This year has been … interesting so far. And by interesting, I think I mean exhausting. I've met new friends and done new things, sure, but I've also struggled to wrestle my imagination into submission.
And most recently, my computer died. I just recently got my replacement machine up and running. And while my old hard drive isn't dead, or at least I hope it isn't, the fact remains that I don't have access to it at the moment.
But I'm gonna make it work. I'm gonna make 2018 work for me whether it wants to or not.
I hope you'll join me on the journey.
1.
Noa wasn't sure what Seto was going to do, but his eyes kept flickering in one specific direction, and that was enough for him. His jaw clenched so tightly that it ached, and he had to stuff his hands into his pockets to keep them from trembling.
He put on an old face.
"Chichiue has more important things to worry about than imposters," Noa said, allowing himself to sink into an arrogance he hadn't felt in years. It was like slipping into an ice bath: painful, but bracing. "Why take the spare to him when you can offer up the genuine article?"
Daimon stared. "Excuse me?"
Noa gestured grandly. He was dressed in the same outfit he had worn so proudly for most of his life. He looked like the scion of a wealthy family. He looked like a boy with a bright future. He wore that gilded collar stiffly and proudly. He kept those sleeves taut and straight. His stance was defiant, yet easy. His eyes glinted.
Not the faintest glimmer of recognition visited Daimon's face.
"Do you honestly expect me to react to this?" the old troll demanded, the words rolling off his tongue like a lazy cat. "A body double without the good sense to wash the cheap dye out of his hair?"
Noa quirked an eyebrow. "I'll give you one thing," he said. "I do believe you're the first person to ever comment on my hair. I have to guess that everyone else was just too cowardly to ask. If you must know, a vitamin deficiency in my youth, combined with a rare combination of genes from Hahaue's side of the family, is responsible for my hair. I've had it since I was born. I suppose I could have dyed it. Black, perhaps, or brown. Something sensible. But. What can I say? I like standing out. Not everyone is lucky enough to have their grey hair look so . . . fashionable, even at a proper age. I don't look old. I just look unique!"
Mokie eyed his brother suspiciously. "Is your hair really grey?"
Noa nodded. "Uh-huh!" He leaned his head to one side. "Look. See, in the light? You can tell."
Mokie, who had slipped his left hand into his own pocket, leaned in. Noa could tell that he was doing something with his phone. Just as Daimon opened his mouth to speak, possibly to demand that he be taken seriously, music suddenly blared from every speaker in the room. The Kaibas in this dimension had set up speakers throughout the grounds such that no matter where you were on the property, you could hear whatever they had playing.
For a handful of seconds, a pop-country ballad blasted into existence out of nowhere. Seto threw a tiny remote across the room, and flung himself across the room in a sudden rush for the exit. For a moment, Noa caught himself thinking yet again that the Seto Kaiba of this dimension was a reckless little idiot, except he just couldn't shake the idea that he'd missed something when one of Daimon's suits grabbed Seto by the shoulders and plucked him off the ground.
He looked entirely too smug, did this young Kaiba, for someone who'd just been thwarted.
2.
Mokuba didn't flinch when the music started playing, and neither did Kaiba, but everyone else did. When it turned off a handful of seconds later, Mokuba was already moving. "Isono! Keep them safe!" he snarled, gesturing with his eyes to Yugi and the others. Isono nodded briskly. Kaiba, not one to question neither his instincts nor his brother's, shot to his feet and followed.
By the time they left the main house, Mokuba was running. Kaiba was keeping pace with him easily enough. Joey called out from behind them: "Ain't you a bit jumpy? What's this about, Kaiba?!"
Mokuba, for his part, didn't respond at first. Then, with a quick glance at the man beside him, he eventually said: "Seto hates Carrie Underwood. He keeps that album in the main player as a signal. If he ever plays that song, for any reason . . ."
He didn't finish.
Kaiba fished out his phone. Glanced at it. He smirked. "My brother had the same idea," he said, only partly to himself. "Remember! Whatever you see, don't let it shake you! No matter what happens, don't lose focus!"
Mokuba actually laughed, and that was answer enough.
Seto had his own apartment on the grounds, a separate game room where he invited friends to stay—rare as it was that he had someone to invite—and it was to here that the two elder Kaibas immediately made their way. As soon as the door opened, and Daimon thrust himself outside like a steward who'd forgotten the throne didn't belong to him, Mokuba immediately threw himself to one side and rolled behind the tortoise enclosure.
Kaiba, for his part, veered in the opposite direction and practically vaulted up a nearby silver maple.
Daimon was trailed by three men in identical suits, and each of them had hold of a young boy. Seto looked amused. Noa looked irritated. Mokie was stone-faced. They each walked stiffly, and seemed to be doing their level best to ignore Daimon's prattling.
". . . will be quite relieved to find you safe. I dearly hope you will forgive my forwardness, Bocchama, but this is for your own safety. It's clear to me that you are not willing to listen to reason. Being without the master's guidance has surely been bad for you. But no worry. We will be sure to . . . right the ship."
"Never trust the promises of a man who relies on force," Seto said shortly.
"Forgive me, Bocchama, but you have yet to see what I rely on."
"I'm not forgiving anything." Seto scowled. "If you're Daimon, then I'm Ciel Phantomhive. I'm the one who found Papa's corpse. The real Daimon saw to that. I guess you think you can shock me into listening to you. You think you can use magic and quick words to get under my skin. I'm a Kaiba. My father taught me better than that. You're nothing but a pompous bag of pig intestines. You're weak. Your master is weak. You can't even corral three children without help. You're a fucking disgrace."
Daimon stopped. His face twitched.
"What's he promising you? Power? Fame? Something else?" Seto's face turned savage. "What was your price? Hm? What contract did you sign? Is it worth it? Is it worth wearing the skin of a slithering idiot who only kept his job because his master couldn't be bothered to fire him?"
Daimon's eyes closed. He breathed deeply.
"What's it like? How does it feel to sink so low that you're down to kidnapping? That you're outmatched by a ten-year-old? Huh? Oooh, lookie here, big man is tightening his grip on my arms like I'm supposed to be scared. What are you gonna do? Huh? What's the big man gonna do? Shut me up? Teach me a lesson? What can you do? You're useless! You're weak! You're nothing!"
Just as Daimon turned around and opened his mouth to speak, a lightning strike lifted him from his feet and sent him sprawling.
Mokie's eyes went wide as saucers; even Mokuba was stunned.
Seto's anger, ravenous as it had been, vanished.
Noa was the first to find a smile.
Kaiba dropped to the ground as easily as stepping off a curb. The smoldering remains of the tree where he'd been perched cracked and popped as the flames feasted. In one hand, he held a single card. It glowed with an otherworldly energy that sang up its master's arm and danced in his eyes.
Seto Sasaki-Yagami Kaiba stared at the man who would be his oldest tormentor.
"Well . . . ?" he whispered. His face was twisted with malice. "Answer the question. What can you do?"
3.
He held out the card in his hand, far out to one side, and a smile slowly, meticulously, stitched onto his face. Mokuba watched his eyes, and guessed that his brother's counterpart was watching the man who had hold of Mokie. It wasn't something easily noticeable; Kaiba was good at masking his intent. But Mokuba had not been trained by a professional tyrant's best and brightest for nothing.
Daimon, or at least the man—or creature—pretending to be Daimon, chuckled and slipped a hand into his jacket. He pulled out a card of his own, and thrust it out toward Kaiba, causing the one in Kaiba's hand to shatter into pieces.
Before anyone could react to the sudden shower of sparks, Kaiba flashed a grin and burst into movement. He flung himself forward, pulling his sidearm in the same movement. Daimon squawked in surprise as he stumbled backward and fell flat on his backside.
A shot rang out, then a second, then a third and fourth.
Crack! Five. Crack! Six. Crack! Seven.
In one moment, they'd been stuck in a standoff with no discernable way forward. In the next, Kaiba was on one knee, Mokuba was on his feet, and three corpses lay on the ground behind Daimon's hunkered, quivering bulk.
Both elder Kaibas had weapons in hand: Kaiba's in one, Mokuba's in both.
The children, each unscathed, dared to smile.
Kaiba reached out his free hand and snatched Daimon by the starched collar of his shirt. He pulled the old gremlin close, eyes narrowing, smirk fully intact and gleaming like a knife in the dark.
"Dependence on magic seems to have made you complacent."
Daimon glared defiantly. "Who . . . what . . . are you . . . ?"
Kaiba didn't answer at first. He simply stared.
Then his expression softened into something almost resembling fondness.
"I'm what you built, Daimon. I'm what you wished for. Aren't you happy to see me?"
