Disclaimer: I don't own Yugioh—if I did, well, you'd definitely know; the rating would have to be upped a tad...

A/N: Er, no actual kittens were harmed in the writing of this ficlet? I really am fond of kittens. Really. My mind just likes angst, especially psychologically tormented Seto angst apparently. I became inspired during a Palace chat discussion about Seto and small animals, and thus this came about.

Thanks to Moe for the beta and thanks to Nenya for the help with the title.

Broken

Seto used to see a small stray kitten near the mansion. It would always prowl skittishly, just within boundary, and then quickly shoot out of sight, fur turning into a dark blur. It looked feral, dirty, but it was also tiny. Young. Seto thought its mother must have left him. Or maybe she had died and the owners hadn't wanted her child. Seto didn't think much of people these days; he wouldn't be surprised if the kitten had, in fact, been unwanted and abandoned.

At first, Seto would eye the kitten suspiciously. He'd look at it with distaste and contempt—this straggly, brittle thing; feral and half-starved. Weak. So fucking weak. He hated its weakness, hated the way it scavenged around for scraps, trying to avoid the wrath of humans. He hated the way it lurked, its green eyes dull with malnutrition and its claws unsheathed. He hated the way it would sometimes catch his eyes and Seto would see that beneath the ferocity, beneath the hunger and savagery, there lay a desperation and yearning for affection—for the warmth of a stranger's care, the bright light of a stranger's approval. He hated it.

The hate turned into a slow burning anger; it coiled around him, grasping at the edges of his mind until he couldn't stand it anymore. Until all he could see when he looked at it was a starving stray, trying to survive when it couldn't possibly fight; when it was obviously too young and weak to live in a world with older, much stronger cats—each battling for a piece of their world, each fighting for the right to exist. It had no place here.

When it had come too close one day, Seto had grabbed it by the scruff of his neck. His hand had curled around its neck, tightened until it was struggling, claws helplessly striking at empty air as Seto held it away from him, watching it coldly. It had no place here. Yet, it continued to fight. It continued to claw for air, struggling to free itself even when it was obvious to Seto it would never win, would never live.

Seto had stared at it. Then, gradually, he eased his grip, until it dropped down and ran away. He watched it go and for a second, he almost wanted it to survive—almost. He hated its weakness, but he also understood why it wanted to live; why it would keep fighting even when there was no point.

It didn't make it a difference though—the kitten wasn't going to survive for long in this battle for survival, and if Seto hadn't killed it, then something else would have.

He hadn't expected to see it again. He would have thought trying to kill the damn thing might have scared it off—but apparently not. It still lurked in the shadows the next day, hiding and scavenging for scraps. It knew Seto was there—it had to—but it didn't seem to care. It would eye him warily for a few minutes and then go back to what it was doing before. There was no fear Seto could see, no apprehensive of a repeat performance of the day before. Seto could only conclude with contempt that it was starved for company and would thus bear the presence of someone who would cause it pain.

Stupid stray.

Seto had turned away in disgust that day, glaring. He didn't see it until a week later.

Slightly limping and with fresh bruises and cuts under his clothes, Seto had glared at it, anger and hatred seeming to come alive when everything was dull and grey in his world, buried in a cloud of pain. What the fuck was it doing here? Why? It should have learned better by now—it should have learned to stay away.

Seto was tempted to leave; he didn't want to look at it, he didn't want anything to do with it—but he didn't move. His body wouldn't heed the commands of his mind, and stiffly, he sat down on the wet grass, wincing as flesh came in contact with the hard soil.

He stared at it. "Better the evil you know, than the ones you don't?" he said, then he looked away.

He understood it all too well.

He saw the kitten three more times after. With each time, it would come bearing new scars—a fresh cut across his face, patches of fur ripped off, claw marks on unfurred skin. With each time, it would still sit—a far distance away from Seto—as a silent companion as both of them licked their wounds and regrouped.

Better the evil you know.

Seto hadn't tried to kill it again.

Then, one day, it didn't turn up. Seto—who had somehow started to expect its appearance despite the many probable reasons why he should not—had found himself staring blankly at the empty space further to his right. He had stared, unmoving and still in the brief sway of the wind, before he turned away and brought a sneer to his face. He knew the damn thing wouldn't survive. He had known all along it was too weak and too small. It would never have won against the larger feral cats; the ones Seto had seen prowling around outside.

He ignored the brief, hollow feeling inside his chest and stood up. He left, convinced he would forget the entire experience, and never actually succeeded.

Because a few days later, Gozaburo had stared straight into his eyes as he ordered one of his servants to get rid of a dead stray in the garden. Seto had clenched his fist until his nails had dug far enough into skin to draw blood; hatred and anger had flared to life, and he had glared, glared at that cold face until he couldn't stand looking at it anymore. He had stood up silently and walked towards the elegant mahogany door.

"Don't let yourself get distracted again," Gozaburo had said casually, stopping Seto in his tracks. Silence. The fire had crackled, the rain pounding gently against the roof, like the tinkling of bells, and paper had rustled as Gozaburo turned back to his work, but Seto could still feel the eyes burning into his back; could hear nothing but a dull roar in his ears and the sharp thud of his heart. He gave away nothing.

When the silence had remain uninterrupted, Seto had carefully walked out of the room, blood staining the palm of his hands like ink.