Title: Life Support

Genres: Supernatural, Horror

Rating: T

Summary: I am a toymaker—I make toys and sell them for a living, and what a living it is. Together, we are perfection, and we will live forever. / AU, Dollshipping, Yami Bakura x Dark Necrofear

A/N: Written for the YGO Fanfiction Contest Season 8, Round 5. The pairing is Dollshipping (Yami Bakura x Dark Necrofear), although the story also contains mild Lateshipping (Yami Bakura x Amane) and Antagoshipping (Yami Bakura x Seto Kaiba). This story is an AU without the whole Items/reincarnation gambit, where Yami Bakura owns a toy shop with a rather…sinister objective. I mess with the established chronology quite a bit, and I've reinterpreted a good bit of Dark Necrofear's identity to fit this AU. Each section is told out of order, with the odd sections proceeding in chronological order, and the even, italicized, first-person ones moving in reverse chronological order. I hope you enjoy!

Life Support

The child walks into the toy shop with curiosity and expectation, staring up at the colorfully painted dolls and toys on the shelves just above the reach of his small fingers. The shop-owner approaches the child, bending down to speak to him.

"What are you looking for? Perhaps I can be of assistance." His voice is clipped and thin, his eyes somehow serious and detached at the same time. The child does not want to have to deal with the shopkeeper, but he desires the toys, so he points at a solitary wooden toy on the shelf.

"I want that one."

"The wind-up toy soldier? An excellent choice. Let me demonstrate."

The shop-owner knows the child would pick that particular toy—he has created it and set it there just for him, after all. Brown hair, even features, small for his age—the boy is average on every level, but he will suit the shop-owner's purposes just fine. He grasps the toy, twisting the mechanism on its back, showing the child how its feet and arms swing with the whirring of the winding, until it comes to a stop right in front of the child. His parents are somewhere else, possibly with another sibling, possibly picking out a separate present for the child, but the shop-owner's attention, for that moment, is focused on his next target. It does not matter who they are—he picks his victims based on the quality of their souls.

This boy has a very clean soul.

The shop-owner hands him the toy, watching him run to an average-looking couple browsing at a display across the store with beribboned dolls and stuffed animals. All normal, of course—it's only his creations that are special, and rare, and infrequent.

"Would you like me to wrap that for you?" he asks when the family and their purchases move to the register, a cluster of toys on the counter before him. He is pleased to see the wind-up soldier among them.

"Only if it wouldn't be any trouble." The mother is already reaching for her pocketbook, and the shop-owner smiles as he reaches for a roll of bright green gift-wrap.

"Of course. No trouble at all." He wraps the toys with obvious care, watching as the little boy runs off to poke at a glass case containing an old marionette, with a worn sign declaring it 'not for sale.'

"Thank you for your patronage," the shopkeeper says, moving around the counter to hand them their bags. He walks with them to the entrance to hold the door open as they leave. "Have a nice day."

The sunlight glints off of his plastic nametag, almost obscuring the word Bakura.

"Show us!" The girl's fingers are tangled around the strings of a puppet, although she holds onto its frame tightly even as I patiently try to unwind them.

I frown in concentration. "Are you sure you want that one?"

"Of course!" the girl says. "I want to be a ballerina when I grow up. Just like her!" The girl holds up the pink-clad puppet. "Teach me how to make her dance!"

"As you wish," I reply. The shop is nearly empty, and I move towards a glass case surrounded by piles of toys, books, and games. I unlock the case with a thin gold key and remove a blue-painted marionette to match the girl's pink ballerina puppet.

I return to the girl's side. "You need to hold the bar like this," I explain, dangling the marionette to the floor with the crossed wooden bars, tilting them to the side to straighten and slacken the threads.

The girl matches my movements, and I show her how to make the puppet walk and how to move its arms. She catches on quickly.

"But I want it to dance! Just like me!" She exclaims.

"Are you a good dancer?" I ask. She nods. The marionette spins slowly from my deft fingers, tilting her head in mimicry of my actions. From afar, the parents watch the girl maneuver the puppet.

"Tilt it like this," I instruct as she tilts the bar forward, so the doll balances on one pink silk toe shoe, its other leg curved in the air behind its body. "Now spin." Both dolls do, spinning and dancing as we twirl the threads that bind them. The girl smiles, delighted.

"Now do you see?" I asks.

"It's perfect!" She clutches the controller, raising the puppet's arms above its body in a classic pose. "Maybe one day I'll be as good at controlling my puppet as you are with yours!"

I walk the puppet back to the glass case, lifting it with care and settling it back inside before locking it tightly. "I have had many years to practice my craft," I say calmly, "just as you have spent many years on yours."

I offer her a grin. "Let me give you a discount on the ballerina—it's fitting, because you gave me a chance to perform with my own marionette, and I so rarely stock them. It's lucky you were here to catch this one before someone else bought it."

I know without question it will be sold—the soul within the target connects to the vessel within moments of first meeting it. This toy is made for her.

"I want to be a ballerina more than anything else in the world!" she says as I hand her the brown paper bag containing the puppet.

"More than anything?" I asks. She nods emphatically. "I'm sure you'll get the chance, someday soon."

Very, very soon, in fact. I have seen it hundreds of times before—clean souls have such simple wants and desires, and for my customers it is all too clear. Some want to be a firefighter, or an angel, or a doctor, or a princess. I am working on one now—a toy soldier, with a shiny, black hat and a crisply-painted uniform.

She wants to be a ballerina. And she will be. Forever.

Barely a week passes when Bakura flips the sign from closed to open, almost missing the small wooden soldier standing at attention on the edge of the counter. Before its face was blank and unassuming, but now its simple smile has been replaced by wide eyes and a unmoving mouth. Brown hair spills from underneath a tall, black-painted soldier's hat.

Who would ever notice a missing toy? Bakura moves the figurine to a small room in the back where he stores his collection, one door apart from a sparsely furnished office. The door is unlocked by a key he keeps on a thin gold chain around his neck, and he walks inside, flipping the light-switch on the wall to light the single bulb in the middle of the room.

Well-constructed wooden shelves line each wall; there are no windows. Toys are lined three or four deep, and Bakura knows instinctively where his newest acquisition should go. He places it in a blank space between a mermaid doll and a wizard, each with unique, distinctive faces that look almost out-of-place on their wooden or plastic bodies. Each have been enchanted to collect the souls of their owners and to return to their home—to return to their master.

It is in this way that he has extended his own life for almost a century. He has not always lived in Domino, but the town calls out to him. There is such a market in this town for games and toys.

He returns to the main room of the store after locking the room of souls securely behind him. There is no danger of them running away, of course—once inside the shell that binds them, they can never leave. They are haunted to always live as that which they have wished in their young lives to become.

The shop is dark, the blinds shut, the sign flipped to 'closed.' I remove my marionette from its prison of fingerprint-smudged glass. She is made of wood and painted bright blue, her surface smooth from sandpaper and decades of use. The crossbar is old, the strings older. In its case the marionette is protected from all who would touch it but I, but it is only at night like this when she can truly come alive.

I dangle the marionette from her strings, watching her move. Occasionally I dance with her. She is beautiful, and strong—strong souls have made her that way. I have made her that way. We come together, and she is an extension of my body. I can feel the strings responding to each motion I make as I tilt the crossbar, sweeping my marionette across the floor. I always take special care to keep the floors clean, so she does not get dirty. She would not like it if I was remiss in my maintenance of her beautiful form.

One string connects the center of the crossbar to the top of her smooth head. As I pull it, I can almost imagine her mouth opening as she speaks to me. I wait for the lovely sound of her voice to reassure me. …No? Not tonight? I must have done something to displease her. Tell me, Necrofear, whose soul we will consume next. I am so looking forward to it.

I raise the marionette, grasping her by her arms so that I do not stretch the strings. There are places where the blue paint has worn away, exposing the silvery wood beneath. It does not matter; she is perfect. I am perfect. Together, we are perfection, and we will live forever.

Her eyes are always open and unblinking. They watch and catalogue every occurrence, every action and reaction of the world around us. I rub one thumb across her cheek.

She is my master, but I in turn am hers. She cannot move without my aid, and I cannot live without her. I can't hide from her, and I don't think I'd ever want to.

It is the holiday season—typically that means he has a steady stream of customers throughout the day, and no shortage of selections to supplement his waning existence. This year, however, is different—he sees it on the television ads, he reads about it in the paper. The grainy, black-and-white photo stares out at him from its perfectly-creased spot on his wooden dining-room table.

"Kaiba Corporation Sales Exceed Records – Dueling Platforms are the New 'It' Gift!"

It sickens him, like an infection that spreads first from somewhere deep in his stomach, crawling over his arms and settling into his skin, pulling the corners of his mouth down in a deeply etched frown. Electronic toys are no match for a person's soul, and his own creations are suffering as a result of the society's preferences. His talent is not being utilized, and if not reversed, he will slowly die. This much he knows.

He glances at the photo once more. Staring back at him is a tall man standing before a podium with a smaller, younger boy by his side. He can judge their souls even through a photograph, and decides his next target instantly. He reads the caption, drawing one slim finger over the printed type.

Mokuba Kaiba, what does your soul most desire?

She moves as I do—with every pace, she brings one of her own. I scratch the back of my head, and I raise the crossbar to mirror my actions with her own. She is a most able companion.

I am a toymaker—I make toys and sell them for a living. And what a living it truly is…

The ballerina is coming along nicely. Another month, I think, and she should arrive. The silk is the most difficult part—I much prefer working with wood. It can't be helped, I suppose. The vessel requires this, and Necrofear has told me so.

There will be no rest until it is finished. I can feel your compulsion, do not worry, my dear. I am sure that day will come.

Do not be angry with me, Necrofear. It is you who failed, all those years ago. Do not blame me—I refuse. Do not forget it is I who control you.

She scratches her head once more, staring at me with her large eyes, painted the same blue as the color of the sky. She reaches towards me, and we simultaneously press our hands around one another's. It is not comforting, but it is a connection nonetheless.

I control you. In return, I have given up my control. You give up the most basic functions of your life in order to give life to me in return. How ironic, I suppose.

That doesn't change the fact that, once upon a time, you still failed.

Failure is hard to overcome, I know. It will get better with time, you will see—we will find you a host.

She stares at me angrily again. She has told me not to bring it up, but I cannot help pushing her buttons—or pulling her strings, as the case may be. Necrofear lives in anger.

Do not be angry with me. Do not forget it is I who controls you. You are mine. It is what we agreed upon, remember? Failure is so, so hard to overcome. I suppose it is a good thing that I have never failed.

The doll is made of porcelain. It comes in a box stamped with the word fragile; understandable, but Bakura finds it odd that one word can evoke such esteem and care in the travels of one small little box.

The cardboard is almost like a coffin for the baby doll, nestled in packing refuse. Its blank eyes, too, refuse to blink, but he orders it for one purpose. It will serve that purpose well.

Necrofear has instructed him on the best display to catch the target's attention—large sale banners hang above the door of the shop, winding around the exterior of the building, and brightly painted yellow A-frame signs dominate the sidewalk. In the window facing the street, Bakura has created a row of unique, imported games from around the world, including a distinctive konane board he is sure will catch their attention.

They are both calm as the limo rolls down the street right on cue. Bakura is busying himself with cleaning the windows, and he hardly looks up when the door opens a few minutes later. He already knows who it will be, and he is right.

"Hurry up and look around," the older brother—Seto—says. "I've got work to do." He doesn't even try to lower his voice. Bakura observes them openly before crossing the room to greet them. They are conspicuously the only customers in the store at that moment, as Necrofear knew they would be.

"Please let me know if I can be of any assistance," Bakura says.

Mokuba immediately crosses to the game display, drawing his fingers over first an elaborately carved chess board before settling on the marble, carved konane board.

"What's this one, Seto?"

"Ask the associate, he's here to help us, after all—"

"Excuse me, sir?" Mokuba asks, and Bakura pauses at the counter, moving to the display.

"How can I help you?" he asks with a deferential smile. Inside, his skin is itching with the anticipation of collecting another soul—a good one. He can tell—the soul of Mokuba Kaiba is one of the cleanest he has ever encountered—not the cleanest, however. That distinction is reserved for one soul, and one soul alone.

In contrast, the older brother's soul is tarnished and tainted, made almost black by some horrible deed in the not-too-distant past. Bakura allows himself a different kind of smile as Mokuba asks about the game board, and reminds himself to ask Seto about it if he ever gets the chance, not that he expects to see either of them in their current state after this day.

"It's konane," Bakura explains. "You play it like checkers, or leapfrog—see the divets? You must eat the other pieces by jumping them—if you are playing black, you must jump the white pieces, and vice versa. The last person to make a legal move wins."

The black-and-white marble squares stand out in stark relief to the rest of the colors in the room. The board almost seems to suck color in, and Bakura shows them the matching set of black and white stones, smooth and flat, to use as markers. "Set them on each square, with one remaining, and then each player alternates in jumping pieces using the empty square."

"It's so nice!" Mokuba exclaims, and Bakura can see the decision fluttering behind his eyes. He will buy the game, this Bakura knows.

"I'm going to buy it," Mokuba decides. "And then we can play it after dinner! Wouldn't you like that, big brother?"

"Hmph," is Seto's only response. His gaze travels around the room, resting only slightly on the marionette case before lighting on a series of intricate wooden toys.

Mokuba pays with a credit card, and Bakura offers no discount save for the one he has already planned. "We are running a promotion," Bakura tells him. "You get a free toy with each purchase. I've already put yours into the bag."

Mokuba looks delighted. "A free toy! That's great! Thanks!"

Seto makes his way to the counter, clearly trying to repress a look of mild interest. "Do you make all of these toys yourself?" he asks.

"Most of them, yes," Bakura responds as he hands Mokuba his receipt and walks around the counter to hand him the bag with his toys within. "Enjoy the game, gentlemen."

They leave without ever once looking back, although Bakura's eyes never leave the back of Seto's head until he is no longer in sight. Seto doesn't even know—the baby doll has found its way into the innocuous, unmarked brown paper bag. Soon it will return to him with Mokuba's soul, and Bakura will feast on it.

I remember my first block of wood. It is not unlike peeling a pear, or an apple—peeling away curls of wood until only the shape you desire remains, and sanding the rest down or using smaller tools to create detail. I remember building a miniature rocking horse and a spinning top—toys, even then. Polishing, engraving, darkening the surface with a glowing poker—there are many ways to fashion and modify wood. To perfect it.

I remember opening a toy shop in a small city in England, in an even smaller neighborhood. It is so long ago, but the details are still frozen into my mind. I cannot forget them even if I try.

I selected the wood, and carved and painted it myself. The blue paint stained my hands for days. She was special—I remember how I promised that girl I would carve a toy just for her.

So I did, and then she died.

I remember.

The doll represents Mokuba's desires for a normal childhood, and a normal life for himself and his brother. He feels almost cheated out of it—now he will never have to grow up. The world doesn't work that way, but in his world, they can live in their chosen roles forever.

Bakura lodges the doll on the counter for the moment next to a roll of gift wrap. Necrofear is calling out to him, praising him. He accepts her words with pride—he has done it. The news report it with rabid fervor, and Bakura almost wishes he could have been there to see the broken look on Seto Kaiba's face when he learned that his little brother was dead.

Bakura thinks to himself for a moment as he unlocks the case and withdraws his marionette, cradling her in his arms. Perhaps he is bringing too much attention to himself, he thinks. With so many deaths, it is probably a good time to move somewhere new. Not to Europe, that is still too close. Australia does not have easy access to good enough wood. Perhaps just a move to a new city, on the other side of the country. It is such a shame, he considers, idly stroking Necrofear's arm. He has just gotten comfortable in this city, and they so enjoy their games.

A crash startles him, knocking Bakura out of his concentration and he spins, his eyes immediately drawn to the large rock thrown through the plate glass window. He has no formal security—Necrofear is all the security he needs—but he cannot help his surprise when he sees the formidable figure of Seto Kaiba walk through the new opening into his store.

He is clearly surprised to see Bakura standing there, but ignores the dangling marionette in favor of giving Bakura a look that is at once threatening and completely broken. It is so pleasant to observe.

"My brother," he begins. "Tell me what you did to him."

The weather is perfect on the day that Amane first enters my shop. She is an artist, she tells me, but she has a deep appreciation for games, puzzles, and toys. It is an appreciation the rest of her family shares, she says. She buys a spinning top for her brother and leaves.

The second day she visits my shop the weather is cold and clear, unseasonably so. She lingers over a few displays, obviously picking out a gift with care. I wonder who she's buying the gift for—I can't help but feel jealous. It's in my nature.

"What are you looking for?" I ask as I approach her—she is the only one in the store, and the top of her head barely reaches my chin as I stand beside her. "Perhaps I can be of assistance."

"I like these dolls, here," Amane says, gesturing at racks of carved wooden toys, each painted brightly. Their expressions are plain; most wear a smile, although a few dolls do not have faces at all. There are nesting dolls and wooden animals, and Amane points to a row of wooden trains in bright red and black.

"I'd just like to be able to paint them myself," she says. "For a neighbor of mine. Do you have any plain ones?"

"I can make some for you," I reply quickly. "It should not take very long. Come back in three days."

I make the trains, but only because she asks it of me. I have even included a mechanism where the trains can attach and each pull the other along to the owner's whim. Purposefully creating an incomplete toy feels almost like a sin, but it is Amane's wish.

When she picks up the toys, her fingers are spotted with flecks of paint. Her hands are beautiful—I imagine what else they could create besides art. My hands as well were built to create—it is something we have in common.

"I'd like to sit by the river and paint all day!" she says to me. "The river and the sky are both blue, so I'd need a lot of paint. But it'd be fun."

I do not want to charge her for an incomplete toy, but she insists upon some kind of compensation.

"Let me paint you something," she says. "I want to paint for you."

"On one condition."

Amane looks at me with those wide, expressive eyes and I want more than anything to create something worthy of her. "Let me make you a toy," I say firmly. "A custom toy—I will make you anything you want."

"I want it to be blue," she decides immediately with a smile. "And I want a puppet like I saw in the theatre last year…what were they called again?" She pauses. "Right, a marionette."

"Consider it done," I reply.

I have never made something expressly for one single individual before; my toys are always for the masses, for the customers, but never exclusive. Likewise, I have never been promised something like her gift—she is making something specifically for me. No one else will ever be associated with that one canvas or those hundreds of brushstrokes. I would be the subject and the object simultaneously. I love toys because they are timeless and unchanging. They are eternal. They are my art.

I want to know her better. I want to know all of her—she will not let me, she is so private and secretive, like me, but I want to know. Knowledge satisfies me more than anything else, and nothing else will ever compare, save the perfection that is Amane.

I begin working on her marionette almost immediately. The wood arrives, and I have bought countless jars of a thick blue paint to mix the perfect shade. It is coming together so nicely…I remember the moment I finish the face, after sanding the head of the puppet smooth and sculpting its protruding brow and nose. The lips were small and delicate, like Amane's. I turn the piece of wood to observe it at all angles, and the eyes seem to bore into mine and the lips turn up and speak:

Hello, Bakura.

My fingers freeze in place around the wooden head, painfully stiff where I refuse to let go. I cannot look away.

Yes, you heard me correctly.

The marionette's voice is distinctly feminine but still deep and rich, with an almost amused lilt to the tone. It is a voice that can never sound singularly happy or sad, but is perpetually locked into a neutral, impassive affectation.

"What do you want?" I ask. What a question—what would a puppet want? How can a puppet possess speech?

The marionette scoffs. It is what you want that is the more imperative question, Bakura. So tell me…what is it that you want?

"I want Amane." The answer comes easily enough to frustrate me. It is torturous, knowing that she is free to come and go in my life as she pleases, as there is nothing to bind her to me—

I can give you what you want, the marionette says. Would you like to make a deal?

"What are your terms?" I owe this puppet nothing—I could smash its wooden head against the wall and grind it up into sawdust to seal its aberrant mouth. I would not think twice about doing so, if I knew Amane would forgive me for failing to produce her perfect toy.

You want to be together with her forever. She wishes to be an artist forever. I wish to live…forever. You created me with the specific purpose of serving as a container for her soul. Let me fulfill that purpose. As long as you keep producing these creations, we can stuff them with souls to keep us young forever. And Amane's soul will never leave yours.

"How will I know how to create something like this?" I ask.

You already know how—you have just done it. You have only to finish the job. The puppet laughs. But do not worry—I will show you the desires that lurk in their hearts. You have only to create the vessel.

"And we will live…forever…?"

Of course, the puppet responds. I would not lie to you, not when my own life is at stake. Once you attach my strings, I will be yours and you will have her. I will master this body—I will teach you all you need to know.

"I cannot trust you," I say. I have not painted her yet, but the marionette's wooden eyes narrow imperceptibly. I imagine what they will look like with two coats of blue.

Of course not. But it is the only way you will get her. We must act quickly. Do you accept?

"Yes."

Good. Now finish me.

"What should I call you?"

You may call me Necrofear.

After a few days, my work is almost done…I just have to finish the painting and attach the strings. I have already cut the lengths of string, using thick fishing line. Necrofear is in my workshop, propped up on a table littered with curls of wood and paintbrushes of different sizes, dripping blue paint. I operate my business during the day and work on my marionette at night, so at first I hesitate when Amane walks into the store—

—No, this is not Amane, but they share our distinctive white hair. The boy looks almost exactly like her, and something tells me—perhaps Necrofear's voice, whispering into my ear—that this is her brother.

"Can I help you with something?" I ask.

He wears a devastated, almost empty look on his face. His eyes are rimmed with the evidence of many sleepless nights, like mine, and I wonder if my face looks at all like his does.

His entire body is hunched, and he can only deliver three words to me.

"Amane is dead."

Wordlessly he reaches in the pocket of his overcoat, removes something, and places that object on the counter before leaving.

It is in the papers—an automobile accident. They are so new, and malfunction so frequently, and poor Amane was caught in a crash in which only her brother and father survived. She is lost to me—her soul has been stolen from my grasp.

I strive to finish the doll in vain—it was for her that it was first created. It was meant to house her soul. The marionette was created for someone who no longer exists.

I am convinced it will no longer work, but Necrofear is patient with me. I attach the strings to the crossbar and then to her body and she moves and walks under my hand. She covers the unfinished picture the brother delivered with a sheet of white cotton, a drop-cloth that can now serve no other purpose. My clothes are stained with blue. It is her hands that carefully strike the match to set them both on fire—the paint-splattered sheet and the painting of the sea and sky. Necrofear is complete.

Eventually you will find the soul to fill me, she says.

"How long must I wait?" I ask. "How long must I live without her?"

A deal is a deal, Necrofear reminds me. We have eternity together, you and I and our collection of souls.

She smiles at me from her position in my arms, the strings wrapped tightly around my fingers.

Doesn't that sound nice?

"What makes you think I had anything to do with the death of your brother?" Bakura asks idly. While Seto may have lost much of himself with the recent death, he still maintains a sense of rationality and bitter calmness.

"Because the night before he died Mokuba and I played your game," he says. The words are painfully delivered, and a smirk grows on Bakura's face.

"…Mokuba?" He repeats the name just to see Seto's reaction. "Your brother meant a lot to you, I take it."

"That is not all." There is a kind of crazed justice in Seto's eyes as he points towards the baby doll on the counter. "That creepy doll was given to…my brother by you. After he died it disappeared. Now you have it. I'd like to hear your explanation."

"Perhaps I have many dolls," Bakura says, "and I have a few left. It was a promotional offer, after all. Now we must settle the reason as to why you have broken into my store. I'd like to hear your explanation."

Seto exhaled sharply, his fingers clenching into fists by his side. "A rock through a window will look just like a petty, teenage burglary to the police."

"What if I have security cameras?" Bakura asks.

"You don't."

"You sound so sure of it," he continues. "You sound so sure of it all. I see within your heart"—Necrofear whispers into Bakura's ears, and Seto flinches at his words—"and I see how vulnerable you really are, here. This is a risk, and you don't take risks, am I right?" He grins. "What are you planning to do, hmm?"

"Why did you take my brother?" he asks.

"Answer my question and I might consider answering yours," Bakura replies casually.

"I know because that doll has his face," Seto snarls suddenly, turning and reaching out towards the counter where the baby doll sits with wide black eyes and a wider mouth formed into a semblance of a smile. Seto stops as Bakura takes a step closer, gathering his marionette into his arms and placing her on the counter. He walks the puppet up and down the length of laminate as Seto watches, flickers of unease and uncertainty swirling in his eyes. The puppet reaches for the baby doll.

"What is it doing?" Seto asks warily.

"Whatever it wants," Bakura answers. "You have yet to respond to my question, you know. I might as well prove yours to you—watch closely, now." The marionette's wooden arms lightly touch the doll before she pushes, rolling the doll off of the counter where it falls before shattering on the wooden floor.

Bakura is not watching the doll. Bakura is watching Seto as he drops to his knees in an attempt to catch it. Slivers of porcelain embed themselves in the man's coat sleeves, and he recoils in horror as he stares at the disjointed pieces of his brother's face in the broken doll.

"If it was really your brother in there," Bakura leans closer, as if imparting a secret, "would he have broken? Look—the doll is hollow."

A broken noise, barely audible, issues from Seto's throat. Bakura pulls the puppet to the floor as she walks towards the broken pieces of porcelain, gathering an arm first in one hand, holding it close to her chest.

"I took your brother's soul," Bakura confides, resting his free hand lightly on Seto's shoulder. "I locked him away inside the doll. He has a very clean soul, you know. Not like yours."

"I know." Seto hangs his head, staring at the floor and nothing at once. Necrofear continues her steady pace towards another piece of the doll, digging through pieces of cracked porcelain until her wooden arms touch what was once the doll's head. A section is missing near the top right just above the eyes, but the face is still clearly visible. Necrofear gathers the piece in her arms as Bakura manipulates the strings.

"What has made your soul so unclean, I wonder?" Bakura grins, his breath brushing Seto's left ear with each word.

"I did what I had to do to protect him," Seto says softly. "I can't live without my brother."

"But what do you want?" Bakura asks. "I only take clean souls, but perhaps I can make an exception in your case?"

"I want to be with Mokuba," he answers. "I want to protect him. I…failed. You can have me—you can have my soul. There's nothing left."

"Hmm," Bakura hums lightly, grasping Seto's shoulder with more force. "You're forgetting that I don't necessarily need your permission to take your soul. I even think I know the perfect place for it."

Seto flinches again, but Bakura only laughs. "Do not worry, Seto…you'll get what you want. They always do."

The scrape of porcelain over wood is the only sound in the room for a few moments before Bakura once again speaks.

"You want to be with Mokuba and you will. You will live with your failure forever—your soul will live with his…and mine…and all of the others in my collection forever. What do you think about that?"

"You…don't know…what forever is," Seto manages through clenched teeth.

"No—but we will have that long to find out," Bakura says.

Seto and Bakura both close their eyes as beside them Necrofear lovingly clutches the remains of the broken baby doll.

The eyes of a wooden toy will never shut.

End.

Notes:

1) I did say that I messed with the established chronology quite a bit—the boy at the beginning of the story is Johji, and the ballerina girl is Anzu. In this AU, Ryou and Amane are living around the turn of the century. Automobiles were in production during that time, but give me some liberties with the translation of Amane's death to this time. It's implied that the killing of Gozaburo is what makes Seto's soul unclean.

2) Konane is a really cool Hawaiian game, with the rules/game-play described above.

3) I would appreciate and value your reviews. Thank you for reading!

~Jess