Legal Bullshit: I don't own the characters associated with Yu-Gi-Oh; I am merely borrowing them for a short while. After reading this, you'll be happy that I don't. Besides, I have a simple reason for doing this: it is Morbid Tyriel's birthday today, and I wanted to give her a celebration in the only mannerism I know of; one that will not make me sound like a complete ass while doing it, much less looking like one. I also do not own Morbid Tyriel; she is the sole property of herself and you cannot claim her, and neither can I.
I am only good at creative things; I have never been extroverted enough as to go up to a person and greet them, even on the date celebrating their birth, hence the reason why I am doing this. And if you do not fancy my ways of writing or protraying things, then I strongly advise you to leave immediately; I am intolerable towards people and their outlandish bullshit when it dwindles down to what they think "might happen" or "might not happen".
Now, just because I am writing the things imputed in this one-shot does not mean I condole them, quite the contrary actually. I just happen to be very a disturbed-minded person and more often than not, it gets me into very hot water. Also, please be aware that should you flame me or tell me of something that "wouldn't happen", you are going to look like a fucking asshole and a retard. This is my one-shot, my interpretation of certain characters, not yours. You write what you are permitted to write and you think what you are allowed to think; do not tell me what is what and what is what, because this is this and that is that.
As of this moment, I do not know how many parts this will end up having, but it will not be many; and if you should be thinking along the lines of "Why?" at the moment, the reason is simple: what I generally write isn't suitable for younger audiences, hence the rating of this fic. Of course, the same could be said for those so-called (and possibly self-dubbed) 'mature' people.
General Warnings: NC-17, implied rape, implied sadism, implied masochism, BDSM, Humiliation, Tinkering With Corpses, Past Child Molestation, and your not-so-run-of-the-mill sadistic and screwed in the head Bakura, and his past self Touzoku-Ou.
'Ah! Listen to them, the children of the night! What music they make!'
Dracula, from Bram Stoker's novel DraculaA pair of beady black eyes watched with a bored, yet leering fascination as the new arrival to the county morgue was placed upon the pristine steel that was the examination table; tufts and curls of ashen-brown hair flopped and rained down in a lifeless pool of hair from underneath the strangely immaculate white sheet which covered the body, and a lone hand, white as the barest of bones that had been stripped of its meat, licked clean from the hackles of a dog fell out from underneath.
From behind his surgical mask, his thin, cracked, and desert-dry lips pursed to a frown; truthfully he had expected the clean sheet to be endowed with blotches of red that used to be rich, iron-sufficient blood running through the corpse's formerly living, breathing self, flowing through the circulatory system, like he had always seen countless times.
However... Something about this particular body that already radiated a mind-befuddling stench of death and decay didn't seem quite right; often would he stumble upon carcasses such as these, bodies that didn't sport so much as your ordinary bruise or abrasion, only to later determine that the cause of death had been cardiac arrest or gas asphxiation or something of the like, and he briefly wondered if such was the case for this one.
It was only due to the sudden thunder of running water pounding into one of the nearby sinks that snapped him out of his stupor, his thick brows pinching the bridge of his nose as he turned, shooting a reproachful glare at the person who was grinning a few feet away. "Quit fucking around and help me with this damned thing, you fool. I haven't all day to meander about this decripit place; unlike yourself, I have other things to attend to. Much more important than determining what ended the life of this pathetic human."
"Oh grow up, will you? It's not often we get one of these, you know. Besides, it's not like slicing open dead flesh and prying apart cold fingers are of any disconcertment to you; in fact, you seem to rather enjoy it if I do say so myself." The person, or rather she grinned, the curves of her cheeks lifting up as did the corners of her large, expressive red eyes, a devilish light gleaming sheepishly, almost child-like.
He shot her an odd look, wondering to himself how he had been so unfortunate as to get partnered up with such an irritating speicmen. Yes, a speicmen. That is what she was, that is what all women were to him. Just another annoyance added to his growing collection of what he truly disliked; he recalled, with certain distinction, a menandering smile crafting itself into his face, that one of his former co-workers called him a "misogymistic bastard with no self-morales", but things such as pointless bickering that he saw no point in partaking in was of little importance to him, if any.
"Well, let's get started, shall we?" she asked as he strode over to the sink, turning on the water and cleansing his hands, quickly snatching up a clipboard and shuffling to the pages until she abruptly stopped at one at the very back, carefully disgesting the small print before her sights, her eyes narrowing with every line she read. "...Am I reading this correctly?"
He barely held back a sigh, snapping his head up from the sink and sharply averting his hardened glower to her. "What?" he asked sharply, his hands still swishing this way and that, paying little mind that the shower raining down on his palms was stone cold; soon, despite his immunity to it, his fingers began to quiver violently, a sign that the veins in his body was already curling up so to preserve body heat.
The woman's surgical mask bulged for a split nanosecond; showing that she had puckered her lips in sheer confusion, her brow crinkled in self-doubt and disbelief. "The cause of death is listed as unknown."
"Is that all that troubles you? It is our obligation to find out what ended the life of this blasphemous thing, you imbecile. Honestly, are you so stupid as to not understand that?"
She snorted; a few brown loops of hair fell away from the mask as she threw him a highly dislikeable glare, at which it was returned to her. It was a well-known factoid at the hospital that the head surgeon and most talented postmortem examiner rarely got along with anyone who was assigned underneath him, if he ever did at all; even his highly qualified assistants didn't favor his company, his less than kind words, quick temper, and sharp tongue was far more dangerous than any tool he had secured on to his belt. "Tch... No need to be a prick about it."
He waved a gloved hand, effectively dismissing her like a person would a bothersome fly as he gathered together the tools necessary to perform the autopsy: scalpel, hacksaw, a few metallic basins, tweasers, and the like. He looked up just in time to see the incompetent female grip the white sheet tightly in her small hands, and drawing it away from the body; she barely managed to hold back a gasp, stricken with horror and regrettable awe.
"...She's beautiful, even if she is a corpse." she murmured, unconsciously raising one small, manicured hand and brushing her dainty little finger tips against one of the corpse's curved, and rounded cheeks.
The artifical operating lights shining overhead illuminated pale skin, glistened each and every stark white pore so that her surprisingly immaculate canvas appeared drastically dull, lifeless, accentuated only by comparsion of the milky whiteness of her eyes that stared ahead blandly; no longer beholding the flicker of life, no light of emotion shone within them. Only two likened seas of abysmal black shone tonelessly at them, flourishing in pink and black eye shadow around the edges, making her seem even more deceased in the physical sense; the mouth was still fixated into a smile that struck the two surgeons with a sense of odd familiarity, highlighted only by bright red lipstick.
The girl... No, the young woman had beatiful hair; smooth and lustred ashen-brown curls and tufts drooped down pathetically over broad, meaty shoulders, and yet the color of it was strange because it seemed to shift between brown, golden-blonde, red, and black at random intervals underneath the source of light radiating blinding light above, and it seemed to unknowningly flatter her clean and unmarred appearence; the woman's hard and yet brittle-looking, resistant framework that was hidden beneath layers of fat and muscle also seemed intricately designed.
Yet again something that appeared well-defined on her, possibly because of having worked on a farm or some country-esque outpost that wasn't anywhere near a highly populated area, say for her own town.
For a startingly moment, the woman had checked for a sign of life, taking the woman's small wrist and carefully, oh so carefully, pressed a finger to it, looking for a pulse; she had even put a mirror to the woman's grinning mouth to see if she was breathing; nothing. The woman wasn't bleeding nor gasping for air, how could she be? The reports from the higher-ups specifically indicated that her heart had stopped beating well over twenty-four hours ago.
What the two medical examiners had before them, sprawled penetegram-style on the cold steel table with the legs propped up on the hexagonal-shaped slab of metal near the middle of it, was a corpse. A corpse that faced their scalpels and hacksaws and other tools emblazoned with blood with a never-wavering gaze, signs of them having been used, and very extensively at that.
The phrase 'She shall sing no more' was imprinted in their minds for a moment, rapt with severe and sincere concentration.
"Alright, let's get started." The woman spoke with a tone of barely surpressed unease, unintentionally forcing back a mental shudder that wrecked her body as she placed the sharpened tip of the thin blade belonging to her own scalpel against the slab of white meat that comprised of her fat-boned, thick-skinned shoulder and silently swiped a path sideways, and then cutting downward at a precise angle; blood seeped out of the oddly-angled slit instaneously, beads and lines of red began dribbling down the once immaculate flesh, and the female accidently sucked in a breath, actually feeling startled as to what sort of response she expected to receive from a deceased human.
However, no such response came, no matter how great she may have wanted it to come. Normal people would have bolted up, screaming bloody murder, once the effects of the ataractic drugs had weakened substantially so that they would experience every slash, every inch by biting inch as something stabbed into the skin and sliced at the nerves and inserted into frail bone, but no. Not this woman.
She felt a stab of pity strike her heart; she had a son about the woman's biological age, and she would have been quite the sight for his eyes, despite the fact that he was blind in his right and partially so in his left; he liked "strange animals" as he had put it, in an endearing term. In fact, many of their kind would never have given her such a title, preferring to dub mortal women as "them" or "it" were there only one, rather than the term of normalcy one would be more accustomed to hearing.
Personally, she wouldn't have been permitted to keep her alive either, but her appearence seemed deceiving to her; her tiny hands trembled slowly as she went back to her former workpace: cautious, deliberate, and tranquil. Yet, all the while doing this, she had expected something from the dead girl: a whimper, a roar of pain, a plea, an order to stop, a sound, even the tiniest of movements would have been acceptable. However, she gained no such insight; she still laid there, perfectly still, like a hand-stitched plaything that had had its lively, spiritual-enriched soul sucked dry.
Sadly, rarely did anyone of their race ever call humans by anything other than demoralizing titles such as those whispered of, especially female humans.
Such things were uncommon and unheard of; their people would never have let such a precious thing live, would never have let her breathe the same air as them if things were proceeding as they wished it, but yet were not, thankfully... and also regrettably so. However, the female still felt the same disquieting chill dance up and down her spine, barely repressing another violent spasm as she continued to slit open the woman's bare skin, going past the valley that was amplified by teardroplet-shaped breasts, easing past the gurt middle and ample waistline, finally halting near the pelvic region.
She paused for a moment, halting the blood-tinted tip of the scalpel, looking up at her partner. He didn't seem to have taken notice that she had stopped in the slashing and cutting of their victim, to pester her as to why she was not doing her assigned job as she should be; he had taken it upon himself to check for any internal signs that would maybe, hopefully, give some clue as to how she came to be what she was now.
The feeling of desperate unsettlement was still there... remorse, that was the most appropiate term for it now, remorse... for her actually fearing such an undead, unmoving, lifeless, and stiff and blood-filled thing, afraid that she would damage it, hurt the poor child. Seconds later, her hands, still sheathed protectively in the thick latex gloves, felt the cold red liquid splash over her fingers, her palms, some of the human's lifeforce exploded onto her face whence she had reached for a new, stainless scalpel and accidently severed one of the main arteries near the heart.
"Idiot, incompetent, useless woman! Useless, useless, useless! Look before you cut and while you are cutting! Imbecile!" The male surgeon spat, momentarily averting his eyes from the girl's bleeding, blistered, and skinned cervix, poking and prodding here and there, his tiny black eyes flaring angrily in frustration before going back to work again.
She murmured an apology, but she highly doubted that he had heard it; shyly redirecting her eyes back to the girl... no, corpse, she mentally corrected herself. Why bother calling a dead being like this a girl, give it a specified gender despite the obvious sex organs the body displayed? She was no longer living, no longer breathing, no longer alive. Essenstially, dead humans bore no rights, not to their kind.
She heaved in a great shuddering sigh, only to exhale cruelly; for what seemed like hours she had avoided the girl's eyes, eyes that no matter how often either of them would pause in-between a slice or a poke with a sharp utensil to close them would only pop back open again; sewing them closed didn't work well either, as they had discovered when the man had cursed, and loudly at that, when those large, expressive, dark and depress-inducing eyes snapped abruptly open, slivers of thread clinging to the eyelids.
They seemed to be crying... wailing... pleading... however, for what or whom, she didn't know.
Her eyes... They were the source of her worries, her paranoias and phobias. To look into them, to delve deep into their deadened glare and stare at that full-hearted, joyful, and utterly maddening smile was enough cause to drive her insane, too. While the man slit and cut and stabbed and poked and prodded away at the feminine corpse, she spoke to her in a undertone, so motherly, so caring, so full of a profound comprehension that she didn't realize she was conversing with the dead girl until she ceased in mid-sentence, her free hand subconsciously smoothing and petting her curly and rebellious locks.
"What do you make of this?" he finally asked, standing to his full height and pointing at something on her chest. She paused, and stared; there, on the girl's bosom, was the bloody markings of a strange symbol; it started as looking as a triangular shape, but what was most eccentric about this was that it had what looked like points at the bottom, five in all; completing this marking, the wound, was what appeared to be an eye staring back at them.
"Hmm... Quite an odd wound, don't you think? And it's the only one visible on her, too."
"I am quite aware of that, thank you, but what I asked was what do you think caused it?"
She paused, inhaling slow, thick, and only through her nostrils, her insides brewing in anger at this uncouth of a man. "How the hell am I supposed to know? You are the expert here, not me." She watched, disinterested, as he all but flew out of the room, screaming about something that sounded like "Inconsistanties", but she didn't know for sure nor did she care.
"Don't worry..." She turned back to the corpse, unknowningly patting her head and smoothing out her hair, as though it were constructed of the most delicate material. Smiling a little, she picked up a needle and thread, mentally preparing herself to stitch the woman's injuries back together; in and out, in and out it went, looping through miniature holes in the skin.
While doing this, she hummed a melody and asked the girl many things, yet received no answers for her questions; she knew interaction of any sort with a deceased person was considered lunacy, yet she was intrigued; this human brought out something in her, something that made her want to hold her, cradle her, protect her.
But even that was considered blasphemy, so she had to refrain from doing that as well. Finally, after much progress, her task was complete, partially; she still couldn't pinpoint a logical cause for the girl's demise, and knew that if they didn't find out the 'why' soon, her death would more than likely be listed as 'accidental'.
"...Good night." She muttered, apologetically rubbing the girl's head again, whispering sweet words of nothingness, empty affection, and delivered a final stroke to her head again.
They were not at the morgue the next day, or the week following. The woman received a call at midnight two weeks later. "Ryou," it had said. She didn't make much sense of it, passing it off as a prank call from one of her son's friends or collegues. Neither of them didn't speak of what they did or what they had seen while in the presence of that big, white-skinned, lonely-eyed female that day. If they were to do so... They would have a fear of disappearing.
The corpse had vanished too; the militia had come to retrieve it, and had no reason to explain why they required the body of a human, a human girl no less.
When they came into work at a designated time a few weeks later, what the woman and man didn't understand was why there were bloody footprints staining the floor from the operating table to the double doors leading outside.