Chapter Rating: T
Author's Note: Oh my God, okay. I'm seriously sorry for the delay. Wicked bad artist's block was agonizing, but I think I'm over it now.
I was also stuck in a rut with this story for a while. For some reason, I just found it so ridiculously hard to write the first half of the chapter with Malik (which is what I was trying to grind through that whole time), and yet I wrote all of Bakura's half in one sitting. Wtf.
Interaction scenes are so much easier, they just... Flow. I imagine once Bakura and Malik meet properly it'll be much easier to write, I mean the prologue only took a few hours to write in two sittings. Gah. Whatever.
Oh, also, I wanted to send thanks to my amazing reviewers, omfg I love you guys. I want all of your babies, you make me feel like I'm not a shitty neglectful author. This is for you, my beauties. *tear*
Malik sat silently on his window seat, eyes dull in contemplation. The boy was gazing longingly out the window of his lavish bedroom, down at the massive courtyard below it, his thoughts loud and intrusive as he examined the property from his post two stories above.
It was essentially a huge, cramped garden. Large, beautifully preened exotic plants from all ends of the world bloomed, splaying out and enveloping the area in all their wondrous glory. Every marvelous shade of green one can imagine graced their leaves, shimmering in the warm sunlight. The yard was also littered with statues of various Egyptian cats, painstakingly carved from orbicular granite, sitting proud and erect upon blocks of solid obsidian. They lined the expensive marble walkways that were swept and polished every day, and it all led to a giant, extravagant fountain in the middle of the courtyard. It's crystalline water towered nearly twenty feet in the air, sprouting forth from the end of a sceptre, clutched in the hand of the Goddess Ma'at. A sizable variety of flowers added a brilliant array of vibrant colors to the scene, and incredible ivy vines coated the thick, looming dry stone walls, built to completely block out the outside world from Malik's curious eyes.
Oh, how we wanted to go out and play.
Malik was very rarely allowed out of the house, and wasn't even allowed out of his bedroom unsupervised. He'd been into the beautiful courtyard but eight time in his eleven years of life. Usually on his Birthday, and only if he'd been "exceptionally good" that year. And once, when he was very young, he'd snuck out. He had been blessed with his mother's craftiness and resourcefulness, and it had paid off. After almost half an hour of dodging servants and hiding behind doors, he'd managed to make it out through a side door. He frolicked carelessly amongst the still life about him, and for once, he was truly happy.
However, he'd decided a few hours of fun amongst the tropical haven outside his window was not worth the weeks of punishment he'd have to endure afterwards.
He breathed dejectedly against the cool glass of the large window, placing a small hand against it as he watched a tiny white butterfly flap past. He'd never once been outside while it was sunny.
Malik eventually tore his gaze away from the garden, now convinced his father had given this room to tease him with the big window that so few rooms in the mansion had. He looked back down at the papers and textbooks surrounding him and let out a long-suffering sigh, before plopping down amongst them once more. Stupid tutor had left him with so much work today. It'd surely be impossible to finish it all before bed time! He picked up a pencil and twirled it between his fingers, resting his head in his hand as he watched it spin.
Ra, he was so bored!
Father's mean, Malik thought bitterly to himself. He didn't know much about other kids (as he'd never met anyone under the age of twenty) but he was certain other boys were allowed to go out and play, at the very least. He was also certain they had playmates and lots of toys and breaks from their schoolwork. He was certain of this because Odion had told him so, and Odion had been able to experience outside life before they'd taken him in.
Malik had a very large, very comfy, and very well furnished bedroom. However, it was clearly not designed for a child. He was allowed very few toys, as his father was convinced that if he had too many, it would distract from his schoolwork. And Malik had a lot of schoolwork.
A private tutor came once a day, (except on his Birthday) every day of the week, every week of the month, every month of the year. He liked his tutors, they'd tell him what it was like outside, and sometimes they'd bring him treats or small gifts if he was exceeding in his work.
His favorite tutor would bring him photographs whenever he did well. Photographs she'd take of whatever he'd ask. Photographs of lots of incredible things from outside, marvelous things, amazing things! Photo's of buildings and people and animals, all sorts of stuff he could only dream of seeing in person. He had a good sized collection of these pictures, and he hid them well behind the drawer of his desk. Because he knew that if father found them, he'd be punished.
He never understood why his father wanted so desperately to hide him away from the rest of the world. Even with his constant schooling, his thirst for knowledge could never seem to be quenched. He wanted more than anything in the world to get out of the mansion, past the stone barrier of the courtyard, across the hundreds of yards of lawn, over the fifteen foot tall fence that surrounded the property, down the five mile driveway, and at long last, into the city. He wanted to live! He wanted adventure, and he wanted companionship!
But alas, it was not to be. Father had once told him that when he died, Malik would take his place. He would inherit his fortune and the mansion, and all his other worldly possessions, and he had also said that by then, he'd understand why he was never allowed out.
But Malik very much doubted that! He knew the first thing he'd do when he inherited it all, was to at long last go outside!
He spent many more minutes fantasizing about what it was like outside his lonely little world, when he suddenly heard a knock on his door. He looked over his shoulder, surprised. He smiled when he saw the gentle, brotherly expression gracing Odion's tattooed face.
"Hello, Odion!" Malik chirped in greeting.
"Hello, master Malik," Odion replied, stepping in before quietly shutting the door behind him. He walked over to Malik's place on the floor under the window.
"Are you working hard?" the man questioned lightly, settling next to his adoptive brother.
Malik grumbled in reply. "I tried, got about half of it done, but it's so hard to pay attention sometimes."
Odion watched Malik quietly as the boy sprawled out on the soft cream-colored carpet, sighing restlessly. He closed his eyes to the work around him, content to just forget about it for a moment. The elder smiled sadly, poor child. Odion hadn't exactly had an amazing life, either, but he couldn't imagine what it must be like for him to have lived eleven years without ever leaving the property.
His eyes drifted down to the various textbooks littering the floor like garbage. It was like it was strangling Malik; suffocating him. Sucking out the tiny amount of joy left in him. It was painful to watch him develop in such a backward motion. Learning, but not learning at all.
It was pointless, really, and utterly despairing.
It was after several minutes of a thoughtful quiet that Odion spoke. "It must be tough for you, Malik... Most kids your age don't get half the schoolwork you do," he paused a moment, mulling over what he had said, before deciding to counterbalance his words. "Then again, they finish much, much later than you will."
Malik lifted his head a little, opening his eyes somewhat to gaze at his brother. "How much later... ?" He murmured in question.
"Oh, I believe most students finish high school around age eighteen. You'll be done by your thirteenth Birthday."
Malik sat himself upright, gazing fully at the other. "Really? They'd be grown ups by the time they're finished!"
Odion grinned at him, giving a curt nod. Malik was intrigued, this was good. "Then after that, they can go to college for a few more years. Then University after that. Depending on what they plan on doing with their careers, some people have to stay in school until their thirties.
"You see Malik, in a way, this is fortunet. Your father has no schooling planned for you after you're done high school, so you'll have all the free time in the world."
Malik's bright smile wavered slightly, before he dropped his head solemnly. Odion frowned as well, puzzled by this reaction. What had he said?
"But I have nothing to do with my free time, Odion," he murmured. "All I've ever done is schoolwork."
Odion blinked, thinking about this for a moment. Oh. Well, that makes sense.
He was rapt with his thoughts, had he not discussed Malik's oppression with their father recently? What had he said...
Odion perked up once he had remembered.
"Didn't your father say that you couldn't have any toys because they'd distract you from your work? If you were done, he wouldn't have to worry about that anymore."
Malik contemplated this, lifting his head again to meet Odion's stare. "Are you sure that's not just wishful thinking?" The boy muttered, though his tone was optimistic.
Odion laughed softly. "No. I'm not. But it seems logical, doesn't it?"
Malik's wide, toothy smile came back and he nodded. "It does!" Malik cast a quick glance at the window before looking back at Odion. "Think he'll let me go outside, too?"
As Odion's smile dropped, so did the hope in Malik's heart.
"Honestly Malik, I don't know."
Odion looked away, he couldn't bare the somber, faraway look in Malik's lilac eyes at this revelation.
But he couldn't lie to the child, either.
As much as he loved his brother, it was often difficult to speak to him, as there was little they could talk about that wouldn't tread emotional ground.
Malik nodded slightly, dropping his head again. He expected as much, but he couldn't help but be disappointed.
"Master Malik, I'm sorr-"
"Don't worry, Odion. It's not your fault." He picked up a pencil, his hand trembling a little. "Anyway, we don't know for sure. Father's unpredictable."
Odion could see the tears welling in Malik's eyes, and he already knew that Malik hated crying while others were around.
So, sensing that he needed some time on his own, Odion sat up onto his haunches.
"Well, I'd better go..."
The boy looked up at him after scribbling something down distractedly on one of the many papers around him. "Come back later?"
Odion stood up the rest of the way and nodded. "Of course. Try to stay happy, okay?"
Malik smiled, but said nothing more as the other left the room.
Alone.
Malik was almost always alone. His tutors were around for about four or five hours every day, and Odion brought him his meals and came to check on him periodically at his father's request, but other than that, he was completely and utterly alone.
Ishizu was under no restriction from their father, and was able to come and go as she pleased. However, she was not on good terms with the family for reasons that had never been explained to Malik, so she wasn't around very much. She always came and played with him when she did visit, doting upon him, making sure he was happy...
Malik loved his siblings dearly. They tried their best to lure him away from the depression that he was very gradually sinking into over the years.
How pathetic was it, that such a bright and promising child was becoming depressed? All children need to advance emotionally and ethically to keep a healthy mind. But Malik's mental development was in a rather extreme degree of neglect.
Malik knew this. He thought by knowing this that he could somehow avoid it. But he was wrong. His socially unstimulated mind was beginning to decay at the edges. He found himself occasionally having fantasies of his father dieing as his resentment for him grew.
Malik sat alone in his room for around ten hours every day, with only his imagination to keep him company.
He'd grown afraid of it.
He found himself thinking dark thoughts far too often for comfort, and he feared what lurked in his head.
Then again. It may not have been entirely his imagination. Memory could also be a contributing factor.
When he was merely two years old, he had witnessed his mother's death. Although, he was too young to remember the event, or what had happened. He often asked the few people in his life what had happened to her, but he never got a straight answer, if he was even graced with one at all. He found it incredibly frustrating. Not so much the loss of his mother as much as not having an explanation as to why. The lack of a potential companion was what upset him most. He was fully aware of his loneliness, and he was infuriated by it. Why should he have to be alone? What had he done to deserve such a miserable life?
Of course... That wasn't his only problem. He was unhealthy physically as well. Although it was obvious why he was so weak; lack of fresh air, sunlight, and exercise. He was heavily supplemented to make up for it, and cups of pills were brought up with his meals, but they didn't seem to be helping anymore.
Malik's descent was picking up in speed quite rapidly. During bouts of excessive, painful boredom, he'd occasionally find himself hitting himself against any solid surface. He'd hit his arms against his desk or windowsill, or bash his head against his walls or headboard. He became morbidly fascinated by the pain and bruising his actions caused, and it gave him something to dwell on for an hour or so. He was always careful as to not have his bruising somewhere obvious. He didn't want Odion worrying about him.
Besides, it's not like he was hurting anybody in the long run, right? The bruises were just on the surface. Right. They'll go away. They always go away. All of them.
Malik wondered if he was thinking about the bruises, or his family.
Bakura had thought this through.
He had looked at it from every angle, had taken it apart and put it back together more complete. He had spent weeks picking it apart and researching, days studying maps and blueprints of roads and escape routes, hours upon hours piecing together the plan to get in, even longer for the one to get out. Laying out plan Bs and Cs and Ds in case of potential failure. He spent three whole months polishing out every last little flaw in his grand scheme.
His gang had oh-so-conspicuously named it "Project Ishtar", but Bakura had a special name for it. It was his treasure; his masterpiece. It would be his greatest plot yet, and he refused to fail.
He had named it "Golden Sand".
Something seemingly insignificant can always hold value, was a lesson he was taught as a child, and it was a lesson he held close.
It was why he chose the name, that, and a short poem about greed.
"When mind and matter work as one,
Shifting sands turn to gold,
All things fixed will come undone,
The head grows dank and the heart grows cold."
It was the only other set of words that found themselves clinging to the recesses of Bakura's mind.
Sand, endless grains of rock and mineral, countless, and worthless.
But gold.
Gold was a mineral far fewer. Gold was where his money was made, where his food came from, what gave him life.
And Bakura knew that surely, gold was of no higher value than sand to the Ishtar's.
Or to any other gratuitously rich fuck, for that matter, completely undeserving of such wealth. While he sat in the slums with the other unfortunate losers who had nothing.
He had no idea where the assemblage of criminals he hesitantly called his brothers found out about the reclusive Egyptian family. He had no mind to ask, for it mattered little to him. This may have been his best work, but it was still only a job. He didn't have time for wasting sympathy on a family he didn't know.
All he needed to know about them was that they were obscenely filthy fucking rich, and that was good enough for Bakura. The others didn't think so, though.
It was insisted that if Bakura found out every other detail of their lives, than the people themselves needed to be researched as well.
He had begrudgingly accepted these terms, but it was only because his reputation within the restricting walls of the band was beginning to diminish with his inactivity. He cursed it. He brought in the most money of any other thief in the syndicate. He preferred to work himself senseless on one huge haul and then retire for months at a time, instead of constantly busying himself with many smaller jobs. Others had dared call this behaviour lazy of him, but he would always remind them how it really was.
It had always puzzled him why he didn't hold higher status.
He shrugged it off as he reclined against the new, but already hopelessly damaged leather couch. Laying amongst tares, stains, and cigarette burns, the seventeen year old fingered through a small pile of papers, carefully reading about the family members.
Information was gathered by lowers in his gang while he worked out his part of the scheme. The whole heist was going to be his doing as it was, why should he have to do extra work for something he thought unnecessary?
Seems there were three living family members.
There was a miscarriage, and the mother died a year or two later. Interesting.
There was a father, known for his temper and shady demeanor. He was the source of the money.
He made his fortune in business investments until he retired, built a fortress to raise his children, and was never seen in public again.
A daughter. Went through various private schools, colleges, and universities with straight As and honors, but never stayed in one school for more than a few months at a time. Was abruptly disowned by the father for unknown reasons.
An adopted son, only wound up with the family by means of convenience.
Apparently means little to the father, as he was written out of the family name.
And... A blood son.
Strange. So little is written here, Bakura thought offhandedly.
The albino sat up and rooted through the various stacks of paper on the table he had pulled over to the couch, assuming perhaps he had forgotten a page, but found nothing pertaining to further information on the child.
While the other three family members profiles were accompanied by a photograph, the child's was not.
He set the papers back down on the table and huffed in agitation.
"So much for being thorough, assholes."
"Who are ya talking to, dumbass?"
"The fuck do you care, Joey."
A tall blonde strode loftily into the room, a smirk set on his face beneath thick, untamed bangs.
He stood towering over the other thief's table unwelcomely, arms crossed and head held high in a condescending manner.
"Dey say talking to yerself is a sign of madness, ya know," the one named Joey remarked casually, dropping himself on the battered couch next to his companion.
"And who is 'dey', exactly?" Bakura retorted, shifting through the papers once more to keep himself occupied, not really having a real document to be looking for, anymore.
The other rolled his eyes and grumbled at Bakura's stab at his accent. "Dey are who make dat shit up. Anyway, I didn't actually come in here ta make fun of how crazy ya are, came in here ta tell ya dey want you to execute Project Ishtar tonight."
Bakura whirled to face the other teen, brown eyes widened and jaw slack. He furrowed his brows, incredulous to what the other had just said.
"What? You have to be shitting me! Do they want me killed or something? I need more time! A week! Two weeks!"
Joey chuckled lightly at Bakura's rare show of panic. Bakura was known for being eerily collected in his mannerisms, until he was angry or working. So it was odd to see the alarm on his face at the unexpected news.
"Baku', calm down. You've done a lot more in less time in da past. Dey already extended your planning duration like, eight ti-"
"Six," Bakura interrupted.
"-Six. Whatever. Look, dey don't think dis is as big of a deal as you do. Dey just want ya to get it over with already."
Bakura growled. Joey was smart enough to stay silent while Bakura fumed, adverting his gaze back to his research while he pondered the situation.
Did they not understand his passion for this project? This wasn't some light caper, this was the real deal! Surely they wanted him to do his best, bring back as much loot and make as much money as possible. Isn't that what they wanted? Or were they just doing this to upset him? Build him up and take him down. They didn't respect him!
Get it over with? Those fuckers...
But, they were his brothers, however fucking contemptuous they were.
Joey watched the other curiously, attempting to read his expression and failing miserably.
After some time, Bakura sighed loudly, before lifting his tired gaze to the other. Joey blinked at him, quirking a brow.
"Yeah, whatever. I think I have it down now, anyway."
Joey grinned brightly and jumped up. As he strolled over to the doorway, he spoke out in a loud and yet cursory manner so representory of himself.
"Great! I'll tell dem yer ready, den."
"Wait, I'm not ready yet-"
But the blonde was already gone.
Bakura slumped back down onto the couch, slapping his hands over his face. To be continued...
Why do I put up with this bullshit.