I originally had a whole plan for how Seto would wake up, and it was going to be this big to-do. And I guess, technically, what I've landed on still is a big to-do, in its own way. But it's entirely different. It's not even remotely the same as I'd originally envisioned it.
Funny how that works sometimes.
I suppose this note counts as spoilers, but for those who have been waiting for the Big Man to wake up … here we are.
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The dark was tempestuous. Heavy, cloying, like a wool blanket weighed down by the rain. Awareness came slowly, sluggishly; he could feel his breathing in his chest. He could feel every pinprick of soreness throughout his body. Every drop of sweat. Every abrasive little annoyance.
He knew he wasn't alone.
He kept his eyes shut, kept his breathing slow and even. How long had he spent, how many years of his youth, doing his level best to not be noticed? How long had he spent in his later years, building more skill atop the old ones, to put on the best performance? His histories combined, mixed, twisted in upon themselves; all attention was on him, but he looked entirely unaware.
The footfalls were quiet, nearly silent, but he was fine-tuned to every little thing. He'd always had sharp hearing, and he'd always been fastidious about protecting it, honing it. He wore molded earplugs nearly every time he left the house.
You're like Rock Lee, Mokuba said once. When you take those out, I bet you can hear God.
Seto wasn't sure about God, but he could certainly hear somebody in the room with him. Stocky, low to the ground, but silent and swift as a cat. Seto knew, intuitively, that he had one chance. It would come down to a single exchange. If he lost the initiative, if he lost his moment, he was a dead man. He didn't have the energy for a sustained conflict. His body was barely responding to his commands. He felt heavy. Lethargic. He felt disconnected from himself.
Like he was his own ghost, and his body was a zombie. Only tenuously connected, and only tangentially aware of his instructions.
Calm. Quiet. In control.
Was it a sick joke from Fate, that his arms and hands were beneath his sheets? Pinned down, immobile without drawing attention to himself. He wasn't sure. But he decided he didn't have the time or the space to worry about that right now. There would be plenty of time to hash it out with Fate later. He already knew he didn't have enough of a voice to call for help or to surprise his unwanted guest. He had to rely purely on his body. It was all he had.
Seto resisted the urge to open his eyes.
Resolved to use his other senses.
He had to pour everything into finding the right moment.
He had to wait.
He had to hold.
It seemed like minutes, hours, years before the unknown interloper lifted the sheets and freed his arms; Seto knew his gamble had paid off before he moved. When the needle was so close that he could feel it, he struck.
Somewhere in his distant memory, Seto remembered not to use his right arm.
His grip was sure, his reflexes sluggish by his own standards but sharp enough to serve; he heard the interloper's grunt of surprise, but dared not let himself hope that there was pain in it too. His left hand wasn't his dominant, but years upon years of training had paid off all at once.
Everything he'd ever done, everything he'd ever been forced through, was worth it just for this.
Seto opened his eyes.
"How many times am I going to have to kill you," he whispered, in a voice like the grave, "before you finally die?"
Seto twisted, wrenched, and shoved the syringe grasped in Daimon's gnarled hand up into the folds of his throat.
