Warnings: Decapitation and disembowelment, though neither in a huuuuge amount of detail. Another thing about this fic is that it will probably chide you every three seconds.

It's somewhat important to note that Yami =/= Yami Yugi =/= Yami: Yugi – Yami is darkness itself, Yami: Yugi is a Yugi who's being manipulated by the darkness, also known as the Second Puppet. Don't worry, you'll pick it up as the fic goes on.

Length: 4,910 words.

Time Period: Same AU as the other Mari(k)onette oneshots, but set one day after Mari(k)onette: Yesterday Never Forgets and one day before Mari(k)onette: Tomorrow Never Comes.

It's not necessary to read them all in order, though it probably helps a little bit. If you wish to read all eight one-shots in the order in which they were written (the order that gives you the best story arc out of it), you can find all of them on my profile - use this order:

Mari(k)onette: Yesterday Never Forgets

Mari(k)onette: Today Never Ends

Mari(k)onette: Tomorrow Never Comes

Mari(k)onette: That Never Happened

Mari(k)onette: Loyalty Never Works

Mari(k)onette: Memory Never Dies

Mari(k)onette: Gambling Never Pays

Mari(k)onette: StopStart, PlayPause

Handicap: 'There are three rules that will apply to all fics this round:

1. I must state what one typical/logical path of the particular ship might be, or a common path if there is one (for instance, Mai is likely to be tortured or lose her memory if the pairing is Illusionshipping)... and then do the exact opposite.

2. All my stories in this round have to take place in one single AU created from a nightmarish combination of the two most crack AU ideas I have written down over the last four rounds. The stories must take place in the same AU, and need to reference each other somehow – the catch is that I currently don't know whether I will get my desired adopt pairings or not, and I can only write two of the fics at any one time (I have to do the first two before I can take on the third, and after that can only take one adopt pairing at a time.) The stories must be able to be read as individual one-shots.

3. The story must be written in an unusual POV and/or tense.'

Feedback: Concrits or just saying hello, all is welcome here - as for specifics, I'd very much like to know whether you found all the second person switching stuff confusing or not.

POV Used: Second person, but with the 'you' always being an outsider who isn't privileged to the thoughts of other characters. It also swaps characters at the end of each of the three sections - good luck trying to follow it.

Pairing To Be Inverted: Yami Marik X Shizuka. Traditionally, Yami Marik ships are one big long abuse sequence, especially if he's been paired up with a weaker willed character, such as Anzu or Ryou (and come on, that one's even called Deathshipping). It's generally a good idea to remember that Yami Marik is hate itself, so him actually loving anyone isn't going to be something likely to happen.

And then we attempt to pair him up with Shizuka, one of the weakest willed characters in all of DM, Shizuka, the sister of someone Yami Marik really doesn't like. Should be pretty damn obvious where a Spaceshipping fic is likely to go, then – somewhere dark, with a horrible, horrible character doing horrible things to an innocent girl.

Now, let's see if we can't flip that on its head and still keep people IC. I hereby declare this to still be a somewhat dark fic, but now with moments of crackish humor, and Shizuka totally owning a psychopath on multiple occasions with her almighty powers of gentleness.

Mari(k)onette: Today Never Ends

Yami: Marik

walks

in darkness

reaping

that we may

take

touch

drink

souls.

-:-

Tonight

it will reap

the soul of our

greatest enemy

and we will

laugh.

Johji...

Your house is dark.

Your house is dark, and it is always quiet.

But not on this night, because–

Slshhk.

Slshhk.

SlshhkaaAAAIIIIEEEE!

The scream is short; pained and a little surprised. It dies into a small, high–pitched whine a moment later, and the lights click on, glittering as they catch in their beams drops of a dark red liquid falling to the floor. These originate from a fresh cut on a wrist already marred with scars, wet with tears.

As expected, it had not been such a clever idea of the Mistress's to attempt the peeling in the dark. Necessary ancient rituals in the dark, yes. Onion peeling in the dark, definite no. But it wasn't like you could stop her; you're only eight inches tall, weighing less than a kilogram.

Not that you'll understand what height or weight are – and no, I'm not going to explain them to you! Sheesh, try eating a maths book next time, instead of all those lurid magazines. You know the magazines aren't good for you; and the implications of you eating pictures of those girls are just… silly, that's what they are. I'd use a longer word, but I don't think you'd understand it.

Anyway, your Mistress is hurt – so what are you waiting for, doofus? Go and help Her!

After a few seconds of useless processing, you use one of your skeletal claws to brush Her auburn bangs out of Her eyes, sitting on Her shoulder to examine Her right wrist. With eyes that are not really eyes per se – blue sparks sit in the empty sockets (don't ask me how that works), looking out at a world that has a long snout permanently in the way – you watch it close over. The cut is shallow, and heals instantly, the red going white, forming a new scar; as always, it mesmerizes you. There's probably some sick explanation for that, isn't there?

…Yeah, thought so.

The Mistress raises Her arm to wipe off the tears from the stinging juice, then gently traces the patterns of numerous scars from previous endeavors – you can remember every last one. After all, your brain's a little piece of silver machinery. So, you look at the scars with Her, thinking 'This one was from the potato, that one from the celery, the big one's from the carrot...', and utterly failing to wonder why She keeps trying to peel vegetables in the dark. She doesn't exactly seem to be the Brightest Bulb on the Christmas Tree – but then again, neither are you. In fact, while you're both pretty dim, I'd probably go as far to say that you're a bit of a faulty bulb.

Oh, sorry. Complex metaphor. You're not gonna get it.

'Complex metaphor' means 'Something you're not going to get', by the way.

...Let's just move on, shall we?

Your Mistress bends over to try and peel the vegetable once more, and you shuffle from talon to talon, your tail curling; it's hard to keep your balance when The Mistress's shoulders are sloping downwards like that. She spends quite some time wrestling with Her subject – She finds it very difficult to use a peeler on an onion; recently, you have begun to wonder whether or not the thing is in fact designed to be applied to that particular vegetable. (Hint: It isn't.) Mind you, it works very well on potatoes, on carrots – and, as The Mistress has discovered far too many times for your liking, on the skin of Her human form. The injury heals over quickly, of course, but you can only imagine how much it must hurt to lose even a small piece of that tender skin – actually, you can't imagine it, you haven't felt pain ever since the day you died, and you have roughly the same emotional intelligence as a bowl of peas. But you think you can imagine how much it would hurt to lose a piece of your skin as a human – and it is so easy to do that, too; not for the first time, you ponder on how a human could possibly survive, when they are so weak - yes, weaker than you, and you are only a skeleton. Still, you suppose that their failings is Her purpose in life; to ensure that they may go on living, what with all these Monsters and Duelists killing each other high above them.

Not that you, the long–dead Chihuahua of the dragon world, would actually care about weaklings if you were in Her position, but you suppose the Mistress has Her reasons… whatever the word 'reasons' means. Face it, you just like to think that word because it's fancy. It is, too – I mean, it's got two 's's in it! And two whole syllables!

After some time, you become bored with the peeling of the vegetables – so, with a gentle creaking of bones, you flap your way onto the kitchen bench, admiring your reflection in the sink nearby. The first night you remember is the one when you were left at the door of your Mistress – a present from some secret admirer, you like to think; that's one of the few things you're actually right about. You were in part a present to your Mistress, though your arrival was more so the fruition of a brilliant idea on the part of your previous owner to get rid of you. At any rate, the necromancy that holds together your bones is fine indeed – your eye sockets glow a more lively blue than any other animated skeleton you have seen before (you've never seen an animated skeleton besides yourself in your life), your motions are about as fluid as a rusty doorknob, and there are little pieces of fabric carefully stretched across your tiny skeleton dragon wings, forming a makeshift membrane with which you may fly short distances. The silver tag nail gunned to your collarbone states that your name is Johji (1), whatever a 'name' happens to be, and when you looked in the big book that took your delicate frame minutes to turn a single page, you found that your species was apparently that of a Chinese Hornback. Or at least, you think it is; you only got to look at two of the dragons before The Mistress took the book off you, scolding you because you damaged one of the pages with your claws.

Telling Her that you were just going to 'eat it a little bit' was probably not the best thing you could have said when She asked you what you were doing, by the way.

The signal from the underworld comes at exactly ten o'clock, as it always does – you have found it best for your very limited number of brain cells if you do not resist its grip. Tossing your head, you relax into it, snap your jaws, and begin to recite the 'evening news', two words you've learned through the few months you've been doing this for. Words in some language that is not composed of mostly growling and snuffling spill out over your voicebox.

"Good evening, Shizuka Kawai. This morning, the bodies of 'Dinosaur' Ryuuzaki and 'Insector' Haga were discovered in the Academy – these were two Duelists who had only been in attendance less than a day. And now, a message from our sponsor: Hydro, Hydro, Hydro with the Hydrochloric Acid! Keeps your skelly–bones oh–so–clean!"

You close your jaws with a yawn, and there it stands: From what few words you could decipher, Yami has finally breached the Academy defenses. You suppose that it was meant; karma, the humans call it. As The Mistress has told you a hundred times (ninety–nine of which you did not listen to), a couple of those pesky Duelists – the Academy's self–proclaimed heroes – caused absolute havoc when they entrapped the dark force with that Battle City plan last year (a time before you came into the world). The Mistress's adopted brother, Joey, was heavily involved in that attack; it was that mission that had him become known as the 'Monster Killer' as a result.

The Mistress looks a little worried at this information; the blatant understatement there shows just how bad you are at reading human expressions. She calls you over so that She may stroke the smooth, polished surface of your head with a shaky hand – a very human thing that you're not quite sure what to think of yet. After a moment, She again sets to work; a potato flies into Her ready hand from halfway across the room, just because it can, and the peeler works well on it.

Some time passes, then the Mistress speaks quietly to you, though not in your own language as She does when she wishes to command you. No, She says a bunch of alien things in 'Yingwish' or 'Lingrish' or something like that – that's the same language you were reciting the news in before, by the way. Unfortunately, the language is one that you can barely understand; you commit yourself to remembering each strange sound and putting them all in storage, so you may spend a good twelve hours with a Dragonspeak–English dictionary in order to decipher the full monologue.

"See Johji, this stew will need to be ready soon for Joey – when he arrives back from the Academy, he will surely be hungry. And he will be alone, too, with nothing to take his mind from his stomach but I – my adopted brother is the only Duelist I will allow inside my territory, or anywhere near my humans. As I know him well, I know that he will not harm the civilians I have worked so hard for; but I cannot risk anyone else." She pauses a minute, and you tune out, staring into space. You've never been the best at concentrating, and now is no exception. To your limited mind, The Mistress only seems to be repeating things She's said a million times before in that sing–song way She does, and will probably say again – they're clearly not important. The Mistress does this sometimes when She is alone with you, prattling on and on until either something happens to make Her stop, or you see a mouse. Still, tolerating this gets you extra dinner scraps; you can't really complain.

"...And besides, I must abide by The Agreement – there are four others like myself, who also keep watch over other parts of the city. All were affected by the events of Battle City, and all fought bitterly to drive it to an early prevention – the names of Devlin, Shadi, Kujaku, and Ishizu still strike fear into the hearts of Monsters and Duelists alike. Johji, we call ourselves the Sivath – each member of our rag–tag alliance takes it on his or her self to watch over certain districts, making sure that the tragedy that was Battle City will never claim the number of civilian lives it did. And one of the things we agreed on at our formation to only allow two Duelists into those territories. The first is Marik – ah, that's Ishizu's adopted brother to you, you remember when he came here! – and the second is my adopted brother, Joey. That rule still applies now, as well. I mean, any Duelists other than Joey or Marik entering the civilian districts we look after are to be given a day's warning, and moved out if they are too injured to go themselves. But if they either do not leave before the time is up, or become hostile, they are to be swiftly disposed of. I have not killed a Duelist yet, but someday the opportunity will almost certainly come to me. I am not sure if I will be able to kill a frail thing like a human, even if the powers they wield threaten all of my people–"

Suddenly, somethings invade your skull, roughly shoving your consciousness aside and forcing your body to unwillingly interrupt The Mistress's monologue. What with your highly limited amount of brain cells, you're a bit slow on the draw; so you can only watch in shock as the Big Dark Things in your head move your mouth, forcing you to speak; "Rark! This is a special announcement to the Sivath from the Yami, Kings of Domino City! All hail!"

The Big Dark Things allow you to watch what Her reaction is to this – She looks furious, and you share Her anger, though probably not for the same reasons as her. The Mistress is gritting Her teeth, and you know that She resists the feral urge to shed Her human guise and tear up something in a very rare burst of anger, much as She did when one of the things called 'Monsters' came to Her door, and dared to knock upon it.

At last, She speaks: "How dare you declare yourselves kings of Domino!"

Your voicebox is controlled once more. "The Third Puppet has come again – Yami: Marik has returned! Surrender your pathetic city immediately or die!"

She looks stunned now. "What?!"

"Yami: Marik –"

"I didn't mean literally." The Big Dark Thing lets go, and you sag against the counter in a combination of fear and exhaustion. There's not a lot your little frame can do before it tires of magical energy and must rest; fighting a mind such as The Big Dark Thing's is a huge effort for you. With a skeletal grin, you watch The Mistress tap the peeler absentmindedly against Her top lip, then glance towards the door in fear. A being with any intelligence would know that She is now scared to leave the house; you find your find yourself wondering whether She's scared of the door or not. Well done. Give yourself a pat on the back.

After a long moment, The Mistress reaches down and strokes your snout. "Johji... What can I do? I mean, this is Yami: Marik, one of the chief destructive forces Yami unleashed during Battle City – but he is Ishizu's adopted brother..." She pauses, then continues in dragonspeak; finally, something that you can understand! "I... I don't want to intervene, but this could get nasty if Ishizu sends out half her people after Marik, breaking every law in the city – it would be Battle City all over again. That is what Yami wants to happen, of course."

You tilt your head to one side, a little confused by this – fortunately, you don't ask why the door is dangerous. "Why don't you just go out there and tell her?", you click out; but The Mistress only shakes Her head. You hiss in irritation – you honestly can't see the problem with this brilliant plan of yours. "Why not? You'd have at least fifteen minutes to walk to Ishizu's hideout, you could make it–"

She shakes Her head again, tears in Her eyes. "What if I ran into that psychopath? What he did to Mai during Battle City was just... What if he pulled out his deck and–"

"Look, do you care about your precious humans or not? You're doing this for them, right?"

She stiffens, wavering, and you wonder if you made the right decision. You decide that the answer is a definite yes – The Mistress can handle anything, after all. She has defeated many foes; another will make no difference.

She sighs. "I'll have to think about it. Can you Joey what's happened if he arrives before I return?"

"Of cou–"

A scream from just down the road steels Her resolve – She dashes out the door, leaving you to slowly realize that all The Mistress has ever defeated is vegetables.

As you settle down to wait for Her, you kind of hope that She's going to be okay. Time flies past for you; you are dead, a being who has no real sense of human time at all.

For you, 'today' is never really going to end.

Miss Chono... (2)

You are dying.

It is late at night, the most dangerous time of the twenty–four hour cycle Domino lives in. If only you hadn't been so ignorant as to go outside – but no, you just had to. If you hadn't been so high on drugs or so angry because someone didn't use pen on their essay or so, so stupid, you would have likely known that the rogue Monsters hunt as the sun drops lower in the sky. Those that are still attacking this late at night are either desperate, injured, or through careful planning have come up with the perfect way to kill you; just as this one has.

You are dying.

You are lying on the gravel in a messy heap, your own entrails spilling out of that ugly tear in your chest, that one that goes from your collarbone until it hits your stomach. Why – because that man standing over you simply happened to feel like injuring you in that way. Your life, he says with a laugh, is even more meaningless now than it was before. He congratulates you on this achievement; not that you can really process what he is saying. You can't see him properly; he's a smudge of purple on a grey background for you, with a cream coloured halo of hair towards the top of his cloaked figure. There's a cool hand on your brow, but your mind is overloaded with pain and–

–now it isn't. The bleeding, ridiculous as it seems to you with half your guts hanging out, has mysteriously stopped; you will live a little longer. You sit up, somehow free of any sort of discomfort, and try to cram your heart back into your thoracic cavity - noting with worry that it isn't exactly beating any more. As you wonder whether or not you are in fact dead (which you're not, by the way – in practice, hearts don't jump around like you think they do), your savior appears in your line of double vision; unarmed but for the potato peeler grasped firmly in one hand. Surprisingly, she's pale and weak –looking; but you're sure that it's only some secret identity or other. Soon, she'll rip off that mask, and–

"Um... S–stop?"

Her voice is anything but heroic; and that's about when you realize that you're still going to die, just not right away. The blood is still flowing, it's seeping under your fingernails as you touch the gaping wound (idiot, now you've got nail polish in your insides) – just an awful lot slower than it was before.

You are dying.

The would-be murderer giggles at the sight of your savior – he is standing right behind her now. Maybe it's because of the way the world still blurs and shakes for you, but the man seems to slink stealthily through the darkness, shadows at his beck and call.

She tenses as the hand lands almost casually on her shoulder. Almost, because it grips just a little too hard, as though it is about to suddenly snatch and drag her off. You see panic flit across her features, especially when he lets loose with a deep growl, but then she somehow manages to hide it with a swallow. It is clearly a huge effort for her, and the man smirks; a flash of white fangs. Your sick mind is already analyzing the scene – now, how could one give this a feminist reading?

"Shizuka Kawai. Exactly the person we wanted to meet, Joey's human sister… With you in our prisons, we will lure the Monster Killer into our grip."

And all you can really think about that statement is this: 'Why does this weirdo speak in first person plural all the time?' Typical English teacher, always focusing on the little details. Never mind that you still have half your innards hanging out and aren't feeling any pain from it, that guy just started using the wrong perspective! Someone, call the grammar police!

Aaaanyway, so the girl eyes the shadows gathering around her feet with great caution – yes, there are actually shadows gathering around her feet. Those at least aren't the side effects of those drugs you took to try and take the edge off that one essay that nearly made you lose faith in humanity. Your rescuer then turns and looks at you pityingly; and to your surprise, you find yourself urging this innocent young girl to run (though no sound escapes your dry lips) – clearly a calculated audience reaction, you tell yourself dopily. Now, the author's intentions… What is the point of this? Where is the argument, the calculated message behind it all? As you scan the scene eagerly for any elusive imagery you might have missed, you note that she hesitates out of the corner of her eye, stalls for time.

"Do you wish to take me as a hostage, Yami: Marik?" The colon is pronounced with a strange clicking sound; you make a note of this. 'Performing techniques', you'll call it.

The older teen grins psychotically, and though she cannot possibly see behind her, she can evidently still feel it, for she shivers and bites her lip. He giggles, replying; "Yes. I suppose I'd very much like to kidn–"

And she's gone, racing away down the alleyway. She seems to expect him to come after her, and he does – she has not gone three steps when he makes a wild leap over her head, likely hoping to land right in front of her. Which is exactly when she swings her right hand – still clenching the peeler – backwards over her shoulder, slamming the utensil directly into his groin. He yelps and goes down, and she flees, dashing around the corner of the alleyway and out of sight.

After a long moment, he stands, alone with you – then he begins to laugh, a barking sort of laugh, that quickly devolves into a bloodcurdling howl. The call hangs on the still night air, sending shivers down your spine…

Oh dear, you shouldn't have shuddered – the movement caught his eye, and now he's turned on you. Grinning wildly, he places one boot on your chest, shoving you down with a mad, mad look in his purple irises, the golden dagger comes flashing down. And you do not have time to move, scream, or do anything before it goes slashing into your neck, chopping away until–

Snap.

Your last thought in those final seconds as your head rolls across the street is something along the lines of 'Oh, bugger.'

Then there's a little old man with hair similar to that guy in the paper, Game of Kings or King of Games or something like that. He's carrying a scythe, and it slashes, andgoddamitwhyisallthisrando mstuffhappening, ,andwhyisn'tthissentenceproperlyspaced ,andwhyaretheresomanyCOMMAS–

You are not dying any more.

You are dead.

You will never see another dawn; I suppose for you, that means that today will never end...

Ah, Marik Ishtar...

You should be tucked up in your nice, warm bed, and this place is neither nice nor warm. The circus is deserted; it has been for several years. You can hear the floor of the ancient carousel creaking under your weight – you're not entirely sure why you came here, so late at night. You must have sleepwalked here; or at least you tell yourself you did. You certainly didn't spend a little too long in the pub, then come here under the impression that you would train people in sexy lion outfits to jump through hoops. Yep, best just to ignore your memories – they're wrong anyway.

You don't want to admit it, but you've a sneaking (and correct) suspicion that you were in fact being controlled by a dark power – to do what, you're not sure. Maybe that's where the idea about the sexy lion outfits came from - twas simply a chew toy for the puppy–like nature of your mind to play with, something to occupy it. The fact that what your subconscious decided would be a good occupier was something of that nature... well, it says an awful lot about you.

Regardless of what you think or what I know happened, your body still moved against your will; here you are. With a yawn, you get to your feet–

CLANG!

Well done, you've banged your pretty blonde head on one of the carousel horses. Idiot, you tell yourself with a tired smile– then stop, jaw dropping.

And no, it's not because your brand new elongated canines scratched your bottom lip when you tried to smile. You'll have to get used to those sometime; but for now, this is just totally fantastic.

The emerald creature stands not ten metres away from you, one of its front legs raised as if it was about to take another step in your direction. Its eyes – the colour of fine gold – are wide, and it remains frozen as the rabbit does when a ute bears down on it; you must have spooked it with the loud noise your head made when introduced to the carousel horse. The body is quite plump, the elongated neck giving it a reptilian feel, and each of its four slender limbs ends in three toes with ridiculously long beige claws. The tail carries ends in a blunt tip, the face could have belonged to a dinosaur if not for the two cream horns curling out the back, and two massive green wings spread on either side of its body– (3)

Yes, the whole description sounds like something out of a bad fanfic, I know. Point is, it's a totally magnificent and wholly unrealistic creature. So, you swallow hard, then harder still, and it is still there. You hit yourself, pinch your arm, the lot; and it is still there. Slightly transparent if you squint, but still there.

There is a freaking dragon, and it is just standing there. A bit of a disappointment, really; you would expect it to roar or growl or do at least something–

Suddenly (and no, I don't care that it's after approximately twelve point seven nine seconds – keep your number fetish to yourself!), dark smudges flit through your head; gaining literal foot holds; bit by bit, they take control of you. The effects are small at first; you blink without wanting to, you're suddenly aware of being unable to have your breath taken away; but pretty soon you're unable to move, a passenger in the vehicle, with some drunk as the driver. You fight and kick, screaming out feeble pleas and false threats – please don't please don't please don't or i'll kill you i mean it – but they ignore you. For her insolence, they reply, this dragon will have to be punished. For you to be able to hurt a dragon... well, that just makes no sense whatsoever, but they seem determined enough. Nothing and no–one will dare oppose them, apparently.

Not even when the thing in front of them has freaking nine inch long claws.

The controllers laugh at the thought; what claws? All they see is a vulnerable little girl. Needless to say, you decide that if you survive this, you're going to check the label on those drugs you bought the other day. Maybe they had a use–by date on them…

Unfortunately for you, your chances of living are ridiculously low by this point – as you watch in horror, the puppet masters force your body to stagger forwards, zombie-like. They focus on taking some sort of binding trap card from your deck; then on raising it high to activate its effect.

…Yes, they are actually attempting to use a flimsy piece of cardboard against a dragon.

A freaking dragon.

This is clearly not going to end w-

Swish!

A slight breeze past your face, and the card is gone from your hand before your controllers can even begin the Summoning spell. The darkness has vanished from your head, too, and you want to laugh in exultation – you're back, back in the world, and the evil is all gone. But when you look around for the dragon, that's gone too; there is only a girl standing there, small and fragile, her dull brown eyes seeming to stare into your soul. With a nervous little giggle, you decide that the dragon was just some sort of hallucination – or better still, all of this silliness is in fact the end result of the world's biggest crack high. None of it's real, you lie to yourself.

The shadows spring on your unguarded mind, stronger than ever. They force you to rifle through your deck, until you find that card, and then they make you call out in a voice that sounds nothing like yours…

"Winged Dragon of-"

Again, the card is taken from your hand, and the darkness fumes – you can feel your own hatred fueling them, strengthening them. You run towards the girl with the auburn hair, your voice roaring out things you would never have normally said, you pull out your Millennium Rod, and you scream out in rage that she is yours, all yours. You throw yourself on top of her, your mind in shambles-

Suddenly, she's sinking snake- no, dragon - fangs into your neck; with a sickening lurch, you realize that she's drinking the darkness straight out of your body. A few drops of a freezing cold black liquid trickle down your neck, and the other mind inside you shrieks in rage - but she doesn't stop, your grip on your body becoming stronger and stronger as the shadow's hold on you grows weaker. But it's too late for you now; your once-intelligent and organized mind has been burned out by the darkness; and you are tired, so tired...

The world goes black, and you pray that the next time you wake (if you wake) you will be in bed, and this will be a horrible nightmare, and–

And you're not thinking anymore.

For you, today will never end.

Notes:

1. Johji is in the early manga, as Honda's baby nephew. Huzzah for seemingly random canon references!

2. And Miss Chono is one of the many peeps who gets Penalty Game'd by Yami Yugi in the early manga – and yep, she's a teacher.

3. Did you get the reference to canon (one of many, many references scattered throughout this fic and all other Mari(k)onette oneshots)? If not, know that what Marik saw was no ordinary classical European dragon, but the one and only Blackland Fire Dragon, the first ever dragon to be summoned in the manga, and the first monster Yugi ever played in the manga (in the anime, it's his second). Isn't that great?

…No? Oh well, then ignore the silly obscure reference. I had a lot of issues trying to find a non-humanoid, slightly terrifying (that puts Baby Dragon out of the question), manga-canon, average-y ATK monster for Shizuka, XDD.

UAB

I know that a certain someone did write a second - person one for the previous round, and out of respect for the author and admiration for that spectacular fic, I wasn't going to try it as a handicap. The whole sorry story of why exactly I went back on that decision can be found on Adopt Six (Barshipping, aka 'Gambling Never Pays'), along with all the other sorry stories of how exactly my eight fics for the round came crawling into existence.

Fun fact: A ridiculous amount of planning went into all of these fics. I kid you not, there were in fact well over four pages of sheer detailing for the AU; which extended to ten as I worked onwards. It's even more if you count all the plans I made for the possible adopt pairings, and has now gotten to the point where I actually have details for every single freaking manga character in terms of where they are placed in the AU – yes, I'm including Season Zero, R, and Ancient characters in that statement. I'm pretty much certain that I haven't missed anyone from the manga - you give me a name, and I can tell you exactly what that character is (Human/Sivath/Monster/Other), where they fit in terms of allegiances regarding the Yami vs Duelist vs Sivath mêlée à trois, what their general occupation is, bits of their backstory, how they fit into the events of the oneshots, ect, ect.

...Go on, I dare you.

Oh, and I have total respect for people who write really good, complex AUs now.