I shouldn't be doing this. It's not an expedient use of my time, nor my creative energy, considering just how many stories I have which already demand my attention.

However, I have never been a paragon of proper time management, so why start now? It hardly seems appropriate.

Those of you who have never read my Yu-Gi-Oh! stories before, welcome. Those who have, welcome back. Did you miss me?

I always say, when I finish a story, "See you on the next journey."

Well, here it is. Most recently, I finished "Light a Candle for the Prince," perhaps the darkest tale I've ever penned. So I suppose that might be one reason why I've decided to select this road, for that next journey I was talking about.

Strap in, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen.

This should be an interesting one.

1.

The master is wearing red, the servant black, and somehow that says more about the both of them than it should.

The master's stride is quick, confident, his gaze straight ahead, and his surroundings have no control over his impeccable bearing. The servant, however, walks with a stutter and talks with a stammer, and every handful of seconds he looks around as though he expects to find some sort of apocalyptic exigency about which no one bothered to warn him, and that he fears—specifically due to his lack of proper preparations—the known world might just rise up and eat him, with teeth like gravestones and a tongue long enough to wrap around the moon.

The servant doesn't consider this strange, or a sign of social hypochondria; he's sure that casinos have this effect on a lot of people.

"Ah, sir? If you don't mind my asking . . . I thought you said you were going to visit the old orphanage today. Not that I'm specifically encouraging parenthood at your age. I'm not trying to speed things along in the slightest. But why are we here?"

The master chuckles, and a slow smirk slides across his young face. He takes in the bright, blinking, flashing lights of the slot machines; the neutral fluorescent lights of the ceiling. The master finds the psychology of casinos fascinating. The fact that there are no windows, no clocks, no sign whatsoever of time passing. The fact that the loudest and most generous slot machines are placed near the front entrance, like traps set for prey.

The fact that there isn't a single person in this land of revelry and reckless fun who looks in any way happy.

"I find a place like this . . . puts me in the proper frame of mind," the master says, with a contemplative sweep of his gaze across the fields of war. He spots a family, two adults and three children, trying to make their way to the buffet while keeping track of themselves in the throng. He smiles.

"I . . . uh . . . okay. But still, why would you want to do this in the first place? Why even put yourself in the right frame of mind? I mean, considering how suddenly you lost your—" The master levels a horrific glare, and the servant stumbles back a step as though it's struck him physically. He tries a different tack: "Considering the, ah, state of your life as it is, sir, do you honestly think you have time for a family?"

The master shakes his head. "That sort of thinking is contingent upon the idea that my free time will expand as the years pile on. I can assure you that that will not happen. I refuse to be one of those who spends his entire life waiting for the right moment, only to die before he finds it."

"While noble, this still seems like a rather rash decision. Parenthood isn't a hobby, sir. It's a commitment. You're committing your life to the molding of another. That's no easy task, and . . . well . . ."

The master eyes the servant somberly. "Trust me. I know what this decision means. I am fully prepared to accept the consequences. But understand: if I wait until I am ready, my family line will die with me. I cannot allow that to happen."

This results in an almost companionable silence, as the servant finds himself unable to conjure up a new argument. The eccentric young man responsible for his paycheck every two weeks really does seem to have thought of everything. This is not just from the servant's own prodding, of course. Everyone on the house staff has been prodding and pressing him with questions ever since his announcement—three days ago—that he intended to find himself an heir.

A particularly loud slot machine prompts a startled screech from the servant, at which the master chuckles quietly, and the conversation finds itself at a new beginning.

"Sir? You said this place puts you in the right frame of mind. What frame of mind is that, exactly?"

The master grins toothily, and something flashes in his eyes. "Conquest."

The servant blinks, digests the words slowly and finds that they taste disconcerting on his tongue. "Sir? Since when is adopting a child a . . . conquest?"

The master stops walking and laughs out loud. "Since when is it not?"

2.

The Domino Children's Home is a hallmark of a forgotten age, a relic without a future and hardly a past worth mentioning. The master finds this charming, and a little concerning. He has often wondered if there isn't some better way to provide for lost and forgotten children than tossing them in a shack.

He sits, regal and unruffled, before the director of this particular shack.

". . . Excuse me?" the said director is asking now.

The master smirks, almost seductively. "I said, my good sir, I find it troubling that you are in a position of power here, considering your distaste for the children under your care."

"Distaste? I'm not sure I know what you mean."

The smirk disappears. "I mean you hate children, and it bothers me that you've made a living out of taking care of people that you hate. I would have similar misgivings about a Grand Dragon infringing on the NAACP. Is that clear enough for you?"

The director shoots bolt upright from his seat, as though mortally offended. The servant, standing to his master's right, immediately makes for the pistol he keeps in a shoulder holster beneath his coat. His nervousness is gone. The mission is on, and this is no place for extra emotional baggage.

But the servant knows, even as he makes for his weapon, that Gregor Kelvin is no threat.

Gregor Kelvin blows up like a bullfrog. "I beg your pardon?"

The master chuckles, and crosses one leg over the other. "Enough of this. You clearly aren't the sort to speak with me about grander issues. Let's put this in black and white, shall we? You tell me what I need to do, what promises I need to make and what papers I need to sign, to leave this building with one of your charges. If you do that, then I will not only . . . free you from one of your innumerable shackles, but I will also make a donation to this establishment. I should hate to have the rest of the youngsters living here thinking that I'm somehow playing favorites. I want all the orphans in my fair city to live better, more comfortable lives. Not just the one I happen to like." The master pauses. "And . . . of course, I should like to thank you and yours, for making such noble choices in your career paths."

It isn't Kelvin who speaks now, but a young woman with blond hair and thin glasses perched on her nose. She steps forward, taking unconscious control of the conversation from her superior, and says: "I'm afraid it's not quite as simple as you signing some forms and leaving with a child, sir. We're not running a pet store."

The master raises an eyebrow, and gestures invitingly to the woman. "Please. Enlighten me."

"There's an application process, training, and of course you'll have to be approved. We'll need to conduct a background check, a home inspection. It's all here." She hands the master a slim stack of papers that she's prepared. "It may be up to a year before one of our . . . charges leaves with you."

The master looks displeased, but not surprised. He flips through the pages in his hands quickly. "I see. Of course. We don't live in the Middle Ages, after all. There are procedures to observe. My apologies. Ah, you are . . . ?"

"Kristine Hathaway," the woman replies. "I'm a caseworker." She holds out a hand.

The master shakes it, smiling dutifully. "Thank you very much, Miss Hathaway."

He does not give his own name.

3.

The master spends the rest of his afternoon leisurely observing the children at play in the front courtyard. Most seem happy enough. They seem like children. Playing pretend, clambering over playground equipment, chasing each other.

It's after school, and energy is still running high.

The master soon tires of this, and he eventually notices that Kristine Hathaway has left the director's office and is now ushering a small gaggle of boys away from a smaller gaggle of girls. Clearly she is not only a caseworker. She seems to also be a caretaker.

The servant watches as the master takes a small book from his pocket and starts reading. He doesn't pretend to read; that would make the ruse ineffective. He reads in earnest, and when Kristine comes up to the master a minute or two later, he is so absorbed that he very nearly forgets the game he had decided to play.

"Are you religious, sir?" Kristine asks, noting that the book in the master's hand is a Bible. She sounds at once perfectly innocent, yet also suspicious. Master and servant both wonder how many prospective parents use religion as a way to get their proverbial foot in the proverbial door.

The master gestures with the Good Book to something that neither Kristine nor his servant can see. "Absolutely not. I read this whenever I start thinking that the true answers to life's questions might actually be found inside a church. Invariably, I am reassured that this is not the case."

Kristine actually chuckles. "Is that right?"

"Reading the Bible is a leading cause of Atheism, I am sure of it." The master flips pages. "Just consider God's treatment of the Egyptians, here in Exodus. Simply because Pharaoh refuses to listen to Moses and Aaron, all of Egypt is punished? Yet here, and here, and here," the master points, "it is mentioned that God is responsible for the hardening of Pharaoh's heart. The Lord Himself is forcing Pharaoh to countermand Him, so that He may bring plagues to Egypt. That hardly seems . . . godlike." The master pauses. "Or perhaps it does seem godlike, and that's precisely the problem."

Kristine's mirth disappears, but not her interest. "I'm not sure I've heard that perspective." She thinks a moment, then makes a gesture for the master to follow her. "Come with me. I think you might want to . . . meet someone."

The master bows. "Please. Lead on."

Kristine walks, and the master follows. The servant follows the master.

Kristine calls out: "Dan! Dan, where's Seto? Is he home from school?"

A young man in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt looks over. "Hm? Oh. I, uh . . . think he just put Mokuba down for a nap. Why?"

Kristine gestures again. "I just thought he might like to meet someone."

"Why's that?" Dan asks, coming up to them. He glances at the master and offers a friendly sort of nod, which is reciprocated. "It's not often he 'might like to meet' anyone. You know that."

Kristine smirks. "Call it a hunch."

Dan eyes the master curiously, then shrugs. He turns, and they all watch as a thin boy, about ten years old or so, strides quickly into the courtyard with a thick book under his arm.

Kristine calls out: "Seto! Seto, honey, come over here a moment, please."

The boy turns. His blue eyes, nearly covered by a curtain of brunette hair, are sharp. Even from this distance, the master . . . sees something in them.

The master smiles.

The boy approaches; he does not smile. "What is it?" he asks Kristine. "What do you need?"

The master bows low at the waist before Kristine can speak.

"Good afternoon. Seto, was it? May I call you Seto?" The boy shrugs. "Seto, then."

"What's this about?" Seto asks, impatiently but not impolitely.

The master holds out a hand. "A pleasure to meet you. My name is Pegasus Crawford."