This is a plot-heavy section. Not much honestly happens, but what does happen is pivotal to the story as I first envisioned it so long ago. But, like I've done so often throughout this story's run, a lot of thoughts and emotions are wrapped around everything that happens.
Right here, I feel like it's important to lay out all these things, because that's how we differentiate from all the different power players here.
Since, you know, some of them share the same face, the same history, even the same name.
So all that keeps them separate at all is . . . well.
Who they are.
.
He spied a nametag on someone's duffle bag, as he walked through the halls of a hospital that he shouldn't have found familiar; he did. He decided to steal that name for himself: Masahiko. After all, he was an infiltrator. A pretender. He had no name, he had no face, not here, and it was best if he got used to that quickly. Fell into the role. It was the only way he was going to see this done.
It was the only way he'd be able to forgive himself.
Masahiko had wrapped a heavy jacket over his normal clothes, multiple sizes too big; he wore two hats below the jacket's hood: a beanie, and a cap. It was overkill, and it made things difficult; he could barely breathe for how stifling it was. But he didn't want to take any chances. This was a mission of critical, of vital, importance, and it wasn't going to do anyone any favors if he got caught too early.
It didn't take long until Masahiko was reasonably sure he'd found his destination.
On the third floor, there were far too many men wearing crisp suits and shades. He suddenly remembered his brother telling him why their security operatives wore sunglasses indoors: it was so that nobody could tell where they were looking. They didn't want anyone to know, at a glance, where their attention was pointed.
Five, six, seven. Ten? Twelve? Masahiko quickly realized that he didn't have a good enough vantage point to tell for sure how many of the bastards he was dealing with; he dipped into a restroom past a corner and stepped into a stall, trying to convince himself that his heart wasn't racing as he sat in silence and worked through his options. What the hell was he going to do?
Sneak past them all?
No. No way. Not possible.
Inspiration hit him like a freight train—like a lightning bolt—and he realized all at once that he was thinking too hard, setting himself up to fail when the real answer was so much simpler.
Of course he wanted these people to recognize him!
He was a Kaiba!
Masahiko shed his heavy layers like a second skin and strode out of the restroom like he owned the building. This was just another game, like any of the games he'd conquered in his short life. All he had to do was play; all he had to do was win. Niisama always said: if you go into a game thinking about all the ways you might lose, then you've already lost.
Go in like the trophy is already yours.
Masahiko put on a distracted air, checking his wristwatch against the wall clocks, and contemplated ignoring it when one of the suit called out to him. Not Mokuba-sama. Not Kaiba-sama. Not even Fukushacho. They called him Sir. Masahiko wasn't sure what he thought about that.
He decided, after some deliberation, that it didn't matter.
"Decided to have Casual Friday a bit early, huh, sir?" was what the man asked him at the door to his destination.
Masahiko put one hand on the doorknob, glanced down at his cargo pants, his striped shirt, his scuffed-up sneakers, and put on an embarrassed sort of smile. Clearly, these people were used to an open and friendly relationship with his double; again, he wondered what he thought about that. But there was no use fighting it now, even if he decided he didn't like it. He came to the same conclusion as before: this was just a game. Just an act. It could only help him if he kept them thinking nothing was amiss for as long as possible.
He glanced at the suit who'd spoken and affected a little laugh. "Sometimes you have to dress for what you want," he said lightly. "I thought maybe, y'know, if I dressed like I was ready for a trip to the park. Maybe . . . he'd be awake and ready to take me." Masahiko made a quick calculation based on the violent flinch and the obvious discomfort, and added: "Is that . . . is that stupid? It's stupid, isn't it?"
"No." The suit waved a hand, almost frantically, and even reached out to open the door for him. "No, I don't think that's stupid at all. I'm sorry to report, though. He's still asleep."
"Oh." Masahiko made his face fall. "Well. Maybe next time."
He slipped inside and let the door whisper shut behind him.
Click.
This world's Seto Kaiba lay flat on his back in a huge hospital bed, hooked up to monitors and all. He was older than he should have been by Masahiko's reckoning; this much he could tell, even from across the room. As he stepped closer, straining to be as quiet as he could, he realized just how right he was.
This Seto was definitely not fifteen years old.
His face was sharper; the bags under his eyes were so much more distinct. His hair was still styled the same way, but much more deliberately. Even though he'd clearly been in this bed for a long time, he still looked . . . stylish, almost. He looked clean, he looked comfortable—as comfortable as an unconscious man with a bunch of wires attached to his body could look—and most importantly he looked like he was being taken care of.
Masahiko felt rage, like boiling water, rise from the depths of him as he thought about taking a washcloth to his brother's face because the staff just hadn't bothered to clean him up after breakfast.
What was so special about this Seto Kaiba that he got proper care?
Masahiko tried to pretend like his eyes weren't burning as he glared at this man's blank, peaceful face. Who are you? This he thought with a fierceness that was almost a physical thing. What's so special about you? Why does Otousama want you dead so badly? Why do I have to be the one to do it?
Masahiko's jaw cracked as he ground his teeth. Part of him wanted to stomp his feet and throw a tantrum. He wanted to do it very badly. Instead, he reached into a pocket and pulled out the little vial he'd been given. He looked at the equipment all around the bed, and he went through the instructions he'd been given in a desperate attempt to get everything back on track.
If everything went right, nobody would know.
Nobody would be able to pin this on anyone, least of all him, because he'd be back home long before anybody realized anything was wrong. He wouldn't suffer. It wouldn't hurt. He would just . . . drift away, so sad, bad luck strikes all the time, no use whining about it.
It's not like you've never poisoned anybody before, Masahiko thought to himself, feeling guilty in spite of himself. Just because he looks like Niisama doesn't mean he is. How many times have you said you'd do anything for him? Now it's time to prove it. Just do it. Do it. Do the job, sit for a bit, walk out. Say something about needing to pee or whatever. It doesn't matter. None of it matters. This isn't your city; this isn't your brother. This isn't your world, and what happens in it doesn't matter.
But he kept hesitating.
Kept staring.
Kept rolling the little vial in his fingers.
Like he was . . . stalling.
Some distant, quiet, buried part of Masahiko rejoiced when he heard a voice behind him.
"Oh, that's rich."
Masahiko whirled around, managing to slip the poison back into his pocket just in time, and he stared at the owner of the voice: a boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old. The boy had long black hair like his. The boy had violet eyes like his. The boy had a furious anger exuding from him like heatwaves. Like he did. The boy was older, sharper, like Seto was. He was dressed in a suit, black instead of white, but he still had the same aura as Seto always did when he was angry.
The boy's hair was pulled back in a high tail. The boy was taller. The boy was stronger.
But there wasn't any point in pretending like Masahiko didn't know who this was.
This world's Mokuba Kaiba said, through clenched teeth:
"I should have expected this."
