Characters to Kazuki Takahashi. Does anyone ever even read the disclaimers?
This is a story that I started a little over a year ago. The first part is based off what might have happened after Thief King Bakura's...dismissal, from the Dark RPG. The rest...well. What would you do with all the little lives under your control if you were God?
He didn't have lungs to fill with air, or a throat to scream from. His last image was that of the Pharaoh staring with wide eyes not at his melting body, but at the newcomer that floated in the air before him.
Everything was black for awhile. Strangely, he could still think and reflect, even though he could no longer perceive due to his eyeballs literally turning to sand. It was an interesting and truly unique position.
A footstep. Had he a head, he would have whipped around in the direction of the sound. Strange that there were no other voices now. They had seemed to fade away with his body. His ghosts were gone too. He could no longer hear their voices, or feel their ice-cold heat. There were more footsteps, and he sensed a being nearby. Probably human, he guessed, even though he had no nose to smell the stench of sweat and excrement.
It spoke. He heard it. The voice was human, although the words were foreign to him. It sounded like a terrified child. There were more words. They were spoken quickly, with little inflection. The human...the child, sounded very much like he was babbling incoherencies.
Bakura had never been much for the religions of those who could afford to eat everyday, but he had certainly never imagined his hell would include his body melting away and then being forced to listen to a demonized child. He had always been of the opinion that hell would be...messier.
The child moved around him. Apparently it had some substantial form, and they occupied a place that was dark, and rather cool. He realized with surprise then, that he could feel a slight breeze. That just wasn't right.
The child cautiously moved closer. Bakura could hear him, and the child was making no effort to be quiet. Both his steps and his breathing were heavy. He sidled up to Bakura, and hands were laid on his chest. The Thief's entire body stiffened at the touch, and his back arched as he drew in a painful breath. The sudden touch of the child's hands had brought feeling to every part of his body, and he was on fire.
This time, he could scream. And he did.
The child skittered away, obviously frightened even more by his apparent re-animation. There were more words, and Bakura had no idea if the child was trying to call forth Ammunit, or if the child was trying to calm the man before it.
He went with the later, and ignored the fact that he couldn't stop any of the gods if he wanted to. His heart was already heavier than all of the pyramids combined. With immense effort, he hauled himself into a sitting position, biting the inside of his cheek while doing to keep from screaming again. As a child, he'd been taught to keep quiet above all else, but he figured he could be forgiven for his outburst, considering his previous condition.
Once upright, his head lolled back on his neck, and he was overcome with a terrible sense of vertigo. He turned to one side, and vomited. There was no food in his stomach...hardly surprising. He spat bitter-tasting liquid out of his mouth before wiping his face with his arm. His entire body still burned, and his breath caught in his throat. He fell forward and sobbed weakly.
The child was still in this place with him, and it was still although it chirped a word now and then. Bakura opened his eyes and was not surprised to be greeted by darkness. His breath hitched in his throat again, and tears welled up in his eyes. For the first time in a very long time, he was completely alone...the child notwithstanding. His large hands came up to his chest, and he realized with a jolt that the Ring was gone! What had happened...did the newcomer take it? The one who's voice he'd heard, and who's form he had finally seen in those last few seconds of life?
A hand fell on his shoulder, and he grabbed the child's wrist. His grip was too hard, fueled by his sudden spark of white-hot anger at having the Ring taken from him. Ignoring protest from his body, he hauled the child around to face him.
He was shocked...to say the least. There was no light wherever they happened to be, but he could see that the child himself glowed faintly. He sensed nothing supernatural about it, but perhapse the strange light was due to the child's extremely pale skin and curtain of white hair.
"What are you?" Bakura demanded, standing up and dragging the boy with him. The child was not supernatural, it was unnatural. Bakura bristled. If he was dead, then this must be a god...but what kind of god would mock Khemet by appearing as this?! The child stared blankly at him, and Bakura asked again. He still received no response. The child's eyes were large, and emotionless. The very color of them reminded Bakura of a dirty pond, and only re-enforced the child's divine mockery. He asked again.
Receiving no answer, he decided to be proactive. One hand still gripped the child's left wrist, and he used the other hand to grope the place between the child's legs. It jumped back, and Bakura laughed. To think, something so small and delicate could be a boy! The boy shrieked and struggled against his greater strength, his voice rising with his panic.
He obviously considered Bakura a threat. Bakura smiled, and considered the advantages of remaining so. The boy's twisting flipped his hand palm up, and Bakura peered curiously at the old injury. He lifted his other hand again, and laughed aloud when the boy clamped his legs together and put his free hand over his waist. Muddy green eyes failed to meet crimson ones, and Bakura wrapped his arm around the boy's lithe body. He drew the boy flush against his chest, and a low sound came from his throat as he felt heady pleasure spread through his body at the feel of another against him, drawing away the last of the pain.
The boy kept his head down, and he continued to struggle. Bakura laughed softly and pulled the boy's hand between them so he could continue examining it. The skin was rough and scarred. Below that, he could tell that a bone had been broken. He considered asking the boy what instrument had wrought such a violent injury upon him at such a young age the boy's skin was so light...and his hands were comparatively soft. He hadn't done much hard work, and therefore must still be very young. He decided, however, that such an attempt at communication would once again prove useless. He contented himself with just working the boy's hand - seeing how far it would bend and learn about the injury that way.
He was surprised to find a good deal of resistance. The hand didn't close, didn't work properly. Bakura was curious as to why this was so. The apparent answer was obvious - that the hand had been impaled with something that had torn though skin and flesh. He wondered though, what exactly had been destroyed to cause such a restriction of free movement. He bent low, and manipulated the fingers slowly, bending them to the palm until all movement was forestalled.
In his study, Bakura had forgotten that the hand belonged to a living being, and the boy whimpered to remind him just who's hand it was that he was playing with. The boy had stopped fighting, and now sat complacently in his lap. Bakura reached up and tangled his hand in the boy's thick, white hair. The boy shivered, and he said something in his thin voice.
"There is something familiar about you..." Bakura said, and his hand tightened in the boy's thick hair. He forced the boy to face him, and studied his smooth, pale face. "Do you belong to me?" The boy's eyes were wide with fright. Bakura brought his other hand up to the boy's face, and traced the strange features. The boy's eyes were of particular interest to him. Besides their queer, changeable color; The very shape of them gave the impression of being half-closed even when they were wide open. He had never before encountered a human who looked quite like this - not even the most delicate of women. The boy's skin was soft and smooth...Bakura caressed a cheek with his thumb.
The boy closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to throw Bakura off. At the same time, both of his hands closed around the wrist of the hand touching his face and tried to wrench the hand away. Bakura growled low in his throat, and tightened his other hand in the boy's hair. He forced the boy close to his own face, "I do not know what you are, but as long as you are here, I will study you. Now obey me." His words were low, and although he doubted the boy could understand a word of what he said, he was frightened. That pleased Bakura greatly. The boy's breath hitched, and suddenly there were twin streams of tears as he babbled still more words. Obviously, he hadn't caught on that Bakura had so far failed to understand him.
Bakura touched his face again, and the boy struggled violently - jerking Bakura's hand, which was still tangled in his thick, soft hair. He cried out, and his hands scrabbled at Bakura's own, trying desperately to loosen the man's grip. Bakura gripped the boy's chin, and he froze. Strange green-brown eyes opened, and the boy held his gaze steady. Slowly, a smile spread over the boy's face. Bakura smiled in return...and the boy's smile grew more. It split his face and twisted until the boy no longer looked like the delicate being he had been. Dark eyes flashed red and lips pealed back to reveal white, pointed teeth. Bakura's eyes widened a fraction.
The boy spoke again, and Bakura still could not understand him. He shook his head, keeping watch on the boy. His speech was so strange...Bakura could not even tell if his statement was a question or a plea. His smile widened even more for just a whisper of breath, and then the red in his eyes melted away and the delicate child returned once more. Bakura's hand was still buried in his hair, and his large hand was still around the boy's neck, although loosely. The boy's eyebrows twisted in distress, and his eyes slid closed. His face had fallen out of that mad grin, and his entire weight suddenly fell against Bakura. Or rather, Bakura's hand - effectively choking the breath from the boy.
Bakura righted this the second he heard the boy struggle to draw breath. He re-positioned his hand around the boy's back, and pulled him forward. It took some seconds to fully extract his hand from the boy's thick hair, and he felt guilty when a good amount of white strands trailed from it. The boy failed to protest, and Bakura looked down. He was out cold.
Bakura sighed audibly, and gathered the boy into his arms. He did not understand this child, but he was...intrigued. He cradled the boy in his arms, and took the time now to examine the boy fully. His pale skin still glowed faintly from where it peaked from his clothing. He was dressed in a strange, short top with a colorful painting splashed across the front. His legs were covered in thick, dark material with tiny uniform stitching. The boy's feet were most bizarre. His legs ended in two-tone contraptions with a brand across the side. Bakura bent down and touched one, to find it was tough and very much unlike the boy's skin. Confused, he felt his way to the edge of the device, and hooked a finger between it and the boy's leg. It gave with a slight pull, and Bakura realized that it was a shoe.
The boy must have been a god, for who but the gods dressed so ornately? Strange though, how he had never seen a...shoe. Such as this, adorn the foot of Osiris while he raided the rich tombs. Perhapse the boy was a lost god. That would certainly account for his behaviour, Bakura decided. He continued his exploration. one of the boy's arms was adorned with bracelets made of fabric with designs stitched into them. On his other arm, was a device that bore twelve markings and was strapped to the boy's wrist, a timepiece. The hands had stopped at two different markings.
Bakura considered the timepiece a moment longer. He wondered when it had stopped - it still looked shiny and new. Perhapse the markings indicated when Bakura had arrived in this world. His hand drifted to the boy's face again, and he caressed the boy's almost colorless lips. The boy sighed, and Bakura was overcome with a mix of curiosity and pure desire. It was hell, after all. He leaned closer, bringing the boy to his chest and holding his head up at just the right angle...
An electric shock ripped it's way though Bakura's body. He started and nearly dropped the boy. Brown-green eyes opened a fraction, and a weak sound came from the boy's throat. Bakura took no notice however, as he frantically tore at the boy's shirt. He had felt it, he had felt it! The boy's shirt was torn, and there on his chest, glittering dully, was His Ring.
Bakura snarled something incoherent, and grabbed the cord. His Ring, his Ring. The boy had it all along. What was he, how did he get it, and oh, it was warm and alive. He could hear them, the voices of his ghosts, distantly; The wailing, incoherent screams of the damned.
"How do I leave this place?!" He couldn't hear them, their voices broke and drifted away. No, he would not lose them again. His friends, his family, his people that cried out for vengeance. He tugged on the cord again, desperate to bring them to him. Distantly, he felt the boy's hands on him...and it was only when those hands tightened and sharp nails bit into his skin that he realized what was happening. The cord was wound around the boy's neck, and the boy's face had turned paper-white as he struggled for breath. For just a second, the cord tightened, and he gasped a single word. Then Bakura let go completely, and the boy rolled off his lap. His Ring hit the floor with an awful clatter as the boy landed on hands and knees and gasped for breath.
There was a low laugh behind him, and Bakura's insides turned to ice. He froze in place, and the screams of his ghosts seemed so very far away. The newcomer moved soundlessly closer to Bakura, and the pain returned ten-fold. His breath caught in his throat as the newcomer passed, and stepped between himself and the boy.
The boy.
The newcomer grabbed the boy roughly by the arm and hauled him to his feet. Next to each other, Bakura could hardly tell them apart. The newcomer held the boy by his arms and screamed at him in the same strange monotone language. The boy had been frightened and skittish with Bakura, but he held his ground with the newcomer after he'd recovered from any initial shock. Bakura saw the boy's ruined hand half-clench and he matched the newcomer's impassioned words definitely.
Slowly, Bakura became aware of being able to move again, and he pealed himself off the floor where he'd lain prostrated like a servant. The boy and the newcomer were still locked in their argument, and Bakura's mad thoughts turned to the Ring again. The boy still had it. All he had to do was take it. It would be easy, even doubled they where no match for his strength. The newcomer said something that shocked the other boy into silence. Bakura was half-way to his feet, and he drug himself across the floor. The voices of his ghosts were louder and more desperate than ever, and he was so close.
The boy screamed something inhuman. The sound startled Bakura who'd heard all manner of animals in their death-throws. The boy's hands came up, and he attacked the newcomer in earnest. An adrenaline-fulled punch sent the newcomer reeling backwards, and the boy stood his ground. Tears poured down the boy's strangely-sculpted cheeks as he spat out short phrases between shuddering breaths. His gaze was fixed on the newcomer, and contained nothing but pure loathing.
The newcomer had only moved to bring his hand up to his cheek. The boy continued with his diatribe until that same low laugh undercut his words. The newcomer looked up, and his eyes shone with pure insanity.
"I've won. Zork has been released, and the Pharaoh is on his own!" The newcomer spoke in his own language and Bakura's heart felt like it had stopped. The Pharaoh, the Items! How? When?! A memory flashed in Bakura's mind: Diabound had been killed, and he was near-death and so weak he couldn't move. The newcomer had appeared beside him, and said something to him. Then time had somehow reversed itself, and Bakura had somehow come to stand in place on the tablet to call forth the power of the Items...
...when the newcomer appeared again. That's how he got to this place. He'd been used as a sacrifice for this "Zork". The boy didn't have the Ring. He couldn't have the Ring if it had been used to call forth that old man's sorcery. Blindly, Bakura staggered forward, at a loss for what to do. It was over, his people were gone and he himself was dead. No guilty blood would be spilled for Kul Elna.
"On the contrary," The newcomer was beside him, "you have done well. Your people are gaining the vengeance they have lusted after. That's why they've left you." The newcomer reached out, and stroked Bakura's scarred cheek. Normally, he would revile such an offense, and strike back...but even the slave-mark did little to upset him now. At a loss, he collapsed to his knees.
"You're perfect like this, you know." The newcomer spoke, petting his short hair. "So lost and broken..." The words were spoken headily against his skin, and Bakura flinched at the press of lips to his cheek. The boy stood off to their right, sobbing quietly. He gripped the Ring with his ruined hand. The boy asked something in a small voice. Bakura thought he'd caught a name in that strange language. The newcomer turned toward him like a snake, and spat something that shocked the boy into complete silence. Confused and distressed, Bakura watched as the boy he'd taken to be a god sat down and wrapped his arms around his Ring, hugging it and rocking himself back and forth ever so slightly.
"Now." The newcomer turned to him. "You don't even know what I am boy," A hand tightened in his hair, "do you?" The words were as smooth as silk, but as deadly as a viper. Bakura could even hear the underlying hiss.
"Why should it matter!" Bakura felt lost, confused, and helpless. He had never been without his ghosts. The spirits of his family had returned to him on the first night to comfort him and continue guiding him. Others had come later, helping him survive by reveling the world's hidden secrets and helping him steal. Once they had come back to him, they stayed with him - only the powerhungry and the sadistic of his people stayed with the Items and bred the magic that fed them. Bakura could not believe that all ninety-nine had somehow found justice enough to leave him now. Not when he'd given up so much of himself, and gained so much for those that continued to protect him. "Tell me what's happening!" The image of the boy turned dark, and twisted. The newcomers mouth opened so wide that the skin started to tear. He laughed and the sound bounced off the walls. The boy whimpered and wrapped his arms around his head to block the awful din.
"And why should I!?" The newcomer challanged. "You've been the perfect tool all along - you've been following my instructions so well. It's a little late to realize that your perfect justice means nothing!" The newcomer spat in his face and shoved him violently to the ground. He turned on his heel and walked away from Bakura.
Bakura wiped the saliva off with his sleeve and looked up. The newcomer was standing in front of the boy again. He spoke in their language and the boy pointedly ignored him. The newcomer grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. "You are MINE!" He snarled, face only inches from that of the boy. The boy was stunned momentarily, unable to comprehend what Bakura understood. He struggled against the newcomer's grip, his words short and has face twisted in anger. Bakura couldn't help admire the boy's sprit, even if he was a fool.
There was a dull flash, and a long blade appeared at the boy's neck. The boy froze and the newcomer smiled. Bakura was tense in his position on the floor, but he did not move just yet. The newcomer pressed the blade into the boy's skin and he whimpered.
The newcomer laughed, "I was gentle with you before, Host. I needed your body. Now that my goals are accomplished, I have little use for you." He moved the blade upward and pressed the sharpened edge against the side of the boy's face. His hands wrapped around the back of the boy's head and tangled in his long hair. He pulled the boy flush against him, and kissed him deeply. When the boy began to struggle again, he caressed the boy with the blade's point before he shoved the knife into the boy's belly. Disdainfully, he shoved the boy violently backward, chuckling queerly as the boy landed on his back with a pained cry.
"Go ahead, yell at me. Attack me. There is absolutely nothing you can do that will change your fate. There never was. You deceived yourself with your little friends, and they're all dead because of you." The boy pulled the knife out and struggled unsteadily to his feet. He faced the newcomer with the blade in one hand and his other hand clamped over the wound. Bakura watched in confusion. This Zork had come to the Earth, and all it's people were dead. Now the newcomer was here, and he was threatening Bakura's god.
Bakura pushed himself off the ground. Used him. This newcomer had used them both. His Ghosts were gone, Kul Elna was gone. Bakura had nothing left to fight for. He should have been dead yet he was not. His god had come and healed him so he could fight again. There was still someone to fight for.
The newcomer moved toward the boy again. The blood of Bakura's god had been spilled, and more if he did not act. Bakura stepped between them.
"Stop." Bakura commanded in a firm voice. The newcomer looked at him, incredulous.
"Just why should I do that, my friend?" The newcomer's lips curled back in an uneven smile, and Bakura stood his ground.
"Stop. I don't want this. I don't want to end the world."
The newcomer threw back his head and his laughter pealed off the cavernous walls. "You think you're responsible for everything I've done? My dear, dear boy, are you hard of hearing or just stupid? This isn't your justice, this is my tribute. My payment just as those ninety-nine godless thieves were the bartering chip of a man for his country's "safety". Neither you, nor my dear Host can stop this with a few magic words and a change of heart." He chuckled and pushed Bakura gently aside. The boy stood his ground as the newcomer came closer to him, saying something in his language and holding the knife so tightly that his knuckles were white.
"STOP!" Bakura roared suddenly. He leapt forward and grabbed for the newcomer, intent on keeping the boy, his god, from further injury at least. He was shocked when his hands met nothing.
Bakura overbalanced, and crashed to the floor, landing hard on his shoulder. He rolled over in pain and came face-to-face with the newcomer as he floated just out of Bakura's reach. Still enraged, Bakura lept to his feet and attempted to lunge at the entity again, but found soft hands holding fast on his arm.
He turned to see the boy looking grim. He shook his head just slightly and Bakura was left standing dumbfounded. His god had forbade him to attack the newcomer. He watched as the Shadow of his god floated above them. Even upside-down as he was, his hair stayed perfectly in place as if by magic. However he felt only darkness from the newcomer. A dark, oppressive power that made his god wince and whimper in pain. Annoyed by the playful attitude of the newcomer, he turned 'round to face his god. Blood still poured from the boy's wound, and more blood oozed sluggishly from heretofore unnoticed wounds in the boy's left arm and hand. The boy's face reveled only mild discomfort, and his eyes shone with innocence, pleading Bakura to do something. A deep pool of his own blood was forming unnoticed at the boy's feet, and tendrils of unadulterated red reached for him. The boy's blood burned where it touched him, sliding over his dark skin like quicksilver and renewing his energy just like the Ring...
The Ring. Bakura looked at the boy with horror. The Ring, the Ring, his blood was in the Ring. Just like his village, the blood of his god was in the Ring!
The newcomer cackled madly. "Oh sweet King of Thieves, if only it were that simple." He floated down to stand behind the boy. "Your understanding is backwards. It isn't my beautiful, disobedient Host whose blood is in the Ring. It is his blood that powers the Ring. This precious child is yours, albeit a thousand generations removed. The boy did not look up, but the emotion in his strange, dark eyes changed subtly, and Bakura realized that the newcomer was telling the truth, if only for a moment. The Entity laughed again, "and you, you who treat me so coldly, like an enemy to fight valiantly against. You don't even recognize me, do you?"
"How can I recognize something which I've never seen before?!" He cried, his outburst a surprise even to himself. The Entity laughed and took off into the darkness once more. As soon as its pale, spider-like hand left the boy's shoulder, Bakura's god...no, child, fell to his knees. Apparently, the injury had taken its toll. Bakura immediately went to the boy's side, mindful of the Entity who still floated out of his reach. He laid his hands on the boy's arm, his skin even more white then before. He looked at Bakura with those strange eyes, and if Bakura had been a man who considered such things: he would have found the boy to be reveling everything about himself in that single glance both the color of fresh plants and of rich earth.
Bakura continued to stare at his face in much the same way he stared at the gold-filled chambers in the tombs of Pharaohs past. He noticed the boy's sweet smell, the fine quality of his stark white hair, and his oddly colorless lips. Bakura found himself reverting to his almost-innate passions, utilizing his quick mind to determine how to steal a kiss...
That's awful.
Bakura jumped and looked around, even though he knew the action was no good. "What...why do you care? Go away!" A soft chuckle issued from between his ears. It was odd that he should be able to hear that Voice, wasn't it?
Respected landlord, I've lived with you for years and I've suffered through your various amorous longings. However, this has to be the absolute worst. It is a card, nothing more, and no one is going to understand the story without the proper context, which you know to be unbelievable. Bakura felt as if he was being embraced by a long-lost lover (although he was alone as he always was), and a fingertip ghosted over his lips as if to trick his brain. You tell Me that you are strong. Yet whenever I catch you writing one of your little stories, you're always the one being rescued.
"So? Who says I'm going to show this to anyone?"
Right...right, right. Why would you spend your time writing something for someone else? Tch. You're so self-centered, Host.
Bakura smacked his hand on the desk and sighed. "I'm self-centered? You...you made me build that game just so you could trap the Other Yuugi and everyone else!"
The Ring's Voice chuckled darkly. Then perhapse you should tell the Pharaoh's vessel how you feel? Before I dispose of him and all.
"I...you know I can't!" Bakura stuttered, annoyed once again, that the Spirit had no physical presence which to face. "Yu-Yuugi-kun has Anzu. Telling him would just cause trouble..."
Well then, you'd better return to your fantasy. Maybe I'll toss you into the game when I don't need Thief King. I'll let him have a little fun and then you can see what he's really like. Would you like that, Ryoh? The Spirit brushed its hands over his waist and lower, and he chuckled when Bakura spread his legs and whimpered in need. It was always fun to play the part of God, after all. Especially when the machine was so willing.
Happy Valentine's day, and thanks for reading