New Domino City. The Facility.
Two Security officers, faces frosty, escorted Yusei Fudo, one on each side gripping his arms. Yusei, walking between them, calmly assessed his surroundings.
Past a long, narrow metal corridor, they emerged into a massive atrium. Narrow walkways crisscrossed the middle; on all sides, countless prison cells loomed, packed close as small cubicles—each cell held inmates behind bars.
Every captive bore a common mark—a small yellow band on their face.
That was the required branding for all inmates—a mark just below Yusei's left eye.
It was not unlike the practice of tattooing criminals' faces in ancient times—a declaration of inferiority and shame. Unlike a tattoo, though, this mark was technologically advanced: embedded with a tracking chip. Anyone branded with this symbol could be hunted by the Sector Security even to the ends of the earth.
Granted, the branding started for this purpose, but with time, it became Yusei's personal icon—people came to see it as a mark of pride.
And Yusei's wasn't even the wildest. In the show, his Blackwing-using pal, Crow Hogan, had nearly every inch of his face marked—at first glance, an outsider might think he was an abstract art project by a mischievous child.
The two guards led Yusei inside, then left him on his own. Yusei quietly surveyed the place, when suddenly a voice called his name.
"Yusei!"
He turned to see a brawny man approaching—blue-haired, and clearly possessing a duelist's flair.
Bolt Tanner, a former pro duelist. Yusei had played him in a duel as soon as he arrived; as everyone knows, after a duel, you become fast friends.
Tanner greeted him, "What are you doing here? You got relocated, too?"
They hadn't been in this facility before—this was a temporary transfer that morning.
Yusei looked around. "Where are we exactly?"
Tanner replied, "This is the long-term detention center—very different from the temporary holding cells."
He scratched his head, concern creasing his face. "Long-term means trouble. No one gets out of here in less than six months."
Nearby, a kid who'd befriended Tanner in prison muttered, "So-called sentences around here are just for show.
There's no such thing as a real sentence. Once you're in, how many people get out alive?"
"What?"
Tanner and Yusei both looked grim.
The kid explained, "My cellmate said his original sentence should've ended three to five days after last year. But when his release date came, they kept postponing it.
Three days, ten days, a month—now it's almost been a year, and he's still not free."
Tanner clenched his fists in anger. "What the hell…? We were all supposed to be put on free labor crews, right?
In theory, if we'd finished our community service, we'd get released any day now."
Yusei said nothing.
Tanner sighed and glanced at him. "Be careful, Yusei. I've heard stories about this long-term center.
The warden is a guy named Mr. Armstrong. A real piece of work. Moody, violent, takes pleasure in tormenting the inmates.
Try to steer clear of the guy if you can—you'll save yourself a lot of trouble, Yusei."
Yusei nodded, "Got it. Thanks, Tanner."
"..."
Unbeknownst to them, the entire conversation was caught on the prison's surveillance cameras. Every word was relayed to the guard room's big screen.
There, a huge man with dark skin slouched in a chair—a wild beard bristled on his face, the sleeves of his prison warden's uniform rolled up to his broad shoulders, exposing knotted muscles. Perched on his bald head, an obviously-too-small hat.
This was Warden Mr. Armstrong.
He watched the monitors, idly yanking out his nose hairs.
Yes, nose hairs. If psychic powers existed in Yu-Gi-Oh!, his specialty was surely "nasal mutation." In the anime, nearly every time he's on screen, Mr. Armstrong is seen yanking nose hairs—as if they're constantly regrowing, and he's doomed to pluck them forever.
"Che."
Mr. Armstrong watched Yusei and Tanner on the monitor, clearly annoyed. He puffed the extracted nose hair across the room.
"A Satellite Zone piece of trash is a Signer? What kind of sick joke is this?"
The legend of the Crimson Dragon was famous. Mr. Armstrong had heard the stories.
Supposedly, the Crimson Dragon was a guardian deity, who would periodically select representatives and mark them with the Mark of the Dragon, allowing them to channel its power and battle evil.
A day earlier, the Sector Security headquarters had contacted Mr. Armstrong, telling him Yusei Fudo was likely a Signer.
Mr. Armstrong had blown up in disbelief.
Impossible!
A Satellite Zone scumbag, the lowest of the low—even the poorest city dweller would look down on them. How could somebody like that be a Signer?
Mr. Armstrong couldn't accept it.
But soon after, further orders arrived.
"Deal with him."
The Sector Security's creepy, pale, clown-faced Vice Director sneered.
"These are orders from the Director. Don't cause a scene. Make it quiet—best if he just vanishes without a trace."
Lazar paused, eyes narrowing.
"Let me be clear—especially don't let New Domino's 'King', Jack Atlas, find out. Understood?
If I ever hear that the King knows... Heh-heh-heh, you know the consequences."
Mr. Armstrong snapped to attention, spooked by the threat. "Y-Yes, sir! Guaranteed to your satisfaction!"
So not only was this Satellite Zone trash probably a Signer—he even had a connection to New Domino's top Duel King, Jack Atlas.
The King would care about this trash's fate?
Mr. Armstrong gritted his teeth, getting angrier by the moment.
Not that many knew this, but Jack himself was actually born in the Satellite Zone—Director Goodwin had personally recruited him.
Mr. Armstrong watched the monitor for a few more seconds and snorted.
Well, if the Director wanted him dead, what difference did it make what I did?
Everyone said Signers were chosen by fate.
Well, I'll show you—even a Signer's just trash at the end of the day.
…
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