A/N: This fic is kinda a mix between 'Mental Stimulation' and 'Mou Hitori no Boku' so if you liked either or both of those fics then you'll probably like this. If you haven't read any of my previous fics it doesn't matter, as this isn't a sequel or anything.
I'm posting this as a two-part fic, because it's about eleven hand-written pages and as I'm officially grounded from the computer I just have to sneak on and type it up whenever I can. If I posted this as a one-shot it wouldn't be up for weeks.
Warnings: occasional bad language
Disclaimer: in another world, Malik would be mine.
………………..
Weakness
Taken by surprise, the woman didn't even have time to scream. The perfectly timed kick knocked her to the ground, face shoved into dirt. Long dark hands slipped almost lazily around her neck, fingers going instantly to the pressure point under the ear. Then, with a giggle, the fingers twisted sideways. There was a sickening crack, barely audible, and her head lolled sideways.
He stood up carefully, surveying the lifeless bundle in satisfaction. Pleasure bubble through his body, bringing with it a feeling of light-headedness, and another giggle popped out. So weak…it was almost as if she wanted to die.
If left to itself, the body would soon begin to stiffen, limbs and muscles contorting into rigor mortis. But he didn't intend to leave the evidence lying around for anyone to find. Pulling a gold-coloured object from his jeans, he pointed it at the body. The language flowing easily from his mouth, he whispered Arabic softly to the air. The corpse shivered in reply, and something faint and shadowy wisped up from it. More Arabic, even softer, and purple-black flames engulfed the body, feeding on the now soul-less form. The awful smell of burning meat filled the air; he breathed it in and smiled again.
Then it was over – a few black ashes all that remained. She wouldn't be missed for days, perhaps weeks, they never were. And even then it wouldn't be taken too seriously. Cairo was overpopulated anyway, and a few dozen people more or less wouldn't make much difference. He ground the cinders into the earth with his foot, pushing them down and down. The gold object was replaced in his pocket, fingers lightly caressing the smooth surface. A quick glance to check that nothing remained, then he was gone, as silently as he had come, slipping back into the shadows that encircled the park.
………..
Yami Malik opened his purple eyes slowly, still laughing quietly at the memory at memory of last night's kill. It had been quick, and therefore disappointing, at least by his standards. So much better if they screamed…
But that would attract attention, which he didn't want. Perhaps he could work out some sort of compromise. Allowing the person one last, lost shriek would make him feel better, but it was too noisy. He still hadn't quite perfected his technique, he though regretfully. Never mind. All he needed was practice.
In the back of his head he felt another presence stir, awakening sluggishly. The spirit grinned fiendishly. Ah ha, something helpless for him to torment. He gave the other, lighter half of himself a mental poke, and felt him pull away.
Disorientated, pulling himself out of the folds of sleep, the hikari mumbled, (R-Rishid?)
Yami Malik felt a flicker of annoyance at that name, but still he smirked and said, ((No. Guess again.))
(You…) Malik was awake now.
((That's right. You are a clever little weakling. Did the clever little weakling sleep well?)) His yami's tone was mocking, a sneer plastered on his face.
Malik ignored the question, instead asking one of his own. ((How…how many this time?))
((Eight,)) the spirit lied coolly.
Malik groaned, and with an effort staggered out of bed. He didn't bother asking "Why?" – he already knew. Though it didn't make the guilt any easier to bear. He rubbed the sleep absently from his eyes, and it was accompanied as always by the familiar clatter, as his chains moved against each other. They ran like snakes from the bed to the manacles around his wrists and ankles, preventing him from taking more than thirteen steps towards the door of his soul room. Thirteen steps, forwards or sideways. For some people, thirteen is a lucky number. To Malik it was the worst number of all, the one that brought to his mind, no matter what, the idea of restraints and imprisonment.
((I was only joking. You really are gullible, weakling. It was only one.))
(Only…) Before, Malik wouldn't have celebrate the loss of 'only' one life, but now the only thing that mattered was that one was less than eight. A lot less.
Feeling his mental self convulse, limbs shaking involuntarily, he leaned against the wall. Like his other, he was also feeling light-headed, but for a different reason.
(Yami…)
((What are you whinging about now?))
(Please…I just want food…I need it…I'm so hungry…)
((Oh? So you want food now? WellI want you to SHUT UP!)) his other self roared. ((You asked me that yesterday! I don't want a weak little brat like you whining all the time! It gets annoying!))
In the beginning, this sudden change of mood alone would have caused Malik to shut up, but he had become used to his yami's mood swings. Besides, he was a lot more desperate than he had been before.
Unlike Yami Bakura at his worst, Yami Malik didn't care in the least what sort of condition his weaker half's body was in. Long nights of running all over Cairo and killing everyone he could find were beginning to take their toll on Malik's body. It didn't help at all that Yami Malik, being a spirit, never bothered to feed his light's body or let it sleep, being of the opinion that if he didn't need food or sleep, then his light's body didn't either. He did drink occasionally, just about enough to keep the body alive, but it was always his light, trapped helplessly in his soul room, who was on the receiving end of the hunger pangs.
Malik could and would fall asleep on his soul room, but his body was always active. The weariness he always felt was getting harder to fight, as he was constantly physically exhausted.
The spirit thought slowly, weighing the pros and cons on the situation in his unstable mind. On one hand, he didn't particularly care what happened to his light. Let him suffer. On the other hand, the fact remained that Yami Malik needed his hikari's body. He wasn't totally sure whether he needed his actual hikari or not, but for now was content to leave him ensnared in his soul room.
Still thinking, the spirit withdrew into their head, standing between their two soul rooms. A long time ago, when Rishid had been with them at every moment, Yami Malik's soul room had had bars on it, symbolising the prison that was his mind. Now it was his hikari's room that was the prison.
Not that Rishid was dead, of course, It would have been easier for Yami Malik if he was. With Rishid out of the way he could reach their sister. The spirit knew that once Isis was dead, his hikari would, effectively, cease to be a problem. Even better, perhaps he would be driven mad with grief. Yes, let him be the crazy one for a change.
He stopped, suddenly. I'm not crazy…
Who are you trying to fool? You're insane, a psychopath.
Kill, kill, kill…
I'm not crazy…
You know you want to…
Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness. Madness MADNESS MADNESS…
I'm not crazy…
He growled and shook his head, sending the dark voices skittering away. Yami Malik was perfectly aware that many people, including his hikari, the Pharaoh and the Tomb Robber, thought he was insane. He himself found this term irritating. Just because he was different from them, it made them feel better to go ahead and call him crazy.
Angrier than he thought he was, the spirit stormed moodily up to his light's soul room, opening it with a well-placed kick.
Malik looked up dully, as if expecting him. Many years ago
Like the naïve little fool I was…
No, I'm not a fool…
he had thought that the only person who could go into a soul room was yourself. Somehow, his yami had managed to overcome this last barrier, destroying the last vestige of privacy his light had been granted. Malik hated this the most out of all the things his other did, because when he came in, it was as if he were trespassing in somewhere private, the most private place of all…
A soul room contained all your innermost thoughts and dreams, all the little things that made a person individual. Even the objects in there reflected your personality. It was the last place you wanted your worst enemy to be.
He watched nervously as his yami looked him up and down, eyes slightly narrowed. Malik had no idea what his other was thinking - he never did. Yami Malik, on the other hand, knew exactly what his light was thinking. Especially now, when he was in his soul room. Bringing out the Millennium Rod, he held it lazily in one hand, watching with glee as his hikari twitched, his expression to one of barely restrained longing. Despite what he had always maintained, Malik had actually been quite fond of the Rod.
((Just look at you. You're so weak.)) Yami Malik's face curled into an expression of disgust as he surveyed his light's slender frame, which was almost emaciated from starvation. After a moment he said softly, ((So, you want food. Are you sure?))
Malik was uncertain whether this was leading to another hysterical outburst, as the soft, controlled tone was uncharacteristic of his yami, but he nodded all the same. (Y-yes. Please.) It shamed him to beg, but he was desperate he was beyond caring.
((Very well.)) Yami Malik continued to speak using that calm, almost understanding tone. His light was to learn as the years went by that this usually led up to the worst happenings of all.
((You shall have your food. And your body will live to see another day.))
(Thank you…)
The spirit focused their eyes upon a small child, no more than three years old, walking down the street while holding his mother's hand tightly. ((But his will not.))
Bafflement. Then disbelief, and growing horror. (No…)
((Neither will hers.)) His yami mentally indicated the mother. Then he pointed out several others, all young children, all happy. All alive. ((In return for your food, all of these little children will die tonight. How do you feel about that?))
(No!) Malik cried. (You can't do that!)
((Who are you to tell me what I can or can't do? You've made your choice.))
(But-)
((One more word and I'll double it. How many people do you want to die tonight, weakling? Ten? Twenty?))
(You…you wouldn't…)
((Don't make me laugh. You know I would.))
(No-)
((I've already told you to be quiet. Do you need another reminder?)) The manacles around Malik's wrists became painfully tight, digging into his dark skin. He shut up instantly, biting his lip to prevent himself from crying out.
When the chains relaxed and the pain subsided, he hesitated, then carefully rubbed his chafed wrists to get the blood flowing again. Not that he could feel it. The only sensation Malik ever felt in his soul room was pain, mixed with varying moments of reprieve, when the numbness took over.
He looked up timidly, half cringing, but al he saw was his yami staring impassively back, eyes blank and expressionless. For a strange second he sensed that his other half was disappointed in him, as if he had failed some kind of easy test. But then the spirit shrugged, and with a small sigh turned away, fading into the higher parts of Malik's mind and taking control of their body.
Yami Malik couldn't really put his feelings into words, but he felt almost let down by his light. Yes, he was weak, but it would have been nice if he'd shown a bit of spirit, instead of cowering and whining like a baby. And such a fuss over such little pain. It had hardly hurt at all.
……….
He wandered down the almost-deserted streets for a bit, looking for a café or newsagents that would serve his purpose. There were virtually no people about, as Egypt got so hot during the day that nearly everyone stayed inside. There weren't many shops open, either.
When he eventually found a suitable one, the spirit went in and bought a sandwich, then headed to the local park, where he could be sure of some peace and quiet. The presence of other people only pleased him if they were dead – alive, they just annoyed him.
He had toyed briefly with the idea of buying a meat sandwich, to agonise his hikari further, but decided against it. Malik had always been a strict vegetarian, as he abhorred the thought of eating something that had once been alive. Personally, Yami Malik couldn't see what his problem was. However, if he bought something with meat in there was always the possibility that Malik would refuse to eat it, no matter how hungry he was. That would cause more problems, which the spirit wasn't in the mood for.
Slouching lazily across a bench, he reached into the lower aspects of his mind and tugged roughly at his light, saying impatiently, ((You want this or not? Because I don't.))
(Wha-what?) Malik looked down in disbelief as the fetters opened up, chains falling away to vanish into nothing. For several seconds he stood there, hardly able to comprehend what was going on. Then, a low growl from his other reminded him of the situation and, taking a deep breath, his whole body tensed, he stepped hesitatingly towards the door of his soul room.
………
When Malik opened his eyes again, it was with a feeling that he had just stepped out of a dream. Lush, dewy grass beneath his feet, the wooden bench beneath him, reassuringly solid…he blinked several times, the glare of the hot Egyptian sun fierce and unforgiving after the semi-darkness of his soul room. It was the first time he had been out of his soul room in a month.
((Yes, this is the world,)) came the sarcastic, cutting tone of his dark. ((Wonderful place, isn't it? Now hurry up and eat. You're annoying me.))
Malik looked up to see his other half standing in front of him, a pale, shadowy figure. When he reverted to his spirit form, shunning his body completely, Malik was the only one who could see him. To the causal passer-by, there was no one there.
(Sorry,) he mumbled. Shifting his position a little, he ran his fingers down the jewellery on his arms, delighting in the feeling of actually feeling something. The metal was cool to the touch – smooth too, except for the ridges where the bands were. Lowering his gaze, he stared slowly at his arms, which were pitted with long, deep scars. One common trait of manic-depressives was that when they sank into a particularly depressive mood they took it out on themselves, usually by cutting or burning. Now that Yami Malik had virtually unlimited victims he cut himself much less often, but there would still be times where he extended the blade of the Millennium Rod and sank it into his wrists, his eyes blank and empty.
Malik sighed, pulling his eyes away with difficulty. He had seen them many times before – his yami often made him watch – but the scars still held for him a morbid, yet almost guilty fascination. Sometimes when he was depressed, his yami could be almost 'normal.' But usually, when his melancholy was so great that he could think of nothing else, that was when Yami Malik was at his worst. For when he felt psychotic he could go out and kill someone, to give himself that addictive high, but at least he took reasonable precautions to ensure his light's body didn't get too hurt in the process. When he was depressed though, so convinced was he that he was going to simply fall apart, he would think yet again that as he was doomed, he may as well take as many people as possible with him, without caring in the least what happened to Malik's body.
Malik knew it was stupid, but he couldn't help wondering how the rest of his body looked. He hadn't washed for weeks, and he knew he probably smelled like total shit. The sudden realisation came that he wasn't wearing any eyeliner, and he felt strangely self-conscious. The emotion felt so unfamiliar, so out of place, that he nearly laughed. Ra, but he would have traded his lung for an eyeliner pencil.
The constant impatient tapping of his yami's foot jolted Malik unpleasantly out of his daydream. He suddenly remembered his hunger, and at the same time the sandwich, still in his pocket.
Scrabbling clumsily in his jeans, he retrieved the food and pulled it out of the plastic packaging with fumbling fingers. Normally he wasn't so inelegant, but he was so unused to being out of his soul room that it was as if he had to relearn how to use his body. His yami watched him with a kind of weary patience.
Malik ate the food as slowly as he dared; although his gaze was focused downwards he could still feel the eyes of his other upon him. Malik's left hand was by his side; for a second he felt the knobbly bulge of the Millennium Rod in his pocket and a powerful temptation stole over him. He was in control, he could run…
This thought amused Yami Malik and he made a sound that was halfway between a giggle and a disbelieving snort. ((Go on then, weakling. Go ahead and run. But no matter how far you go, it'll never be far enough to get away from me.))
His light didn't answer, and Yami Malik's eyes narrowed dangerously. If the weakling thought he could get away with ignoring him, it meant that he didn't fear him enough. And if he didn't fear him then he wouldn't obey him. In the spirit's mind it was as simple as that. He was about to come out with a crushingly sarcastic comment, when he heard his light mumble something, very quietly.
((What did you say?))
(…I…)
((Yes?))
(…I…I'm not weak…)
