Chapter Text
The drive through the forested region north of Domino City was a familiar one. It was the route from their secluded family estate far outside the city limits. In good conditions, the drive was second nature to him, but in the midst of a midnight storm, the roads were icy and the way was foreign. Waves of sleet lashed against the windshield and he could hear the wipers groaning with each pass. Only an idiot would be out in this weather.
The steering wheel jerked in his hands as the car hit a patch of black ice. He fought to hold on, even as he began to shake, muscles spasming as his arms cramped. The car skidded as it hit more patches of ice. For a single second, his hands were thrown off the wheel.
Panic flooded his mind—of the conditions outside, the tree line flanking the narrow road, what would happen if he spun out of control at this speed. He would smash into those trees, mangling the vehicle and himself. Even with the temperature below freezing, the fire would blaze with enough heat to melt the car and his body, leaving behind only an indistinguishable ruin. He knew all too well what that wreckage would look like, had seen it before in person. The image of his father’s corpse, nearly unrecognizable and twisted into the remains of his vehicle had been burned into his mind for over a decade.
Panic strengthened him and he tightened his grip. If he let go now, he would lose it: all that he had worked for would be blown away in a moment and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let that happen again.
Ahead, the road curved. Beyond it was a turn, sharp enough that his current speed would send him flying into the ravine below. He tightened his grip and steadied his mind. He wouldn’t fail today.
“I can do this,” he said aloud. “I can do this. I can do this. I can-”
The familiar forest road vanished. He was no longer in the car, cramped and freezing. Now, he was surrounded by space, in a stadium, spotlights off, screens dark, rows of seats empty. He was in a duel arena, standing alone at the center of the platform.
He was holding something. The steering wheel was still in his hands. It warped, twisting around itself to form a single column. The leather surface became smooth, transforming into pale skin. His hands were wrapped around a thin neck, flesh buckling where his fingers crushed inwards. Eyes, dark grey, so like his own, stared back at him. Black fabric, black hair.
His victim tried to get free, clawing at his grip but he couldn’t release his hands, he realized. His arms were locked in placed. The person in that grip continued to struggle, their strength fading with each second. Their movements became sluggish. Then, the owner of the eyes went limp. Tension left the thin frame. After another second, the hands dropped away from his own.
Cards spilled from the teenager’s grip, falling in dramatic spray like a magic trick gone wrong. The edge of the first one hit the ground, making a muffled bang. More muffled bangs followed the rest, much too loud for simple paper. Another bang, even louder, more like the sound of a door slamming open and footsteps, a voice coming to his ears.
The lights overhead came on with a snap.
He flinched at the sudden brightness. A wave of nausea hit him and his stomach heaved.
“Wake up.”
A foot prodded his back. He fought his way awake, but the grogginess was stubborn. After a few seconds, he cracked one eye and saw a tall figure standing over him. Was he on the ground? He blinked a few times. He was on the floor of his office, curled up on one side and using his arm as a pillow. He’d probably fallen asleep there. He brought a hand to one cheek, feeling the imprint the fabric of one sleeve had left. Jagger, his brother, stood over him looking annoyed.
“The door should have been locked,” Slade mumbled as he rubbed his eyes. The feeling of that throat in his hands was still there, and he shuddered slightly.
“Oh, it was. I knocked but you were passed the fuck out,” Jagger shot back. “You know, one of these days, you could be dead in here and your staff would just think you’re sleeping.”
It was too much at once. Slade leaned back against the wall as cramped muscles uncoiled.
“Even if I was dead, it still wouldn’t be any of their damn business.”
Working late had become the norm, and he often went until 8 or 9 in the evening. Now, with the addition of the catch-up work from the months he’d been out, making the hour and a half commute every night to their property through the city just didn’t make sense.
So, for the third time this week, he had woken up exhausted, either slumped over his desk or curled up on the floor. But if this was what he had to do, then he’d do it, every day if necessary.
He stood with a groan, stretched, and looked down at his clothes, sighing when he saw how hopelessly rumpled they were.
“When did you get rid of your assistant? Jennifer, right?” Jag asked, eyes on his phone, not bothering to look at Slade as the older one continued to rub sleep from his eyes.
“Fired her. Utterly incompetent. I gave her far too many chances.”
“Really? She seemed fine to me. But that’s what happens when you expect perfection from normal humans.”
“She double booked account meetings three times this month. Once, I might understand, but three? It’s not like I have time to deal with incompetence right now.”
“It’s still a shame. I liked her,” Jag said, picking at a fingernail.
“You mean you would have liked to sleep with her.”
Jag shrugged, then nodded. “This is what, the fifth assistant you’ve fired in the last six months?”
“Only the third.”
“‘Only the third.’ You know, I have a bet going with someone in Kaiba’s personnel department over which one of you goes through the most by the end of the year.”
Slade twitched at the mention of the other man’s name as he yanked a comb through his hair. He refused to have anything to do with Kaiba after their last set of interactions had gone so poorly. The mention of his name gave Slade a twist of … guilt? Shame? Who could say.
It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to let anything that embarrassing happen again, and vowed the next interaction he had with Domino City’s overlord would not be so degrading.
“Why are you still here? I’m up already. Leave me be.”
Jagger smirked. “I’m still here to remind you about the Partner’s Meeting you’ve got this morning.”
Slade swore. “Fuck, I forgot.”
“Don’t worry, I took notes from the last one.” He produced a notepad from one pocket and handed over to Slade.
“Anything really important?”
“Nothing huge. A few minor things you might find interesting.”
Slade flipped through it quickly. Jagger was right, there was nothing major in the reporter’s journal.
Still, Jagger lingered, which was odd. He was normally curt, saying what he needed and leaving to attend to other business. But now he leaned against the desk, loitering. Jag usually did a decent job of keeping his body language from revealing his thoughts — a sign of a good negotiator — but Slade could tell something was bothering him. One of his hands fidgeted around a pocket that used to hold his cigarettes, and the muscles in his jaw worked for a moment.
“In the meeting…” he said, turning away from Slade, “be careful.”
Slade scoffed. “I’m always careful-” he began.
“More than usual, you idiot,” Jagger cut him off. He glanced out the window. “It might be nothing.”
Slade waited for him to continue. When Jagger did, he was cautious.
“Something’s got Hyperion scrambling. Something big enough to affect all of their departments.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure.” He contemplated the nails on one hand.
Slade sucked in a slow breath. Something big enough to ruffle Hyperion’s feathers? That didn’t bode well for them. Like the Princeton Group, Hyperion Industries was another investment and research firm with slightly more influence. If something threatened Hyperion, it was bound to hit them as well. The firm’s most recent flurry of activity had fallen right before a particularly nasty market meltdown half a decade before, which had hit every Domino City corporation. Even Princeton Group, normally a marker of economic stability, had suffered that year. Slade didn’t know if he had enough energy to handle another one of those crashes so soon.
“Wow, vague warnings, very helpful.”
“I tried,” Jagger said, shooting him a glare. “All of my contacts there have gone silent. The only information I’ve gotten is from peripheral sources and all they’ve told me is that something has them scrambling.”
“What about Joshua?” asked Slade, naming Jagger’s usual source of information.
Jagger shook his head. “Last time we… met up for a drink, he seemed on edge. He wouldn’t touch the subject the entire night.”
“What a shame, there goes your usual method of intel,” Slade said with a smirk. “Now you’ll have to gather it through normal means like the rest of us.”
“My point is,” Jagger continued, ignoring his brother, “keep your eyes on Hyperion at the Partner’s Meeting. If this is what I think it is, there’s going to be some type of clue.”
“What’s your analysis?” Slade asked.
Jagger was still gazing out the window, lost in thought.
“I… don’t want to say. If it’s even remotely what I think it is, any hasty action on our part could ignite a firestorm.” Slade had his own suspicions, and if any of them were true, like Jagger, he’d rather not voice them.
“Alright, you gave me your vague warning.” Slade made a shooing motion with his hands. “Out.”
With a frown, Jagger left, and Slade was finally alone.
He started preparing for the morning ahead of him. The lighting in his private bathroom was usually flattering, but no effect in the world could improve the train wreck that was his appearance. The face of someone half way through a bad hangover stared back. His eyes were bloodshot, contacts still in from the day before. And dear god, those bags were ridiculous. Why use a briefcase if he had those fucking things under his eyes?
Some mornings he swore he spotted strands of grey at his temples.
“This is your choice,” an unseen person whispered. “You’re gonna end up alone and there will be no one to blame but yourself. I hope it’s worth it.”
It had hurt, those words coming from one of the few people he actually considered dear, but at least this fragment was a memory, not a hallucination.
Chazz had been right, he had chosen this path, but unlike his youngest brother he wasn’t going to give up on their plans. Slade Princeton never gave up. This time, he would get it right. He wouldn’t fall apart.
“Failure is not an option,” he told his mirror-self, “now get your shit together.”
He finished getting ready, telling himself that he kept his eyes closed because of the bathroom’s bright light, and not to avoid his own reflection.