Disclaimer: Spooner doesn't own YGO, which applies to the rest of this series. Pray she doesn't get hold of it.

Full Warnings Set: Guns, angsty teenagers full of hormones are generally angsty, Yami Marik is a warning all on his own, AU, general creepiness, semi-crackfic, violence and some blood in later chapters.

No shippings were written in this fic, however it may be possible to pretend that Angstshipping is happening in there, if you so wish.

Reviews: Non-concrit is much loved. Concrit is even more loved. Flaming is not considered useful, as the author is a perfectionist, who mentally beats herself up about ninety times a day. Non-users are encouraged to review, as no account is needed to do that.

Our Man In Japan

'Dont neglect the elucidation of indication. Repeat the procedure let you are craftiness. If at any time your helicopter fly too tip or you become disoriented, quickly let throttle to low. Crashing straight down will damage helicopter.'

–Found in the English instructions of a Japanese–built remote control helicopter. This mysterious piece is believed to be written in a secret code, the cipher for which has so far eluded cryptologists.


The passenger plane came in for a bumpy landing, sparks flying as it hurtled across the tarmac. An American flag of gargantuan size flew proudly across the plane's livery, narrowly missing the Statue of Liberty in its crusade of patriotic fervor. To the right of the flag, an enormous bird of prey aimed its flight path to move to a point just ahead of the plane, the nose of the craft painted a beakish yellow to aid this impression. There was no need for a country name – the whole thing was so very patriotic that one could almost hear the Star Spangled Banner playing in the distance, even without the knowledge that every stewardess and pilot of this airline wore an bandanna emblazoned with the American flag, or that the sandwiches had the stars and strips gracing their tiny cardboard flags.

Doors clicked open, pneumatic valves hissing soft undertones, andhumans spilled out of the craft – mewling children and growling businessmen, a jet–lagged school group losing some of its members to a similar, hyperactive group – in other words, the usual crowd. Since it was New Years Day, there were repentant holidayers, too – most being young couples, intending to reconcile, and currently in the process of having (presumably very reconciling) arguments over how clearly the other person in the relationship should have been handling the planning of this, and why didn't they have a map, and I thought you could speak Japanese beyond saying hello, well I thought you could, so on and so forth.

It had not been a very pleasant flight.

A young man of perhaps seventeen trotted somewhere in the centre of the arguments and the general chaos, white hair flowing down his back to clash with the fire–red Hawaiian shirt, a suitcase in one hand. He looked about himself – then took a single step backwards, easily disguising the stagger. Paused to inspect his left shoulder, one eyebrow arching at the sight of the sudden dark stain forming. Brown eyes flickered a moment towards the air traffic control tower, and a corner of the young man's lip twitched in a smile. Then, he simply bent down as though tying a shoelace, melting away into the crowd as quickly as he had appeared.

A few minutes later, a young man of perhaps seventeen (pale locks barely visible under the baseball cap, most of his form shielded by a large black trenchcoat, sunglasses) hailed a taxi, settled in the backseat, and proceeded to inform the driver of his desired destination. The driver, being a cautious man, held a hand out behind him for the fee; with a growl of annoyance, the young man pressed American dollar bills into the expectant palm (skin tanned a dark brown, wrinkled and calloused with overuse).

"Now, get going!", the pale teen snapped, his Japanese faintly accented with an American lilt. "I am in a great hurry! I have no time to waste in this airport!"

The hand retreated, notes rolled delicately between the older man's fingers for a long moment. The young man narrowed brown eyes at the back of the headrest. "When do you plan on leaving?"

"One moment, please. I have business matters to attend to... I am sure you understand..." The driver fiddled with his hands–free set, punched in directions on the taxi's inbuilt GPS. The young man fidgeted, yet watched these actions carefully.

After a while, their eyes met in the rear-vision mirror.

"Part of my business is to inform you of my name. I am Rishid."

The pale teen stiffened, eyes widening - Rishid was his target's right-hand henchman -

Without further ado, the driver turned around and shot him. This closed business matters for the day, leaving him available to return to his request. He regarded the dying man a moment, then undid his seatbelt, pushed him to the floor of the vehicle.

"I am sorry for any inconvenience my delay may have caused you..."

And so, exactly as earlier commanded, the taxi drove to its requested destination, pausing a moment in front of the hotel.

Then, it continued on its way.


Ryou Bakura sat upon a king size bed, a large and partially unpacked suitcase on the floor beside him, gazing accusingly at the lavish hotel suite that had recently come into his possession. He certainly hadn't expected such a sudden upgrade on arriving at the place on New Year's Day, but wasn't exactly about to complain. Money saved was money earned, after all.

No – the problem with this arrangement, the teen decided, brushing white locks from his brown eyes, was the notes. They seemed to follow him in a never–ending stream; a little film canister in his desk, a tiny CD pressed into his palm when he was buying lunch from the school canteen, a scroll of paper disguised as a cigarette lying on the dressing table when he got home from school. The things were cryptic – notes asking for updates on 'our man', tiny photos showing a wide variety of things, including a blurred card (the word 'WINGEDRA' just barely visible), a circuit diagram, and mysterious pieces of computer code.

Now, he knew that the CIA's seal was no laughing matter. He knew that it had to be a mistake – Ryou was no spy. And he knew from reading far too much spy fiction that people who did that sort of thing generally got themselves killed – he had no interest in impersonating whoever was supposed to be living in this room. So, he did the sensible thing: He ignored the notes.

However, the notes did not ignore him. One day, whilst walking home from school to play a RPG with himself, he found a photo in his jacket pocket, a glossy picture of several black hieroglyphics on a brown background, a blurred yellow card next to it (Ryou could just make out the word WIN, and then something something DR something RA) – and two phrases scrawled on the back of it:

One was 'Pay rise: $50,000 per piece of information.'

And the other was 'Photograph targets'.


"Guys, could I see your decks?"

The card in the picture was definitely a trading card from a much loved game – if Ryou could get a picture of one of the copies he was sure one of them had to have, it would likely satisfy the CIA, maybe even help them. It'd certainly help him financially – all he had to do was get a picture of a trading card, and he'd be fifty thousand richer.

Now, the only question left was: How much embarrassment will I put myself through for fifty thousand dollars?

Eyebrows raised all around the room, one of the gamers (a brunette, never smiling) actually standing from the table, striding past Ryou with a sound of unconcealed disdain. Someone coughed nervously, someone else finally speaking. "That... that would reveal our strategies, wouldn't it?"

Through eyes half–lidded with fear, the pale teen just barely recognized the speaker. That was Yugi Moto, leader of the Games Club, the teenager whose word counted as spoken law when it came to card games.

The blonde next to him – the Vice President, Ryou assumed – shot his superior a look. "You can watch us play, if you like. You'd get to see all our cards, that way."

"No. I... I really don't have time, and you guys change your decks all the time. I... I just wanted to see your rare cards, but–"

"Rare cards?"

Ryou went to consult his shoes, head hanging – and suddenly jerked his neck back up, recognizing that voice. That was the only person who'd ever tried to be friendly to him at this school, the only person who'd ever stood up for him, tossed Ryou's busy–parent background aside, the one person who'd ever said hello or smiled or done partner activities with him. Maybe Marik Ishtar was more of an acquaintance by definition, but he was the only person the white haired teen could ever call a friend at this point in his life. And so, Marik was his friend.

Ryou watched in admiration, as the Egyptian smiled charmingly at each of his fellow club members - he didn't know how Marik could do that. "Rare cards are kinda cool. And he's right, we'll never get to see everyone else's rare cards if we keep changing our decks..."

And when Yugi gave a slight nod, and the others all began sorting out their rare cards onto the desks, the pale teen could have sworn that Marik's eyes were alight with a strange sort of greed – no, Marik was generous, not greedy!

"Come over here!", his friend was calling out to him, and Ryou went, Marik proudly flashing a half–dozen rare cards in his face on arrival. "Check these out!"

And another card - a yellow piece of cardboard, gold lettering - fell onto the desk.

'The Winged Dragon of Ra', the title read, and Ryou shuddered. This was without a doubt, the card the CIA wanted to see.

"What's that?"

Marik looked up at the pale teen, a horrible maliciousness in his eyes as he snatched the card back – no, Marik was ever so gentle, he'd never do that!

"What do I have to give you to make sure that you don't say a freaking word to anyone about this?" He was cracking his knuckles, glaring, and Ryou shivered.

Fifty thousand dollars.

Mustn't forget the fifty thousand dollars.

"...Uh... A photo?"

Huffing angrily, Marik slapped the card down on the desk – and as soon as the camera clicked, he pounced back on it, slipping the thing into his jacket pocket. "Right, now..."

And his face broke out into a winning smile. "Have you seen Joey's Super Rare foil Red Eyes Black Dragon? It's the best!" He grabbed Ryou's hand, taking him over to the Vice President, introducing them to each other.

And the immense feeling of acceptance Ryou received made him wipe his thoughts clean, as white and blank as Marik's teeth. There was no harm in the Egyptian at all, what had he been thinking?

So, he looked over the cards, and he went home, and sent his picture in, even if he couldn't quite forget what he'd been through to get it. Interestingly, the card now displayed hieroglyphs under the light of the camera flash; hieroglyphs which weren't there before...


"Marik, could you take off your shirt for me?"

The unusual request made more sense in context, of course – the pale boy had recognized the hieroglyphics on the pictures as being similar to the ones he'd glimpsed in the changerooms, the ones carved into the skin of Marik's tanned back. All he had to do was get a picture of them for the CIA. He'd be a hundred thousand richer, and they'd be none the wiser.

The Egyptian whirled, purple eyes blazing. "And what reason do you have for– oh, it's you." Marik's gaze softened almost immediately. "Why d'ya want me to take my shirt off?"

The pale teen forced a smile, holding up the camera. "Erm... It's for a school project?"

The Egyptian's smile didn't falter per se; it simply stagnated into something fake and plastic, a nasty glint appearing in his eyes. "I am in all your classes. There is no project." His voice dropped low, eyes narrowing. "Are you hitting on me, Ryou?"

The pale teen blanched even whiter – he'd managed to forget about his reputation for being attracted to males (which he had originally fabricated in order to lose his overly clingy fangirls) in his haste. Admitting such a thing to Marik would likely get him thumped, but not admitting it could make him seem suspicious.

The Egyptian raised an eyebrow, watching the pale teen struggle with coming to a decision. "Well? Or, perhaps..." He took a brisk step towards the other teenager, his voice a malicious hiss. "Maybe you're spying on me, little one..."

Ryou swallowed hard. "Um, um – I mean I didn't really want to ask anyway, but, but, but–"

Marik's face broke into a wide grin, the teenager slowly backing Ryou down the empty corridor. "But what?"

He couldn't let the Egyptian know that he was a spy; however bad the consequences of lying to him would be. They were nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to what the CIA could do to Ryou if his cover was blown. A thousand stories of spies who had put their target on alert whirled through his mind, Marik was his target...

And Marik wasn't right in the head. Marik was advancing on him, Marik grinning dopily as though he'd gone on drugs, Marik–

"But– but I know that you're straight, and it's probably a crush, so I was wondering if maybe a photo…"

He trailed off, ashamed of his own lie, unable to continue saying it. Marik looked down at him, eyes full of paranoia, eyes full of silent accusing–

Ryou practically heard the click of some switch deep inside the Egyptian, as his demeanour abruptly changed; now he was Marik Ishtar once again, a polite, unassuming young man who was ever so calm, the link between Ryou and the other gamers in his school. Marik the generous, Marik the gentle, Marik whose laughter was utterly infectious, Marik the only person in the whole school who would accept the pale teen. "Well, if that's all..."

Calmly removing his shirt, he turned to allow his friend a look at the tattoos on his back.


Ryou Bakura sat on the bed, now a hundred thousand dollars richer. The CIA were pleased with the photos he had taken of Marik, there was no doubt about that, but...

They had ruined everything for him. If he hadn't tried to take those photos, he wouldn't have seen the ugliness that resided inside his classmate, who was all smiles, so friendly to him – so damn fake! It had likely been one big act before he'd tried to get those pictures, sure, but he hadn't been aware of that before the incident. Now he felt sick when he saw that little flash of white teeth from across the classroom, not reassured.

And he had new orders: Spy on that man. He is your chief priority.

He couldn't believe it. It had to be another case of mistaken identity – because Marik couldn't possibly be the mysterious hacker Mariku, leader of the Rare Hunters. Mariku was the man the CIA was trying to hunt down due to his threatened hacking of the WINGEDRA American nuclear missile, the man who claimed to have a keycard of some sort, a keycard that would put an almighty weapons system at his disposal. The system itself had a password written in a dead language, so that no-one short of a genius could decode it. And Marik... Marik was just a school student, a nice guy, who smiled at Ryou a bit and played card ga-

Cards.

Keycard.

The Winged Dragon of Ra.

The hieroglyphs under the camera flash.

It all made horrible sense, it all clicked into place, and yet... It just couldn't be right, Ryou refused to believe it! Marik was his friend, the only friend he'd had at any school, he was so kind, he was...

...an internationally renowned psychopath...

...no, that was Mariku - that was only Marik, if Marik became a raving lunatic, stuck his fingers in a power socket, if Marik wielded an AK 47...

...and maybe he did, when Ryou wasn't looking.


It didn't matter how many sick days he had; Marik caught him after only three.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A little puzzled, Ryou opened the door, then immediately attempted to close it in the Egyptian's face. "Um–"

A sneaker went into the gap between the door and the face, Marik's concerned expression making his stomach flip–flop.

"I heard you were sick, and you seemed really interested in the cards the other day. So, I was wondering if you'd like to have a game of cards."

There was nothing he could do to remove the sneaker, nothing he could do but let Marik in. The Egyptian was more than happy to kick off his shoes, all sweetness and innocence. "I had some spare cards, so I made you a deck."

He was so nice.

Ryou's stomach did a flip-flop, and he braced himself against the wooden bedpost.

"Marik, I... I don't want to play, okay?" He turned away, head bowed. "Please, just leave me alone."

There was a long silence.

And then, a snicker.

"I never asked if you wanted to play, little spy."

Ryou turned, to find Mariku standing right there in the doorway, hair fluffed out in all directions, an AK–47 in his hands.

"I think...", he whispered, madness in his eyes as he crept into the room, "...that you broke the rules."

The pale boy stood frozen before him, as a rabbit does when it sees the ute bearing down on it, a single thought going through his mind. "You're... you're... not Marik."

"Penalty Game."

And there was a sick smile, and the barrel raised and the hammer clicked and all the pale teen could think about was how he wasn't Marik, best friends didn't kill each other, no, no, no–

BANG.

And Ryou's world exploded.


UAB (Unneccessary Author's Babble)

That quote at the start? I have that remote control helicopter manual lying right next to me; I didn't make the text up.

This first chapter was written as an art trade for Creamyfur on dA. Prompt was to write a Crack/Horror or Crack/Adventure hybrid featuring Ryou, no shipping allowed. Choosing Crack/Horror, I decided to make the thing start off detached and crackish, and slowly devolve into something more disturbing. Unfortunately, my muse got away from me somewhere around the turning point where Ryou began to get Marik-related pictures... and the next thing I knew, I was writing a piece that really is rather angsty. I had to swap categories a few times because of that, and I'm still not sure if it's in the right place (feel free to let me know on that count).

I have plans to continue this piece, however any continuation is a non-trade.