A/N: Written for the YGO Fanfiction Contest, Feignshipping (Yami no Malik/Otogi/Pegasus).
(that shape poem at the beginning is supposed to look like a skull. The dots are the holes for the eyes and the nose. Hopefully you don't need to squint to see it. :D)
The Ghost Tavern
.
.
It seemed
like such a silly choice
of décor at first, but it grew
on him after a time; the sign of
loss******* a gam*******ble
you********could********not
ever********hope********to
win. And yet it was a battle so
many chose*****to come to
cast a*****lot at
doorstep.
Maybe they
were all fools
like him.
[Proprietor – Yami no Malik]
.
.
The sign of the skill marked a tavern in a dingy corner of town: the Ghost's Tavern. That's what they called it anyway, and a layer of rumours so think blanketed the place that only two types of people went there. No ordinary gambler would bother: there was no money nor riches to be gained, and all too much to lose. Those that had nothing left to lose except a worthless life went – and those who thought it might be worth trying to cheat death.
Otogi heard about the place passing through an establishment he'd visited years before. It had been called The Illusionist's Palace then, and had so many mirrors and tricks he'd thought the name very fitting indeed. It turned out though that palace had more than one connotation; Otogi, who had prided himself on being a master gambler before his visit, had walked away with wounded pride and the gloating from the palace's king. 'Come back when you've grown,' the man, only a few years his senior, had called, his fair woman on his arm. Otogi had vowed to do so as he was swallowed by the crowds in the street.
And he had come, only to find the place had been abandoned and then remade in the time passed.
'Pegasus J. Crawford,' Otogi repeated impatiently. 'He owes me a rematch – who the hell are you anyway?'
The boy – his age it looked, though a good bit taller – who'd open the door for him scowled. 'Where are your manners?' he shot back, before shaking his head. 'Whatever; it's not like there's any respect to be had about here.'
He sounded a little wounded at that and Otogi felt somewhat abashed; he had been rather rude – though, in his defence, he'd been expecting the palace he'd last seen, and not what looked like a house above a restaurant in its place. 'The name's Jounouchi.'
'Otogi,' Otogi replied, leaving out his first name – just like it seemed Jounouchi had. It wasn't uncommon; usually only the kings went with their full names, the ones who were confident in the riches they'd cemented into the ground, who were sure they'd never see their palace crumble. Travellers too – even well-known ones like himself – avoided giving out a first name. There wasn't any particular reason why, except the element of mystery was a nice element to add when trying to defeat every gambling king in the world.
He could have been a king himself, if he'd wanted to. He had the money, all that money he'd won from gambles big and small. His best acquisition though was a two seater jet plane off a guy near the coast of Japan. That one was more a bribe than a gamble and certainly not on Otogi's list of ten greatest victories – but as far as spoils went, an untraceable plane of that quality was tough for an unrespectable man like him to come by. It let him trave all over the place as well. He liked that; travelling. Waiting around for things to happen…that he couldn't do.
Jounouchi let him in, took him to a table where a brunette girl took his order. Otogi eyed her: she was cute, though definitely foreign – which wasn't much of a surprise. She had an accent too. There were a lot of foreign people around. No doubt she'd pulled up a temporary job to pay for something or other. She brought him his food: he hadn't ordered, but he didn't mind the steak and salad he got.
He was just finishing up when someone took a seat on the other end of the table.
'Mutou,' he introduced himself. He also sounded foreign, like the waitress. Chinese or Japanese or something like that, Otogi assumed. And once he thought a little more, Jounouchi who'd opened the door for him had the same sort of accent. 'The owner's out right now, but Jounouchi mentioned you were looking for Pegasus J. Crawford?'
Otogi frowned a little; if not Pegasus, he'd have liked to challenge the establishment. He still could; just because the owner was out it didn't meant he couldn't win something – but he'd geared himself for a big game and that was what he wanted. 'That's right,' he said.
Mutou dropped his voice and leaned slightly in. His gel-spiked hair brushed uncomfortably close to Otogi's own, but the boy looked somewhat young and out of place – someone still growing in to the life visited constantly by gamblers. 'Have you heard of the Ghost's Tavern?'
And that was how Otogi found himself staring at the crude sign of the skull an hour later.
.
The skull was a mark that invited those who longed for death – or those who did not fear it. Pegasus thought himself to be a bit of both; once the woman he had loved had passed. It made for a tragic love story: the sort suited for palaces like his own falling into disrepair. And he let it; it was she who would smile encouragingly at him from the balcony while he cast his lots, laugh with him when he waved the losers from the door, kiss his wounded pride when he surrendered a cornerstone from his mountains of cold –
He wasn't one of those people who needed to gamble to get through life. He had enough to last himself and then some; a hefty inheritance from his father, and forefathers of old. He'd put enough to live by safely away; a risk, he thought, wasn't worth taking if it killed you in the end.
But he'd been foolish; he'd fallen in love, and there was another risk of life, one he hadn't noticed until he was ensnared. But then it didn't matter, because a life with love he found was far more fulfilling then teasing games on a table.
And a life having lost that love was not worth living. And so he let his pretty palace darken and fall: locked himself within his walls until the place was no better than one of the shacks downtown. And people of class stopped coming, though travellers passing through still remembered the industrial palace for what it once was and tried their lots before seeing the change of interior within. The lower class started coming – and with them, rumours. One was of the Ghost Tavern in the darkest corner of the town.
The more he heard about it, the more he decided it was the perfect place for him – and, one day, he packed a small bag and some gold, and left for that place.
He never came back, and soonafter the place was sold, redecorated, and reopened as a gaming restaurant for the working class…but by that point, he had passed the skull and opened the doors of the Ghost Tavern, and it had swallowed him whole.
.
The skull looked innocent enough from a distance, and plain, but as Otogi stood before it the empty eyes seemed to gorge out his soul. He repressed a shudder as he turned away and twisted the inconspicuous handle beneath; he wasn't the best man in the world – cheated his way out of a few jams, things like that, but for the most part he thought he'd earned his way in life. Those hollow eyes seemed to say otherwise: that anyone who passed underneath them had failed their judgement.
But Otogi didn't believe in things like spirits and the underworld, and he wasn't one to think rumours that sprung about unexplained disappearances meant there was something supernatural afloat. The only thing that unnerved him was the rumours of disappearances – and the tombstone silence that seemed to echo though the stone stairs he walked down.
He came to another door and pushed it open, and the quietness stayed. He saw people though: a couple on a small round table throwing dice, four people on a square one with a board game – even two people bent over an old looking shoe. A man on a stool before the bar swirling a tequila; some more people at the end he couldn't make out too well.. The bartender cleaning glasses and not looking towards any of his customers. It looked normal enough – save the silence.
He went to the bar. 'I'm looking for someone,' he said. 'Pegasus J. Crawford.'
'So you're one of the ones who puts the ghosts to rest.' The bartender put down his glass and stared at him, and Otogi was surprised to find sharp purple eyes boring in to him. The rest of his face was veiled by the hood he wore, and Otogi could gather nothing else about him. An air of mystery beyond even what the travelling gambler displayed in a moment of theatrics. 'The one you seek is there.' He pointed to a table of two at the window, where one man sat alone, framed by black. 'But if you challenge him, be prepared to offer your soul as the ante.'
'Why?' Otogi asked, not really sure what to think.
The bartender handed him a drink. Something glittered between the folds of the cloth, and a resulting gleam on his forehead made Otogi stifle a gasp. Another eye; a third eye, painted gold. 'This is the Ghost Tavern,' he explained, as though talking to a child to still lacked the basic understanding of the world. 'The only people who come here are ones looking for something they can't find anywhere else in the world.' The hood slipped back a bit, enough for Otogi to see a small smirk on sun-kissed lips. Strange, since the only source of light in the underground tavern was the candles mounted on the walls and at each table. 'We have spare rooms…if you need them.'
Otogi thought for a moment, then shook his head. He liked his fresh air – and taking a room out at a tavern was only good when he knew he'd get a good time. He didn't know this place after all – and the silence wasn't the most inviting first impression in the world. 'Just the drink,' Otogi said.
The bartender shrugged his hood lower and turned. 'Suit yourself.' He paused, then added: 'first drink's on the house.'
.
Pegasus was staring out the black painted window that showed nothing when his new opponent dropped into the chair opposing him. He glanced up – then stared harder at the blast of black and red colour that hit him. Leather singlet, pants and boots. Red jacket, headband and wristers. And then there were the dice-patterned earrings dangling from one ear. All of it bright. All of it vivid.
He'd gotten used to seeing most of the customers of the Tavern and they'd all lost their lustre, their individuality. He might have known some of them at the beginning: faces plastered on walls – the missing people. But that recognition had faded with time; new people, old…most of them looked the same, and the bartender was the only one who could really tell them apart.
He didn't care. His life nowadays was gambling the only thing he had left of any worth: his life, until he one day lost and could leave the world behind. The opponents he faced were sometimes the same: similar saddened souls looking to unlock the door out of this world. Sometimes they were curious and unbelieving ones instead, fools that hadn't yet learnt the meaning of life. But that made no difference; the bartender required a certain number of souls per day to cover the price of room and board – and that was just fine with him. Defeat until be defeated; that was how everyone who came to the tavern lived.
Except the few who came searching for someone; they sometimes joined the tally of souls paying rent, but others walked away with the Ghost Tavern's card burning a hole into their pockets, reminding them back. Some did come back, and the bartender would accept the card back from them. Whether they all did or not was anyone's guess – and he didn't care enough to guess. He'd taken a room up at the tavern after all. Those passing through didn't matter to him anymore. And no-one would come looking for him.
'I've been looking for you,' the boy before him said, crossing his legs. 'I went to the Illusionist's Palace – or where it'd been before. It's called The Game Restaurant now.'
The Illusionist's Palace… 'It might have been called that,' Pegasus said, more to himself than anyone else. 'It wasn't a strong enough illusion…when I lost her.'
He remembered that loss as plainly as his own name, but the establishment that had been his home was just a distant memory. Time became irrelevant in the ghostly realm of the tavern. He saw nothing save black out the window, nothing but nameless, faceless beings sitting around, going in and out, inside. Remembered nothing except the crux of his life and, sometimes, other insignificant things. Did nothing except play games to decide his fate and final abode.
Except the boy in front of him had a face. And colour – colour other than black and focusless grey: the grey that covered all else. It was vaguely familiar too, but he was not Cynthia or himself and that was all that really mattered.
'I came here to challenge you again,' the boy said to him. 'I challenged you before, about three years ago. I lost then.' He paused, then added: 'I'll win today.'
He was playing with something in his pocket. Dice, it looked like. That was fine; he didn't have a preference.
So he was surprised when the other slapped a deck of cards on to the table. 'This is what we played before,' the boy explained, a dice spilling out of his sleeve before the other hand returned it. 'You do still have your deck, right?'
Pegasus took the other deck and looked at it, before frowning. Yes, he recognised the game. The cards were all custom-made; the true representation of souls. His deck had her in it as well.
Then he half smiled. It might be the thing that opened the door – and his last chance to wrap himself in the illusion that was Cynthia before nothingness emerged. 'Okay,' he said. 'I accept your challenge.'
'Otogi,' the boy said. 'My name is Otogi.'
.
Otogi couldn't tell how long they played, how many hours had passed in silence, how many times they played themselves into stalemates, neither of them revealing their aces. Both of them were stalling for time – stalling for life.
He could believe it now. Pegasus…had a translucent appearance to him. Defeated, even though he still played on, clinging to the last threads of life. The bartender had made it sound like those who stayed there came to die…but then why did they fight? Otogi didn't understand.
The game he was playing wasn't the game he had wanted to play either. It didn't have that same light laugh to it, that tricking fiend that had defeated him. No tricks, no gambit except – supposedly – his soul. He was dragging it out, but at the same time he was quickly losing patience with it.
'Tell me about your woman,' he said finally, hand on his deck and waiting out his draw. He'd ever felt the sort of love the other seemed trapped in, but everyone in the world had something that held them together, something that they could talk about and come alive. He didn't remember his palace; he'd even forgotten its name. When he'd mentioned it, the agreement had been non-committal and nothing else. But maybe he still remembered her: the woman whose loss had brought him to the Ghost Tavern to begin with.
Mutou had told him the whole story – or what he knew, which was a surprising lot. Perhaps it came from being the trainee of the Game Restaurant's current king, and the grandson of the man who'd first run the establishment. It had been Japan, which is why he and the waitress girl had looked foreign; they were childhood friends. He'd learnt a lot of unnecessary things about them – but a few necessary ones as well. Like how Pregasus J. Crawford had let his fine palace crumble into ruin after his beloved wife lost her long and hard battle against disease. He learnt that his wife was the reason he'd built the Illusionist's Palace to begin with, why the mirrors hung on the corridors, the fine mist walked through the gardens and kept the palace in a slight chill. He learnt his wife was the reason he was always tricking, always laughing, always joking – because he wanted her to live on and be happy with him so very much…
He couldn't pretend to understand that. If there was such a thing for him in the world, he was yet to find it. But he could dig it out of someone else. That was just another trick after all.
Whether it was because he wanted a game worthy of his travels and time, or because he wanted the other to die with a final fulfilling taste of life, he couldn't say. But it worked, whichever it was. The man began to speak, and with each tale, a little more life crept in to his voice.
Otogi finally drew his card and cast his lot, forgeing the stalling in lieu of the true battle. Pegasus did the same, and in two turns the game had come alive. The unnerving faceless souls around them did not change, but the bartender came, hood still drawn over his face and purple eyes illuminated by the candle glow. Otogi did not look more at him; it was distracting, and now he had the game he'd come looking for, and they were heading in to the endgame.
And then Pegasus smiled and lay down a card: a special card. 'Cynthia,' he explained, eyes moist. 'This is my Cynthia.'
Otogi's hands found the dice in his pocket – the dice he'd won long ago in some school draw – and clutched them tight, leaning over the table to get a better look. The image of a beautiful young woman stared back at him: young and radiant, with rosy cheeks and golden flowing hair. A perfect image – but it was just an image, and as Pegasus' eyes shed the first tears Otogi bore witness to, he played his own card – his final card.
And Pegasus' pale hands took the card off the table and clutched it close, the game declared. 'Cynthia,' he mumbled towards it. 'My darling Cynthia. I've found my soul again, and now I'm coming to you.'
He slumped forward like a doll whose strings had been cut, and the bartender's hand was suddenly on Otogi's shoulder, keeping him.
.
Once the soulless body had been carted off, the bartender took the vacated seat. 'What is it?' Otogi said warily. 'Do I suddenly owe you for the drink?'
He'd finished it during the stalemate.
'No.' The bartender flicked of his hood, revealing brown skin and starch-brown hair. 'The first drink is on the house.' He was silent a moment, then added: 'He needed someone like you to help him pass to the afterlife.'
'Hmm.' Otogi didn't really know what else to say. An afternoon wasn't going to rewrite his view on the world, but it had given him more to think about. He'd never thought that gamblers who risked all they had and held on to nothing would become so deeply attached to someone or something – so deeply attached that losing them became a blow they could never recover from.
'I assume you'll be back,' the bartender continued, taking a card from the folds of his cloak and setting it on the table. Otogi looked at it suspiciously, before picking it up. The skull from the front door stared back at him. 'Everyone who looks too closely or too far from death does, eventually.'
'You think I'm one of those?' Otogi raised an eyebrow. He'd never given much thought to death…or to his life, apart from his gambling, traveling ways. That got him by, and that was all he really needed at his age. Or so he had thought; Pegasus when he'd played him first was the age he, Otogi, was now. In a few years things could change a lot.
'Perhaps.' But he did not sound unconfident, or uncertain. In fact, there was a knowing quality that would make a more superstitious man than him shiver. 'Don't lose that.' He nodded to the card. 'You'll need it to come back.'
'Sure.' But Otogi did not put the card away. Not then. 'What happens to Pegasus.'
'He's gone to the underworld,' was the reply. 'His body will be prepared for rite of passage.'
'Rite of passage?' Otogi shook his head. 'Some religious thing?' He glanced at those purple eyes, then away. 'Never mind; the less I know about this place, the better.'
The tan lips twisted into a smirk. 'I wouldn't worry about the outside world,' he said. 'The underworld is a topic that never sticks with them. Many people have departed from here before, and yet rumours are all that veil it.'
He pushed back his chair, but Otogi stopped him. 'There is one…thing,' he said.
'A room for the night?' But the tone was amused, as though he knew the answer, and the little game to come.
'Does your proprietor offer games?'
The smirk widened. 'I am the proprietor,' he said. 'And you are already playing my game. A game no-one yet has won.' The chair dragged back, like nails on a chalkboard, and Otogi gritted his teeth. The bartender – proprietor – pulled his hood up again. 'Good luck, Mr Ryuuji Otogi. Don't lose that card.'
He disappeared behind the bar, becoming that same shadowed presence Otogi had seen going in. But he hadn't been aware of those purple eyes then, the piercing eyes that followed him out until the door marred with the skull clanked shut behind him. Otogi breathed the cold evening air deeply and watched the streetlamps burst into pinpoints of light. Part of him felt like he was still in that tomblike place, even as the world moved on around him.
'Those who come look too close or too far to death,' he said to himself, staring at the card. 'I should just throw this out and live and die the way I want.'
But how did he want to die? He thought about his father then: the father that had taught him all about gaming, but for revenge. He'd tried that, and hated it – hated having to win every game even if he gained nothing of value from it, and feel his father's whip if he lost. He ran away from that eventually, cast his lot to the world. With nothing to lose and everything to gain, he found a place of his own in the gambling world, a place away from his father. But it was still nothing like the life Pegasus had lived, a life that had something he didn't want to lose. Nor was it like the life his father had wanted for him: to never lose at all.
He almost chuckled as he remembered the man his father had wanted revenge on. Mutou had been the name – like the kid from the Game Restaurant. He hadn't remembered that then, not when he'd been face to face with the kid who'd given his family name. He remembered it now though, remembered it staring at the skull: the mark of the Ghost Tavern.
He slipped the card into a pocket and trudged down the street. He wondered if he should drop by the Game Restaurant again but decided against it. Instead, he thought about what he could gain from his life.