Seto instinctively reached out for the alarm clock on the pedestal beside his bed and pressed the OFF button. He could still hear the melody that woke him. He pressed the button again, certainly with more force than was necessary, but the music didn't stop. His eyes fluttered open, and he was immediately aware of another presence in the room. His waking mind slowly identified the stranger as the source of the admittedly pleasant tune. Once he made the connection, he sat bolt upright to glare at the mysterious flautist. He opened his mouth, but before he could demand to know why the musician had entered this sacred place, the man took the instrument from his lips and cleared his throat.

"A message from the younger Master Kaiba," the musician said nonchalantly, as if performing wake-up calls for the most eligible CEO were in his job description. "Happy April Fool's Day, big bro." And he went back to playing.

Despite the flautist's candor, hints of Mokuba's benign mischief shone through the prank. Seto felt a smirk tug at his lips even as he dismissed the musician and prepared for the day. But once alone, the urge to smile vanished and his hatred for this holiday seeped into the room alongside the spring sun. Sure, the morning had begun on a high note — the REM deprived part of his brain barked a laugh at the pun — but that was certainly no indicator for what the rest of the day held. In fact, if he believed in the omnipotent, universal powers that be, he'd call it an omen.

Nonetheless, Seto did believe in preparedness and resolve. Kaiba Corp, of course, did not indulge in such childish celebration of the inane holiday, he had made sure of that. He thought back fondly to the nervous white-collar who had been caught putting thumbtacks on his colleague's chair. His pleas and explanations only prolonged his inevitable demise: spectacularly fired before all his coworkers, who were compelled to watch as he packed his personal items and took the long walk to the lobby. Was it cruel? Sure. Heartless? Maybe. Necessary? Absolutely. After that example, employees treated April first like any other day. And today was a Tuesday.

As per routine, once he had groomed himself to perfection, Seto strode downstairs to join his brother for breakfast. As soon as he stepped inside the kitchen, a smile spread across Mokuba's face.

"Morning, Seto," he said sweetly. He placed his spoon beside his bowl and watched his brother walk over to the coffee pot. "How'd you sleep?"

"Fine," Seto replied, deliberately withholding anything further. He turned his back to Mokuba, preparing his coffee. As he stirred, his thoughts stretched and twisted into the perfect revenge for this morning's prank. "Well," he continued, "it was fine until one of the butlers woke me with his horrid flute playing." He shook his head and turned so he was leaning against the counter.

Mokuba looked as though he was caught between laughing and frowning, but he maintained what he had left of his poker face. "Oh?" he said simply.

"Yes. I couldn't believe he had the temerity to enter my private chambers, so I fired him."

He watched Mokuba's reaction carefully and resisted the urge to laugh when his eye twitched the slightest bit.

"What?" Mokuba said, taken aback.

"You should've heard how he begged me to think about his children and sick wife and how he meant no harm," Seto continued. He huffed. "He should've thought about that before he decided to pull this little stunt."

By now, Mokuba's eyes had grown wide — though whether in shock, fear, or awe, Seto couldn't tell.

"Tell me you're joking," Mokuba said softly.

He rolled his eyes. "You know I don't joke."

Mokuba slammed his fists down on the table. "You didn't have to fire him! He was only doing what I told him! God, Seto, you can't even take a joke?" He glared daggers at his impassive older brother.

"I knew that, and I can," Seto replied casually.

Mokuba blinked. "What?"

"April fools." He smirked.

Mokuba unclenched his fists and cocked his head to the side slightly before falling into a laughing fit. "Oh, man," he said when he could breathe again. "I was really gonna kill you." He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "That was mean, bro," he said evenly. "I'll have to —"

"Sir," cried one of the maids as she charged into the room.

Seto replaced his smile with a more characteristic scowl and looked coldly at the frantic woman — Helga, his mind supplied needlessly.

Helga winced a bit but continued anyway. "Pardon the intrusion, but there's a stockbroker on the line for you. He said it was urgent. An emergency, even."

Stockbroker? Seto glanced at the clock: 8:16. The floor should've just opened. What emergency could possibly have occurred in fifteen minutes? And whatever it was, he had people for that — what was with the personal call? Sighing, he figured the quickest way to deal with it began with picking up the phone. He went to his office, a nervous Helga and curious Mokuba in tow.

"What?" he demanded once he had picked up the phone.

"Good morning to you, too," mumbled the guy on the other line. Oh, how Seto hated sarcasm (that wasn't uttered by himself, of course). And there was something inherently irritating about that voice, too, but what it was, he couldn't exactly say.

"Anyway," the voice continued, "there's been a problem on the floor. I mean, I've never seen numbers like this…."

"What's wrong? Spit it out!"

"Well, sir, no one has been able to sell KC stock," he said slowly. "Since the floor opened, I2 has been selling its shares like crazy. They've got fifteen — no, ten — percent of shares left from their previous thirty."

Seto's eyes widened. "What? Why?!" He glanced up in time to see Mokuba approach the desk. For his brother's benefit, he put the receiver back in its cradle and put the call on speaker.

"Dunno why, but it's causing pandemonium down here. Like I said, no one is buying. Everyone is trying to sell."

"Where is Grayson?" Mokuba called out. "He should've called us by now!"

"Looks like you're stuck with good old Jones, here. The head honcho took off. Last I saw him, he was tearing his hair out and waving tickets, trying to sell something, anything, but no one is — well, you get the picture."

"Yes," Seto replied tersely, "I do. Listen to me."

"All ears."

"Sell something in the next half hour. I don't care how. Make promises or threats, just get it done. When you do, investors will come to their senses and start buying again."

"Ay, ay, captain." The line went dead.

"Seto —" Mokuba began, but Seto held up a hand for silence.

"Helga," he said, "bring me today's issue of Domino Financier." The maid nodded curtly and exited the room. "Mokuba, finish getting ready for school. I'm going downtown to headquarters." He stood and prepared to leave the room, as well.

"What? No! This is serious, the vice president should be there, too."

There was no time to argue. "Fine. Finish getting ready, we leave in five minutes." Mokuba nodded and ran off. Momentarily, Helga reappeared. She handed the newspaper to Seto and departed once more.

He didn't have to search hard for what he wanted: plastered right on the front page was the headline "Industrial Illusions Goes Independent" right above a photo of a smiling Pegasus holding a custom trademark duel disk. It didn't take long for Seto to put the pieces together.

Pegasus had cut out the middle man.

Mokuba was struggling to keep up, but Seto couldn't help it. The ride downtown only intensified his hidden anxiety, especially since he hadn't heard back from Jones yet. When they finally got to the tower, it was all he could do to keep from dashing upstairs. Just before he burst through the twenty-sixth floor offices, he mentally braced himself for the worst case scenario, but what he saw was beyond his limits for patience.

Contrary to expectations, no one was running around, tied up in phone cords, glued to the television sets for news from the stock floor, or even chugging coffee to calm the nerves. No, everyone was either typing away, politely answering calls, hole punching papers, or chatting briefly by the water cooler.

Before his shock could turn to irritation, one of the managers — Angela DiMarco —walked over, flanked by two lackeys.

"Mr. Kaiba, sir," she began, tucking her blond hair behind her ear, "anything I can help you with?" She glanced down at her clipboard. "You're not scheduled to scare the interns today," she said, half joking.

Seto waved his hand in dismissal. "Have you seen the news? There's chaos on the floor. No one's buying KC stock."

DiMarco's eyes widened. "What? That's absurd!" She flipped through a few pages of her clipboard and shook her head. "With all due respect, sir, you're mistaken." She handed him the proof. "We've sold almost half as much as yesterday, and the day's just begun."

Surely enough, DiMarco's figures didn't lie. Seto handed back the clipboard. "Then what's this about?" He showed her the front page of Financier.

"When was that released?" DiMarco asked, forehead wrinkled. She looked closer, presumably at the date, and again shook her head. "That's not today's issue." She strode over to a nearby cubicle and commandeered the computer. The perplexed employee watched as DiMarco pulled up the online edition of the day's Financier. "That's today's issue," she said, turning the monitor to face Seto.

Sprawled across the front page of the online issue was the grand opening of some new mega mall. Huh.

Whatever the hell was going on, he didn't like it. He beckoned to DiMarco to follow before heading to the elevators. On the way to the top floor, DiMarco shifted her weight from foot to foot nervously and exchanged a glance with Mokuba, who looked equally confused, but said nothing.

Seto ushered DiMarco and Mokuba into his office and closed the doors behind him. He sat behind his desk, Mokuba standing at his side, and watched DiMarco plant herself in the center of the room. She looked down, casting her gaze from side to side to take in her surroundings.

"Sir," she said at last, "I don't know how or why, but you've been deceived."

"Clearly," Seto replied, rolling his eyes. He folded his hands neatly on the desk and leaned forward. "Tell me, DiMarco, how good is your memory?"

"Excellent, sir, that's why you hired me." DiMarco nodded curtly to emphasize the point.

"Good. How many brokers did you send out today named Jones?"

DiMarco opened her mouth to answer, reconsidered, and opened it again. "None," she said. "We don't have any brokers with that name."

Seto could feel Mokuba giving him an odd look, but ignored it. "And where was Grayson when the floor opened?"

DiMarco raised an eyebrow, confused. "Where he always is at that time. Right under the switchboard."

"Did he ever leave?"

She nodded. "Twice, both times to negotiate with Nexus, that new software developer."

"So that Jones guy lied," Mokuba said quietly. "But why?"

"And how did he do this?" Seto nodded to the faux newspaper by his elbow.

"Well..." DiMarco murmured. Both brothers looked at her. She swallowed under the glare. "It's probably nothing, but…there was some kid giving security problems yesterday. He said he wouldn't leave until he made sure they'd give you something. The guards finally agreed and took it from him. Looked like a newspaper." DiMarco glanced at the Financier on the desk.

Seto's eyes widened slightly. "And what did this kid look like?"

DiMarco tapped her clipboard pensively. "Tall? Blond hair?" She shrugged. "Didn't get a good look at him."

But that was all Seto needed. He didn't know many blonds, anyway. And that voice, that nerve-grating voice, and sarcasm, too! How did he not recognize it?

On cue, his phone rang. He snatched it up with creeping suspicion of who it was.

"Figure it out yet?" Joey Wheeler asked. "Or would you rather hear this?" He cleared his throat and continued a few octaves lower, perfectly matching his 'Jones' persona from earlier. "Sir, I've managed to sell something!" He broke off in laughter.

"What the hell were you thinking, Wheeler?" Seto said through clenched teeth.

"That this was gonna be my best April fool's day prank ever!" And he continued laughing.

Seto hung up and glared at the phone. "Okay, Wheeler," he said coldly. "Two can play that game."