Over the years, I've built my own history for the YGO universe. I suppose it's the natural order of things, for a "creative" fan to do such things. I suppose I've always done this. When I have a question about a story, about a character or a plot point or a setting, and don't get an answer from the author…I tend to answer it myself.

That, I think, is the true fun of fanfiction. If you don't know something, or don't like something, or want to see what happens when you change something, about a series you love…you can do it.

I've done it. At the least, I've tried.

Case in point…


The ironic part of it was, at first he was normal. The man about whom people wrote papers and articles and even a handful of books—in spite of the fact that he was only twenty years old—had been normal once.

Not in the classic sense of the word; he'd always had an incredible memory, and he'd always been advanced. He'd always been calm and collected, relatively speaking. He'd been a quiet boy, content to read and play board games against himself, enthralled with his education and determined to get the most out of it.

He'd always been a genius.

But he'd been normal, too. He would wait on baited breath for his mother to pick him up, and he would hug her with all the strength his thin arms could muster, and he would always be at his most animated as he told her what he'd learned that day.

Yagami Yuki would always listen patiently as her son bombarded her with information, the vast majority of which couldn't have come from his teacher—he'd done the research on his own during recess in the library—and for a wonder she could follow it. She would ask him questions to clarify certain points, and he would grin as he told her the answer like it was some kind of trivia competition.

She would hug him, ruffle his hair, and call him her little miracle.

Neither of them saw Yagami Kohaku very much during the week. He worked two jobs. Out the door by 6 AM, back home by 7 PM. Just in time to join the family for dinner, sit down with his wife for a while, stare blankly at his son's latest perfect score, and fall into an exhausted sleep. Yuki wasn't fond of the situation, but she knew what her husband could be. Knew what he could do. He was a provider, and he was horrible when it came to social niceties. He was awkward, gruff, blunt. Almost apathetic.

And if he ever felt insulted, his anger was palpable.

She kept him sane. She kept him grounded. Kohaku didn't really know what to do with the boy who shared his blood and his name. He would smile when Seto came home with straight As, and he would talk about him with his coworkers, wondering where the boy got that kind of brain from, 'cuz it sure as hell wasn't from him. He was proud of the boy. And in his own way, he loved the boy. But he couldn't express it for the life of him, no matter how often he tried.

And the problem was, Seto was too smart not to notice just how bad his father was when he tried.

Kohaku left Yuki to handle their progeny, because he didn't know what else to do. It was this, perhaps more than anything, that made Seto Yagami normal. He loved his mother, and he missed his father. He revered his mother, and he respected his father.

The ironic part of it was, the very things that made him normal contributed to what made him into such an anomaly. Because he loved his mother, he was crushed when she died. And because he missed his father, he was heartbroken when he died. But because he revered his mother, he strove to live in her image. And because he respected his father, he refused to let those lessons fade.

"Do you hate your father?" Detective Darren McKinley asked, one day when they sat outside the Kaiba-Corp building, watching Mokuba give a demonstration to Rebecca Hawkins and Connor Brinkley on how to walk like a ninja—why he was doing this, nobody bothered to ask.

"No," Seto said flatly.

Darren raised an eyebrow, looking legitimately surprised. "No? You, the Misanthrope of the Century?"

It was a joke…but only slightly. Seto didn't rise to the bait, nor did he seem affronted by it. He simply gestured to the children and said, "Regardless of anything I think of the man…I can't deny his involvement. Without him, I…"

He didn't finish the sentence, but Darren could read it in his face.

Without him, I wouldn't have my little miracle.