It would be a gross understatement to say that this chapter was difficult to get finished. Primarily, my issue was technical accuracy. It's been mentioned in recent reviews that I don't downplay the effects that injuries have in real life. This is true. I don't.
So, the fact of the matter was, Seto got shot. I needed to make sure I had things in order, such that I, and you, would know just what that meant. Special thanks to my creative partner, kuraireikan, for helping me with this aspect of the story. I never would have been able to put this together without you.
Now then, I think I've kept you waiting long enough.
Let's begin.
There was no sound worth labeling.
Just a floor that was too slick, chairs that were too hard, and lights that were too infringing.
Yuki Yagami had told herself, with more straight-shot conviction than even her son could ever understand, that she would handle this. She would be the sounding board that everyone needed for this tragedy to resolve itself. She would speak to the doctors. She would answer their questions as well as she could. She would ask the questions that needed to be asked, so that the man—the son—who'd taken two bullets to protect her family would live, damn it!
On the way to Saint Claire's Memorial Hospital, anyone who happened to have looked in Yuki's eyes would have thought that the great Seto Kaiba had already—died—vacated his own body, in favor of hers.
Then she'd gotten into the building, and everything crumbled. Her heart started pounding in her chest, her breath flattened into something so shallow and hollow that it was an insult to her lungs, and it was suddenly all she could do to keep her legs from buckling beneath her.
When Doctor Morris Jay asked her if she was family, it wasn't enough to say that the words died on her tongue. They turned and bolted back down her throat, and she choked on them. It made her eyes sting.
"We're his aunt and uncle," a low rumble emanated from beside her. "Paternal."
"I see. Very well, then—ah. You must be . . . Ackerman, right? Roland Ackerman? Yes, we've met once before. Mister Kaiba's personal assistant, yes? Well . . . I'll be honest with you, I feel like Mister Kaiba's brother should hear this, but . . . judging by the state of him, I'm not sure that's a good idea just now."
Yuki stared at the polished floor, at her own reflection, and didn't know her face.
She felt, more than saw, her husband stand up. "We'll talk to him," Kohaku said. "I'm sure he'll be fine. He's a strong boy, he just needs . . . time. So, how is he? What's being done?" Kohaku hesitated, but it was only for a moment. "I hate to ask this question," he said when he continued, "but what are his chances?"
Yuki's head snapped up, and her eyes flashed to Mokuba.
The young Kaiba hadn't heard a single word. Kohaku could have been screaming into a megaphone, and Mokuba wouldn't have heard. The ghost of a death that nobody dared anticipate had its hooks in him; it was a specter, a gargoyle perched on his shoulders. The boy's eyes were too old for his face. With a jolt, Yuki realized she knew that look.
It was the same look that had ripped into Seto Kaiba's face, on the day that she had first met him.
She sighed, and sat down. Holding her head in her hands, Yuki Yagami tried to get control of herself. She needed to pull herself together. This wasn't the time for staring off into space. Her son needed her. He needed her to be strong, calm, clear-headed—
Her eyes flared open. Her head whipped in every direction. Yuki felt something burn deep inside her. "Sotaro!" she gasped. "Sotaro? Sotaro! Where—"
Kohaku was back with her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Hey," he said, bracingly, "cool off, there, Mama Bear. He went to the restroom." His voice was as gentle as a cresting wave. "Mister Copeland went with him."
"Sotaro," the doctor repeated. "Your son?"
"Yes," Kohaku said.
"Huh. An aunt, an uncle, and a cousin? Seems the Kaiba family is much more extensive than we all seemed to think. To be honest with you, I'm surprised no one's tracked you down. The way I understand it, their fans are . . . rather rabid."
He was trying to calm them. Which meant he thought they had cause to worry. Yuki clenched her teeth so hard that they very nearly cracked into a bed of fangs.
He's dying, you pretentious shit! My boy is dying! My baby took a bullet for me and you're out here talking about bulls—
"Doctor," Kohaku said slowly. The squeeze he gave Yuki's shoulder was a warning. "How long will he be in surgery?"
"Honestly, that depends. At least eight hours. I'd say that you should go home. It's late, and you could all do with rest. But I know better than to push the idea." She saw, in her peripheral vision, the doctor gesture toward Mokuba. "Your chances of getting him to leave the building are slim bordering on a miracle, at any rate."
Roland glanced to one side, and Yuki followed his gaze to see Sotaro walking back toward the rest of them, Travis Copeland beside him. His little face was freshly washed, and his hair looked damp—he must have cleaned himself off at the sink—but his eyes were clear, blazing, a precursor to the predatory glare that so marked the man who . . .
Yuki stood up, facing Sotaro, leaned down a bit and held out her arms. Sotaro, as soon as he saw this, rushed over to his mother and hugged her.
"Thank you," she intoned to Travis as he approached, who nodded and tipped an invisible hat in reply. Yuki rubbed her son's back. "Hey, baby," she said softly. She knelt down, smoothed his hair, and held him by the shoulders. "How are you doing?"
She didn't see Morris Jay gesture with his eyes for Roland and Kohaku to follow him.
On the other side of the waiting room, Kohaku—straining to keep up the calm façade he'd put on as soon as he realized Yuki couldn't do it—clenched his teeth and said, "So? What are we looking at?"
". . . He was shot twice," the doctor said, "once in the mid- to lower back, just to the left of his spine. There's extensive damage there, but actually he was pretty lucky. The bullet missed his spine completely."
"I heard a lot more shots than two," Kohaku put in.
"That was us," Roland said. "Myself and Mister Copeland. Please. Continue, Doctor."
"He's suffered a few broken ribs, and some internal injury." The doctor looked at the chart in his hands. "It nicked his left kidney on the way out. No major arteries were hit." Kohaku sagged with relief. Morris Jay put a grim look on his face. "I'm not saying there isn't any danger, mind you, but the bleeding has been controlled, and the organ damage can be repaired. These injuries . . . well, they aren't life-threatening. Not in and of themselves. Barring any unforeseen complications during surgery, or while he's in recovery, I don't see any reason why he shouldn't recover from them in fairly short order."
". . . Okay," Kohaku said slowly, skeptically. "You said he got hit twice."
Morris Jay nodded. "Yes. Believe it or not, it's this second shot, the one to his right shoulder, that's actually most worrisome at the moment. The bullet didn't just pass through the shoulder blade. It shattered it. Think of a . . . well, okay, think of a rock hitting your windshield on the highway." Roland hissed in a breath. "Now, because of this, there are several . . . possibly dozens, actually, of bone fragments all throughout the area. X-rays show at least three of these fragments are dangerously close to the upper right lung. We won't know how extensive the damage is until we get him op—ah, that is, until we get him into surgery, I mean. Excuse me."
"So . . . what does this mean for his chances?" Roland asked, crossing his arms. "Don't placate me, Doctor. Worst-case scenario."
Morris Jay stared at Roland for a moment, then flicked a glance at Kohaku, before he said, "Worst case? His lung may have been punctured in one, or more, places. This could cause it to collapse. These bone fragments could have punctured or outright sliced through a major artery, which could cause him to bleed out in minutes once we begin surgery. If none of that is the case, or we're able to repair it if it is, we could still be looking at permanent damage to nerve tissue. This could cause him to lose a percentage of, or even all, function in the right arm, tendon and ligament damage notwithstanding. All this is provided that we can find and remove all the bone fragments. If there are slivers floating around in there that the X-rays couldn't pick up, it's possible he'll appear to be fine and then, at some point in the future, he'll stretch or twist the wrong way, and, well . . ."
Roland grimaced. "I see."
"You asked for worst case," the doctor reminded him. "Regardless, like I said, it's going to be at least eight hours until he's out of surgery, possibly more. We'll take as long as we can, to make sure nothing is left behind. But considering the extent of the physical trauma he's suffered, there's a limit to how long we can safely keep him under. We may have to take him back in again later, once his general condition improves enough for him to safely withstand it."
Roland nodded. "Right. Right. Of course."
Kohaku clenched his teeth. "Fantastic."
Morris Jay looked sympathetic. "Not many people pay enough attention to the Kaiba family to realize just how close-knit it is. Just . . . remember, he's a tough son of a bitch. He'd be insulted if he thought you were worried about him." He glanced over at the others. "If I know enough about him, he'd be concerned about the little ones. So how about you do that? Let us worry about him."
"Kind of defines 'easier said than done,'" Kohaku said, "but . . . point taken. Thank you, Doctor."
The doctor bowed his head. He offered one more look at Roland, before turning and heading out of the waiting room, leaving them all . . . to just wait.
"So much for magic," Kohaku muttered.
Roland tried to chuckle, but couldn't. His gaze was locked on Mokuba.
". . . Don't you die on him, Seto Kaiba," Roland hissed. "Don't you die on me. Don't you dare."
Kohaku watched Mokuba for a while, and he suddenly looked much older than usual, which was saying something, considering he never looked quite as young as he was. He murmured, "He's a tough son of a bitch . . ."
Roland crossed his arms. "You're . . . handling this surprisingly well," he said, sounding impressed rather than all that surprised. "All things considered."
Kohaku smiled self-consciously. "Surprisingly. Yeah. You know, it's usually Yuki who handles this stuff. She's always the one asking questions, making sure everything's ship-shape. I usually just sit there and look stupid. But this time, I guess it was . . . maybe it was too much. I don't know."
Roland absorbed this for a moment, turning his attention to Yuki. Her wistful eyes, her vacant stance. Frowning, his eyes narrowed. Then they went wide, and Kohaku could swear the man's skin actually turned white.
Roland hissed under his breath.
". . . Oh, fuck."
