I don't really have words to describe what the hell this is, other than the remnants of some sort of sickness that's had my brain mixed up for the past couple of days. It crossed my mind to wonder, now that Noa is a part of this narrative . . . how would he handle it if Mokuba came down sick?
The answer is . . . a touch more complex than I counted on.
.
Seto Kaiba used his clothing as a silent warning to those who knew him. If he was dressed in dress jeans and a sweater, it was safe to approach. If he was swathed in black, with a crimson tie and his gun under his jacket, it was probably for the best to leave him alone.
Roland understood this. Mokuba understood this. Even Akiko, by far the newest member of the house staff, had picked up on it.
One member of the household, however, had no idea.
Seto leaned back in his chair, pinched the bridge of his nose, and gesticulated sharply with his right hand. "I . . . understand. I don't need that many variations on his temperature to know he's running a fever."
Noa Kaiba fidgeted madly, looking like the world was crumbling. "But . . . but . . . ! We were going to play a game! He was going to level up his shaman and I was going to join his guild and he wanted to show me a whole bunch of things and he still wants to but he can't because it's hard to sit up straight and I don't know what to do!"
"He'll be fine," Seto said. "He's on break right now, he has no active projects at Kaiba-Corp. There is literally no one who will bother him. That is, as long as you knock it off." He looked at the hologram in front of him. "You are . . . completely artificial. You only have as much capacity for emotion as you allow yourself. You're doing this for absolutely no reason other than to piss me off."
The fidgeting stopped. Noa's movements turned jerky and animatronic. "Is—this—more—to—your—liking—Master—User-Name-Not-Registered—?"
Seto blinked. "You . . . little bastard."
Noa slipped his hands into his pockets and looked around the front parlor, suddenly nonchalant. "Sure. I can school my responses based on my surroundings. Mokuba is in his room. Ergo, he isn't here to see me. Thus, there's no need to act so emotional. Et cetera, et cetera. I figure, though, that if I don't take this ability of mine and use it to cultivate a personality that I personally enjoy, then I'm basically defeating the purpose of my programming. Unlike most people, I have the capacity to choose to act like a quavering imbecile."
Seto raised an eyebrow.
He waited.
He turned back to the tablet in his hands. "Carry on, then."
The little holographic boy grinned like a madman, giggled, then started crying.
Some hours later, Mokuba shuffled down into the front parlor dressed in pajamas and a bathrobe. His hair was a hornet's nest. He eyed his brother with a dazed sort of resignation on his face. "Niisama . . . ? What the heck is Noa doing?"
Two rooms away, both brothers heard their artificial compatriot's voice, high-pitched and hysterical:
"Soup! We have to have soup for dinner! He's sick! It wouldn't be right to force him to eat anything else! I'm making soup!" A beat of silence. "My hand went through the stove! I can't make soup! I can't make anything!"
Seto glanced up, a noncommittal look on his face, and said: "He's enjoying himself."
