A/N: This is a gift for dear Amlia, who wanted an "origin story" of sorts about Yami Bakura.

(Does it still count as a gift if the person who made the request was also the one who beta'ed the fic? Oops.)

Anyways, I hope you all enjoy!

Loneliness loves company

"Amane, I–" The voice breaks.

A voice... It has been a long time since they last heard such a thing.

"I-I m-made you a gift," the boy's tone is soft, yielding. He is shivering, it must be cold. Is that rain they see? Such a strange texture, different color… It's...white.

White...It has been a long time since they last saw any colors.

"F-for your birthday," he continues. "It's a diorama, you see?"

They are already tired of this inane, one-sided conversation. They try to look away from the black, polished stone in front of them, but their eyes don't seem to be able to move. They try to turn their head, or move their hand, or take a step back, but it is of no use. They are stuck.

"It is supposed to show that trip we were planning to go on," the boy is babbling.

Suddenly, they can see some sort of… small sculpture? It obscures the view from the black stone, though it is not really an improvement.

"Here, you see," a pale finger rises, and it points towards the sculpture. "These are you and I, holding hands as we walk up to the Big Bang. Behind us are Mom and Dad." There is a pause.

If they have to hear another word of this pointless–

"See how we are all smiling?" But now they can sense something new. They concentrate upon it. It comes from their eyes, runs down their cheeks. It is sharp, but warm, and somehow also bitter.

It burns them horribly, and they want to scream in pain and anger and frustration and in all the feelings and emotions they had forgotten could exist.

"It's because we are happy," he is saying, with an air of finality to that. "I hope you like it."

They couldn't care less about what this Amane person thinks about the ridiculous model, but at least if she would speak than they could focus on something other than the growing pain inside their chest.

There is no reply. The unnatural rain continues to fall, and now a freezing breeze is blowing too.

This is madness. Where are we? Who are these people? What have they done to us?

Flaming anger burns away the lingering cold. How do they dare oppose us? Us! The most powerful being in the world! They are but ants! Minuscule before our greatness! They shall kneel at our feet and suffer–

"Dad's never home, anymore," the boy speaks after long moments of silence. It rushes out of him like a confession he is ashamed of.

They want to spit out in disgust. What a pathetic excuse for a human being. Such a weak–

"He brings me gifts of his expeditions. A-and I'm grateful, really!" He is quick to add.

The long, pale fingers appear once again, they get closer and closer, almost touching–

"He just got me this cool ring, from Egypt no less!"

The world is abruptly thrown into sharp focus. They are in an open field. The ground is white. The sky is dark and clouded. Dozens, if not hundreds of flat stones litter the place. Where is the sun? Where is the sand–

"But I miss you most when I'm alone," the soft voice is saying, and now they can feel the vibrations of the boy's words echo in their chest. "And I'm always alone, now."

Alone. It has been a long time since they saw dunes of sand or felt the heat to the sun, but it has been even longer since they last were–

Alone.

Something is not right. They were supposed to be one. Connected as one. Joined as one. Once, they hadn't been them. There had been… him and the other. The other had always been Great. Had always been Dark, almighty and powerful. It was him who hadn't–

Who couldn't–

Who wasn't–

Enough.

He is only him, now. Pathetic and weak and defenseless and–

Alone.

Rage twists his stomach most pleasantly. His limbs twitch with the desire to take and consume and destroy. He wants to pull the world apart until everyone feels as broken and incomplete and hopeless as he–

"Anyway..." The faint whisper brings him back to the matter at hand. "I have to get back," the boy is announcing gently. "If I don't manage to come next week I'll send you a letter, alright?"

This boy. This boy and his stupid sculpture, his moronic words, his imbecilic sentiments. He thinks he knows what loneliness feels like? He hasn't but a mere glimpse.

"Goodbye, little sister..."

He sees it for a mere split second, but it is enough.

A fair-skinned, doe-eyed, scrawny boy looks back at him from the reflexion on the polished stone. Above his white mass of hair there is an inscription.

A name.

It has been so long since he last had a name. When they had been them, it wasn't necessary, of course. And before that– Well, any name he had had before deserved to be forgotten.

One day, he and the other will be one once again. But in the meantime, he can be–

Bakura.

Oh, please, not these idiotic 'classes' again. The sudden thought makes the albino falter in his steps.

"F-forgive me," Ryou stutters, as he reaches out with his hand to steady himself against the classroom door. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

The other student just shrugs, getting back to her excited conversation with a friend. The girl is at least one head shorter than Ryou, but from the way bumping into her made him lose his balance, she could have been a jock.

Or you a wimp, the vicious voice sounds in his mind. The albino shakes his head. He shouldn't think such thoughts. He already has problems with self-confidence as it is, no need to sabotage himself.

Ryou finds his seat and begins getting ready for class. It's a quick business, seeing as he isn't distracted by classmates talking to him or engaging in any way.

He doodles on a blank page, trying to think of how he could make an RPG for a solo player not boring or predictable. He used to have friends he could play with, but they've–gotten sick.

Ryou misses having people over. It's so lonely back in his apartment. Sometimes he feels like the utter silence of the place will render him deaf.

You think you know what loneliness feels like? Something dark in him sneers disdainfully.

The albino crawls into himself. No, he doesn't suppose he does.

Ryou has many memories of his little sister, of his family, of his old friends. These memories keep him company, so that he is never – truly – alone.

Imagine losing all your memories – not only of the people you knew, but even of who you used to be, the unbidden thought rises in his mind, and something stirs uneasily inside him.

Distractedly, the albino makes to touch the golden ring hidden under his school uniform. It is cold even through the cloth, as it always is, no matter how warm the day or how long he spent with the object against his chest.

A strange madness builds inside his throat and he opens his mouth – not aware he is about to say something until the words are already out.

"I would share my memories with you," Ryou whispers. He has no idea why or how, but he knows he must keep his voice gentle and understanding. "If you didn't have anyone to keep you company, I would be your friend."

He doesn't know why he said it, or who he said it to. Lately, he hasn't been feeling quite himself.

He feels empty inside, broken. As if a piece of his heart has gone missing, and he doesn't even remember for whom that piece used to stand.

He's read somewhere that sometimes people who are grieving find comfort in talking to the people they lost in their heads and imagining their responses. Ryou is pretty sure neither Amane nor his Mom would use such harsh words, though, so he thinks his issues might lie elsewhere.

I don't need you to share, something spits back from the shadows of his heart. I can just take whatever I want.

The albino shrugs, trying not to allow the hurt to sting his eyes. He is being quite difficult, today, isn't he?

Ryou once watched a movie about a woman with split-personality. He wonders if that's what it feels like. To be in constant war with himself, always questioning every thought, every impulse.

If the different personalities could be friends, then maybe it wouldn't be all bad, he muses, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. They'd always have someone close by, at least.

Then, his grin becomes warmer.

"That's actually an awesome idea for a RPG character!" The albino exclaims.

Suddenly, two dozen heads are turned in his direction.

"Do you have something you would like to share with the class, Bakura-kun?" The teacher asks, an unimpressed eyebrow raised. He appears to be halfway through explaining an equation.

Ryou feels his face flush scarlat, he hadn't even realized class has already started.

"N-no," he mumbles apologetically. "Forgive me, Akira-sensei."

The man returns to the blackboard, and his classmates turn away. Only half of them snigger at the albino.

Ryou pays them no mind, too startled by the sadistic laughter echoing under his skin.

You are truly pathetic, dear Landlord of mine, the twisted words cause a shiver to run down his spine. I should put you out of your misery. It would be a mercy.

The albino clutches tightly at the pen in his hand. He doesn't know why he keeps imagining these awful remarks. Moreover, he can't even make sense of half of them.

He is going mad. That's the only possible explanation. The alternative is worse.

"But you are not merciful, are you?" Ryou replies under his breath. The acidity and bitterness in his tone surprise him.

They seem to delight the dark parts of his consciousness.

Indeed, I'm not, they send back after a satisfied chuckle.

Karita wakes up with his head pounding.

"W-what are you p-planing?" Someone is saying around stutters. It's a kid's voice. A boy's.

He blinks his eyes open, and is met with the ceiling of a gym. And not any gym.

What he is doing in Domino High? Did he fall asleep in between classes?

The P.E. teacher sits up, his vision spinning. He realizes that he is right in the middle of the sports court. It's night time, as he can gather from the dark sky visible through a high window. The place is unusually silent, without all the bickering, chattering, mindless children who normally litter the space.

So, definitely not school hours.

As it is Karita's policy not to spend any more time in the damned place than he strictly must, he is confused as to why he would find himself in such situation.

"Don't concern yourself with that, Landlord." Another boy's voice startles the teacher from his puzzlement. "As I said before, I'm merely paying my rent."

Karita scrambles to his feet, turning around and looking for the brats. Strangely enough, he only sees a lonely figure, sitting cross-legged in a shadowed corner.

"Oi!" He shouts. "What are you doing here, kid?" Ignoring his uneasiness as the boy becomes quiet, he jumps to the attack. "School is closed! You are getting detention for this!"

The P.E. teacher notices the boy is trembling on the ground. Sneering at the feeble sight, he steps forwards and pulls the kid to his feet by the collar. Light shines upon his face, and Karita recognizes the new student, the one with the girly hair.

Disgust builds inside his mouth. The boy is all soft lines and sad eyes. Worse than a girl. This new generation has to grow some balls.

The man spits on the pale face. "Didn't I tell you to shave, faggot?" He pulls harshly on the freakish white mane of hair. "Or did you come here so I could have the pleasure?"

Terrified brown eyes meet his, but no desperate plea follows.

"You have to run, Karita-sensei," the boy whispers. "You are in danger."

It is with prickling disquiet that the teacher realizes the kid is not afraid of him, he is afraid for him.

He doesn't get a chance to ask what the hell the boy is on about, because the next second the tame hand hanging by the kid's sides flies up, hitting Karita right on the face.

"Fuck!" He screams, staggering back and covering his bleeding nose with his fingers.

The boy straightens up. Suddenly, he doesn't look small and feeble anymore. His eyes are hard, his jaw set. There is a smirk playing on his lips – it has a dangerous edge to it. Madness dances behind his gaze.

"What did you call us?" He kid asks in mock curiosity. "Did you call us 'faggot'?"

Karita doesn't say anything, just stares.

"Our name," the boy begins, pronouncing each syllable clearly, "is Bakura."

The albino laughs psychotically, and the P.E. teacher feels his heart start racing with dread.

The kid must be on drugs, he thinks to himself, either that or he is a lunatic.

Karita glances to his left, where he knows the emergency exit is. He decides to try his chances and runs for it.

He's barely taken two steps before something freezes his legs and binds his arms. The man falls gracelessly to the floor. He fights against the invisible force pinning him down but to no avail.

"Leaving so soon, Karita dear?" Bakura jeers. "But we haven't even played a game!"

The teacher tries to shout out for help, but his lips appear to be glued together. Only pitiful groans escape his throat.

"S-stop, please!" That first voice says. "Let him go!"

Karita cranes his neck painfully to see what is happening. The boy's posture has changed again. His eyes are no longer ablaze with sadistic madness, but rather brimming with scared tears. He feels the bindings around his body weaken and hope grows inside his heart.

It is short-lived.

"No, I don't think I will." His tone is cold, but burning anger lies underneath it. "I'm doing this for you, Landlord. Don't be ungrateful."

Then, a heavy foot collides with the side of Karita's temple. Pain explodes in his head, but all his desperate cries are muffled by his sewed lips. He no longer can see Bakura, only hear the bizarre conversation he seems to be having with himself.

"Didn't he mock you? Didn't he make fun of you in front of all your new classmates?" The kid is saying, disdain clear in every word.

"T-that is not the point," his voice softens as he replies. "You shouldn't hurt other people because they hurt you. It only creates a vicious circle of violence–"

A cruel laugh interrupts.

"You are truly naïve," Bakura tells himself, with a mixture of real wonder and disgusted contempt. "You really have no idea how the world works, do you? No matter. I'll show you."

Karita can hear the approaching steps, and he knows his end is near.

"Wait!" The boy pleads, voice breaking. The steps falter. "I know you only want what is best for me," he says in a gentle tone. "I don't know why or how this is all happening, but if we could just go back home–"

The derisive chuckles begin low and quiet. Slowly, they build and grow, until they become so loud it seems that the ground itself shakes with the vibrations.

"HA! You think I want what is best for you?!" He manages to gasp between uncontrollable laughter. "I? Who use your body, violate your thoughts, attack your friends? You know nothing about what I want." Bakura cannot seem to draw breath, so hard is his cackling. "It seems I overestimated you. This is not mere naiveté, Landlord. This is sheer stupidity."

Oh man, Karita hysterically thinks to himself, I'm so done for. He can feel the boy's body heat just behind him, close enough to touch.

"Yeah," the gentler Bakura murmurs. "Maybe I really am stupid." Sadness and disappointment seem to choke him. "But I do know something about you," he forges on. There is a quiet strength to his words now. "As cruel and mad as you are, as naïve and weak as I might be, I know we have at least one thing in common."

"And what, pray tell, is that?" The lunatic jeers.

"I know you are terribly lonely," is the kind reply. "I know you are hurting." He pauses, sighing deeply. "It's okay. I am too. You don't have to do this. You don't have to be alone."

The kid offers it as a reassurance. Karita prays to all the gods he doesn't believe in, and begs them to make it enough to dissuade the crazy Bakura from his plans.

For a moment, he dares to think it worked. There is no mad laughter, no sneering. The night is silent. They are the only two – three? – people in the world. In limbo, in dreamland. Karita will close his eyes and wake up in bed, and all of this will not be more than a nightmare.

Then, the boy speaks up.

"I was going to allow you to tag along in our adventures together, Landlord." His voice is level, steady. "But you have crossed a line you shouldn't have crossed." There isn't a ounce of madness in his tone.

It is all the more frightening for it.

"Privilege revoked."

Bakura hums softly to himself. He walks around Karita's fallen form. The P.E. teacher swallows drily, and hopes against hope–

"Now, now," the kid murmurs, kneeling by his side and peering at his bloody face. There is no trace of kindness or compassion in that gaze.

"What about a Shadow Game?"

A/N: And then... the rest of canon happens.

By the way, for those not familiar with the manga (or with the wiki about the manga, as it is my case, hehe), Karita is the last person to be turned into a RPG doll by Yami Bakura after a Shadow Game. Because afterwards Yami Yuugi comes and saves the day. Hooray. (Conveniently enough, after all the souls imprisoned in the dolls are released, it seems that the people have no recollection of what happened. Ugh.)