Title: Ubermensche (1/1)
Author: Silvara Maxwell
Rating: PG-13 for a few mentions of blood and such (and just for Yami no Malik in general)
Genre: General/Angst/Psychological
Warnings: Possible disturbing things from Yami no Malik.
Disclaimer: I don't own YuGiOh! (unfortunately), Thus Spake Zarathustra (by Nietzsche), or any other ideas/themes in here. I merely own the piece of writing itself.
Summary: Yami no Malik watches Malik sleep. Inspired in part by Nietzsche and nihilism.
The baby sleeps in his cradle, all blond hair and tanned skin and self-loathing. He thinks he knows of me, of what I plan to do. He knows nothing. He is merely a lesser version of myself, the last before the final evolution. He is flawed, full of imperfection just like the rest of them even as he is above them all.
I pity him for that. A dirty, polluted, pathetic little river that washes its filth away in the ocean, submerging its contempt under the purity and perfection it desires. He, of course, does not see it this way. None of them do, and that is what makes him just the same as everyone else.
They think I will kill them all and destroy the world.
It makes me laugh; they do not realize there is no world for me to destroy.
Or perhaps they do, but they deny what frightens them. I do not deny what I know, and therefore I frighten them as well.
The truth- nothing exists. He created it all. He is God.
The structure of society hangs in a tenuous balance. It is a sword suspended by a hair over his head. Who knows when that hair will snap?
The destruction of the wretched world he exists in, that is what he secretly wishes for. It is that world which I hate. He has lost power over his creation; it is no longer his.
There is no God.
I will snap that hair.
I am God.
The phoenix will rise from the ashes into a world which I have created and rule. The world will evolve as I have evolved, and there will be perfection. Perfection which is mine alone, and none of them will see it.
The last of his world will drain away in his own head in a cacophony of anguished screams and red-splattered white walls. It is the last of his will, though he will not know it, until he ceases to exist as well. Then there will be only me and my universe, my creation.
It's always been mine.
Mine and no one else's because I created it all. I am God, and the world which belongs to me will evolve into perfection. Because I am perfect and anything that springs forth from me shall be perfect as well.
He shifts, bronzed skin trembling and quivering and shaking. Sun-bleached blond fringe covers a face scrunched up in fear over the imminent loss of his creation.
Shh, baby, don't cry. It will become something more; my world will be the perfect version of yours as I am the perfect version of you. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Do not loathe what you cannot have. You push it off onto me, try to cleanse yourself of it, because it is that which keeps you from becoming me.
I sing to him. It is a song that no one will ever fully hear but myself, for it is one of my creations and is too perfect for this world of faults. His ears strain, though, to catch the faint melody whispering to him before floating off on breath of wind. He hears more than they do, and he cannot help the soothing slumber that overcomes him.
The baby sleeps again, unaware of me and my perfection once more.
He trembles in his sleep because he is afraid. He is afraid because his creation travels the road to perfection without his consent. It leaves him behind, and there is nothing he can do to stop it. He cannot keep up, because he is not me. He will fall short at the end, and deep inside he knows it is true, no matter how he tries to deny it.
So he is left with nothing but his bad dreams and sick fears and the white-walled room in his head. Everyday a bit of those walls are covered in dripping red. Pretty, pretty blood that splatters and spurts and flows from the death of his denial as the walls containing his world shatter and break.
Perhaps, my world will have blood-stained white walls as well.
A memory of his creation, perfect in its imperfections, the most beautiful and impure of all the perfection that will surround me.
A whisper, a name, a smile, a frown.
He is wrong. I am perfect; I am God. I am everything he strives to be; everything he fails to become. This is why he hates me even as he tries to become me.
It is not meaningless. It is the evolution to perfection.
There is no other.
Perfection does not come from the past. It evolves and changes from now into the world which it creates.
White-haired, blood-slurping liar. Fraud, sham, imitation. He will never be perfection.
Spiky-haired, narrow-eyed Prince.
...Never! How dare you think he could stop this world from evolving into perfection? Even as you hate him, you hate me more, because he is imperfect like yourself.
Ah, ah, ah. A slash, a cut, and more dribbling red as even that brief denial is stripped away.
Copper-toned skin quivering again, but I do not sing this time. I enter the white-walled, red-speckled room instead. He is there; I knew he would be. He pines for perfection, though he denies it. He yearns to touch it, though it disgusts him. He reaches out to touch me, shaking and close-eyed, impure and ugly.
I allow this, because more cracks form on the starch white walls and more red blood spills onto them. Denial breaks down as his world slowly evolves into my world.
Poor, beautiful, ugly child, do not weep for what you yearn for even as you know you cannot have it. The time is almost here for you to be gone. Just a little bit more and the walls will break. Nothing will exist for you anymore.
It will be mine.
It is mine.
It is perfection.
I am perfection.
Shh, sleep now little baby. The time has come.
This was submitted for Chibizoo's YuGiOh! Fanfiction Contest. Visit her site at http://www.geocities.com/yugiohfanfiction
Author: Silvara Maxwell
Rating: PG-13 for a few mentions of blood and such (and just for Yami no Malik in general)
Genre: General/Angst/Psychological
Warnings: Possible disturbing things from Yami no Malik.
Disclaimer: I don't own YuGiOh! (unfortunately), Thus Spake Zarathustra (by Nietzsche), or any other ideas/themes in here. I merely own the piece of writing itself.
Summary: Yami no Malik watches Malik sleep. Inspired in part by Nietzsche and nihilism.
The baby sleeps in his cradle, all blond hair and tanned skin and self-loathing. He thinks he knows of me, of what I plan to do. He knows nothing. He is merely a lesser version of myself, the last before the final evolution. He is flawed, full of imperfection just like the rest of them even as he is above them all.
I pity him for that. A dirty, polluted, pathetic little river that washes its filth away in the ocean, submerging its contempt under the purity and perfection it desires. He, of course, does not see it this way. None of them do, and that is what makes him just the same as everyone else.
They think I will kill them all and destroy the world.
It makes me laugh; they do not realize there is no world for me to destroy.
Or perhaps they do, but they deny what frightens them. I do not deny what I know, and therefore I frighten them as well.
The truth- nothing exists. He created it all. He is God.
The structure of society hangs in a tenuous balance. It is a sword suspended by a hair over his head. Who knows when that hair will snap?
The destruction of the wretched world he exists in, that is what he secretly wishes for. It is that world which I hate. He has lost power over his creation; it is no longer his.
There is no God.
I will snap that hair.
I am God.
The phoenix will rise from the ashes into a world which I have created and rule. The world will evolve as I have evolved, and there will be perfection. Perfection which is mine alone, and none of them will see it.
The last of his world will drain away in his own head in a cacophony of anguished screams and red-splattered white walls. It is the last of his will, though he will not know it, until he ceases to exist as well. Then there will be only me and my universe, my creation.
It's always been mine.
Mine and no one else's because I created it all. I am God, and the world which belongs to me will evolve into perfection. Because I am perfect and anything that springs forth from me shall be perfect as well.
He shifts, bronzed skin trembling and quivering and shaking. Sun-bleached blond fringe covers a face scrunched up in fear over the imminent loss of his creation.
Shh, baby, don't cry. It will become something more; my world will be the perfect version of yours as I am the perfect version of you. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Do not loathe what you cannot have. You push it off onto me, try to cleanse yourself of it, because it is that which keeps you from becoming me.
I sing to him. It is a song that no one will ever fully hear but myself, for it is one of my creations and is too perfect for this world of faults. His ears strain, though, to catch the faint melody whispering to him before floating off on breath of wind. He hears more than they do, and he cannot help the soothing slumber that overcomes him.
The baby sleeps again, unaware of me and my perfection once more.
He trembles in his sleep because he is afraid. He is afraid because his creation travels the road to perfection without his consent. It leaves him behind, and there is nothing he can do to stop it. He cannot keep up, because he is not me. He will fall short at the end, and deep inside he knows it is true, no matter how he tries to deny it.
So he is left with nothing but his bad dreams and sick fears and the white-walled room in his head. Everyday a bit of those walls are covered in dripping red. Pretty, pretty blood that splatters and spurts and flows from the death of his denial as the walls containing his world shatter and break.
Perhaps, my world will have blood-stained white walls as well.
A memory of his creation, perfect in its imperfections, the most beautiful and impure of all the perfection that will surround me.
A whisper, a name, a smile, a frown.
He is wrong. I am perfect; I am God. I am everything he strives to be; everything he fails to become. This is why he hates me even as he tries to become me.
It is not meaningless. It is the evolution to perfection.
There is no other.
Perfection does not come from the past. It evolves and changes from now into the world which it creates.
White-haired, blood-slurping liar. Fraud, sham, imitation. He will never be perfection.
Spiky-haired, narrow-eyed Prince.
...Never! How dare you think he could stop this world from evolving into perfection? Even as you hate him, you hate me more, because he is imperfect like yourself.
Ah, ah, ah. A slash, a cut, and more dribbling red as even that brief denial is stripped away.
Copper-toned skin quivering again, but I do not sing this time. I enter the white-walled, red-speckled room instead. He is there; I knew he would be. He pines for perfection, though he denies it. He yearns to touch it, though it disgusts him. He reaches out to touch me, shaking and close-eyed, impure and ugly.
I allow this, because more cracks form on the starch white walls and more red blood spills onto them. Denial breaks down as his world slowly evolves into my world.
Poor, beautiful, ugly child, do not weep for what you yearn for even as you know you cannot have it. The time is almost here for you to be gone. Just a little bit more and the walls will break. Nothing will exist for you anymore.
It will be mine.
It is mine.
It is perfection.
I am perfection.
Shh, sleep now little baby. The time has come.
This was submitted for Chibizoo's YuGiOh! Fanfiction Contest. Visit her site at http://www.geocities.com/yugiohfanfiction