaibaCorp in property damage? How close so many people came to getting hurt?" he continued, now on a roll. "Hell, I bet the ones who did it are right in front of me. Who was it, huh? Was it you, Awawi? How about you, Mikuhna?"

All of these people, to a man – or a woman, in a couple cases – were ones he'd known all his life. People he'd grown up with. People who, at one time or another, were friends and brothers and sisters to him.

People who, right now, were looking at him like some kind of stranger.

"They won't answer you," said Allpa, his deep baritone resonating. "I've told them your lips have contracted the diseased words of the outsiders. A disease that, like many, is spread far too easily to those who lack immunity. And a disease that, I'm sad to say…seems to have no cure."

The chief raised his gun.

"I won't shoot you. Because whatever else you've become…you are still my son," he told the younger man. "But you are also a traitor. And that is the one thing our tribe cannot countenance."

Then, without further notice, he pumped the shotgun and fired a warning shot into the ground.

"Leave, now. Leave and never return," ordered the chief. "And tell your new masters likewise. Because so long as they occupy the lands of our ancestors, we will have retribution. Over and over and over. For as long as it takes."

Bommer's eyes darted aside, to his terrified siblings. They'd been a fair distance away from the impact of the gunshot, but the sound had clearly paralyzed them in shock.

"I won't abandon my family," he said, ignoring that he'd originally come here to do something very much along those lines. "At least…the only family who didn't abandon me first."

Allpa ignored the insult, instead reaching forward and grabbing both of his younger children by the forearm. "Come along," he commanded them in a raised whisper. "You have no more reason to be here."

But Max and Annie seemed determined not to go – or at least, not to go quietly. They kicked and screamed unintelligibly to try and extricate themselves from their father's grip, but he didn't release them. Instead, his hands darted down into their pockets, digging for only a few seconds before emerging with his prize: their paired smartphones.

The children had only a split-second to scream in protest before the devices were thrown roughly to the ground, and then crushed beneath their father's heel.

"I've sat by and allowed you two to be corrupted long enough," he murmured, his face looking as if he'd just squashed a particularly disgusting bug. "One of my children may be beyond my reach…but I won't lose all three."

"Don't you dare take them away from me," said Bommer with a snarl – even as his father seemed in the midst of doing precisely that. "I won't let you!"

"You're the one who made this choice. Now, you'll just have to live with it," Chief Allpa stated coldly. "Goodbye, 'Bommer.' For your sake…I hope we never see each other again."

It was the first, and last time, that his father ever used his name.

[-]

Several weeks later, Bommer was sitting in the player's lounge in Barcelona, Spain, and trying very hard to keep his overlarge body from sweating profusely.

He'd wound up placing second in Beijing, but only fourth in Moscow – well enough that he was still in the running for the Fortune Cup, but nowhere near well enough to take it for granted. If he didn't impress at this third event, the likelihood that he'd be making it to a fourth was decidedly remote.

Wheatley had needed to stay in Peru to continue organizing the research effort, though he kept up a steady string of encouraging texts and vaguely disturbing GIFs. Still, without any familiar faces – even a half-hidden one – Bommer found himself feeling decidedly alone.

It would've helped, of course, if he could still correspond with his siblings. Even if it'd just been to tell him whatever new bullshit their father was accusing him of in the village square, just hearing their voices or seeing their adorable misspellings had gotten him through a lot of crappy days.

But it seemed they hadn't yet managed to find themselves new phones, so Bommer had to content himself with crossing his fingers, and hoping they were alright.

"Penny for your thoughts, young man?" asked a voice so deep, Bommer had to do a double-take to make sure his father hadn't just followed him halfway across the world.

And then had to do a second double-take when he realized who it was.

Because standing right there, in the doorway to the lounge, was unmistakably Rex Goodwin.

"I was told by one of our agents that you miss your siblings terribly. I can relate to that," he said, taking a seat down beside Bommer – as if they were somehow equals. "Still, hold onto the hope that you can see them again someday. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow…but in time, there will be hope. It's more than I'm afforded, at least."

Bommer had no response but to continue opening and closing his mouth like an idiot, unsure of what to say. It was like suddenly finding yourself in a room with Bill Gates or Yugi Muto; any attempts at small talk seemed almost insulting, in the face of a man like this.

That didn't seem to be stopping Goodwin, however. "I watched your championship match at Cup Nikiforov," the Director went on, lacing his white-gloved fingers together. "An excellent duel overall. You would've taken second again if not for…"

"Forgot to activate Genex Neutron's search effect in my End Phase. Yeah, I know," interjected Bommer with a long, disappointed sigh. "It's an optional effect, so it was my own damn fault."

"You can't expect perfect play from yourself at all times. Particularly at only your second tournament," Goodwin told him. "And how a duelist responds to a narrow loss is often more instructive than his actions in victory. I think you have a future with us."

"With…With KaibaCorp?" said Bommer, hating the hitch in his voice.

A small smile appeared on the Director's face. "For now," he answered quietly.

About half a minute passed in dense, uncomfortable silence, before Bommer finally worked up the nerve to ask, "I'm grateful you'd take the time to speak with someone like me, Director…but is that all you came to say?"

The silver-haired man slowly turned to him, his expression an impassive mask.

"I've been wondering about your people for some time," he replied. "Can you tell me more about the People of the Stars?"

"They're not the People of the Stars," Bommer declared emphatically, before his expression became downcast. "And…I'm not sure they're really 'my' people anymore."

"You can never fully divest yourself from the place you came from. This, I guarantee you," said Goodwin, suddenly sounding rather distant. "Regardless, young man, I have but one question to ask. How long do you think they'll continue to harass our researchers?"

Bommer frowned, a pit forming in his stomach. Even if it wasn't him doing these acts, he still felt responsible.

"Honestly…I don't think they'll ever stop," he explained with a sigh. "Especially as long as my father remains chief. He never changes his mind. Never."

"I see…" muttered Goodwin, folding his hands together again. "Well, if we can't alter the circumstances, then I suppose we'll just have to adapt to them. Thank you for that, young man. You've been a big help."

"I, err…don't really feel like I did anything, sir," stated Bommer, shifting a bit in his seat.

But Goodwin just adopted that same small, mysterious smile. Or, perhaps not – upon further examination, there didn't seem to be any humor in it.

Just something else Bommer was completely unable to read.

"Your match will be starting in about ten minutes. I suggest you head to the tracks," said Goodwin, his attention now upon his videophone – one far more advanced than the long-outdated smartphones they had back in the village. "We will be watching."

Once again, Bommer got the sense the Director didn't just mean KaibaCorp.

[-]

The moment Bommer left the room, Rex Goodwin pressed a button on the phone and dialed a familiar number.

As always, it only took a single ring for Wheatley Yuraq's grinning face to appear upon the screen.

"You have my permission," Rex intoned, careful to let no trace of doubt or uncertainty leak out in his voice. "Commence the experiment."

[-]

The greatest flaw in the nameless people's strategy of guarding the Nazca Lines – although there were many – was that they remained ignorant of one, simple fact.

That the Jibakushin had already escaped nearly fifteen years ago.

To be fair, only seven gods had managed the feat; the seven whose consciousnesses had been most completely formed by the end of the last war. The rest remained sealed, forever bound in a state of primal and insatiable hunger.

Of those seven, six were powerful enough to immediately transfer themselves into the æther, waiting patiently for proper host-bodies. Uru, forever the advanced planner, selected its avatar immediately, and in the intervening years the monkey and lizard had managed to join it.

But the giant, hummingbird, and condor were all still out there somewhere, biding their time.

Of course, that still left one last god. Practically a child, by the Jibakushin's standards. The King of the Underworld gradually nursed its offspring to full sapience as they aged, and the one in question had a consciousness but days old when it was sealed.

It had never taken part in battle; never held conference with its fellow gods; never sampled the sweet, delectable taste of a mortal soul. But though it lacked the knowledge or experience of its "older siblings"…there was no question it was their peer in power.

And now, it too was free.

With nothing binding it to the Earth-plane and no greater idea what to do with itself, the god had spent the intervening years swimming through the desert sands, invisible to all but those who could truly See. Despite his arrogance and bluster, Chief Allpa did not qualify.

In truth, above anything else, the real purpose of KaibaCorp's research mission was to track and contain the young god's movements. It was something all of Yliaster took notice of – albeit, for varying reasons.

After all, for this all to unfold properly…both Rex Goodwin, and the false god styling himself ZONE, needed to believe they were masters of their own destinies.

Not the pawns they both truly were.

The man in white tapped several times upon his tablet, transmitting Rex's "orders" throughout the research facility. The plan had actually been his originally, of course; most were. But it wasn't difficult to make someone so tangled up in self-denial believe just one more lie.

Rex was getting desperate, he knew. Rudger's deadline was fast approaching, and while he'd identified most of the Signers he was far from assembling them into any kind of cohesive team. The Director had been a researcher long before he'd been a businessman or politician, and right now the Crimson Dragon represented an unacceptable quandary of unknowns.

If they could make it appear without needing all the Signers in one place, then so much the better. All these months spent traipsing through the Peruvian desert, ultimately, came down to making that happen.

For that was the researcher's ethos: that if something can be observed, then it can be interfered with.

And if it can be interfered with, then it can be controlled.

The plan was simple: to engineer a situation where the Akaki Ryu had no choice but to intervene. It'd stepped in numerous times in days of old, after all, to save the People of the Stars from the wicked gods. Why not their descendants?

It was a fool's errand, of course. But one "Wheatley" was perfectly happy to facilitate. In the end, it would all help hasten along his own agenda.

In a remote research outpost, a short distance away from the Nazca Lines, several men flipped switches and carefully adjusted dials.

And in doing so…

Signed the death-warrants of four hundred people.

[-]

Hunger. Hunger. Hunger. Hunger. Hunger…

It was all It felt. All It had ever felt.

It remembered Awakening. A timeless process. It had no idea how long it had lasted, but It thought mortals would consider it a very long time.

Mortals…Its prey. It knew they were Its prey, because Its King had told It so. But It had never even seen one. Never gotten the opportunity, before…before…

All was…Darkness. An eternity bound beneath the earth. Cast down for something It barely even understood.

And yet something that every fiber of It ached to do.

They had only one purpose: to consume. To destroy. To ready this blighted, worthless World for the King's ascension.

But It knew not how. The Dragon, Their hated enemy, came too quickly; came before It ever learned to hunt.

It knew nothing but to swim on. Watching. Waiting.

So hungry…

Then…something. It knew too little of this World to describe it. But it called to It.

A ring of light. Piercing the ethereal plane, like few things could. Lighting the way.

A beacon. A pathway.

It followed.

Something was escribed within the light. Smaller objects. What were they called? It could not remember.

They were…They were…houses. That was the word. But what were they for?

Suddenly, one opened. Two more figures, even tinier, emerged. These, It could not mistake.

Mortals. The "houses" contained mortals.

Finally. It was time.

It descended.

[-]

Bommer readied himself to mount his D-Wheel, staring shrewdly at his opponent. A famed European duelist by the name of Breo Athos.

There was a good chance this was going to be his toughest match yet. He needed to concentrate.

Just as he thought those words, the cell phone in his pocket buzzed to life. Instinctively, despite where he was, he took it out and looked at the caller ID. And very nearly dropped it to the ground.

It was his father.

Allpa had a phone, technically, but Bommer had never actually seen him use it. He'd all but forgotten he'd even stored the man's number in here.

A moment later, however, the initial surprise gave way to anger. What business did that bastard have calling him? Especially on a day as important as this?

Whatever it was, it could wait until after the match.

Bommer silenced the device.

[-]

About an hour later, Bommer returned to the player's lounge, all but walking on air.

It'd been a close game, coming down to a difference of a mere 100 Life Points, but it'd netted him his first-ever tournament win. A couple more high finishes in next month's contests in Toronto, Paris, and New York, and he'd be a shoe-in for the Fortune Cup.

Plus, it didn't hurt that he seemed to have the personal attention of the man running that tournament.

Riding high on his victory, Bommer found himself cracking open a bottled of expensive European beer the organizers had graciously left for all contestants. He didn't typically imbibe, but this certainly seemed like an appropriate occasion to cut loose a little.

Besides, it was a fun way of sticking it to his father a little more; the man strictly forbade alcohol in his home, reasoning that they must always be watchful for signs from the evil gods.

That stray thought reminded Bommer of the earlier phone call, and he sighed as he pulled his smartphone out of his pocket and scrolled to his call history. He didn't much feel like hearing from the man right now, but he supposed it couldn't hurt to see if he'd left a message.

It seemed he had. Shrugging his shoulders, and deciding there was no possible way even that wretched excuse of a man could ruin today, he pressed "Play."

Hi big brother Bommer! I stole papa's phone which I know is super bad but I reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally needed to talk to you!

Bommer paused the voicemail, stunned. That was clearly Annie's voice.

But while he might've expected this kind of thing from Max – the boy, while good-hearted, also had a distinct talent for mischief – Annie was another story. What could've happened to make his angelic little sister resort to theft?

He resumed the playback, no longer smiling.

There's something super super super super weird going on. The desert's gotten all glow-y and a bunch of people are running around screaming. And papa, he's…he's…

Bommer brought the phone closer to his face, as he heard a distinct hitch in his sister's voice.

He's not moving…

The duelist sucked in a heavy breath as she paused again, and didn't release it.

And now Max ran off to find someone to help and I can't see him I can't see anybody what's going on help me help help help big brother Bom-

The line abruptly went dead.

In an instant Bommer was on his feet, his breathing shallow and his heart pounding audibly. With sharp jabs at the touchscreen he dialed back Allpa's number, trying to force his body back to calm so that he could hear something more than the blood pumping through his ears.

But all he heard was a cool, automated voice saying, "Hello. Your call could not be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try again."

Driven by panic rather than rationality, he punched the number right back in.

"Hello. Your call could not be completed as dialed. Please h-"

Again.

"Hello. Your call could n-"

Again.

"Hello. Y-"

"Arrrrrrgh!" growled Bommer, throwing the phone to the ground. The screen cracked, but he didn't care.

He forced himself to think through this logically, though it took an almost inhuman amount of effort. All he knew right now was something was going on in his home village. Something that'd reduced his baby sister to incoherent screaming.

Bommer shuddered uncontrollably. He could still hear the echoes of her final screech reverberating across his mind.

He wasn't sure what to do. But he knew there was only one way to find out.

[-]

Within a few minutes the titanic duelist was storming KaibaCorp's Spanish headquarters, located just a few blocks away from the dueling arena.

Marching straight toward the reception desk, he slammed down his ID badge and said in clipped, accented English, "My name is Bommer. I work for KaibaCorp as a sponsored duelist. I need to go home. Now."

The receptionist, a silver-haired young man who looked vaguely familiar, examined him coolly. Then he picked up the badge, punched some of the data from it into his computer, and typed away for a while.

Eventually, without turning to face his guest at all, he responded, "Ah, there you are. Yes, everything checks out. But if by 'home' you mean Peru, then I don't think there's much I can do for you."

Bommer's mouth fell open slightly. "H…How can you say that?" he demanded, mouth agape. "If it's about money, you can pay it out of my share of the tournament winnings. I don't care. I just need you or someone to help me set up the flight…"

But the receptionist held up a hand to cut him off.

"I'm afraid that your file indicates you recently signed a five-year contract with KaibaCorp. And the terms don't permit you to engage in unauthorized travel during an active dueling season," he informed him, his voice toneless and unemotional. "That's why you cannot go. You can appeal to your branch manager, but I guarantee you'll get the same response."

The receptionist printed out a list of contact numbers and handed them off to him disinterestedly, before turning back to his work. Bommer was too anxious to be upset at the abrupt brushoff.

Instead, he scanned the names until he found one that almost made his heart leap out of his chest. Quickly, he darted into a side hallway and – thankful that his phone was still working, despite the broken screen – dialed the number next to the very familiar name.

Wheatley Yuraq.

He picked up after a single ring. "Well, well. Just who I was expecting to hear from," he said, Bommer almost able to hear his trademark grin even if he couldn't see it. "I saw the news of your glorious victory on my feed. Well done, my boy."

"This isn't about that," Bommer replied hastily, brushing off the compliment. "Look, could you do me a huge favor?"

There was a brief pause, then, "Why…anything for you, my brilliant star."

"My…My village. I…think something might've happened there," he eventually managed to mutter. "Even if it didn't, I won't be able to sleep until I'm sure. And you're the only person I trust enough to check."

A longer pause. Long enough that Bommer's face began to drip with sweat.

Finally, however, Wheatley said, "Of course. I have business in that area anyway. I'll do my best to look into things."

Bommer breathed a long sigh of relief. "Thank the gods," he whispered into the cracked receiver. "You don't know how much this means to me."

[-]

"Oh, trust me," remarked the man in white, after he'd hung up the line. "I very much do."

Then he lowered the tablet, and looked out upon the ruins of the killer whale's rampage.

Homes had been reduced to rubble. The ground itself was cracked and torn asunder. And the people…

The last descendants of the People of the Stars were no more. Nestled – man, woman, and child alike – in the cavernous belly of Chacu Challhua.

Smiling ear to ear, "Wheatley" prepared an email to respond to the young duelist, but didn't send it right away. He'd give the boy a few days to squirm, first. Just to twist the knife that little extra bit.

Besides…

The message would have so much more impact with some pictures to attach.

Bommer, I didn't believe you until I went there, but what you said is true. It's tragic. May they rest in peace.

[-]

Bommer sat in his dressing room in Toronto, Canada, tears streaming messily down his face.

The woman managing the contestants for this particular tournament had asked him to report to the dueling field ten minutes ago, but he wasn't in the mood to move an inch.

Each and every image Wheatley had sent along – nearly fifty in all – still replayed across his mind, until they were all he could see.

Places he'd known all his life growing up. The fields his father farmed. The well the entire village used for drinking water. The makeshift garage where he'd built his first D-Wheel.

All in ruins. Broken down, burned to ash, and…and all of it…

All of it, abandoned. Like no human had lived there for thousands of years.

The grief he felt was beyond words. Denied them. Denied anything but this raw, pulsing, unending hurt…

His hands were bleeding from how tightly he was squeezing his chair, but he didn't care. He didn't care about anything.

Anything, except about how this was all his fault.

Bommer wasn't stupid. He could put two and two together. Somehow, KaibaCorp's experiments – the experiments he had helped to facilitate – into the mysteries of the old gods had…had…

There was no other explanation. Wheatley hadn't denied it, when he demanded answers through choked sobs. Perhaps that betrayal hurt most of all.

But no betrayal was more devastating, more heartwrenching…than his own. Much as he hated to admit it, Allpa had been right all along.

He'd been seduced by the allure of a future KaibaCorp could give him. Of a future he could make for himself. And stubbornly refused to see the warning signs along the way.

And now Max…Annie…all his people…

They'd paid the price for his foolishness.

Bommer buried his face in his hands. Wishing, with all his heart and soul, that he'd been there. That he'd never abandoned the one place he ever could've belonged. Maybe he hadn't found his purpose there yet, but if he'd just been a little more patient…

He didn't deserve to be here, the sole survivor. He didn't deserve to live, while they were dust in the wind.

He didn't…He didn't…

Bommer let loose a violent, guttural scream, not caring who heard. Not caring about anything anymore.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

Whoever it was, they were clearly used to being important, because they only waited half a second before unlocking and pushing open the door themselves.

Cutting through the haze of his sorrow, Bommer was shocked to come face-to-face with Rex Goodwin for the second time in the space of a week.

But shock gave way quickly to fury. Here was the head of the very company that'd just taken away everything from him. And he dared to come see him now? To flaunt that the two of them were alive and well, while Max and Annie were…

Before he could voice any of these largely incoherent rantings, however, the silver-haired Director had begun to speak.

"You have a match to get to, young man. I'm sure you were already informed," he said, his tones reverberating with quiet authority. "If you aren't on the field in five minutes, they'll be forced to declare your opponent the victor by default."

"I don't care," mumbled Bommer, trying to wipe his eyes and nose upon his massive forearm and not altogether succeeding. "It doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters…"

"Personal business is for personal time," Goodwin declared impatiently, cutting him off. "Whatever has brought you to this breakdown can be addressed after the duel. But right now, you are on KaibaCorp's payroll."

Despite everything, Bommer found himself gaping at the CEO's callousness.

"Now, come along," he ordered the younger man. "We have other matters to discuss on the way."

With his mind in such turmoil, Bommer was unable to stop himself from being led by the arm out of the dressing room, wincing as he did. While the Director was nearly a foot shorter than him and far more slenderly built, he had a grip like an iron vice.

"I considered telling you this in Barcelona…but I decided to wait until I could be sure of your qualifications. Your victory there convinced me," he said. "Since I am all but certain you'll be a contestant in the Fortune Cup next year, I believe it's finally time for you to learn."

"To learn what?" asked Bommer, his lips barely moving.

Goodwin stopped in his tracks, and stared at him shrewdly. Then, in a toneless voice, he answered, "The truth."

The Director resumed his vigorous pace, pulling Bommer along with seemingly no effort.

"Since the beginning of human civilization, we have been its guardians. Its protectors, from the forces that wish to plunge it into Chaos," he explained to the younger man. "We are the true owners of KaibaCorp, and the true masters of this world. We…are Yliaster."

He didn't bother to glance toward Bommer for his reaction, nor break his stride as he continued, "All that we do – all that we have ever done – has been for the express purpose of uniting the Signers, and saving the planet from the Darkness that encroaches upon it. Really, it's a relief to finally be speaking to someone who knows what the Signers are. You should understand more than anyone that the Crimson Dragon must be summoned, at any cost."

Something about the way he'd said that made Bommer narrow his eyes. "At any cost?" he repeated quietly.

Goodwin met his glare at full force, without a single trace of doubt in his silver-blue eyes, and said, "At any cost."

Bommer just stood there, frozen in place, his eyes bulging. To him, it was as good as a confession. A confession to…to…

But before he could vocalize anything, Goodwin was speaking again.

"Of course, we intend to make it worth your while," he added, his arms now crossed behind his back. "The true purpose of the Fortune Cup is to assemble and uncover the Signers. If you will assist us in that goal, I can promise significant aid to your village. Food, water, technology. Not to mention forgiveness of their occasional…indiscretions."

If Bommer had been stunned before, those words caused him nearly to collapse. Was it possible Rex Goodwin didn't even know? That the experiment – to bring back the Crimson Dragon, it seemed – had been carried out by underlings, without his knowledge?

But then the young duelist took another look at the Director's eyes, and instantly he knew. There wasn't a goddamned thing his company did that Goodwin wasn't capable of being privy to.

And for an operation of this scale?

Goodwin was lying to his face right now, and didn't bear a shred of guilt over it.

Bommer's first instinct, of course, was to confront the Director. He'd never been a man of great subtlety, and that was under normal circumstances.

Not after his people – his family – had all been stolen from him.

But he mastered that impulse. If Goodwin didn't know he knew about his duplicity, then for once…for once…he had the advantage.

Here was his chance to learn all he needed to take his revenge. To make Goodwin suffer. To make KaibaCorp suffer. To make those "Yliaster" bastards suffer.

The way Max and Annie had.

It would require diving deeper into their web of lies and corruption. But perhaps, that could be his penance.

The least he owed all those he'd failed to save.

In that moment, Bommer made his choice.

"Tell me more," he said.