Back in a convention center, in an era far removed from anything else, Kaiba Seto turned his head to eye his unlikely companion cryptically.

"What of it?" he said, with a voice like the husk of a dead insect. His blue eyes widened a fraction, looking feverish and deadly, for the slimmest of moments. "What do I care about this Philip Greene, and whatever it is you think I've done to him?"

Pegasus Crawford grinned like a boy of twelve. "Come now, Kaiba-boy. No need to act coy with me. We both know, you and I, what hides so seductively behind those sparkling eyes of yours. Don't forget that I've seen your mind. I've seen just what you can be pushed to do. Especially when you want to do right by Mo—by your dear brother. What do you think, Kaiba-boy? Did your burnt offering unto the Lord finally cleanse the darkness in you?"

Seto sneered derisively, and stood up. He looked at his discarded pot of tea, still on the table by which Pegasus sat like a despondent prom date. He looked like he wanted to sacrifice it to a god so ancient and terrifying that just its name would rend the earth like so many knives in so many bellies.

He laid that look upon every person that shared the hall with him.

"Have I insulted you?" Pegasus asked. He almost sang it. He, too, stood from his chair. He gestured to Seto loftily, and even dared to put a hand on Seto's shoulder.

Seto managed not to flinch, and did not shy away.

Pegasus dared to press: "I'm proud of you, Kaiba-boy. 'A father with a sick child is an angry god.' You're finally . . . finding yourself."

Seto turned on his heel, peeling himself away from his old enemy's touch, and started to walk away.

He stopped, without looking back. "I'm not a god, and I'm not a father. What I did to Philip Greene was the calling card of something entirely different."

"And what is that something different?" Pegasus asked. "What name does that something have? What label does it wear?"

The elder Kaiba turned his head so, so slightly, and Pegasus could just make out the look on his face: he was grinning.

Seto's eyes glittered with something primal, obstinate, and proud.

"Niisama."

END.

On this day, the 1st of December 28 years ago, I was born. More importantly for this story, however, we have come full circle.

I hope that, as dark and grisly as this tale was at times, you enjoyed it. This story was written as a challenge to myself, to see if I could deliver the same message that I wanted to deliver so many years ago with "Back from the Dead."

Could I take a story that took me 115,000 words to tell, and tell it again in 30,000? Granted, the total word count is quite a bit more than 30,000, but the first draft was exactly that number. I still halved the original length, in any case.

I hope that I've managed it, in any case. And I hope that this story makes you think. Untold numbers of children face horrors like this, in every corner of the world, and while I'm not trying to make a political statement here, I do hope that this one sticks with you. I hope that, in some small way, it's changed you.

I don't know how. That's not my call to make. All that I mean to say here is that if I've made you feel something dark, something primal, something deeply cathartic, or anything in between, by the telling of this story, then I'll count myself as having succeeded. Like I said in an earlier chapter, this may be my darkest offering yet, but it's also (I think) one of my best.

I know it wasn't pretty. But I hope it was memorable.

Because at the core, without all the amateurish side-tracks and meanderings, this was the story "Back from the Dead" was supposed to be.

Special thanks to Raipai and dragonlady222 for reviewing damn near every chapter during my late-year spree of updates in order to get this one cleaned up and out there. But seriously, anyone who's read this, reviewed this, enjoyed it (on any level), thank you. You're the reason I'm still here, writing about these fictional brothers after 15 years.

Thank you again for joining me. I'll see you on the next journey.

.

"A father with a sick child is an angry god. I know I would have earthquaked Los Angeles, Paris, and Rome, and killed a million innocent people, if it guaranteed my baby boy would rise back to his full life."

- Sherman Alexie, "Do Not Go Gentle"