First Encounter:

He is aware.

Somehow, that comes as a surprise. Or perhaps the real surprise is that he cannot remember if this is the first time he has ever been aware or not. He was awake before he was aware—of that he is certain. He wonders how that is possible.

He casts his eyes around, seeing his surroundings for the first time. No, not the first time. He simply hadn't been aware of them before. They had been inconsequential. Now they seem to matter. Reaching out a hand, he realizes he has never felt the walls before, the prickly stone texture, the patterns carved in the surface arranged in neat rows. Somehow, he knows the carvings are ancient, as is the stone, although he can't explain how the knowledge comes. It is as new as the awareness. He wonders what has changed. The surrounding walls and staircases of yellow brick offer no response. They stretch on in every direction as far as he can see.

Anger. It sparks in the air. He cannot see it, but it tingles on his skin. Not his, but whose? It is everywhere, bleeding through the cracks in the brick.

He responds. He doesn't even mean to—it simply happens. Some key snaps into place and unlocks the maze of staircases around him, unfolding them like petals. He steps into open air in a completely different place. There are people. He does not know them.

No, he does. The unmoving form at his feet is familiar.

Memories come to his mind. They are not his. Words come to his lips. They are also not his. He declares war on a dark figure in the doorway, announces a claim of revenge for the grandfather on the ground before him that is his and yet not his.

The figure laughs. Accepts his challenge. He is dressed in all blue, but it is shadowed in black. So is his smile. So are his eyes. This man is dangerous. Unstable. He is a shadow.

The shadow leads him to an arena. It is the first comfortable place. Here, he is at home. Here, he is in control. He knows the cards under his fingers, knows them in such an intimate way that he feels the connection resonate in his spine. He is certain he has never played this game before, and yet also certain that it is his. It belongs in the deep part of his soul where he imagines the staircases bloom.

The memories again. He knows the shadow before him. He can see a place full of people in blue and pink, a place called school. He has never been there, and yet it fills his mind. Words and numbers parade across the backs of his eyes. He knows the history of a world he has never seen. They are not real memories—he has never experienced them, never tasted them, never felt them. He simply knows.

Danger. The shadow has him cornered. Three enormous white dragons tower above him, eyes sharp, teeth gleaming. He cannot lose. That knowledge is woven into his very existence. It is the skeleton that everything else about him is layered over. He does not know what will happen if he loses this game, this battle; he only knows it is unfathomable. The very possibility chills his blood, pebbles his skin. He cannot lose. He cannot lose.

Someone is speaking to him. No, it is another memory. The grandfather that is not his spreads a set of cards across a glass surface. His smile is warm, without a shadow. He speaks of strategy, of heart, of victory. The language resonates in that same part of his soul as the game. That is his key. He realizes he is almost there—missing only one piece of five. He has one chance to win.

Fear. He hesitates. The fear is not his, just as the anger was not his, just as the memories are not his, just as the grandfather is not his. Does anything in this world actually belong to him? Only the game. Only victory. He reaches for the cards, for his one chance.

The fear presses on him. It emanates from his chest, blocking his connection to the cards. His eyes fall on a golden object dangling from his neck. That is the source. He knows, and yet he does not understand. The fear is contagious. It is becoming his, dotting his forehead in sweat, shivering through his outstretched fingers.

His fingers. They are streaked in black. Why? Again, knowledge comes without experience. The black lines are the remnants of friends. Once more, not his. But the memory calms the fear, sands it down to a smooth peace. He is free to win.

The connection to the cards surges back to life, fire in his blood, fire in his smile. He draws; the card is exactly what he needs. It always will be. This game is the one thing that belongs to him.

His victory explodes before him in a brilliant solar flare, an outward display of the inner fire. It is glorious. It is everything.

The shadow is crushed. Defeated. Speechless. From the memories, he knows that the black shadow around this man did not always exist. Since he has claimed victory, he is free to banish the darkness. Any victory is power over the shadows. Perhaps that is why he cannot lose.

The man is set free. For him, defeat is his savior. Now the blue is outlined in white—the white of his dragons. Perhaps there is a connection deep in his soul as well.

It was different this time.

I sat in the dark of my room, clutching the puzzle between my hands, squeezing the life out of a lifeless object. Ever since I completed the object, things had happened that I couldn't explain. Whenever I was in danger, I would have blank spaces of memory gap. People would get hurt. I would come to my senses in new places, new circumstances, and whatever—whoever—had been bothering me previously would be gone.

Or worse, they would be there, but their mind would be gone.

I had always felt a darkness inside of the puzzle, hiding like an animal in brush. I would never see it, but I would hear the rustling—the little clues that alerted me to something there. Hints of emotion, waves of uneasiness, and sometimes, a rush of power so strong it chilled me to the bone.

But this time was different. This time, I'd been so angry at Kaiba that I couldn't think straight, and after that, it was a haze. Not a blank nothingness like in the past, but like life through a fog. I was dueling him—I'd felt it, seen it, experienced it—and yet, at the same time, I was somewhere far away. A world of endless staircases and doorways. Yellow brick, faded carvings. I could remember both. The strange world, the duel, both together in my senses.

And the person dueling wasn't me. Not really. And yet it was.

I stared down into the hollow, golden eye at the center of the puzzle.

Was I going mad?