This chapter marks the end of Book One. While there's still some setup to be done before everything can be fully set into motion, these 11 sections have set up the basis on which the rest of this story will be built.

Whether you came to this story after "Shifting Images" was discontinued, or are reading without reservation, I appreciate the encouragement I've received so far on this project. It's an important one.

Let's kick off the new year with a bang, shall we?

Verse One.

Seto Kaiba's face when Mokuba stepped into the front parlor was serene. Noa's was almost amused. The boy looked at his brothers, expecting them to ask him how his first day in a college class had gone, but they simply glanced at each other—for once they seemed in agreement about something—and then back at him. Mokuba suddenly felt nervous.

"…Um…hi?"

"I received a phone call from Isis Ishtar," said Seto, slowly, calmly, and ice water ran down Mokuba's back. "Westridge Community College has refunded your tuition fee, as the administration is apparently of the opinion that you have dropped her class."

Mokuba grimaced. He wasn't sure why he hadn't expected this. "Oh…yeah. Well…"

"I called," Seto continued, "and bade this decision be rescinded. I said that there must have been a mismanagement of communication. There is no other reason for such a conclusion to have been made." Mokuba saw anger slowly, so slowly, rising in his brother's face. "I stated that my brother would not have dropped any class after a single meeting."

"Niisama…I can't—"

Seto held up a hand, eyes flashing dangerously, and Mokuba nearly bit off his tongue. "I'm not interested in hearing what you can't do," the eldest Kaiba snapped, in a sharper voice than the youngest could remember hearing in years. "I want to know what you've done. Have you dropped this class? Have you given up already?" His cobalt eyes were wide and searching, and Mokuba understood that an answer was not only expected of him, but required. Soon.

He drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and looked his brother in the eye. "…Yes, Niisama. I have."

The fire dimmed, but it did not fade. "I will know why," he said. Seto looked ten feet tall in that moment, arms flat at his sides, stance easy, face a mask of neutrality. It was worse than if he'd shouted. Mokuba knew better than anyone that when Seto Kaiba was so angry that he was liable to lose control of himself, he hid his emotions behind a wall. Refused to let them hold dominion.

He looked calm, but he was livid.

Mokuba had to struggle to keep calm, to stay composed. He knew that if he lost it here, it would only make the situation worse. He kept his eyes trained directly on Seto's only with the greatest of effort. He said, in a shaking voice, "…I'm not…going to take lessons from Malik Ishtar. Not after what he did."

"That is your reason."

"Yes, Niisama."

"Do you fear for your safety?"

"…Not really."

He realized instantly that this was not the right answer by the way Seto drew in a deep, steadying breath. "For whom do you feel so insulted that you refuse to stay in Malik Ishtar's presence: your friends, me, or yourself?"

Mokuba already knew that he was going to give the wrong answer again. But he knew that it was better to be honest and wrong, than lie. Again. He said, "…You, Niisama. You almost died because of him."

Seto closed his eyes and sighed. The ghost of a grimace passed Noa's face. Mokuba realized with a jolt that both of his brothers were less than pleased by this answer. Noa was better at hiding his displeasure, but Mokuba thought that was only because Seto wasn't trying to hide anything anymore. Seto's cobalt eyes had been the center of Mokuba's existence since his birth eleven years ago; when they opened again, they held anger, sorrow, bitterness, and worst of all…disappointment. Seto said, almost gently, "…The man standing beside me came much closer to killing me than Malik Ishtar ever did, and yet you have found it in your heart to forgive him. Am I given to understand that you will allow such an insult to pass for your own brother, but not another's?"

It was all the black-haired boy could do to keep from bolting from the room. Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from crying, Mokuba said, "…I forgive people I trust. I trust Noa. I don't trust Malik Ishtar."

Noa's eyebrows raised, and he looked impressed in spite of himself.

Seto's face was chiseled from ancient stone. He shook his head. "I did not raise you to be a hypocrite," he said, scathingly. He turned on his heel and made to leave the room. Noa put a hand on his shoulder.

"Aniki."

Seto flinched violently, pulled away from Noa's touch and turned back to look at Mokuba, who felt his insides shrivel up inside him as the man he'd idolized since he could remember knowing what the word meant—the man who had raised him, protected him, taught him, the man to whom he owed everything that he was and ever would be—spoke five words that sliced through him like a hot knife and nearly drove him to his knees:

"I expected better of you."

Seto swept out of the room.

Verse Two.

Isis could not deny that she was surprised to see the younger Kaiba brother slink into her classroom on Sunday morning. If she was surprised, however, then Malik was mortified. The boy's words had affected him far more than he would ever admit. This was especially true since, when he had mentioned Mokuba's outburst to Rishid that evening, the eldest Ishtar had seemed not only not upset by it, but impressed.

Rishid had said, in his soft and scratchy voice, "He has every right to detest all three of us. I am surprised we have not been driven out of Domino City by now. We do not deserve forgiveness; not from the Kaibas, nor from anyone else we have wronged. I am sorry, Brother, I truly am. But we must first accept our sins before we can ever hope to atone for them." He had always been wiser than their parents had ever given him credit for being, and Isis knew that her elder brother was right. She could not deny her part in the danger Seto and his brother had undergone at Malik's hands, any more than she could deny her part in Malik's descent into madness.

The discussion in class that day was more subdued than the previous day's, but Isis was pleased and relieved when Mokuba raised his hand to speak more than once. He was no less studious than he'd been before, and had been first to turn in his homework when he'd arrived, with a quickly murmured apology for any inconvenience he must have caused.

When Isis had called Seto Kaiba to inform him that his brother had dropped her class, he had told her, "No, he has not. I will rectify this issue. Expect him in class tomorrow morning. He will be there." Isis could not recall a time when anything Seto Kaiba had said in that particularly decisive tone had ever proved in error. True to his word, Mokuba was here.

"Isn't Set's role as a villain in some myths," Mokuba asked at one point during the hour, "part of where the myths came from? Wasn't he worshipped, just like any god, in some cities? He's only a villain in stories that came from cities devoted to Horus, isn't he?"

"Set was indeed held in reverence in certain circles," Isis said, nodding.

"It is important to understand that the concept so popular in modern religions, that of a 'good' force and an 'evil' force," Malik put in, "isn't present in Egypt as cleanly as we might want. There are any number of creation myths, depending on the region, and the same is true when it comes to the concepts of good and evil. This is a common thread in many polytheistic religions. Discord is just as potent and important a force as order. While it is often considered a sign of evil, we would all do well to understand that it is not an end-all symbol."

The doctor had to give her younger brother credit. Malik was a gifted speaker, and he held the attention of the class just as well as she did. Even today, when he was clearly flustered and "off his game," he held himself well. Then again, Isis thought, he had held a black market empire together under his control for a number of years when he'd been a teenager. It should have been no surprise.

By the time the hour was over, and Isis had assigned reading for the next week, the tension from the previous day was nowhere to be felt. The class was smiling and talking, shaking Isis's hand, shaking Malik's hand, saying that they looked forward to the next weekend's meetings. Isis hadn't been sure if Malik's suggestion of lecturing in what was effectively improvisational theater would work, but it seemed to have gone over just fine. She found herself in a decidedly pleasant mood. This was going to work. She could feel it.

Mokuba was last in the room again. He was still seated, hands clasped on his desk, head low, eyes on the floor. He seemed deep in thought. Isis gathered her things together, and Malik seemed perfectly content to sit atop Elliot Miller's desk, pointedly not watching the black-haired boy. "Do you work today?" Isis asked him conversationally. Her brother glanced at her, eyebrows raised.

"I close tonight," he said. "I'm going in at 5. Need help with anything?"

Isis shook her head. "Not at all. Well done, Malik. I think you made an impression."

Malik grinned like a child praised by his mother.

Mokuba stood up from his desk, settled his pack on his shoulders, and stepped toward them. Standing in front of Isis, he inclined his head, clenched his fists at his sides, and said, "…I'm sorry for how I acted yesterday. I had no right to talk to you like that." He glanced spasmodically at Malik. "Either of you. I'm sure…I'm sure you've had enough stress and drama from Battle City already. I shouldn't be adding to it. I…I hope you can forgive me."

And he bowed.

All was silent for a long moment. Isis glanced at her brother, whose expression was blank. She quirked an eyebrow at him, and he nodded. She stepped over to the Kaiba heir and put a hand on his shoulder. The black-haired boy flinched, and looked up. Isis smiled. "We must admit our sins before we can atone for them," she said. "A very wise man said that to me once. Our family has wronged yours, and we must accept that. If it will ease your conscience to have us forgive your anger, then it is forgiven. In exchange, will it be possible that you can someday forgive our actions, and our arrogance, as well?"

Mokuba looked at Isis for a long while, then at Malik for even longer.

"…Yes."

Isis's smile widened, and Malik hung his head.

"We'll see you next Saturday, then?" Isis asked.

Mokuba found a smile of his own and nodded. "Yes, Doctor Ishtar."

They heard footsteps approaching from the hallway outside the room, and a pair of voices. One was deep, the other light. Malik hopped off the desk and opened the door. Rishid Ishtar, dressed in a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, greying jeans and tan work boots, was conversing with a young man Isis had never seen before.

Or maybe she had. She couldn't tell.

He looked like Seto Kaiba, but…his hair was a much lighter shade of brown. He was not as tall as Rishid, but close. In stark contrast with his companion, the man was dressed in a crisp, clean, custom-tailored white suit. A similarly stark-white fedora, pulled low on his head, covered his face in shadow, but she could still see that his light blue eyes were nearly the same color as her own.

This could not be Seto Kaiba.

And yet…

"….really a point to doing that?" the Kaiba clone was asking.

"It was…an order," Rishid answered, looking flustered but refusing to not be polite, "and I was not yet in my right mind."

"Huh. Suppose I have no room to judge there." The man in the white suit glanced into the room. "So long as your mind is right enough to refuse, should an order like that come again."

"…Of course," Rishid said.

The Kaiba clone turned his attention to the others. "Well, now. Fair morn to ye scholarly pursuers. Everybody playing nice now?" There was an edge to his voice, not as deep or as gravelly as Seto Kaiba's but identical in its inherent arrogance. Mokuba flinched again. "What say, kid? Are we keeping the peace?"

Mokuba bowed his head again. "Yes, Noa."

Noa…Noa?

Isis blinked. Did that mean…?

Noa strode forward, swept his hat from his head and bowed deeply before Isis, with a flourish that made it instantly clear that in spite of the fact that he did, in fact, look nearly identical to the elder Kaiba brother, he was most certainly not. "Konnichiwa, Ishutaru-sensei," he said with the ease of a silver-tongued native.

"Yoroshiku-onegaishimasu," replied Isis, unsure of what else to say.

Noa straightened, looking delighted. He winked at her and clicked his tongue.

Rishid was watching Mokuba. When the young Kaiba looked at him, he bowed deeply. "My deepest apologies, Young Master Kaiba. I do not believe we have been properly introduced. You have only seen me, I regret, at my most depraved. I am Rishid Ishtar."

The sincerity, the humility, in Rishid's voice and body language seemed to take Mokuba completely off-guard. The boy stared openly, clearly with no idea how to react. Isis realized that—without regard to whether or not the boy had been justified the day before—Rishid had done precisely the right thing to completely disarm any hostility Mokuba might have had for a man who'd kidnapped him.

Despite the fact that he had been the only one to do any sort of active harm to the boy, Rishid had just placed himself at the top of Mokuba's list of "Ishtars worth Forgiving." Before anything else, before the vaguest of pleasantries, he'd kept the peace. Isis couldn't help but let out a tiny little chuckle. The man really was a marvel.

"…Hello, Rishid," Mokuba said, with a tiny little wave.

"I trust matters have been resolved to your satisfaction?" Rishid asked. "I am sure that my siblings have behaved…adequately?" Malik flinched violently, looking guilty, but Rishid only had eyes for Young Master Kaiba.

"Ah…yes. Yes, it's fine."

Rishid beamed. "Very well, then."

"So, there won't be any problems with coming back next week?" Noa asked, directing the question both at his brother and at Isis. There was one thing in particular about this man that struck her as thoroughly alien, now that she paid closer attention: he looked…and felt…like a predator. There was an innate sense of foreboding surrounding him. Like he could, at the slightest provocation, rip a person in half. An absurd thought, but nonetheless Isis admitted that for all his faults, Seto Kaiba had never made her feel quite so…intimidated.

"No," Mokuba said. "I'm coming back on Saturday."

"Good deal, then!" Noa declared happily. "C'mon, kiddo. Aniki's waiting in the parking lot."

As they left, Mokuba asked, "…Since when do you call him that, anyway?"

Noa simply shrugged.

Verse Three.

Mokuba's bedroom was sometimes called a cyclone by the staff, but Noa found it only messy insofar as it was disorganized. As he stepped into the doorway and took stock of it, he noted a number of things: the books on the boy's shelf were far above his grade level, more than a few of them probably having been chosen simply because his brother liked and/or approved of them. A cork-board hung near his desk, covered by newspaper clippings and magazine photos of Seto's innumerable public appearances. Posters from various videogames were taped to the walls.

Noa smiled. He liked this room. He liked it a good deal.

Mokuba was seated on his bed, back against the headboard, head hanging backward as he stared up at the ceiling. He wasn't crying, but he looked like he very much wanted to. When he spoke, his voice was steady…but desolate.

"…He's still mad at me."

Noa leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah. He is."

Mokuba sat up straight and looked at his adoptive sibling. "He's always saying I should stand up for myself. He says I shouldn't let people push me around. I thought…I thought that's what…I was doing."

Noa raised an eyebrow. "Do you?" He stepped into the room, putting his feet in the precise spots to ensure that he wouldn't trip, and sat on the edge of Mokuba's bed. "Let's look back on things, shall we? The way I hear it told, I interrupted the Malik fiasco. So I'm not too well-versed on the details. Mind filling me in? What happened? Who is this guy?"

"…He was some kind of criminal overlord or something," Mokuba said. "He was younger than Niisama, but he still had…like, this empire. Loads of followers. And he used this…hypnosis or something. Yugi says he could enter people's minds, and control what they did. He used his power to…try to kill us. For the God cards."

Noa slipped a hand into a pocket of his slacks and removed a pack of chewing gum. He took a piece and popped it into his mouth, handing the rest of the pack to Mokuba. The youngest Kaiba declined. "I sense skepticism. You don't think he could do that? Control people's minds, I mean?"

"I don't know. I never saw him do it. But Niisama says it was probably brainwashing, like a cult or something like that."

Noa's eyes sparkled. "And if Niisama says it, it must be true."

Mokuba flinched, fidgeted, and looked off at the wall. "Well…kinda."

"…Here's the thing, Mokuba," Noa said, stern but still with a lighter tone than he would have taken with anyone else, sounding like he had been waiting solely for this particular opening. "You're a special case for him. You know it, I know it, the American people know it. Aniki," he stopped here, as if still unsure whether he liked the sound of that name, or the feel of it on his tongue, "is Grade-X rotten when it comes to social niceties…except with you. He makes an effort with you far beyond that with which he's comfortable. Do you know what I mean by that?"

Mokuba looked back at the man and frowned. "He's nicer to me than everyone else."

"Partly. More to the point, though, all those virtues we tend to think are important when dealing with other people: politeness, patience, graciousness, humility…a sense of humor…all those things. He makes an effort to force them out, beyond what he's willing to make with other people, for you. Because Aniki has obscene standards, for himself and for everyone. And you, my messy-headed little friend," Noa ruffled the boy's hair, "are the only person he knows who's always upheld those standards. At every turn. Even when Aniki himself wasn't holding to those standards…you were."

Mokuba shook his head. "Not really. I don't get straight A's or…invent things or…any of the stuff Niisama did when he was a kid."

Noa chuckled. Hopping off the bed, he squatted down on his heels on the floor, picking up an action figure and fiddling with it. "You spend so much time staring up at your brother that you forget what's beneath you. Whether you match his accomplishments doesn't matter." He tossed the toy into the air, watched it rise and fall, and caught it. Pointing at his brother with the figure, Noa continued: "That's not how Aniki determines whether you've crossed a line. The crazy thing about people like him…and me, for that matter…is that when we look at things someone else does, we analyze. We scrutinize, theorize, and come to a conclusion. Do you follow me?"

"…Sort of?"

Noa hopped back onto his feet. Mokuba had noticed over time that the middle Kaiba couldn't sit still for very long. He was constantly moving, shifting position, fiddling with pens or his hat or his coat, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Your brother isn't normal. Hell, nobody's normal. There's no end-all standard on which we can lay our conclusions on what's good or not about accomplishments. Case in point: if I run a six-minute mile, is that an accomplishment? Not really. I'm a freaking cyborg. But if somebody with a physical disability runs a six-minute mile…well, hell, that's pretty damn good, isn't it?"

Mokuba frowned. "I shouldn't compare myself to my brother because I'm dumber than him?"

Noa didn't bat an eyelash. "Your brother resurrected the dead. With science. Everyone is dumber than he is. That's not what I mean. I mean, we've all got a certain potential. Aniki got this far with his because society, and my father, forced him. Nobody's forcing you to push yourself to the breaking point."

Seeing that this wasn't making much of an impact—Mokuba still looked entirely unconvinced—Noa frowned and tried another tack: "You're old enough now to have your own theories and your own beliefs. And if Niisama disapproves, that doesn't make it bad. Just because your brother's disappointed doesn't make you wrong, or that you need to push yourself to be more like him so you'll agree with him. If you look at what he says, and think about why you did what you did—in this case, refuse to deal with a psychopathic former crime-lord with a God complex—and decide you agree…okay, sure. Take what he says under serious advisement, because he's older than you and he's been around the block a few times. But if you're still convinced, the worst thing you can do is acquiesce. You know? I'm talking too much. You're glazed as a doughnut right now. Which reminds me, I'm hungry."

Mokuba found a smile. "Me, too. But…I mean…what he said…"

"Was predicated by frustration and exasperation which had nothing to do with you," Noa finished, and jerked a thumb at himself. "The reason he expected you not to…hitch a fit, I guess, about dealing with Malik is because I am his Malik."

"…Huh?"

"I'll make this simple," Noa said, sounding almost bored. "I was an enemy, who nearly killed you, for ultimately selfish reasons, based upon the whim and fancy of a psychotic delusion. Does that sound familiar?"

Realization was beginning to dawn on Mokuba's face. His smile disappeared.

"I suppose Aniki thought, since you're expecting him to tolerate my presence, that you would tolerate Malik Ishtar's. And I further suppose that he finds it disappointing that you opted to back out, when that option isn't exactly open to him."

New guilt sprang forth, and Mokuba looked down at his lap. "…Oh."

Noa reached over and patted his brother's leg. "Tell you what, kid. I'll make you a deal."

Mokuba looked up. "Huh?"

"You figure out what you need to do about Ishtar, and do it. You do that, and I'll talk to Aniki. I speak his language. I'll get him to see reason. Deal?"

Mokuba frowned thoughtfully for a long moment. Noa held out a hand.

The young Kaiba took the hand and shook it. "Okay."

Verse Four.

"Gooooood evening, sir. Did you find everything you needed?"

Malik had already gone through the pitch before realizing that the person standing in front of him didn't have anything to purchase. The young man simply stood there, on the other side of the cash register, staring at him. No wallet, no cart, nothing. The store was about to close, Malik was exhausted—he hadn't properly slept in a week—and he didn't even notice that he recognized this particular (non)customer until he(it) spoke.

Ryou Bakura was staring at him. "Ah...Malik Ishtar!" he cried happily, as if seeing an old friend for the first time in years. "I didn't know you were working here. It's been a long time, hasn't it? How have you been?"

It was innocent enough. Like any other meeting between acquaintances. Malik had heard from the other duelists that Ryou Bakura was a friendly sort, but hadn't they also said that he was cripplingly shy? Malik would have expected him to be far more sheepish; perhaps to pretend that he didn't recognize him at all. At the most, he might have given a quiet little "Hello" and left it at that. This bright, effervescent Bakura didn't seem right at all, even to a man who had only seen him a handful of times.

"I've been doing well enough," Malik said, with that intrinsically fake voice one reserved for people he should have remembered but didn't, feeling somehow obligated to converse with this man in spite of everything. "Yourself?"

"Fine, fine, just fine," Ryou replied, grinning a gleaming, toothy grin that didn't look right on his face. "I have a job myself, now. It's just delivering newspapers right now, but I'm hoping once I graduate, I'll be able to start a career in journalism. I like to write, but I don't get much of a chance to do it these days. You know? Very busy."

"Mm," Malik offered, too tired to engage in the usual song-and-dance that came with social niceties. His head was pounding, his blood felt hot, and his eyes were beginning to blur. Ryou Bakura didn't seem to take the hint.

"It's so good to see you! Where are you living now?"

"I'm sharing an apartment with Rishid and Isis," Malik said.

"How nice," Ryou said. "Living with family. How are they?"

"Fine. They're fine."

"I hear your sister is teaching now," Ryou prodded. "That's wonderful. Does she like her job?"

"Yes." Gods, why was he talking so much? "Yes, she does. She says it's more fulfilling to talk to people than to old stone tablets. Can I, uh…help you with anything, Ryou? Do you need help finding something?"

Ryou shook his head. "Oh, no. I found everything just fine. Thank you." He reached across the counter and picked up a tin of breath mints.

"One dollar, thirty seven cents," Malik said.

Ryou paid for the mints, pocketed them, and left the store without another word. Malik finished his shift without further incident, but his mind—formerly groggy and focused only on whether or not he would be able to make it home or if he'd end up passing out in the parking lot—began to whirl and swim.

He began his walk home. Malik normally put in ear-buds and let his mp3 player guide him, but this night he kept the device in his pocket. His eyes spun and bounced in his skull as he struggled to take in every last detail of his surroundings. He was running back to his days in the criminal underground, when losing sight of his surroundings could very well have led to an early death. Then, though, he had had Rishid at his back. Strong, hulking, capable Rishid, ready and willing to obey his every command.

Malik did not have his brother right now.

Nor did he have the single weapon he'd always had up his sleeve. The Millennium Rod was hidden, locked away and forgotten. Or so he would have liked to believe.

In his peripheral vision, Malik could see a figure standing in the light-barraged spattering of shadows that made up Domino City at night. Behind a light post, stepping up behind a mailbox, standing behind a window. Malik Ishtar was not a coward; he was young, and naïve, and in many ways he was still a child. But he was not a coward. Yet this night, his pace quickened in step with his heart as panic began to set in.

He knew this feeling; this cold, creeping dread.

It was the same feeling with which he'd learned to live as a boy, trapped in his tomb of a childhood home, with his father leaning over his shoulder at every given moment.

It was—

Malik whirled, sure that Ryou Bakura was coming up behind him, only to terrify the wits out of a young woman with a shopping bag. "Oh!" she said. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to startle you!"

"That's…fine," Malik said. "I had my headphones in. I didn't hear you."

He left, disregarding the look of confusion on the woman's face—he very clearly wasn't wearing headphones—trying to remember if the Millennium Ring allowed a person to change their appearance.

Could he have…?

The Millennium Ring.

Of course!

Oh, God. He had it. Ryou Bakura had the Millennium Ring.

Or, maybe it was more appropriate to say that the Millennium Ring had Ryou Bakura.

Malik broke into a full sprint, not even paying attention to the other people sharing the night with him. Panic had given way to sheer survival instinct, and he pushed and tossed and barreled his way through the streets toward home. Toward sanctuary.

Malik had never feared the Ring before…but before, he had had the Rod to defend him.

He had to get out of here. He had to get out of the naked openness of the city.

When he reached his apartment building and bounded up the steps two at a time, crushing himself against the door as he fumbled his keys into submission, a part of Malik realized that something was wrong about this; something more than just a threat to his well-being. This was…this was…

He threw himself into the front room of his apartment. Isis stood up from the couch, setting aside the book she'd been holding in her lap, looking worried. Rishid stepped into the room from the kitchen.

"Malik?"

"What is it, Brother?"

Malik tried to answer.

But then, it happened.

I have been patient, boomed an echoing voice between his ears. It was a threat given sentience, pushing against the inside of Malik's skull and driving him to his knees. His siblings ran up to him; Rishid put his big hands on his brother's shoulders. Isis stared directly into his eyes, as if she might will an answer out of him.

But Malik no longer realized they were there.

All he could see, all he could understand, was that voice.

I have been generous. I have sent them to you. You remain willfully ignorant. This is unacceptable. It is high time that I elect a more direct means of contact. You have failed to serve your purpose, servant. I am…disappointed.

Malik's lavender eyes went wide, and his mouth opened as a look of manic terror crossed his young face. Isis was screaming at him; Rishid was shaking him.

This…this was…

"Se—"

END.