I think, of all the chapters that I've written recently, this is one of the most important. One that really digs into what I'm trying to do here. Why I like doing scenarios like this one, where you have multiple versions of a character meet and interact with multiple versions of other characters.

It has a strange way of getting to the heart of a person, when you have a bunch of that person walking around.


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Mokuba hesitated, worried about breaking the illusion. Then Seto turned so that his left side was facing his brother, and he held out his good arm. Mokuba stood there, frozen, for a moment. Then he tackled his brother, throwing his arms vice-like around Seto's waist. Seto held the boy close and beamed down at the top of the boy's head.

He leaned his head down. "Roland's been filling me in," he rasped; his voice was stronger than when he'd first woken up, but not by much. "You did good, kid. You did great."

Mokuba, struggling with every piece of himself not to cry, shook his head against Seto's ribs. "I've barely been . . . k-keeping it together," he said, breath hitching. "I'm a cheap f-fake, is what I am. You don't ha-have to lie to me."

Seto lowered himself by sitting on his heels, making a concerted effort not to move his right arm; he looked like he was performing some variant of tai chi. He looked up at his brother and his smile was vibrant. "I'm going to let you in on a secret," he said. "We're all faking. You're no worse than any of us. You just don't have enough experience to hide it very well."

Mokuba sniffed. Rubbed his nose with his sleeve. "Whatever you say, Niisama."

"You did so much more than anyone could have ever asked of you. Take the win, Mokuba."

"Fine," Mokuba said. "If I have to. But only if you never do anything that stupid ever again."

Seto clicked his tongue. "You know I can't agree to that."

"I know. But I had to try."

Seto grinned, wider and more openly than he ever did. He rose to his full height only to lean down again and kiss the top of his brother's head. "Now, then," he said, turning his attention to the doorway, where Masahiko was standing. "What's this business about? A new arrival, as I understand it. Just before I woke up."

Masahiko shuffled his feet, looking awkward and sullen, as he did his level best to avoid any kind of eye contact.

"He told me to call him Masahiko," Mokuba said. "He's here from the other world. I guess. I'm not sure, actually, but that's what I'm going with. My hypothesis."

"Mm," said Seto. "Masahiko, then. Welcome to St. Claire's." He gestured grandly with his good arm, with as sardonic a look as he'd ever worn.

Masahiko forced himself to look at Seto head-on. "You're different," he mumbled. "You aren't like my brother."

Seto quirked an eyebrow. "I'll take your word on that."

"Daimon wasn't the first one from . . . from the other side . . . to get into your room. I was."

Was there pride in his voice? Defiance? Did he want Seto to praise him? Was he expecting Seto to condemn him? Mokuba couldn't figure out the other boy's motive; not all at once, anyway. He was quite sure, though, that his counterpart was doing something deliberately.

Searching for a specific outcome. A particular reaction.

Mokuba just couldn't tell what it was.

"What did you do?" Seto asked evenly.

Masahiko scowled. "Fucking nothing," he spat. Fire flared in his eyes. "I was supposed to kill you. Like Daimon. But I didn't have the guts to go through with it. I couldn't even outclass that decrepit old fossil. I failed."

Seto studied Masahiko in silence for a time. Then he said: "I see."

Masahiko blinked. "That's it? I see?" His face twisted with new anger. "What, you're just gonna stand there and pity me? Oh, look at the sad little fuck-up, good thing he can't do what he says he's gonna do! No need to worry about the spare, he never does anything right!"

Seto took a moment. Let silence ring. Then: "I don't pity you." He waited another moment. Then he said: "The morally correct thing to do, when placed in a position such as yours, is to fail. I am not a stranger. I am not one face in a crowd. And you were not carrying a gun, but poison. That is an intimate form of murder, and vanishingly few are capable of it. Particularly at your age."

"Is he one of the vanishingly few?" Masahiko snapped, gesturing to Mokuba.

Seto squeezed his brother's shoulder. "If he is, it's because I have failed him. I'm not proud of it, nor do I pretend that there is nobility in it. That said, I do not owe you an explanation for anything you may have managed to extrapolate about my brother's character. If you are waiting for anything like that, feel free to stop now."

Masahiko considered Seto and Mokuba quietly for a time, staring at them, growling low in his throat like a cornered animal. Then he rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Whatever you're going to do to me, get it over with. Start the penalty game."

Seto's pleasant expression fell. "Penalty game?" he repeated quietly. "Is that what you expect me to do?" He shook his head. "No. I don't think there's going to be any penalty games today. Contrary to what you might think, I do not consider it a moral failing that you didn't kill me, and I'm not going to punish you for it."

Roland, who had followed the two boys into the room, having returned from dealing with Daimon, spoke up: "The young master has arranged for a Harker room. He's called for two with eyes on him, two outside the door. For the time being."

Seto considered this, then nodded. "Good. That's fine."

"That man sent him here," Mokuba said, "to distract us. We were supposed to catch him. I think we were supposed to be so confused and thrown off by him being here, maybe go searching for you—like, another you. Another another you. And then Daimon would have a clean shot at you." Mokuba turned to Roland. "Was there anyone waiting for Masahiko at that coffee shop?"

"No," said Roland. "We checked the security footage, and there was a standout for a while. But by the time we were there, they'd vanished. We're sweeping the area now."

Masahiko watched Roland as he spoke, then turned his eyes back to Seto. His expression was unreadable now.

"When you say that man," Seto said, looking to his brother.

"I mean exactly who you think I mean."

Seto closed his eyes. His jaw flexed. "Of course."

"You don't know him," Masahiko hissed through clenched teeth. "You don't know Otousama any better than you know me. Standing there all lovey-dovey, laughing and smiling and thinking you're better than me. Don't act like you understand anything about me. About us. You don't."

"Perhaps I don't," said Seto smoothly, "but I know enough from what I have already seen. The man you call Otousama has, so far, refused to do any of his own dirty work. He has sent soldiers, children, and old men to do it for him. That does not sound like the man I knew. The man I was trained by. That doesn't sound like Gozaburo Kaiba at all." Mokuba flinched at the name. "So far, Otousama sounds quite thoroughly pathetic, and it shames me to have been brought low by his machinations. He sent you here to kill me instead of facing me himself. He and Daimon have both used you as a human shield. They're crouched behind you, acting like chess-masters, and I suspect that if you had died for him, he would have kicked your corpse out of his way and pretended it was all intentional. He failed. Not you."

Masahiko opened his mouth, perhaps to retort, to fight back, to defend his father. But he stopped. He stared at his feet, clenching and unclenching his hands. "He . . . he said he'd help Niisama. He said."

Seto's expression softened. "He says a lot of things. What has he done?"

Masahiko sniffed, turned away, looking like he wanted nothing more than to escape. To find a window and leap out of it. But he stayed rooted to the spot.

Seto shifted from beside Mokuba and stepped closer. He took a knee before this younger boy who looked so achingly familiar. He said: "I don't intend to do anything except protect the lives of my people. My brother, the people working for me, the people depending on me. If you aren't a threat to them, then you aren't my enemy. If you are a threat to them, then I will keep you contained. That's it. If you want a fight, I'll give you one. I can't afford to be complacent. But it's up to you. You are a child in my city. I'm not going to raise my hand against you unless you force me."

"He said that too," Masahiko said, in a small voice, gesturing to Mokuba. "This is your city, and you look after kids here."

"I do," said Seto. "No child goes without in my city. As long as you are here, that includes you." He paused. "You don't trust me. More to the point, you have no reason to. Why should you find me any more honest than any of the other adults who've patronized you and treated you like a cheap distraction? All I ask is that you watch. Pay attention. If I fall short of what I've said, then you have your answer. But if I don't fall short, that's another answer entirely, now, isn't it?"

Masahiko found Seto's eyes. "You're . . . really not like my brother at all."

"I'm sorry."

Masahiko fidgeted. "I don't . . . I don't know if that's a bad thing."