Chapter 1
A/N: Hello, there. I have not written anything (much less fanfiction) in a rather long time. I'm rusty. I'm not the best, I'll admit it here, but I do like to think I am decent enough. I hope you enjoy what I'm making, here. I've truly never written anything like it.
"Look! It's that freak!" A voice called out in a sneer.
"Haha, yeah! Look at how ghostly he is!" Another chimed in, joining the first at the other side of the hallway.
"Guys, stop…" A softer sound slithered through the coarse teasing. "You know he'd really hurt you if he ever heard you mock him this way…"
"As if!" It was the first voice. "That bastard is all talk and rumor. I haven't seen him do shit!"
Yami Bakura—not your average Japanese male student—hell, he was not even Japanese (despite his namesake)—was the "freak" most everyone talked about and preferred to stay alone because of it, as well, as some of the boys and girls who thought "bad" was sexy often attempted to give chase. He got his wishes, too, however, due to his persona and his appearance. Cold both inside and out, he had pale skin to match his strict European roots, and hair of a strangely natural white. He preferred that if anyone called upon him, they use, simply, "Bakura," but, more often than not, it was some other rude variation.
Teenagers were so cruel. (Not that it mattered to him; he could stand his ground.) Some had seen his sadistic prowess, others refused to believe it, and the rest simply feared it. Rumor had it that, once, he killed a kid for incessantly insisting on cracking jokes about his hair. Regardless of whether the rumor held true, Bakura had better things to mull over in his mind.
The pale European definitely seemed to prefer a reclusive lifestyle and icy attitude, but that did not insinuate that he was an empty, lifeless shell. Like every human teenager, he had his fair share of preference and abhorrence. He loved the darkness, he hated his peers. He craved power, he detested his studies. He fancied music, he loathed Poseurs. He especially loathed the people who pretended they knew music, real, true, honest music, when they justly preferred the whiny crap on their radios.
Music was like a drug for Bakura, especially when it came to his favorites. His favorite music, pure, hard rock, his favorite band, Egyptian Gods; almost every thought that consumed him, when he was not focused on avoiding people in general, consisted solely of Egyptian Gods.
"I'm serious…if he hears you…" The soft voice returned.
"What? What will he do?" The first voice interrupted sharply. "He's just another weak loner! All talk, no game, no life!"
Bakura was within hearing range and ignored the conversation fairly well, to an extent.
"Haha, speak of the Devil…" The form of the second voice had glanced up, gesturing to the other two, informing them of the pale Englishman's presence.
Speaking slightly louder, the first voice laughed in a brutally boisterous way, "Look what the cat dragged in! A dirty, white bat!"
The figure of the third, mousey voice made a face filled with pure incredulity at the form of the first voice's boldness. The student backed away, especially at noticing Bakura glance up, smoldering brown gaze alive with hate-filled fire, before disappearing down the hall. Even the second voice seemed shocked by the first's actions, leaving quickly just before the period bell. The mocking continued, "Why bother even show up here anymore? Everyone hates you."
Blinking, scowling, Bakura stepped closer to the manifestation of the mocking voice, "And I hate everyone." His foreign accent dripped with acid.
"You don't scare me."
"That is not my problem…" Bakura had the voice cornered. The school bell had rung moments before, so the two were alone in the hall.
Thin, pale fingers rose slowly, the voice unaware, at first, still talking shaking shit, "Pinned me against the wall? For what? You gonna kiss me to death, or something?"
Bakura was discernibly homosexual. Everyone knew, few seemed to care, others would rather rub it in his face along with everything else "wrong" with him. Teenagers were so cruel. But he was crueler. "You're not my type…" The pallid being balled his spindly fingers into a boney fist and plunged it deep into the throat of his verbal attacker. A subtle, disgusting choking sound emitted from the voice's mangled and swiftly bruising gullet. Pleading silently with its gaze, the voice could do nothing but try and flee, the pain in his throat unbelievably unbearable. Bakura would not allow escape. Rather, he brought his rigid knuckles back into the throat of the voice, following that with a cruel blow to his jaw. Weak whimpers and groans, along with a new flow of glistening crimson, were all that secreted from the voice's mouth. Bakura took hold of the voice and slammed it roughly against the wall behind it, its skull hitting hard and bouncing back unnaturally like an old bobble-head toy. Bakura stepped back, admiring his work with a sadistic smile, like a mad artist. Finally finding the chance to run away, the voice shoved past Bakura, attempting to run. "Oh, I'm not done with you." The white-haired assailant turned, walking after him and easily taking hold of the voice's shirt, toppling him over to the hard linoleum floor. Straddling the voice's waist, Bakura had easy access to its head. Again and again and again. Hit after hit after bloody hit. He landed them easily to the defenseless sod before him. The voice's cries and whimpers faded, even when Bakura felt and heard a sickening crack in the voice's jaw.
At last, Bakura stood from the mangled figure of the voice, his pale hands and clothes splattered with a little of his victim's blood, his brown gaze, mad, but fulfilled, glared down to his mocker in pure hatred and merciless content. Hearing the sound of squeaky footsteps in the hall ahead, the pale boy looked up slowly, still standing over his masterpiece, waiting. It was the second voice. Apparently it noticed the absence of the first and came seeking, worried. It froze in place when it noticed, eyes wide, backing up slowly. "Be wary…" Bakura muttered, standing straight after wiping his bloody hands on his victim's shirt. The first voice was not dead, oh no. It was close, yes, but remained in a perfect stage of suffering to satiate Bakura's sadistic cravings. With that, the inhuman European turned, walking through the hall, out of a side door, and, eventually, through the streets back to his own home. At least it was Friday.
Upon the arrival to his little apartment where he lived alone with nothing but the shadows as his company, which was beyond okay with him, the pale demon of a boy went to bathe, tossing his dirtied clothes aside to launder later. Before washing the rest of the blood off of his skin and out of his hair, he braced himself against the cool shower tiles, bit his lip, and vigorously whacked off, still high from the brutal beating he was able to bequeath. Who needed school? He was intelligent and could make up the work that was required of him. Emerging from his little bathroom, he moved to sit upon his shabby little sofa, staring at the wall opposite his position. For a moment, he had started to think about what would happen when any authoritative figure came across the blood in the hall or even the dilapidated form of the first voice. He was not too worried, though, for he was confident that the victim would never confess that their assailant was Bakura. He was sure that the voice valued his life over his virtues.
After a moment of brief silence, completed with a deliberate lack of conscious thought, Bakura pulled apart his previously closed brown eyes, empty of current emotion. He glanced about from his little couch before letting out a small breath, reaching for a round, black remote, and turning on the modestly sized stereo hooked to the wall across the room. Buttons were pushed, the mechanical sounds of a compact disc beginning its swift rotating pace filling the silent room before being interrupted by a clear, pure, single, elongated electric guitar chord. Followed by several more, the rest of the ensemble of instruments filled the empty space: drums, bass, rhythm guitar chords to harmonize, steadily growing louder, steadily gaining in pace, until he started to sing. The instruments suddenly faded into a dramatic pianissimo as his seductive vocals resounded through the room, slithering through the air like a sultry snake of sound. Eyes closed, yet again, sensual shivers flitted up and down Bakura's spine, danced over his skin, and kissed every nerve throughout his body. Every measure, every note, every sound, every vocal perfection caused this sensation. Every time. This was the power the Egyptian Gods held over mortal souls. The voice demanded worship and it got it. Especially from souls like Bakura's. Egyptian Gods were everything to him. Everything. And, more so than that, Egyptian Gods soothed his soul in ways no other being could. The voice…the guitar…the lyrics… Perfect, to him. Nothing could compare. He would hum along and forget his pain and anger and stress. In this moment, his music surrounded him, flowed threw him, and took with it the lingering memories and feelings from the voices in the hallway earlier that day. Bakura, finally, was at peace; just him and the shadows and Egyptian Gods.
Not much time had passed on before the warm brown eyes of a certain pale foreigner had closed into darkness, his mind at complete rest, an abysmal sleep taking over, and beautiful music lulling him away. Bakura was out like a light, dead asleep on his dingy little sofa.
At some point in the wee hours of the following Saturday—around three or four in the morning—Bakura woke, groggy and a little cranky at having slept so long in one position on his old couch, and slowly rose to his feet, bones cracking throughout his body from the base of his spine all the way to the nape of his neck. Groaning low in his throat and massaging his thin fingers deep into his collar as he lazily maneuvered to his bedroom, collapsing upon his bed, thankful for the plush mattress and bed set. The moment his head hit his pillow, he crashed once more, not even bothering to get cozy under the comforter. His stereo had long since fallen into "sleep" mode, so his music was no longer swimming about the small home. Not that he needed the metal cantos dancing through the air to sleep, he was drowsy enough to take care of the rest of his sleep himself.
Hours later, closer to noon, Bakura stirred once more, for the last time. His weary eyes parted, one at a time, and stayed narrow until his pupils could adjust to the new light filling his small room from through the dusty Venetian blinds opposite his bed. A minute groan emitted growl from the base of his throat like an undesirable, low as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Just another cruelly bright, late Saturday morning greeted the strange soul when he finally woke up.
Standing, finally, the pale recluse sloppily made his bed, lazily throwing the grey comforter into place. He stretched his ether limbs high above his head, the joints in his shoulders and elbows cracking wondrously, as he trudged on towards his small bathroom. The color scheme was not much, not that it proved to be any sort of high priority to Bakura. The chilling porcelain tiles that covered the floor and most of the walls held monochromatic hues of greys and blues with a few white diamond shaped accent decorations, the walls that remained untouched by the tiles were covered in a faded grey wallpaper. Fairly new brushed nickel fixtures dimly reflected light here and there from the sink faucet to the towel rack to the shower head. All of his linens were cheap, simple, white towels and rags. Easy to use, easy to replace, and, best of all, they got the job done. He lived alone. There was no need to "pretty up" the place. So long as everything had its place and purpose, he could care less what color they were or how they complemented the space.
Quick to step atop one of the old white towels on the floor to escape the near unbearably icy floor, Bakura turned the shower up with a higher heat to cold ratio than normal to truly wake up. While waiting upon the water to heat to its highest, the pale young man stared at his reflection long and hard. He must not have slept all too soundly the previous night considering the soft, almost purple shadows under his eyes. Heaving a gentle sigh, he licked his thumb and tried to rub away the discoloration to no avail. Perhaps he just needed to wake his mind and body, warm up a bit, for the circles to completely disappear. Turning away when the mirror fogged, pale fingers pulled aside a translucent shower curtain, relinquishing a minute smile at the inviting steam cloud that escaped into the cool room. The water was definitely hot enough. He stepped in swiftly, arched his back at the sudden rise in temperature, and, finally, after a moment, relaxed, allowing the hot liquid to soak his pale hair and silhouette. He stood beneath the torrential pounding of the hard water for a long while, thinking over everything and nothing all at the same time as his brain jumpstarted into reality.
Finally, he reached for his shampoo bottle, squirting a small dollop of coconut scented suds into his hands, lathered it into his long, thick hair, and proceeded to wash, rinse, and repeat. All the while, allowing his awakened mind flow as it wished. It was not too long before he started humming quietly a familiar melody, singing the words within his mind, smiling dreamily. The song swimming in his head was the very same that lulled him away the night before: the Egyptian Gods song from the radio. Soon enough, he lost himself in a daydream as he continued to lather. He could see himself at one of their concerts, standing at the front of the pit, staring up at him and his band…screaming…singing…dying and being reborn again and again… It was a perfect scenario…a fantastical scenario…something that, most likely, would never come to be. Living alone, what money he could earn went to survival. There was no way he would be able to afford even lawn spots at any of the Egyptian Gods' events! Losing his focus, he began to feel a small pang of disdain.
"Tsss…son of bitch!" he hissed, swearing and rubbing his eyes. He had let shampoo find its way in, stinging the weak flesh of his exposed eye. What a reality check. Removing the soap from his eyes, hair, and body, he brought his Saturday morning marathon of a shower to a close. Returning the hot and cold water knobs back to the "off" positions, Bakura stepped carefully out of the shower, standing on the towels again while using a loose one to dry off his skin and hair. He bent at the waist to shake out his hair before roughly rubbing the towel against the soft, white strands once he had finished drying his body.
Several hours into the day, a little after noon, Bakura had finished a few odd jobs around the neighborhood, bringing in close to five hundred dollars. Immediately following the gaining of the last bit of cash, the pale figure walked to the local store to purchase this next week's (or longer) groceries. There was not much he needed to thrive, just basics: milk, water, bread, meat, vegetables…simple things that could be eaten alone or cooked without much effort. (He was not the best of cooks, to be honest. He knew it, too.) Pushing his buggy along, he gathered his necessities, a few of his favorites, and a scarce remnant of a personal craving or desire. He had enough money this time around to waste on a few not so necessary items.
All the while he moved, he was subconsciously taking in the words from the radio playing through a few speakers here and there. It was mere background noise during the majority of his shopping session, until one of the Egyptian Gods' songs aired. He grinned a small moment at the special glee of hearing that voice even there. It was almost as if the sound followed him…kept him calm and pleasant everywhere, which, to that concept, he was not complaining.
Bakura had just finished filling his basket with the last of his requirements and pleasantries and was headed to check out when the song ended. It was followed up with the current radio station disc jockey droning on about upcoming events in Tokyo. Of those events, charity runs, strange drives that he did not catch the gist of, and concerts were mentioned and most popular. "And, for the first time since the release of their latest album We Are Ra, the widely popular band Egyptian Gods will be in Tokyo for several shows, signings, and other events." The pale man paused in his steps away from the cashier counter after having paid for everything and stared, wide eyed, at the speaker hanging overhead. They were going to be so close…? And…and he would never be able to go… The voice continued through the speakers, "Next month is when they return for their Tokyo stop in their world tour! And guess what, listeners? We will have several opportunities for you—yes, you!—to win free VIP tickets to all of their events here in Tokyo! Starting in the next hour, all you have to do is be the thirteenth caller and," some cheesy sound effects were played to really play off of the awesomeness of the situation. "BAM! You win! That's right, free tickets to ALL the Egyptian Gods events in Tokyo next month! Save the date and save our number to win."
Having no way to write the number down, Bakura spoke it to himself again and again and again as he hurried to his home to place groceries away, turn on the radio, and wait for his chance. Would luck shine upon him? It had to. The Egyptian Gods were all he lived for, almost. They were everything to him. This was the chance of a lifetime! He had to be able to go. Had to.
Then the announcement was made on the station to call, and Bakura swiftly dialed the number and waited. And waited. And waited. And there it was.
"Congratulations to caller thirteen! Tell us your name!"