The long-suffering and constantly neglected second-class passengers finally get their voice.

Prideshipping. I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!, and I'm fairly certain I'd be in deep trouble if I had owned the Titanic, no? Especially since, given the chance, I would have followed in Bruce Ismay's footsteps

This chapter has a lot of talking.

Note: The story is completely AU. I have even changed the ages of some of the characters, most noticeably Rebecca, who is a young woman instead of a girl. Please don't kill me.

All mistake are my own, as I have no beta.

Summary: They called it the ship of dreams, and it was-it really was.
Atemu Sennen couldn't run from his troubles forever. It was only a matter of time, he supposed, before everything finally caught up to him. And when events beyond his control force him to purchase a second class ticket on the Unsinkable Ship-the RMS Titanic-in an effort to save his younger brother in the loosest sense of the world, his life will be changed in ways he cannot even begin to comprehend. Pride and love clash, and as plots threaten to overwhelm the delicate balance of the ship, will Atemu even survive to witness the final destruction of the doomed ship? After all, forming a rivalry with Seto Kaiba, famed American businessman, has got to have its drawbacks. Prideshipping.

I am shit at summaries.

They called it the ship of dreams. A magnificent structure built within the span of three years by some three thousand workers, it was rumored to be the epitome of ocean liners.

Aye, the White Star Line had outdone themselves this time. Or so they thought. Really, he wasn't sure if he should be impressed or repulsed. It was obvious that the White Star Line had gone to great expense building this ship, spending well over a million. Of course, the expense paled in comparison to the reason for the construction of these three sister ships—Titanic, Britannic and Olympic—but what else did one expect? With a sigh, the man took a sip of his brandy, leaning back in his chair and smirking lightly to himself. It was all about competition. In 1906, a shipping company called the Cunard Line launched two new ships. Large and comfortable, these quickly became the most popular ships in the world.

Of course the White Star Line had to compete. Losing business didn't impress the superiors.

"'Ay there, sir! Ya gonna drink that, eh? Lookin' mighty fine—let me finish that for ya!"

"No thank you. I assure you, gentleman, I am quite capable of downing a simple beverage." As if to prove his point, the crimson-eyed man raised his glass to his lips, quickly downing the fiery spirits before lightly placing the glass down and raising one brow. Now run off to your gutter—I am quite busy.

Even without him speaking, the drunkard seemed to get the gist of what he seemed to be conveying.

"Bloody rich people! Comin' down 'ere and muckin' the place up, fillin' it with their rich smells and…"

But he wasn't listening. The fact that this man seemed to think he was rich was certainly amusing—in fact it was the current train of thought running through his mind. Whoo whoo.

Ignoring the shouts and brawls around him, and young man pushed himself away from the counter, lightly straightening his jacket. He had only been able to afford a second-class ticket, but it was better than third class, sure as hell. Sixty-five dollars (or thirteen pounds) was nothing to sneeze at; he had been saving for some time. Because while he certainly ridiculed the company, he did fancy himself a trip—he conveniently had affairs in New York to take care of, and trying to avoid them any longer would spell disaster. In retrospect, this probably meant he should have just purchased a third class ticket, but the thought was rather unappealing, so he left it at that. He didn't need a cabin full of strangers poking through his belongings.

A derisive snort came from the young man's nose as tanned fingers lightly closed around the empty brandy glass. He sounded no better than those travelling first class.

"Mr. Sennen!" The young man looked up, arching his customary brow. "You done there?"

"Yes." His answer was simple, though his eyes were narrowed. Indeed… he certainly would be done if he didn't get a move on. He still had some important affairs to take care of and the Titanic was scheduled to leave tomorrow at noon.

"Leaving the country, Atemu?" The man looked down as a young woman draped herself across his arm, fluttering her eyelashes.

"Mmm. I'm afraid so," he replied, tossing her a sultry smirk. "I have matters to settle, you see."

"Aww… you ain't in trouble with the law again, are you?"

"I could be, though it's certainly not the kind of laws the government would pass," he admitted, tilting his head full of odd, tri-colored hair to the side.

"We'll certainly miss you, sir," the woman simpered. "You've become a favorite around here."

"Shame those of the male variety don't think so," he said, chuckling.

"Jealous," was all the woman said. Atemu smirked, darting down to peck her on the lips lightly before withdrawing, laughing to himself.

This light banter continued for a few more moments before Atemu once again stood, this time wincing as he slapped some money onto the counter, lightly grabbing his black hat—which looked faintly like something a clichéd, mask-wearing Spanish swordsman would wear—and shoving it into his head, effectively hiding his strange hair save the golden bangs that hung down by his face. Annoying things, really. He blew them out of his line of sight and walked out the door.

.x.

"You're really leaving this time, eh? Got your bloody ticket and everything?"

"Indeed, thief."

"Your constant money-borrowing finally caught up to you?"

Atemu pursed his lips, eyes narrowing. "Indeed."

"Ah, well, good luck." The white-haired man across from him abruptly stood up, reaching across the table to shake the other man's hand. "You were fun to work with. Though if you really have to pay these guys back, why the hell would you go for second class? Third class tickets are worth thirty-five of your precious American dollars, which is thirteen of your prized European pounds, while second is worthy almost two times that amount!"

"I don't need strangers poking into my business," Atemu said coolly, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes again as he referred to the living conditions of those in third class. "What I do is none of their business, and I'm at least hoping to get a cabin to myself."

"Fat chance, Pharaoh."

"Honest to goodness I am not kidding here, thief—what the hell is with that nickname?"

"You remind me of a rock I saw once."

A strained silence penetrated the room. The two men sat across from each other inside a rather messy-looking room. Papers and artifacts were strewn all over the place, and in the center was a desk. A couple cabinets lined the walls, but they were seldom used, it seemed. After all, the floor is a much better place to keep all of this.

"That must have been one good-looking rock."

"You flatter yourself, Pharaoh. It was one of those crummy Egyptian tablets."

"Invading museums again, Bakura?"

The comment was ignored as the white-haired man continued, "And speaking of which, I hear they're shoving one of those mummies on board that ship you're so keen to travel on."

"The Titanic?" Atemu looked shocked. "Why on Earth would they do that?"

"I hear they're used for medicines, especially the animal ones. They grind them up into dust and use them in remedies."

"That is disgusting, thief."

Bakura just shrugged. "Probably for some other museum, then. Because seeing a three-thousand-year-old dead woman must be pretty damn exciting. Some princess or whatever. Amun-something. Not so holy now, eh?" Bakura grinned creepily, something that never boded well for anyone on the receiving end of that particular expression.

"Well, Pharaoh," Bakura said at last, "I suppose I could help you out a bit. I guess I owe you."

"You do. I paid a good sum of money for your release—the least you can do is—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Bakura scowled as he suddenly vanished under his desk. A few thumping noises and a whirr sounding like it belonged to an engine soon followed.

Atemu didn't want to know.

"Secret compartments," Bakura said as he poked his head over the side of the desk, brow knitting itself into a complacent frown. He then handed Atemu something wrapped in cloth.

"Pawn it off and I'll kill you."

"In New York?"

Bakura just eyed him. Atemu snorted, shoving the item into his pocket. "I'll treat it with care, thief."

"Correction: You'll treat them with care." Bakura smirked as he suddenly handed Atemu another item. Instead of a simple box shape, like the first "gift" had been, this one was elongated, with a handle and a strange ball that looked like it was connected to two mini ax-blades.

How pleasant.

"And these are?"

Bakura suddenly leaned towards him, eyes penetrating and deadly. Atemu found himself swallowing nervously.

"Ultimate weapons of great power. If all of them are gathered together in one place, the wielder of such will gain untold amounts of supremacy!"

Atemu looked at him, horror etching across his face. Suddenly Bakura laughed, slapping him on the back.

"Naw. They're just fancy gold trinkets I thought you might like. You'll have fun with that box-one though, you puzzle nut. Lifted them off that museum exhibit."

"You know, for someone who claims to hate museums, you sure spend a lot of your time there."

"That's different and you know it. Now begone! I'm tired of looking at you." Bakura smirked and Atemu chuckled, lifting the brim of his hat.

"See you in hell, thief."

"Haven't you heard, Pharaoh? I'm too cool for Hell."

His friends needed better jokes.

By the time he stumbled back into his apartment he had lost all track of the real world. What time was it actually? He did not know. What time did the ship leave tomorrow? He did not know. How many people had he seen after his chat with Bakura? A couple, actually. He had gone to say goodbye to Marik who, after a brief moment of shock, had started howling with laughter. When asked, "What the hell is wrong with you?" he merely grinned, gesturing to the solemn woman with rod-straight black hair and sapphire eyes.

.x.

"My cousin, Ishizu—her brother is working on that ship." Marik chuckled heartily into his glass of… whatever, finally calming down enough to answer Atemu, who was currently consuming his first alcoholic beverage, not counting the two he had drank earlier, though that was hours ago. Marik's house was nicely furnished and of respectable size, though he was nowhere near being rich. The house itself had been nicely furnished, however, giving it a comfy, cozy theme. He was willing to bet five pounds that it had all been Ishizu's doing.

"And what, pray tell, is he working as?" The tri-color-haired male asked skeptically.

"You're kind of a downer, you know that?" Marik said with a scowl.

"You tell me that every time we get together," Atemu snapped.

"There's the Atemu I remember. Damn, you're really uptight about this, aren't you?"

Atemu sighed wearily, rubbing his head, where the beginnings of a headache were beginning to form.

"I know, I know. Bakura looked like he was thinking the same thing when I talked to him earlier, you insufferable copycat."

"Shit, man. Is it really that serious?" Marik looked as if he was torn between laughing and expressing rarely seen sympathy.

Atemu took another sip of his drink. He still wasn't quite sure what it was yet.

"And what gave you that idea?"
"The fact that you used the word 'copycat.'" A smirk.

"Shove it." A growl.

"See, there you go again. What are you afraid of?"

Atemu sighed. "I'm afraid they're going to go after Yuugi."

"Why the hell would you worry about that? Isn't your brother married to that internationally famous actress?"

"She's a dancer. My, you've certainly been thinking a lot lately."

"Haven't I? My point still stands: They'll be fine."

"I just want to get this over with. I'm sick of running from these men, dammit!" Atemu suddenly cursed as the glass he had been holding shattered, spilling bright red liquid all over the carpet. "I'm a god-damned fugitive in my own country!"

"I thought you said you were originally from America."

"I am. But it doesn't mean I ever wanted to go back." Atemu stood, thankful that the drink hadn't spilled on him. The fact that it hadn't was strange, but he wasn't going to push the matter. "I have to go. It was nice knowing you, Marik."

"Haha. Wait!" Marik suddenly reached into his pocket, pulling out a small pistol, a devilish smirk on his face. He chucked it at Atemu, who barely caught it.

"And what, pray tell, is this for?"

"You never know, Pharaoh. You never know."

Rather than castrating his 'friend' for using the nickname he had come to loathe within the span of sixty minutes, Atemu started towards the door. When he got there, however, Ishizu, who had apparently moved from the main room, stopped him.

"If you see my brother, please send him my love."

Atemu's gaze was directed to her throat where a large golden necklace rested nicely on her collarbone. She caught his gaze, lifting his chin with two of her fingers.

"The Millennium Tauk. I am correct in assuming that Bakrua gave you two of such items?"

"I suppose." Atemu jerked his head back. Ishizu handed him his hat.

"I see." Atemu turned to leave again when Ishizu grabbed his arm, this time with a strange look in her eyes.

"The Star will fall," she murmured. Her eyes then cleared just as suddenly. "Be careful, Atemu."

"Yes… I will." And with that rather creepy statement, he shook his head and wandered into the streets of Liverpool itself.

.x.

Of course, that hadn't been the oddest thing that had happened all day. After that interesting encounter, he had met up with Duke Devlin, the owner of a local pawnshop. That meeting had been brief; Atemu had only become associated with him through the rather shifty business Bakura had offered him a spot in.

Still, the money hadn't been much, and he had spent most of it on his own place… and a couple other frivolities that, he admitted grudgingly, were probably not the wisest… investments.

No. The real shock today had come in the form of a chance meeting between him and a person he had heard about, but never seen.

.x.

Atemu leaned against the corner of the street, looking around silently. Titanic left Liverpool tomorrow at noon, and he was ready. His few belongings had been packed and were now waiting by the door to his rather small lodgings. Bakura hadn't been the only one chastising him for his thoughtless 'Buying of the Second Class Ticket.' In fact, Rebecca, after very nearly mothering—yes, mothering—him to death had lectured him for the very same thing.

Rebecca Hawkins was the only daughter of Sir Arthur Hawkins, a rich English businessman and, needless to say, her friendship with a "scoundrel" such as Atemu was frowned upon. Rebecca had often said she'd have given him the money he needed, but she said her father would find out—he always did—and Atemu would be even worse off than before. Atemu had merely smiled; placing a hand on her shoulder and telling her he'd be fine.

He didn't know what to expect. When he arrived at the backdoor, she had already been waiting for him with tears in her eyes.

"Rebecca…" But she had hurled herself forward, sobbing, into his arms. Atemu had sighed deeply, lightly stroking her hair.

"Please don't go… I'll find some way to help you—I'll convince my father to give you the money, whatever it takes! Just please, please don't go…"

They had stayed like that for another ten minutes, Atemu holding Rebecca gently until her tears had subsided enough for him to speak.

"I have to go," was all Atemu said. His tone was flat—blunt. He knew she didn't like it when he tried to breaks things to her softly. It just made her angrier. "And you know it wouldn't do any good, Becs. Your father would never consent, and we'd both be in trouble, no?"

"But you don't understand…"

"And what don't I understand?" Atemu said, unable to keep the sigh out of his voice. He'd miss Rebecca, he really would—she was a great girl, always fun to be around; always laughing, joking and willing to have a good time, even if it meant being thrown into a group of people not of her social class—that being the class of an aristocrat.

"I love you… Please stay with me," Rebecca whispered, clutching his shirt. Atemu sighed again, lightly placing his hand over her own.

"But you know I have to go, Becs. It's been great, it really has—you're a wonderful woman, and if your husband doesn't appreciate you or doesn't treat you right, you look me up in New York and I will board the nearest ship, come back and kick his ass. How does that sound?"

It must have sounded pretty good, if her laughter was any indication.

"I suppose… I suppose you have to let go of everything eventually, right?" She said at last. "And I once read that… if you truly love someone, the best thing you can do for them is to let them go."

Atemu was startled by her words; he hadn't expected this whole turn of events. He had always viewed them as good friends, nothing more.

But that didn't mean he couldn't give her one last present before he left. "Until we meet again then, love," he chuckled, leaning down to kiss her once before pulling back and walking down the path, never looking back, even when he heard her voice whisper "Good-bye" one last time.

She would do well. She was funny, smart… and beautiful. He knew that, whatever man she decided to wed, would have to consider himself the luckiest being on earth.

He knew he had, in their brief friendship.

That was why he found himself smiling softly in memory as carriages rolled past on the cobblestone streets, ignoring the look sent his way. Finally he pushed himself away from the rather damp wall, chuckling lightly. He tugged at the black jacket he wore, glancing around once or twice before walking down to the docks. The sun was setting, and to his surprise, he was the only one there. Across from him, a little down the ways, lay the ship that would carry him thousands of kilometers across the Atlantic Ocean.

Titanic.

He shivered, pulling at the edges of his jacket again, scowling. A mixed blessing this trip was, indeed. On one hand, he got to experience the maiden voyage of the Unsinkable Ship, the RMS Titanic. This ship would be, of course, carting him away to what could be his imminent doom, especially if he didn't find some way to come up with the money he needed. A small fortune for him was mere pocket money for the rich, after all. Just the thought of them made his blood boil. Every party they threw, every fancy outfit they bought and every word they spoke… It was like a mockery towards every small thing he had accomplished; everything he considered a simple success.

"Now what's someone like you doing out here all alone, eh?" Atemu turned around slowly, eyes narrowing as he recognized the owner of the voice. A man with a rather burley build, blonde hair and hideous sideburns was suddenly next to him, arms crossed.

"Go away, Raphael. I am not in the mood to listen to your antics as you repeat your master's words like a well-trained puppet. Or perhaps 'parrot' would be a better word. Polly want a cracker?" Atemu sneered.

Raphael's face had darkened considerably, though he merely leaned on the rail next to Atemu, ignoring the other's stiff posture.

"Actually, Atemu, since we're speaking about birds, I must confess, you remind me of one. Considerably, might I add."

"Oh, and why is that?"

"A caged bird with his wings clipped, longing to fly away from his captors, but unable to. Instead, he just stays in his cage, waiting for his own masters to let him out to play. That's what you are, Atemu: A flightless sparrow. Alone, caged… with nowhere to go. A true puppet on strings."

Atemu was shaking, though whether it was from rage or something else he did not know. "Listen, Raphael, tell Dartz that I have his money, all right?"

"That's not what I heard."

Atemu suddenly whirled around, his fist connecting with Raphael's nose. He grimaced in satisfaction as he heard the bones shatter and saw blood gush out, effectively rendering the blonde useless for a few seconds. Still, being a thug, he supposed they were used to this thing. So instead of being stunned for the amount of time the crimson-eyed man needed to get out of there, Raphael surprised him by reaching out and grabbing his wrist, causing Atemu to hiss in slight pain and large amounts of frustration.

He had just made a very, very stupid move. He could feel the pistol banging against his hip, and it irked him that he could not reach it, as Raphael had since seized his other limb.

"Let me go, Raphael," he could coldly. Blood continued to pour out of the thug's nose, which he wiped away using his sleeve. Atemu's nose wrinkled and he tried to pull away, snarling when he found he could not. The force of the movement had knocked his hat off, sending it… somewhere. He really couldn't see it.

"Listen, you little punk," Raphael hissed, dangerously close. "I—" But he didn't get to finish, for at that moment Atemu remembered the strange rod Bakura had given him. With narrowed eyes he wrenched his hand away from Raphael, using it to fish the item out of his coat before swinging it towards Raphael's body. He didn't know where it connected, but he suddenly saw a flash of gold, followed by the pressure around his wrist vanishing, rendering him free.

"Tell your boss I have his money," Atemu growled. "And that he doesn't have to keep sending his half-brained henchmen to come track me down!" He then looked down at the rod in his hands, eyes widening as he saw the cloth had slipped, revealing bits of shining gold. Hurriedly he covered it up, glancing around before turning and running back down the alleys he had used to get here. However, upon entering the main street, he suddenly found himself crashing into something, hard.

"Watch where you're going!" A voice said. The tone of the voice was what made Atemu turn around, his eyes narrowed and mouth open as he prepared a sharp retort. His hand was just inches away from the weapon he had concealed on his person, and the strange items he had been carrying had mercifully stayed within reaching distance.

However, the stranger got to them first.

"I seem to recall seeing these pieces somewhere."

Crimson eyes met cold cerulean as Atemu really looked at his newest tormentor. The man was tall—taller than Raphael, certainly—with chestnut brown hair, streaked with red and gold. He wore a long white coat, as was the fashion these days, it seemed, and he was not impressed.

"Bravo, sir. I applaud your sharp eyes." Mm… and I do mean 'sharp'…

Atemu suddenly felt himself be hauled to his feet. His face smoothed itself out until he had his usual air of confidence back. He knew this man was one of those rich nobles, and it did not help his already sparking temper.

Ignition.

"I would watch your tone if I were you."

Atemu raised his eyebrow. "Excuse me, sir, but we are in the middle of a very busy street. Are you sure you want your fellow bloody aristos to see this?" Atemu felt himself breathe again as the hand around the front of his shirt slackened, allowing him to sink to the ground. He smoothed out the garment again.
"Now see what you've done?"

"It doesn't look any different to me," the stranger said, mouth twisting into an odd kind of leer. "You look just as filthy as you did before. Stumble out of a tavern?"

"My personal affairs are none of your business! Don't you have tea to sip girlishly?"

"Shows how little you know of true business affairs. Clearly you have been raised with preconceived notions about the life of what you dub 'aristos.' I don't know why I expected anything more."

"You hypocritical—"

"Watch it—those are some pretty big words," the man said coldly. Atemu's hands curled into fists.

"I'm sure you'd know all about 'big words.' You must use them all the time to maintain your assumed air of intelligence. Ever get tired of lying to yourself?"

"My personal affairs are none of your business," the man mocked, smirking. Atemu's eyes widened. "Now, if you don't mind, I have better things to do than exchange paltry words with peasants."

"Get back to your tea and crumpets, rich boy," Atemu snarled, snatching the box that Bakura had given him before the strange man could make a go for it. The other man merely chuckled, giving him one last glare before sweeping past him.

Atemu's eyes burned with rage. How dare he? How dare that pompous, arrogant little… He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. Obviously some people had stopped to stare, but it had only been a fleeting thing.

An item caught his eye. He reached down, grabbing his hat. He didn't even pause to wonder how it came to be here. He walked towards his lodging, forcing the object onto his head, trying to rid himself of the rather unpleasant experience between him and the cerulean-eyed man. But then again, it didn't really matter, did it?

It wasn't like he was ever going to see that man again.

A little note: This was a story I had written months ago and only discovered today, while I was sorting my folders. Upon finding this I soon realized that I had finished three chapters and was halfway through the fourth, so I hope to add those soon, if you guys like the story well enough.

Titanic has always been a sense of fascination for me, and I always thought, well… it doesn't matter. Either way, please review and tell me what you think, for I'm still a new prideshipper (in terms of writing), and some feedback would be much appreciated.