Pinchers and Manacles

Part One: Pinchers

Tags: AE, what-if, childhood, TKB, Kisara.

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"Come, Bakura." He did, and as soon as he was within his mother's reach, she snatched his wrist. He knew that she wouldn't easily let go of him this time. They were heading for the market, and it was going to be packed today because the nomad merchants were here. They didn't sound like fun, but it perhaps he could get a dagger from them without his mother knowing, so the temporary boredom might be worth it.

The crowd swelled and stalled in the city center. Most mothers hadn't taken their younger children along. Some had taken their eldest daughters with them. But in Bakura's mind, if girls were boring to start with, the problem only worsened as they grew older. His mother engaged in small talk with a cousin. But our hero was biding his time, was plotting his escape in silence, playing innocently with the sand between his toes.

As soon as they got to the potter's stand, he tipped over a clay pot over. His mother automatically let go of his hand put the pot back in place. Bakura expertly vanished in the sea of robes she could turn around and call his name.

He was free!

The walking people sold all kinds of weird things. Some families sold draperies and baskets. - (boring). Others sold knives and little axes (cool). Soon he had pretty much seen everything that was on sale, avoiding freedom-threatening questions such as 'where is your mother' on the way.

He set off for the outskirts of the town, where he knew the foreigners were camping. There, he would find camels to tease, vacant tents to 'inspect' and few people to prevent him from doing so besides sleepy old people and little children. Clearly this was going to be much more interesting than the market. He grinned in anticipation.

So he approached the first tent, careful not to let his shadow roam across its walls. He took a deep breath and casually peered inside. It was dark and smelly. Everything he put his hands on was dull, like worn out wooden spoons and beige veils that had holes in of the other tents were the same. Some had old people sleeping inside. He chose not to bother them.

Bakura tiptoed past another tent with laughing and shrieking girls in it, talking in unnaturally high pitched voices. Playing with dolls. He winced. Little girls could be merciless. They had to be avoided at all costs.

His list of further discoveries included a few shiny rocks to add to his collection, a sleepy old woman who offered him sweets in a language that he could not understand. Finally he found what he'd been looking for, hidden inside a sack of thick knotted ropes: a dagger. Not only was the blade sharp, unlike the dull ceremonial ones, but it had a nicely crafted handle. From now on, it belonged in his pocket.

This last acquisition concluded his mission to get to know the walking people. Plus, he didn't want to push his luck too much and get caught. It was now time to 'play' with their camels.

They were sleeping in the sun many steps away from the tents. Bakura watched the camels breathing slowly, eyes closed, their long necks extended on the sand. He glanced around quickly to make sure he was alone, then crouched next to gruffest one. He was bringing the tip of his new dagger towards the camel's ribs when he felt a slight tickling sensation, maybe an itch, on his ankle. He struggled not to scratch it, willing to pour all his concentration on his refined act of mischief.

"Don't even think about it."

The clear voice behind him couldn't have belonged to a girl much older but he was, but Bakura was so surprised he couldn't move. He saw her shadow crawl upwards and onto the camel's side. He ignored her when she crouched down behind him for a few seconds. She said nothing more, but blew on his foot, stood up, and left.

Bakura blinked, swiftly he got on his feet and spun around. "Hey," he called to her with the most serious tone he could muster. But she didn't stop, turn around or even flinch. "Hey," he tried again. She still didn't react, striding towards her tent as if nothing happened.

Her thin calves were whiter than the sand, and she was a bit taller than he was. Maybe older, too. Other than that, her clothes were rather plain except for what she wore on her head. She was holding something in her hand, but he couldn't see what exactly.

Whatever it was, she couldn't get away with bossing him around and leave just like that. She entered her tent without once turning back to see him.

He followed her her and stood defiantly in front of the north-facing, shadowed side of the tent, arms akimbo. He heard some dry, scuttling sounds, and when he gently lifted a flap of the beige fabric, just to make out the words she was saying softly, she spoke up.

"You should come in. It's cooler inside."

He dropped the flap. "No."

"Hm." Meaning, 'suit yourself'.

A second later, Bakura barged in the tent with loud thumping steps. An intrusive breeze gust in behind him and nuzzled at the faint little curls on her nape which peeked out from under her turban. It was pale like salt crystals. The girl was sitting on her feet, muttering to herself. He stomped again to get her attention.

"Don't do that, it scares them." She still didn't turn to look at him, engrossed in the contents of a deep, wide basket. There wasn't much else in the tent besides a pile of neatly folded, but not so clean, fabric. It was so small it could barely fit two people sitting, and only one sleeping.

"Scare who?"

"Them." She turned and pointed to the basket she was digging in. He drew near and sat crossed-legged next to her, stretching his neck to see what was inside.

Scorpions. Her basket was full of scorpions.

Real, live ones, too. Hairy, slimy, brown, white, black ones. Bakura's eyes widened to the size of wooden coins; he held his breath. She was tugging playfully at their little arms, almost petting their backs. Okay, that was kind of a cool thing to do. For a girl.

"They're just scorpions," was all he managed to growl.

"Oh yeah?" Without hesitation, she dipped her frail hand in the sea of scorpions and grabbed the smallest one of them by the tail, bringing it up to Bakura's face. It was easy for him to examine it, hanging - not limply, but calmly - from her nimble fingers. Not a kind he'd already seen around here.

His focus shifted to the girl's face. She had striking eyes, deep blue like an oasis in the middle of the day. He'd never seen anything like it. "She was beside your foot," she said matter of factly. Her eyes were really, really blue. It was a pretty blue.

He forced his stare back to the wriggling creature, wincing. "It's just a small one."

Without warning, she brought her ugly friend even closer to Bakura, who jerked his head back instinctively. The thing now seemed to writhe in pain, its tiny legs rubbing one another anxiously.

"Yeah, but like I said, it's just a small one," he deadpanned, unblinking. Was she going to hold the thing in his face forever or what?

"You see its little hands?"

"Pinchers," he corrected. "Yeah, I can. They're super small. The smallest in the world."

She smiled in triumph. "That's why she needs to have super strong poison. Because she can't kill with just her pinchers."

Bakura broke into a cold sweat. The scorpion was withdrawn from his field of vision as she let it back in the basket with a gentle plop. "I'm sorry," she said softly, still indulging in the habit she had of not looking at people when she addressed them.

He realized that she wasn't talking to him just as he was opening his mouth to tell her that he wasn't afraid. "I knew that," he said coolly. To himself.

She chuckled.

What was so funny?

In a little bag tucked in a corner of the tent, she grabbed a handful of crickets and tossed them to the scorpions. Inert, the insects rolled down the gentle slope of the basket for the scorpions to feast on. The big ones pried them between their thick pincers while the smaller ones plucked the limbs off, scurrying away with their parts. It was cool to watch.

"You can't keep that," she added matter-of-factly.

"Can't keep what," he replied in the smoothest tone he could manage. Why did he want to justify himself? The dagger obviously wasn't hers. And she was just a child; she couldn't tell him what to do.

Okay, she was a child making friends with scorpions. But still.

"This." She pointed at the lump concealed in his pocket. "You should give it back."

"I found it first. It's mine," he cut defensively.

"Hm," she shrugged as she gently pulled apart two meddling scorpions. A big, black, hairy one and the small blue, grayish one from earlier. How the small one thought it had a chance of winning in the first place was beyond Bakura.

"Okay, I'll give it back if you do something," he dared, placing the 'borrowed' item on the ground between himself and the girl. She gave it a food look.

"Do something like what?"

Bakura rested his chin on his fist theatrically, trying to come up with a good dare. At that moment, the flap of the tent flew open, sunlight pouring in and hurting his eyes. The little fellows in the basket stopped moving.

"There you are!" Bakura couldn't completely register what was happening before he was yanked by the arm by his mother and hurled out of the tent and dragged back to the city. Deaf to her angry lecture, he glued his eyes to the small tent beside the camels.

There was an old man standing next to it, evidently berating the girl like she had done something bad. He saw her handing him the dagger, her covered head hanging low. Then they reached the city buildings, his mother turned around a corner, and Bakura couldn't see the girl anymore. He didn't even know her name.

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fin

for now

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A/N

This plunny was brought to you by a certain LJ meme. NuitSongeur, fanfiction writer and polarshipper extraordinaire, had requested an outcastshipping drabble.

'Manacles', another short piece linked to this one which is also a drabble request (from sefina), will be released sometime in April as the second chapter of this story. It will feature ambitious!female!Priest Seth and a grown up, worn out Kisara.

Special thanks to safa'at keruth and Always a Bookworm for their wholesome beta reading.

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