So begins Book II, "You are My Reason."

I'm setting up the pieces on the game board, and it's in this book that the story I started with in "Shifting Images" will begin its new treatment. The chapters that have been posted so far have been setting the stage so that the "Images" storyline will make sense.

It will be a while before the next chapter is put up; I don't have any scenes drafted after these. There's nothing to revise, nothing to tweak, nothing to edit. I have to figure out where I'm going next, and write it out before I can begin my usual process. But don't worry. This semester's workload is quite a bit less…demanding, so far, so I should be able to spend more time on my projects; this one is very important to me.

All right, let's see what's going on.

Enjoy.


Verse One.


Days became weeks; weeks months. If asked, Katie McKinley wouldn't have been able to tell exactly what it was about Kay Mayer that continuously drew her and Renie in; the friendship that blossomed between them was as easy and natural as those built during early childhood. There were no questions asked, no doubts held. They simply…clicked.

Perhaps that was why Katie felt no need to second-guess herself when she said: "Hey, you wanna hitch a ride with us back home for Fall break?"

For her part, Kay simply smiled. "Domino City? I don't know about that. I hear there are some unsavory sorts lying in wait. Whatever will happen to my purity?"

"Worry not, fair maiden!" Renie cried, holding up her fork as though to brandish it in combat. "We shall slay any miscreant forces seeking to o'ertake thy virtue!"

This earned Renie a number of strange looks from nearby tables, but Kay didn't seem to mind. If anything, she was touched by the gesture, strange as it was. Renie seemed to have that effect on people; her idiosyncrasies, and there were a great many, were oddly charming. Though she was now a "university student" and worked at the university's bookstore, though she was paying her own way and lived off-campus in a single's apartment, it was the most egregious of mistakes to say that Renie Eubank had "grown up." She would have been insulted at the very thought.

"Oh, well, in that case," Kay said, displaying her right hand in front of Renie as though waiting for her to kiss it—which Renie did without hesitation, "I would be perfectly willing to accompany you. Whenceforth shall my chariot arrive?"

Renie grinned. "We're heading back on Thursday, right after Professor Milton's midterm." She leaned back in her seat. "Road trip!"

So, they spent that next Friday in Renie's burgundy Geo Metro, cramped but enjoying themselves entirely too much, sharing stories and jokes and basking in that all too intoxicating aura of new camaraderie.

"…And so he said, 'Do you want to do the talking? I can just sit here, and you can educate us.'" Kay crossed her arms and assumed a statuesque expression of absolute calm. "He just sat there, until she stopped. Staff had to escort the lady out of the library. I about died. It would have been like laughing in church, you know? Nobody dared. But everybody thought it was hysterical."

Renie was grinning. "Sounds like my kinda politician. I'd vote for 'im. You ever help out on his campaign, Kay?"

"I was a canvasser…once. Some old man invited me inside his house, said he was just about ready for his sponge-bath, but he wanted to talk to me." Kay's face went pale green. "I…didn't last very long at that job."

"Post-traumatic stress will do that to you," Katie said. "I tried to sell AVON once…for about a week-and-a-half. Thirty-two doors, two people talked to me. Didn't buy anything, but they talked to me. I sent them Christmas cards that year."

The topic eventually shifted to school. "What classes are you taking this semester?" Renie asked Kay at one point, about two hours away from Domino City. It was nearing sunset, and they were all tired. Katie, in fact, had fallen asleep.

"English Lit," Kay said, ticking off each course on her fingers, "Child Develpment, Physical Anthropology, and Egyptian History."

These last two caught Renie's attention. "Egypt, huh?" she asked. "Lots of people into Egypt these days."

"Really?" Kay asked, sounding surprised. "There aren't many people in that class. I was under the impression it was a dying art."

"You're just from the wrong side of the continent, Sister," Renie said. "The amount o' talk comes out of Domino about Egypt…you'd be surprised. You ever heard of Magic & Wizards?"

"I think my niece plays that," Kay said. "It's a card game, right?"

"Right. Well, I dunno as much about it as Kate does, but this game was based on something out of Egypt. The creator was inspired by some tablets, I guess. Heiroglyphics, you know. And there's no mistake…Domino City is the Mecca of card games. Biggest tournaments in the known world end up here. Thanks in no small part to…well. We've already told you about him."

Kay smiled. "Seto Kaiba."

"Mm-hm! S'right, babe."

"He plays Magic & Wizards, doesn't he?"

"Used to. Retired a couple years back. Focuses on other projects now, but every so often he'll make an appearance. Present an award, host an exhibition match, stuff like that. He actually gave professional commentary on one match. His brother took on some up-and-comer from outta town. It was the first time he and Mokuba ever played live, for a crowd. It was…transcendent."

"Crowd?" Kay asked. "You make this game sound like a sporting event."

"Is you learnin' yet? Sweetie, in Domino City a card game is a sporting event. Haven't you ever seen any of the matches on TV? With KC's Solid Vision holograms? It's pretty intense stuff. Especially live, let me tell you. Kate 'n me, we got front-row seats to that match. I think Mokuba was…oh, what, eight goin' on nine years old? Yeah, 'round there. His opponent was some kid, called himself Ghost."

"How, exactly, does one commentate on a card game? I'm picturing a professional poker tournament or something."

Renie looked offended. "Bitch, please. Don't you put Seto Kaiba in league with those has-beens. Ever wonder what it'd be like if you had a pro wrestling announcer at the Roman Coliseum? Yeah. It was like that. But with explosions and dragons and frickin' zombies. There was a pumpkin with tentacles, girl. Do you hear me? It was amazing."

Kay couldn't help but grin. Renie's energy was infectious. She said, "All right, all right, let's say I believe you. What, exactly, do tentacles and pumpkins have to do with Egypt, again?"

"Oh, hush. Plenty of Egyptian references in those cards if you look. Now me, I don't play. I'm not what you'd call a strategist. I suck. Tell you who kicked ass at it, though: Kate's kid brother, Zack. That kid always beat me. He could have been a professional…"

Renie trailed off.

Kay opened her mouth to respond, more curious than she wanted to admit about this children's game from Egypt, but then she got a good look at Renie's face in the rearview mirror. Her normally happy-go-lucky, bubbly expression suddenly turned horrified, and her grinning mouth snapped closed as though she'd uttered some sort of curse. Renie gave a spasmodic glance at Katie, and let out a sigh of relief when she snored softly.

"…Touchy subject?" Kay ventured.

"Uh…yeah. Forget I mentioned that, huh? Forget I even told you his name. It's…best we don't go into it." It didn't take a psychiatrist to figure out what was going on here. Kay was certain that, when she stepped into Katie McKinley's home for the first time, she would not be meeting anyone named Zack, who kicked ass at Magic & Wizards.

The mood turned decidedly somber after that, and neither Kay nor Renie said another word until Katie woke up, about fifteen minutes outside of Domino City.


Verse Two.


It was like watching an elaborate stage-play; a staff of butlers and maids, gardener and chef, security guards and general maintenance workers, all keeping up work on a mansion where nobody lived. It was the ultimate metaphor for extravagance. For any outsider who might have been looking in, the strangest part would have been that nobody seemed to notice anything strange about the whole thing. Everyone seemed perfectly willing to go along with the farce.

It had all the trappings and romanticism of a Renaissance château, with spiraling staircase towers and ornate glazed windows staring out on the neighboring countryside like the eyes of a sleeping beast. Steel-framed and surrounded by a great maze of gardens, and topped by royal violet flags with a family crest bearing the stark image of a crow surrounded by wispy streams of gold, this sprawling edifice had been at times mistaken for both an ancient castle and the centerpiece of a national park.

The interior was just as elaborate and extravagant as the image outside; however, it was the precise opposite when it came to mood. Instead of the archaic-looking tapestries and 18th-century masterpieces framed on the walls; instead of flowered vases crusted with gemstones; instead of carrying the glitz and glamor of a new-age celebrity or the ancient austerity of a feudal lord, it was like the theme-park-laden dream home of a schoolboy.

Where other such mansions might have had printings of classic art, this place had animation cels of famous cartoon characters; where other mansions might have had a towering library filled to the brim with leather-bound first editions, this place had comic books and graphic novels. Promotional posters, action figures, collectible statues, covered every spare space. It was not, however, without a sense of order. Each article was lovingly placed and painstakingly maintained; each poster and cel was framed and hung with the utmost care, and each volume in the library was set perfectly into its shelf.

A severe-looking man with grey hair and a meticulously trimmed mustache, dressed in a pinstriped suit, strode through the halls of this mystifying combination of bourgeoisie and bizarre without the faintest sense of irony. He wore dark glasses to hide his narrow-slit eyes, and spoke to no one as he passed. He had the precise stride of a soldier, the show-nothing facial expression of a federal agent. He walked quickly, taking great care not to reveal any inkling of the way his thoughts were swirling through his mind like a tropical storm.

He stopped at a huge set of double-doors on the second floor, flanked by a pair of security guards who could have passed for twins. "How long?" he asked, his voice thick and grave, delivering much more emotion than he would have liked.

"Roughly an hour, Mister Croquet," said the guard on the left; he was bald, tanned, and clearly well-muscled. His gargantuan frame looked ready to burst through his suit. "We called for you immediately. Rochelle entered his chamber this morning, and found that he'd regained consciousness."

"Open the doors," Croquet all but snarled.

"Of cour—" The other guard, much leaner and more compact than his partner but no less imposing, began to reach over to grasp the handle of the right door when he was cut off by another voice, smooth and cultured, from the room beyond.

"No need for that. I'm coming out."

The doors opened, and out stepped a man straight out of a Victorian romance. Dressed in a stylishly-tailored crimson suit and a ruffled white shirt, with a sheen of silver hair falling across one side of his smooth, clean-shaven face, was Pegasus Jarlath Crawford. His trademark smirk was on his lips, his hands outstretched as though he were preparing to make a presentation, and he looked…just as healthy and confident as he had ever been.

Croquet very nearly fainted, or otherwise bolted from the man's presence. He felt the absurd desire to take a knee before this man, who had been dead to the world for more than three years. "M-Mister Crawford. Sir. It's…it's a pleasure to see you up and walking again."

Pegasus chuckled. "I'm sure. Come, Croquet. Walk with me."

Croquet followed his employer down the hall. "How are you feeling, sir?"

"Disoriented is as pleasant a word for it as I am liable to find," Pegasus replied smoothly, grandly ignoring the looks of flabbergasted surprise that he received from every member of his personal staff. "How long have I been…indisposed?"

"Forty-one months and three weeks."

Pegasus grimaced. This answer seemed to put a bad taste in his mouth; he stopped a man walking past him and requested that a bottle of red wine be brought to his study. "The company?" he asked cryptically.

Croquet cleared his throat. "Ah…yes. Well, in the time since your, ah…disappearance, we have been working more and more closely with the Kaiba Corporation." He seemed nervous, preparing for an explosive response to this.

But Pegasus laughed. "Don't be coy, Croquet. We're a subsidiary. The only reason Industrial Illusions still exists is because Seto Kaiba has a sardonic sense of humor. So…it's come to this, has it?"

"…Sir?" Croquet raised an eyebrow. "This doesn't...concern you?"

"Not in the slightest!" Pegasus replied. "The boy isn't stupid. He knows full and well that my name has value, else he would have driven me straight into the dirt. This simply means I must…rebuild." He glanced at his subordinate, grinning. "This should be fun."

He entered into his private study after a few minutes of silence, and sat down behind his desk. He spied a neat stack of graphic novels in one corner next to a bottle of Bordeaux, and looked like a child at Christmas. "Most excellent! Croquet, do me a favor, won't you? See if you can't get in contact with our parent company and set up a…personal meeting." He glanced at a computer monitor hanging on a nearby wall. "I believe I have some catching up to do, don't I? Ah, but this will be entertaining."

Croquet inclined his head. "Of course, Mister Crawford. By your leave, sir."

Pegasus grinned again, and waved his hand. Croquet left the room.

Three years. It had been three years since the president of Industrial Illusions, once one of the most powerful corporate entities in the country, had fallen into a coma. He'd been sequestered in his private bedchamber, unconscious, since that last day of his Magic & Wizards tournament, Duelist Kingdom; that monumental day so long ago, when he'd lost his golden eye, and with it his—

Wait.

With a sudden fever, Croquet whirled around and threw himself back into his employer's study. Pegasus was sifting through charts and reports on the monitor, still with that grin on his face; he turned and raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Croquet? Did you forget something?"

There it was.

He could see it. Behind the curtain of his hair, twinkling like some distant promise, was the barest glimmer of gold.

Croquet shook his head.

"…Nothing, sir."


Verse Three.


He didn't wake, so much as he began a new existence.

It was not surprise that met him, or confusion; merely disappointment. It did not show in his statuesque face nor his pupil-less eyes. He began to walk, sandals scratching on stone and robes whispering behind them. He had tanned skin, and wore a turban atop his head. His odd eyes were blue, but it was no shade of blue that anyone had ever seen in someone's eyes; the color seemed to twist and swirl, sometimes cyan, sometimes cerulean, sometimes the deathly whisper of an iceberg.

He ascended an old, cracked stone staircase; when the acridness of the desert air met his face, there was no reaction. He did not squint, or shield his face. It would have been a mistake to say that he was even alive; there was a much subtler quality to his existence. The spirit of the fallen king, who called himself Yami, would have come closest to understanding what he was, but even that bastion of arrogance did not have a complete picture.

His name was Shadi, and he was an intermediary.

"Behold," said he, "the Lord rideth upon a swift cloud, and shall come into Egypt. And the idols of Egypt shall be moved at his presence, and the heart of Egypt shall melt in the midst of it."

Shadi began to walk; in his right hand he held a set of golden scales; about his neck was a golden ankh. His white robes flitted about in the wind. The key did not; it was too heavy.


Verse Four.


"The last of my brothers have returned," Yami said cryptically, his wine-colored eyes surveying the three faces in front of him. "I do not presume to know the nature of my failure, but the gods have refused my tribute. The Millennium Items have returned to their previous holders. My work has been stricken. Completely. Do you understand what this means?"

"I can take a stab in the dark and say it ain't good," Joey muttered.

"What could have happened?" Téa asked. "What went wrong?"

The spirit king leaned back in his seat and stared up at the ceiling. "It isn't my prerogative to dwell on why the past unfolded into this future." He looked like he was wrestling with a headache. "Think, you three. Think of what this means. Yugi has been given the Puzzle; Isis Ishtar has been given the Tauk. But Malik Ishtar now holds the Rod, Shadi has regained the Scales and the Ankh." Three pairs of eyes began to widen as the realization set in. Yami's own eyes narrowed. "But most troubling of all…Pegasus Crawford has his Eye, and Ryou Bakura has regained the Ring."

"Oh, God…"

For the first time in his life, that they had ever seen, Yami looked guilty. He sighed. "Precisely. The tattered remains of that boy's sanity hinged on the belief that Yugi and I finally banished the darkness from him. Now it has returned. Do you see, my friends?" Again, for the first time, Yami seemed to be using the word literally. "Do you see how gargantuan my failure is? Everything we've done is being dismantled. The gods are angered."

Joey, Tristan, and Téa shared worried, superstitious glances.

This was a first for them: even in the most hopeless of circumstances, Yami always exuded absolute confidence. They had borne witness to the threshold of Armageddon a number of times, and they had triumphed. A ragtag group of teenagers, like something straight out of a summer movie, had saved the fucking world.

This was the first time Yami, Atemhotep, former god-king of Egypt, had ever looked worried. He said, "It won't be long before…" And then he stopped, suddenly as though hearing something that the rest of them couldn't.

Yami stood up, his eyes closed. "…It begins," he finished.

Bare moments later, they could all hear footsteps rushing up the staircase that connected the game shop to the residence above it. Isis Ishtar stumbled up to them, out of breath and pale of face. "Yugi! Yugi Mutou!"

Yami took a step forward, looking solemn.

Behind her, hunched low to support his brother, climbed the considerable bulk of Rishid. He did not speak, but his scarred face spoke for him. His eyes found Yami, and they were wide with worry.

Malik took his arm from around his sibling's shoulders and collapsed to the floor. Clutched in his left fist, glowing with otherworldly light and surrounded by smoke as it cooked the former tomb-keeper's flesh, was the Millennium Rod.

"…My…my king…" Malik hissed through clenched teeth, unable to lift his head. "Please…" This last word came out as a shuddering wheeze, racked with pain.

"Please," Isis echoed, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "There must be…something you can do!"

Yami stared at the crumpled form of the youngest Ishtar, his face blank. Gone was the worry. Gone was the fear. There was a certain sense of regality in him now. Almost as if…this reminded him of something.

Something important.

The spirit king spoke, low and meticulous, malice dripping from each syllable. "So…you've reduced yourself to this, have you? Have the centuries dulled your memory? The man I remember would have recognized the folly of this stunt."

Malik shuddered, gasped, and then rose to a kneeling position. When his eyes met Yami's, they were not pained; they were disgusted. Malik's face screwed up in an expression of absolute disdain. "Do not lecture me," said Malik's voice, absent Malik's mind. Isis stiffened; Rishid stared.

"It would appear that I must," Yami murmured. "Remove yourself from my servant."

"Your servant?" the presenceinside Malik sneered. "You forget yourself."

"So, it seems, do you. You shame me…cousin."


END.


The quote from Shadi in the beginning of Verse Three comes from Isaiah, Chapter 19, Verse 1, from the King James English translation of the Bible.

Also…DUN-DUN-DUNNNNN…

Do you know who it is, yet? Who has inhabited Malik's body to confront Yami?

Three guesses, folks.

As I said, this chapter is setting some of the final pieces into place for things to take off. So long after its inception, I am nearing the point where I'll actually be able to revisit the plot points that made up "Shifting Images," that story that was born when I was still in high school.

I'm excited.

I hope that you are, too.

'Til next time, everyone.