It is November. I just finished a midterm a couple of hours ago, I'm behind on my NaNoWriMo project, I have a 20-page research paper due in a handful of weeks, I just got back into World of Warcraft, I'm broke, and I've been watching far too much YouTube.
Life is good.
Just because I'm busy doesn't mean I don't have time for fun. When I was struck by this idea a while back, I told myself I'd write it down as soon as I had some spare time. Well, I came across said spare time this morning, and so here I am.
This is the 95th chapter of the "Paved with Good Intentions" series, and the first time I've actively written the Kaiba brothers in quite a while.
I hope you enjoy it.
"I don't know" was a euphemism.
Mokuba Kaiba heard those three words in direct sequence so rarely that they had long since become red flags; he'd grown up under the impression that his Niisama knew everything, which meant, of course, he never had to use those words. So, on the sparse handful of occasions he did, Mokuba knew that Seto was lying; he did know, but didn't want to admit it.
"Is God real, or are the grown-ups just lying?"
"I don't know, Mokie."
"How come Otousama made you work so hard?"
"I don't know, Mokuba."
"What do you think made Siegfried von Schroeder try and kill me?"
"I don't know, little one."
It was Seto's way of maintaining what little innocence his little brother had left; not because he didn't think Mokuba would be able to handle it, but because he was afraid that Mokuba very well could. Seto didn't want an eleven-year-old boy—his eleven-year-old boy—knowing how to process this level of ugliness.
Mokuba didn't have the heart to tell his brave, tortured Niisama that he already knew the answers to those questions when he asked them—or, at least, he had a good guess what answers Seto would give him. When he heard "I don't know," the younger Kaiba let it go.
He would pout, or make a sarcastic joke, or sigh, but he wouldn't ask again.
"You look rather disgustingly pleased with yourself."
The big man called himself an enforcer; he fancied himself a guard, a warrior and a spy. A victim. He was strong, in a bull-headed sort of way, and did what he had to do in order to survive in a world that didn't understand him. Or some such bullshit.
The big man thought he was Seto Kaiba.
Roland Ackerman knew better than anyone else that this man—if that, in fact, was the right word—named Saruwatari was no Seto Kaiba.
The smirk on Saruwatari's face, which revealed too many spit-shining teeth, made Roland physically ill.
"You'd do well not to underestimate me, sir. You should have known the charges wouldn't stick. I have…resources."
Roland rolled his shoulders and his eyes. "Mm. Yes. Better not to underestimate a big, strong man who resorts to kidnapping children because he's too physically inept to do anything better." Saruwatari's grin faded into a scowl. "On Crawford's island, you managed to get your ass handed to you by a fifteen-year-old boy not once, but twice. Then you resurface, bigger and badder than ever, and have a repeat performance against eighteen-year-old boys. Truly, you are a force to be respected."
Saruwatari had had to have reconstructive surgery to fix his face after his last confrontation with the Kaiba family; he was scarred and distorted. He was a man worthy of Frankenstein's monster.
Roland looked bored. He hated the cliché of meeting his old enemy in a back alley behind an abandoned apartment complex, but he'd had no choice; he couldn't afford to be picky about his venue. Not for this job.
Roland said: "You have two strikes against you."
Saruwatari's smirk returned, and he chuckled. It was raspy, gravelly. "Here to warn me, boss? One more strike and I'm out?"
"No. I don't believe in three strikes. Twice you've endangered the life and welfare of a child under my protection. The last time a man proved stupid enough to do that, he died. I trust you remember."
"Ooh. Threatening me, are you? Are you sure that's a good idea?"
Roland glanced around the alley, wondering how many people were watching from the shadows. He directed his next statement to them: "Whatever connections you have, Saruwatari, are beneath my concern. If they're stupid and pathetic enough to stand against the Kaiba family to defend you, after you've failed twice to emerge victorious in a skirmish against children, then they deserve whatever they get."
"…Don't get in over your head, Ackerman," Saruwatari growled.
It was Roland's turn to smirk. "Don't call me that. I don't like it."
He reached into his coat.
Mokuba cornered Roland some days later, and said, "Vince was talking to Niisama, and he said Saruwatari got off. He's out of prison. Nobody knows where he went to. He's…gone. Off the face of the earth."
Roland's face remained composed; he didn't feel the need to hide his satisfaction at this line of conversation, but neither did he feel the need to comment on it. He said, "Are you worried, Young Master? Would you like me to speak with Master Kaiba about keeping you home from school for a while?"
The black-haired boy shook his head. "No. That's okay. If I do that, it just means he wins. Right?" He turned his eyes away, looking far more apprehensive than his voice let on, and Roland felt a certain rush of vindication.
The boy looked up at Roland again; his grey-violet eyes were vulnerable. "Where do you think he went?"
Roland shrugged.
"I don't know."
