This is probably going to be my last time discussing Mokuba's performance at work for a while. It's an important topic, owing to his recent trauma, but I've looked at it from a number of angles now. So I think I'm going to be switching gears after this one. That's the glory of a collection like this.

That said…this last one is a bit different.

We all have rituals. Sometimes, we might not even be aware of them. But each of us have certain things that we do at certain times. Maybe it's a holiday that we always spend with family. Maybe it's that weekend we always spend with friends. Maybe it's that table at a restaurant that we always use. Whatever rituals we have, they're important to us. Some of them, we might share with others.

Some of them are private.


"I'm not saying I don't understand that they have engagements outside of work," Vincent Zika said, "but it has been kind of excessive lately. Mister Kaiba's been leaving early, coming in late, and the vice-president…I mean, come on, Roland. Even you have to admit this is getting…irresponsible."

"I don't have to admit anything," Roland all but growled. Helen Aarden, who was sitting in the backseat, started to speak. Roland cut her off: "I don't want to hear another word on this subject. You are accompanying me in order to see, and understand, something of particular importance. I will not discuss the performances of the Kaiba brothers. They are my concern. Now shut up."

Roland's silver Ford Ranger pulled into the parking lot of a small, nondescript Christian church. He got out of the vehicle without another word, leaving Vincent and Helen to follow, giving each other incredulous, exasperated looks. All three of them were dressed for business, and so they did not look the slightest bit out of place as they stepped inside. Roland nodded to someone, presumably a worker or volunteer, as he made his way down a short hallway and opened a set of double-doors. Still he did not speak.

Roland led the other two into a compact cemetery. The mood instantly became somber, as both Vincent and Helen realized what was going on. After only walking a short way, Roland stopped cold. He gestured for his companions to do the same.

In front of them, sitting cross-legged in front of a small, unobtrusive grave-marker, was Mokuba Kaiba. He was dressed in a rumpled black suit. He was talking animatedly, but it was impossible to mistake the somber, barely-contained grief behind the wooden smile on his face.

He was holding something delicately in his thin hands, which were lying in his lap.

His brother stood behind him, dressed similarly in stark black, hands in his pockets and his eyes far off in the distance. There was no grief in his face; only a calm sort of irritation. His eyes flicked over to Roland and the others, but he did not speak.

There was a warning in his cobalt eyes, however. Roland needn't have gestured for Vincent or Helen to stay where they were anymore. Those eyes were all the barrier needed. Those eyes said that anyone who dared interrupt this ritual would soon have a grave-marker of their own.

"…school," Mokuba was saying. "Her name is Rebecca. She's been really nice to me. You didn't meet her. Niisama didn't invite her to Battle City, but I bet she would've been a finalist if she'd gone. She's really good." The black-haired boy gave a nervous sort of chuckle that almost sounded like a sob. "She said…she'd give me lessons, if I wanted."

"Oh, God…" Helen whispered.

Vincent closed his eyes and lowered his head.

"Kaiba Gozaburo had one biological child," Roland murmured softly. "His trueborn heir, he liked to say. The boy's name was Noa. Some years ago, Master Kaiba and Young Master Mokuba discovered this. Master Kaiba never took much notice. Young Master Mokuba…did. Every year, on the anniversary of Noa's death, they take a personal day. Master Kaiba says nothing. He lets his brother do the talking."

"Did you like school?" Mokuba asked. "I bet you had private tutors and stuff like that, huh? Niisama did. Huh, Niisama?" He looked up at his brother, who gave a curt nod. Mokuba turned back to the marker. "Your favorite subject was prob'ly Math, huh? Maybe Science. I like English. My old school called it Language Arts. What did you guys call it? I bet you read all sorts of old books. Shakespeare and stuff."

There was no particular rhyme nor reason to anything the young Kaiba was saying. He seemed to be spilling out everything he'd ever thought onto that grave. He talked about school for a while longer; his friends; he mentioned Yugi Mutou and Joey Wheeler. He mentioned Tristan Taylor. He gave an extremely clipped version of what had happened in Siegfried von Schroeder's mansion, and it was here that Seto made his only visible reaction: he tensed, his jaw clenched, and he drew in a sharp breath. Mokuba seemed to notice, because he quickly changed the subject.

Twenty minutes passed this way. Mokuba didn't seem to notice that anyone else was listening to his monologue, which grew more and more emotional as he kept going. By the time Seto finally knelt down and put a hand on his brother's shoulder, Mokuba was crying openly.

Seto gave the boy's shoulder a squeeze, whispered something, and Mokuba nodded with a sniff. He laid the object in his lap—which turned out to be a white lily—onto the marker. Both Kaibas stood. Mokuba bit his lower lip before he said, "…Bye, Noa. Take care of your dad…wherever he is. Let him know…let him know it's okay." He drew in a deep breath. "…I love you."

Seto lifted one hand out of a pocket, and Mokuba took hold of it as they began to walk back toward the church. When Mokuba saw the three people watching, a look of instantly recognizable betrayal met his eyes, and his face reddened.

Roland bowed his head. "…Pardon the intrusion, sirs."

Seto closed his eyes. "Go on inside and wait for me, little one. I'll catch up."

Mokuba licked his lips nervously, but he nodded. "Yes, Niisama."

And he left.

Once the door shut behind the younger Kaiba brother, the elder cut Roland off before he could speak again: "I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear a word out of any of you. Not an explanation, not an apology, not a single platitude or condemnation. I want you to go back to whatever vehicle led you here, I want you to go home, and I want you to think long and hard on whether invading my brother's privacy is worth your jobs. I don't care one fraction of a fucking iota what you think about this situation or how much it's detracting from our work. Overstep your boundaries one more time and I swear by whatever God to whom you direct your prayers at night, I'll make the rest of your waking days into living nightmares. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

They didn't answer, not even by nodding their heads. There was no mistaking the look on Seto's face. This was no idle threat. So they parted to let him pass, and turned around to leave themselves, wondering when they would regain the courage to approach him again.

It was ridiculous, they told themselves. Even Roland told himself that it was absolutely ludicrous to be frightened of a nineteen-year-old. It was offensive to be threatened by a teenager, and abhorrent to realize they believed it. They had earned their positions, they told themselves; their concerns were valid; they were right. They knew they were right.

But all they could remember were those eyes. That pyroclasm of disgusted fury.

And little Mokuba, choking back tears, saying "I love you" to a boy he'd never met.