This project is a strange one. I aimed to do a number of things with it, and I think I've succeeded. Largely, anyway. The central question I asked myself, though, was this one: how would everything have unfolded if Noa Kaiba had lived? What if the car accident that claims his life in the anime wasn't fatal? What if he just landed in the hospital?

How would that change things?

This is my attempt to explore that concept.

I think it's taken some interesting turns. I hope you enjoy the journey.

I certainly did.

.

"I appreciate you coming so promptly, and on such short notice," said Gozaburo Kaiba without looking up from his heavy oak desk. "Tell me, do you remember that military hospital in Hanover?"

Ishmael Faraji would never be accused of being tactful—four failed marriages and six estranged children could attest to that—but he doubted, very much, that he would ever be able to master Gozaburo's use of outright, ruthless rudeness as an intimidation tactic, all masquerading as efficiency. The Kaiba patriarch turned his attention from his legal pad—on which he was making swift, angry strokes with a brush pen—straight to the window on his right; he stared like he was watching something Biblical occur on his front lawn.

It was like he was deliberately refusing to make eye contact with his oldest friend.

Faraji cleared his throat, scratched at his beard, and said: "It's surreal enough to see you zipped up in a suit like that, Gozie." He gestured. "Now you've gone and shaved? That mustache made you look like a commander. Like a field general. You look like every other corporate stooge I've ever met."

Black eyes like gemstones from the devil's throne finally turned toward him, and Faraji found himself flummoxed; he'd just been caught in a lie. Gozaburo Kaiba did not look like a stooge. He looked as incendiary as he ever had, even though a clean shave did take years off his face. Those eyes. They knew too much. They'd always known too much, but there was something else, something hidden, that was new.

With a Kaiba, new was never good.

"Uh . . . yeah," Faraji said, remembering he'd been asked a question. "Yeah, of course. I remember." He offered a grin that almost felt authentic. "Hell of a ride, that one. I don't know what we'd've done if not for that Afghani kid with that gold key around his neck."

Gozaburo grimaced. "He wasn't Afghani. And he certainly wasn't a child."

"Right, right." They'd been over the fine details of that night many, many times. Gozaburo was always a stickler for fine details. "Sorry. Point is, yeah. I remember Hanover. Why do you ask?"

Gozaburo straightened his crimson tie—the only splash of color present on his person—set it flat against his jet-black shirt and adjusted his jet-black jacket. "I wouldn't have made it out of that building," he rumbled. "A long box and a short speech was all that would have, should have, been made of my legacy. If not for you."

Faraji's grin widened just a bit, he felt just a bit more comfortable, as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his fatigues. There was only one chair in this office, on its master's side of the desk, and he had to make do with shifting his weight from foot to foot to assuage the apprehension that was still buzzing through every fiber of him right now.

"Nature of the brotherhood, Gozie," said Faraji. "We went into that mission together; we made it out together."

"Indeed." Gozaburo stood up. He looked like he was in mourning. It wasn't just his shirt and jacket; his vest, slacks, boots, even the long overcoat he plucked from the rack in the corner was woven from liquid midnight; only his tie, like a streak of blood, stood out from the void. Gozaburo took out a stainless three-finger cigar case from an inside pocket; from another, a double guillotine cutter.

He offered one of his cigars to Faraji, who waved it off. "Quit last year," he said. "Doc says I need to cut back on a lot of vices if I want to see the back half of this decade."

"Cut back," Gozaburo repeated, slowly, as he went about the old, sacred ritual. He tucked his own smoke between his teeth. "You may have noticed that my wife was not here to greet you today. Amaya is indisposed at the moment." Something cold ran up Faraji's spine. "Yesterday morning, our boy was nearly run down in the street. If not for the slimmest stroke of luck, I would be planning a funeral today."

Faraji licked his lips. "I saw something about that," he said, a bit too smoothly. "I had no idea it was that close."

"Close," Gozaburo said, checking how the word tasted when mixed with tobacco. "Yes. Close. Close enough, in fact, that I find myself drawn into my memories. I find them quite distracting." That explained the dark patches under the man's eyes; he probably hadn't slept since the accident.

While the lack of his thick mustaches made this mercenary-turned-overlord look younger than Faraji could ever remember seeing him before, every other part of his demeanor made up the difference. He had the bearing, the soul, of an ancient and primeval thing.

"Is that . . . why you called me?" Faraji dared to ask. "To catch up?"

"Something like that." Gozaburo donned his coat, flipped up the collar. "I have another question for you. Do you remember the day that we named you Noa's godfather?"

Silence invaded the room.

"Y-Yeah." Faraji nodded. "Of course, Gozie. Proudest moment of my life." He paused, rolled his shoulders. "I remember how much you and the little lady wanted a baby. Took a lot of work, but it was worth it, yeah? Kid's gonna make a hell of a man one day. He'll be the pride of your family. A real force of nature, just like his pops, I'm sure of it." He tapped his temple. "I've got an eye for that kind of thing."

"Mm." Gozaburo took the cigar from his mouth and watched smoke swirl up from the lit end like a dragon. "Do you remember the promise you made to me, on that day?"

"I do." Faraji nodded again, firmly. "I said there wasn't a damn thing that would happen to little Noa, so long as I was still around."

"I intend to hold you to that oath," Gozaburo said, scowling. "I have reason to believe that this incident, which nearly claimed my son's life, was fully intentional." He plucked up his legal pad and held it out. Four symbols had been swept onto the center of the page.

海馬乃亜

"Do you know what this is?" Gozaburo asked.

Faraji squinted. "I'll admit I'm a bit rusty," he said, "but I recognize those first two. I'm guessing that's your boy's name."

"Correct." Gozaburo ripped the page out, holding it up in front of him as he set the pad down on the desk again. "Our boy's name. The name that will carry my blood into the future. The name to which Amaya and I have pinned every hope we have." Another pregnant pause. Gozaburo pushed his cigar against the sheet of paper, and they both watched it burn. "Someone tried to destroy that, to cut down our legacy. Noa has yet to see his first decade. Someone decided that his life was over. I trust you understand what it means for me to tell you this."

"Absolutely." Faraji very nearly saluted. "You're looking to have me track down the scum-sucker who did this."

Gozaburo smirked. Chuckled to himself as he crumpled up the ruined yellow paper and tossed it into the little bin behind his left foot. "Something like that," he said, more to himself than to his brother in arms.

"You can count on me," said Ishmael Faraji, reaching out to place a hand on Gozaburo's broad shoulder. "I won't rest until that son of a bitch is in the ground."

Gozaburo's smirk widened. "Thank you, Raj."

Faraji tried to remember the last time anyone called him that.

The blade flashed into Gozaburo's right hand too fast for even Faraji's well-trained eyes to catch it. A razor's edge of cold steel slammed into his liver. Faraji let out a grunt as Gozaburo held him up and stared down at him like a vengeful god. Those black eyes were untouched by anything.

"It's been too long, old friend," Gozaburo murmured flatly, as he sliced through Faraji's gut and let him drop.