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• I can't get over how up until he gets to domino city marik's only been seen in the dark purple robe and all of a sudden he's on the motorcycle w his adorable lavender crop top hoodie.

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It was like a dream. It was worse than a dream: it was not a dream. There was school in the morning and work in the afternoon. And at night, like an animal under the knife on the altar, screaming—sobbing—silence. As though the ancient sphynx had revised her riddle for a new kind of man—a man who wandered through his nights in a bloodshot fog, sweating with electric fury, and crawled towards dawn like a new-born thing, wet and trembling with the knowledge that the merciless light of morning would reveal him as he truly was: afraid. The first time it happened—after Mokuba dove through the frantic storm of fists and clawing—Seto had clung to his arms with a damp, bloodless face, his body heaving like the sea itself. Help me, he whispered. Mokuba stayed with him for the rest of the night, sitting in the bed with the lights on, standing guard against something he could not see as Seto shivered and wept in his lap. Then morning came and Seto slunk out of bed and showered and emerged his usual self, snide and dry with flashing eyes and a face the color of a peeled green apple. Almost reptilian. He’d emerged from the night with clean, muscular poise, and left the dead skin of some pathetic self behind. The second time it happened—Mokuba ran to his bedroom—thudded against the door and landed on the carpet, sinking as his brother begged and cried on the other side— SOMEONE, PLEASE—ANYONE —it was locked. The third time it happened—Mokuba kept his pillow over his head until everything was quiet again.  In the morning, Seto came down to breakfast, bright and wriggling, like a fish on a line, discovering new zest for life just as it was ending. He told Mokuba the whole story: there was a boy at school, some soft idiot as useless as a used tissue, and they’d played a game of Duel Monsters. And in that game of Duel Monsters, that boy had become like a diamond full of fire, ablaze in the shadows, and something had happened with the cards—he had done something to the cards.  And now the cards are alive, Mokuba. They’re alive inside me and at night they claw their way to the surface and they speak to me fresh and steaming from the forges of my soul and they tell me they will never die. I wish you could see what I see. You’d see, Mokuba. You would see the same future that I see, and you’d know —