Previously, on Stars From the Gutter...
Quelle horreur! At the ceremonial parade held in honour of the Egyptian Ambassador and the High Priestess' arrival, a few more events take place than are necessarily planned. Atem, voluntary exile and brother to the boy King, conceals himself expertly in a nearby tree – a fact with which Ishizu and Mana are, for many reasons, perturbed to be confronted. Kaiba manages to catch a glimpse too; this does nothing for his mental wellbeing. Oh, and also, there are explosions. Our heroes manage to evade the blast in Kaiba's airship, where they learn that the perpetrators are Revealing Light, a revolutionary, egalitarian group that appears to be targeting the King. Our other heroes, Mana and Ishizu are driven rather unceremoniously back to their lodgings, where Mana explains why Atem is in England. Pharaoh Mahaado has a plan. A very good plan. Trouble is, it's ridiculous. He plans for Atem to return to England in a blaze of glory, persuade his brother to abdicate, and take over the Albion throne. Atem intends to do no such thing, even if Mahaado does want to be BFF rulers of empires together. Instead, he plans to do what he can to aid Yugi in conducting the treaty with Kemet – and, moreover, to offset the influence of his Regent, Mai Kujaku... Speaking of whom – Mai and Anzu are safely back at the Palace, and Anzu has more than a few misgivings. Chief among her qualms is the fact that she could have been shot today. Mai assures her that this could never, ever happen again, and they strike a deal: Mai will teach Anzu to be a Proper Lady (TM) in exchange for her company; after Anzu has been deemed sufficiently ladylike, she shall be recommended to a director or two. Which is all very well, but you guys have probably been wondering what the thieves have been up in the meantime...
xXx
The Diabound drifts serenely through the crystal skies above the placid Mediterranean Sea, edging its way through smooth, breezeless air, whilst the thieves within grow increasingly, unspeakably bored.
It started innocently enough. Marik briefly mentioned that they would be above water for a day, maybe two. Lessons continued, taking up most of Ryou's time. There was even one last stop at a port, though Ryou was informed in no uncertain terms that his debut into society would not take place in a windswept, mud baked town lodged in a dusty corner of the Tripolitanian coast, and was not permitted to leave the ship. Bakura and Marik had returned a few hours into his incarceration, burdened with heavy bags of supplies (though Ryou is still dubious as to whether yet another Persian rug for the living room could be counted as a necessity), and filled with untold enthusiasm for the coming trip.
They had neglected to mention, at the time, that the aforementioned journey was to take them several hundred miles to Italy. (Wherever Italy happened to be).
Ryou, having ascertained this through a long and meandering conversation with Bakura, then had the considerable pleasure of watching both him and Marik gnaw holes in the furniture as they sank to the dark, cold depths of unmitigated tedium. By the second day spent over endless ocean, lessons in thievery consisted of Marik spontaneously deciding that Ryou was not trying hard enough at learning the intricacies of unarmed combat, and then demonstrating each method by throwing him against walls and grinning madly at the resulting crash.
Honestly, Ryou thinks, his hosts could not be more childish if they tried.
Though perhaps mentioning this can wait until he is not likely to sustain grievous bodily harm for doing so.
It is with an acute sense of encroaching peril that Ryou comes to breakfast on the fourth morning to find his hosts silent and grinning, practically twitching with barely suppressed excitement. That Marik is deftly polishing a pair of revolvers does not particularly help matters.
"We," says Bakura, with an elegant flourish at nothing at all in particular, "are pirates."
Ryou contemplates backing out of the room. It would, perhaps, be the best means of preserving his last vestiges of sanity. On the other hand, one could quite easily argue that the damage has already been done – and more so.
With one last swipe, Marik finishes his task, closely inspecting the resultant sheen of the revolvers. Ryou has never seen a gun quite so close, and – not for the first time – he wonders why, of all people, this particular pair of gentlemen, so deadly and bright and eccentric, became his rescuers.
"We spotted a merchant ship," Marik explains, with barely suppressed glee. "Freedom from the endless monotony of the skies – at last - and a crimson dose of blood-soaked glory to boot!" Ryou notices that, as he speaks, Marik's eyes never drift from the guns, whose long barrels are pointed uncomfortably near to the direction of his nose.
"Breakfast, however, is served as usual. Do help yourself." Bakura laces his fingers beneath his chin, and simply observes. Ryou wonders if, in some vague sense, he is being tested.
Bakura rests two cutlasses next to the toast.
Ryou takes a breath, prepares himself, and sits down on an antique armchair. The fabric bunches uncomfortably as he shifts, attempting to maintain a nonchalant façade, whilst desperately hoping that he will be permitted to forgo involvement in whatever illicit activities have been planned for the morning. The meal continues in silence.
By his second fried egg, Ryou can bear it no longer. Bakura may be revelling in his confusion, and Marik may be too busy basking in the glow of his revolvers to notice, but Ryou is still rather hazy on the notion of piracy.
"I thought you were thieves," he says eventually.
If anything, this further compounds Bakura's amusement. Stretching laboriously, he cracks every knuckle in his hand before answering (Marik immediately glares at him for that, and Ryou assumes that it a recurrent issue of one of their habitual wars). "We are. Mostly. Think of it as a business venture into the world of temporary boarding and entering."
Marik elaborates without missing a beat. "Which is to say, we send up a distress signal, board the worryingly altruistic ship that comes to help, enter into the hold, take everything of value… and leave. Hopefully without undue commotion."
Ryou frowns. "That sounds surprisingly simple."
"That is because I neglected to mention the part where Bakura invariably alerts every member of the crew, most likely for amusement, and proceeds to display his awe inspiring swordsmanship through epic, if completely unnecessary, battles with the captain."
Ryou snorts into his toast.
Bakura shrugs. "The wretch sees no flaw in the plan, Marik, so I don't suppose you should, either."
Marik scowls. "The flaw is when you get captured, and I have to save you - despite the utter lack of gratitude you'll show afterwards."
Ryou would happily watch them banter for the rest of the morning, if not for one persistent doubt. "What will I do?"
He receives a joint blank look.
"I mean…" he gestures vaguely with his knife, and decides that picking up a trait so peculiar to the thieves is almost certainly a symptom of his descent into the vicious world of crime, opulence and swords at the breakfast table. "…It's always been the two of you. Won't I get in the way?"
Another look of incomprehension, quickly melting into the usual mixture of amusement and condescension.
"Wretch," Bakura intones seriously, "did you honestly believe that we would take you with us so early in your training?" Ryou blinks.
Marik finally sets down his revolvers, if only to deal the punch line. "Besides, what makes you think that we've ever done this before?"
Which is how, somewhere in the midst of the Mediterranean, Ryou finds himself in the control room of the Diabound - his only guide a brief and cryptic statement over Marik's shoulder about 'keeping her flying in a straight line… or something.'
xXx
Marik and Bakura pile into the miniature, two-seater airship stored in the Diabound – a battered contraption, perhaps not gray originally, but certainly gray now – and depart from the ship with only minimal fuss.
("Get your ass out of the front seat – I'm driving."
"No, Marik, I am. Get in the passenger seat like a good second-in-command."
"Bastard. You never let me drive."
"Marik, last time I let you fly the ship, people lost limbs. Some of them lost their sanity."
"You laughed at the time!"
"Out of the driver's seat. Now. No, don't pout."
"What, so not only don't I get control of the ship; now you have sole monopoly over my expressions, too?"
"Yes. It's distracting."
"Huh.")
Distraction. Feh. Isn't everything they doa distraction? This certainly qualifies, thinks Marik. A frivolous whim, born of unadulterated self-indulgence.
... Heh. They get to be pirates. He grins, readily, and a quick look aside proves that Bakura is unable to suppress one in response. Marik hums excitedly under his breath as they detach from their fastenings at the side of the ship, airborne.
"Is that a sea shanty you're humming?" asks Bakura, disbelievingly.
"Yes. Yes it is."
"Imbecile," he says, with a trace of fondness. After a few seconds, he is singing along.
Bakura steers the aircraft forwards, giving the Diabound a wide berth. "Target's up ahead," he says, with a cursory nod in the direction of the ship they intend to plunder. "Speck on the horizon right there."
"Uh-huh." Sure enough: a vaguely ship-shaped blemish adorns the distance; its envelope is vaguely discernable amidst trails of smoke. Judging by nothing in particular other than visual surmise, the craft looks to be larger than usual; a thoroughly good sign if Marik's admittedly average eyesight is to be believed. No use raiding a shabby old rustbucket. Thankfully, this target seems more or less rust-free.
They plunge through the air, skimming headlong through a thick, vaporous layer of cloud; keeping low makes sense, but Marik suspects Bakura's choice of path is more deliberate than that. They are virtually flying blindfold. This is most certainly a cheap thrill.
"You know," says Marik, conversationally, "it sort of helps to see where you're flying." He is confronted by a contemptuous glare. "Eyes on the sky, Bakura," he says, savouring the moral high ground for the fleeting second that it is in his control.
"We're lost and in distress," Bakura reminds him, teeth gritted. "I'm trying to look helpless. What better way to look helpless than incompetent flying?"
Well. That particular excuse seems suspiciously neat, but Marik lets it slide with little more than a sceptical sniff. At any rate, his partner angles the ship so that they emerge from the worst of the haze, allowing their surroundings to slide partially back into view. Including the target. Marik whistles, as they speed closer. "Better than I thought." The blimp is expensive – all elegant lines, reflective surfaces and a sleek, streamlined hull. Huge, too – a mobile home, like the Diabound in a fashion, though, if Marik is to be brutally honest, outwardly much more prepossessing. The conspicuous absence of equally conspicuous scarlet certainly helps. Bakura seems to detect this hint of disloyalty in Marik's face and scowls briefly. (Damn. How does he do that, anyway?)
"Send out the distress flare," Bakura orders as they approach.
Marik snorts, good-naturedly. "So now I'm deemed competent?"
"Tch. You get to play with fire, don't you? Why exactly are you complaining?"
"...True."
Bakura tosses him a match from his top pocket. Luckily, this airship does not stay aloft with the help of a gas envelope; instead, it is a steam-powered mechanism - an old KaibaCorp model. That said, it seems unlikely that Bakura would show any regard for the hazards of bringing highly volatile matches into contact with an equally flammable machine. He did, after all, apparently bring a box of matches on board the Diabound – a ship that is most definitely gas-powered. Marik debates the pros and cons of making a fuss about this laissez faire attitude to hypothetical explosions, but concludes that life is much too short to confront Bakura with every single one of his life-risking ventures, and why bother criticising just the one when there are plenty more to discover? Sometimes, you have to choose your battles carefully.
Instead, he lights the fuse of the flare - a puny thing, designed to exude bright red sparks; the universal pilots' symbol for distress – opens the ship's hatch and lets it soar. Fly, little firework – be free! Heh. He grins to himself, watching cheerfully as a fizzing burst of crimson fireflies permeate the sky.
Time to pray that the passengers aboard the ship are as gullible as they are rich. Or, at any rate, gullible enough. Reasonably foolhardy would be sufficient – and, to Marik's mind, this describes the majority of the law-abiding population.
Bakura decelerates, allowing their airship to drift. It occurs to Marik that they never took the time to settle for a believable story to feed to their 'rescuers'; the only discussion that might have approached planning for this venture ended in the careless decision to spin some story or other about an attack from savage flying sea turtles. (Which, depending on exactly how gullible these people are, might just suffice. In a pinch, at least.) Probably it is much easier just to improvise once they are picked up. Moreover, it is vital that Bakura be refused a chance to get a word in edgeways. There is something about him that is inherently untrustworthy, even to the oblivious observer. Undoubtedly he will sabotage even the most plausible of excuses; sadly, in light of this, flying sea turtles are looking increasingly untenable by the minute.
Slowly, almost grudgingly, the ship-mansion turns.
Success.
"So what's our story?" asks Marik, on the off-chance that Bakura has devised something brilliant in the past ten minutes.
"I'm all for Plan Sea Turtle," he shrugs.
"Ah. Wonderful."
They wait in relative content for the ship to approach. Which – albeit with irritating lack of haste - it does. Soon, they can see the pilot, a pleasant-looking, gray-haired, vaguely overweight man who casually signals for them to board. Unbelievable, but unmistakeable.
"Seriously?" says Marik, incredulous. "Just like that?"
"Gift horses, Marik," says Bakura, warningly.
"Idiotic expression," mutters Marik. "But fine – let's go."
The airship is duly steered into the open terminal.
Once the hatch is closed to the air, Bakura and Marik slide out of their seats and tumble through the door of the vehicle. Regaining composure with impressive speed, they straighten. Waiting to greet them stands a middle-aged woman – Albian, as far as Marik can tell – well-dressed, straight-backed and seemingly apprehensive.
Marik loses no time in stumbling forwards to wring her hands with exaggerated gratitude. "We're saved – the gods are merciful after all! Madam, your kindness is much appreciated. My name is Namu, and this is my partner, Baka. Our ship malfunctioned, suddenly, midair. No explanation; no trigger. Without your aid, we would have been doomed. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this display of generosity! All we ask is for help with repairs, and some food, if you could possibly spare it; we have been drifting without course or provision for days." He takes a chance and chooses to deliver this speech in eager Kemetic. Bakura gives a terse nod by way of punctuation.
Just as hoped for, the woman is overwhelmed, but not uncomprehending. She answers the torrent of thanks in a halting approximation of Marik's native tongue. "That will be no difficulty. We are about to take lunch, as it happens. My name is Dora Carraway. Come – I will introduce you to my family."
She leads; they follow; both of them have considerable trouble stifling their smirks. On the way through lavish passageways, Bakura manages to hiss: "You realise you've named me 'idiot' in Japanese?"
"Oh, I realise," Marik murmurs back, smugly. There follows what sounds like a subdued sort of growl from his companion.
They are ushered into a spacious kitchen and dining area, where a scattering of people sit: a stately looking man introduced as Charles Carraway, and a handful of assorted teenage sons and daughters, whose names Marik decides from the outset are completely irrelevant. The parents seem mildly irritated by their unsolicited company; the children overjoyed. Marik suspects that this unprecedented situation is the first lull in the tedium of their decorous, money-drenched existence that they have experienced in a considerable amount of time. Outwardly, he presents a veneer of humility and bashful charm - mostly in an attempt to offset the unimpressed aloofness that Bakura cannot seem to disguise, regardless of the company in which he finds himself. Meanwhile, he allows his gaze to surreptitiously skitter towards the doorway, in which he is certain resides a flicker of shadow - evidence to suggest another presence. Somewhat worrying, that. A soft nudge under the table demonstrates that Bakura is also aware of this.
They learn that the family has been vacationing abroad; now, they return to England. (Indeed, they return to England several valuables lighter, thinks Marik, wryly.) Dora Carraway turns out to be shy, submissive and tremulous; Charles a garrulous, conservative paterfamilias; the children uniformly flaxen-haired, softly spoken and wholly generic.
In truth, the plan had been to bring on the piracy once they were face to face with most of the passengers. However, an important consideration outweighs these somewhat haphazard schemes. Something that defies all prior preparation, ensnaring the hapless thieves in its illicit delights.
"Pass the veal," demands Bakura.
Lunch turns out to be unexpectedly good.
Throughout the meal, they exchange various glances, ranging from emphatic, to guilty, to resigned. Plunder can wait, reasons Marik. The promised lemon and raspberry sorbet, by contrast – certainly cannot.
In between bites, Bakura regales the children with assorted travellers' tales; currently he is relating what he claims to be a native Egyptian fable.
"Once upon a time, there was a... princess. No, don't groan; stories always have to begin with princesses. They have further to fall. Now, this particular princess was exceptionally rebellious, as I am reliably informed by many such tales that royalty is wont to be. Dancing at balls, engaging in diplomatic peace talks, throwing a coin to the odd beggar and various other princessley things... well, doing all of this bored her to tears. She felt confined within a pre-established role. In fact, she felt her whole life had been planned out ahead of her. And so, every evening when she could get away in time, she joined up to help a group of – elephant smugglers."
"Do they even have elephants in Egypt?" inquires one of the boys, awed.
"No," says Bakura, shortly, a little put out by the interruption. "That's why they have to import them."
"'S'true," Marik collaborates, briefly.
"And where there is demand... there is always a black market. Thus – elephant smugglers." The children seem relatively satisfied by this explanation. Bakura continues. "However, these were not ordinary elephant smugglers. No – their leader had great powers of heka."
Marik chokes irritably on his coffee. "Surely you mean alchemy, Baka?"
"No, my dear Namu – I'm sure I mean heka. Now, whether it was deliberate or whether it was accidental is of no consequence; the leader put a curse on the princess which meant she could never return home to her family at the palace. She was left to wander the streets of Cairo at night, unable to rejoin society; aware that she would be shunned by all should she seek human connection. However, she had her pride; she refused to return to the elephant smugglers for help. Instead, she packed up a few scant belongings and set off walking, journeying as far as her delicate feet would carry her. Yet, having lived in a palace all her life, her survival skills left something to be desired; indeed, they were quite lamentable. The first day, she tore her dress on various winding plants until it resembled ribbons. The second day, she was attacked by bandits and lost the few belongings she possessed. The third day, she found herself in a desert, bereft of food, water or hope."
"I think I remember this bit," muses Marik. "Isn't this the part where she meets the clown?"
"No," replies Bakura. With a dramatic flourish, he stands, allowing his coat to flare out (though not so far as to reveal the cutlasses stashed against its lining). "This is where she meets the demon." He claws at the air, fiercely.
"Oh," says Marik, calmly setting his cup down on its saucer. "My mistake."
"The demon had been wandering the desert in search of souls to steal and devour. He had already dispatched with the bandits. Now, he saw the princess, whose dust-streaked face formed an exquisite mask of terror." He pauses, melodramatically.
The children hold their breath.
"But," Marik supplies, helpfully, "despite his rather uncouth exterior, the demon was moved by the princess' outstanding beauty, still quite unmarred by the trials of her journey."
"That's not how I remember the story," grumbles Bakura.
"Maybe you just heard it wrong," says Marik, sweetly.
"Yes. Well. Anyway. The demon accordingly swept the princess up in his cloak, which was thick and black as the night, and acted as a prison from which she had no hope of escape. Rather than devouring her soul, he whisked her away to the underworld – where, no doubt, she was exposed to all manner of licentious debauchery. But the princess, despite it all, found that after a few months – she didn't mind. She didn't care that the demon was evil. She didn't care that he had murdered countless innocents. She didn't even mind that he had a nasty habit of leaving his dirty socks on the floor of the bedroom. She became reconciled to her new way of life. And thus, a transformation occurred: she became a demon herself. Evil is, after all, merely the opposite of good. In of itself, it has no steadfast definition. It is simply what good is not. And the princess could no longer be good – not when she had abandoned the structure of society, and of conventional morality. No. In abandoning that which is good – that is to say, that which is considered to be the norm – she became evil. There could be no return; she did not even desire to return. Instead, in time, she and the demon returned to the surface in search of souls with which to satiate their hellish appetites."
"And did she ever lift the curse?" enquires the smallest child, thumb poised earnestly against her bottom lip.
"Perhaps one day she will," says Bakura, enigmatically. "For now, she contents herself with wreaking havoc on earth. She may even visit you in your nightmares - so be careful; don't be fooled by her gentle guise. She's a monster through and through."
Marik glances up at him. "Through and through?" he asks, impishly.
"Yes. Utterly," says Bakura, deadpan.
Marik may be mistaken, but the children appear to be shivering somewhat.
Carraway is reading yesterday's newspaper – a little-known English broadsheet, The Portent. Marik, sensing a kindred spirit, attempts conversation. "Anything of interest in there?"
"I'll say," he replies, indignantly. "There was a terrorist attack on the Albian King. Anarchists, one assumes." He reasserts the paper with a contemptuous snap. "The temerity. To target Sophia's emissary!"
Marik's eyes widen. "An attack? What happened?" A slow, delighted smile spreads across his face. Sedition in England? Brilliant. Long time coming, in response to what borders on absolute monarchy. Finally they might follow the French precedent.
... Not that '89 ended altogether successfully for France. The motivations, at any rate, were pure. Initially. Yet now, as a moderate republic shakily recovering from its pretensions to empire, it is the closest Europe has to inspiration – not the least hope.
The momentary flare of anger fades from Carraway's face, and he is forced to reply: "Er, nothing much. Nobody was killed, least of all His Majesty. But not for lack of trying! Shots were fired; a bomb was set off... shocking that it should have been allowed to happen." His expression darkens. "Hanging's too good for those people."
Coolly, Marik sits back. "Well. I'd imagine once all leaders are up against the wall, and many more have gone to the guillotine, perhaps the King will judge that hanging is more than good enough for him." Smoothly, he folds his arms. Cue a pointed, challenging look – direct and obstinate. Somehow far too honest to blend successfully with the ruse.
Bakura's gleam of a grin is like sunlight on the edge of a knife, as Carraway splutters into his teacup.
"You are a republican, sir?" Carraway manages to choke out. Dora Carraway flinches, as though the word constitutes a pinprick.
"An egalitarian, sir," replies Marik. He smiles, pleasantly. "Much the same thing, only more so."
The Carraways exchange ill-disguised glances of concern. Clearly they are panicking as to exactly what kind of guests they have unwittingly invited over their threshold. Oh, they don't know the half of it.
Sensing his cue, Bakura rises from his seat. "And like all good egalitarians," he continues, revealing the twin cutlasses – flick – flick – two fluid motions of the wrist, and then both are at Charles Carraway's throat, "we are highly principled. Chiefly, we subscribe to one key tenet: the redistribution of wealth." His tongue clicks briefly against his teeth. "And we are always eager for a chance to put ideology into practice."
"In other words," says Marik, withdrawing his pistols whilst mourning his unfinished sorbet, "it would be advisable to provide us with all valuables on this ship. Money. Antiques." He nudges the edge of the gun at Dora's earlobe, from which hangs a crystal droplet. She whimpers. "Jewellery." He grants them a second of respite, absorbing the fraught silence. Then: "now, please."
Dora maybe makes a motion to comply, but neither thief could testify this for certain, as they are much too preoccupied with a blur of movement, a brute wrench of force, and the wholly unexpected experience of being flung across the room. For an instant, Marik sees stars, crashing to the corner of the kitchen. Then, he opens his eyes, staggers to his feet and sees two bodyguards, and Bakura huddled in the corner, in a similar state of incapacitation. The children huddle terrified at the table.
"Did you think," says Carraway, in a voice that trembles with outrage, "that my family and I would travel unprotected? The Carraways? Through skies infested with air-trash such as yourselves? I think not."
Both of the newcomers are bulky, fierce – but, mercifully, unarmed. Nevertheless. Ouch.
"The last thing I would do," Carraway continues to pontificate, "is fly without insurance against murderous thieves..."
Bakura chooses this moment to deliver a forceful upwards kick to the closest hired goon. Following suit, Marik aims a punch at the other; both withdraw for a moment, cursing. The thieves step away until they are back to back, shoulders lightly touching. Bakura leans over, cutlasses crossed at his chest in a makeshift shield. His eyes meet Marik's in a frisson of anticipation and an outbreak of mirrored grins. Muted noises from outside the room seem to signify the approach of more guards; damn, this family is paranoid and, on the whole, justifiably so.
"Ready?" trills Marik, happily.
"Heh," says his partner. "Ready."
xXx
Ryou stares hopelessly at the Diabound's control room. Gears, levers and elaborate maps – possibly decorative – line the walls, framing an expansive window, which seems to have been built solely to give the pilot an uninhibited view of their impending doom. Not the merest hint of a suggestion presents itself as to how Ryou might fly the ship. Which is why, after a fleeting moment of agony spent gazing in terror upon a steadily approaching cloud, Ryou promptly gives up, deciding that, should he put any effort into controlling the ship, the inevitable crash landing will occur sooner, rather than later.
Thus, he assumes that the Diabound will simply drift, should he make no attempt to steer it, and closes the control room door firmly, if gingerly, behind him.
In the ensuing hours, Ryou has no problem busying himself with chores. One of the first things he was taught to do, after pick-pocketing and causing grievous bodily harm, was to wash dishes, the thought process behind this being that it would relieve Marik of the duty, halving the amount of chipped crockery in the Diabound's cupboards. Ryou finds the task a little dull, but it is a small price to pay for a moment of solitude. The Diabound is small, and, though he has never had an overwhelming desire for it, privacy is severely lacking.
Yes, thinks Ryou, he will spend a nice, quiet day, alone aboard the Diabound, attempting not to think about encroaching fiery destruction.
After he makes sure that the plates are spotless, the floorboards are clean and the numerous books scattered waywardly about the ship are free of dust, Ryou finds himself at something of a loss. There is a pack of playing cards resting on the glass table in the living room, but Ryou only knows how to play a single game that calls for one person, and he has despised solitaire since Bakura first taught him how to play, if only because he is terrible at it. The books are still objects to clean, rather than pore over – the thieves treat them with an almost hallowed respect, short only of buying shelves, but Ryou is thoroughly illiterate. Even going out on the deck is fraught with danger: low hanging cloud is something that he has been advised to avoid at all costs, and he has no desire to learn why.
The door to Marik and Bakura's room seems curiously intriguing, largely due to the fact that Ryou knows, without having ever asked, that entering is strictly prohibited. Trespassing, he understands, is impolite at best. However, he does live with outlaws, and besides, it might be useful to know a little more about them…
Fortunately, his stomach elicits a growl of discontent before he can further debate breaking the unspoken rule of privacy, and Ryou turns away from the door and towards the kitchen, ignoring the tantalising allure of the unknown in favour of finding something edible. He sates his hunger with brown bread – plain, perhaps, but he is loathe to touch any of the other, more colourful foods available to him, given that he does not yet know whether Bakura and Marik include poisoning in their varied repertoire of crime. Having fed himself, he lapses back into boredom.
Now might be a pertinent time for the Diabound's imminent crash to take place.
Throwing himself onto a stern oak armchair, Ryou contemplates the kitchen. There is absolutely nothing for him to do. It sets his teeth on edge. Noticing that one leg of his seat is very slightly shorter than the others, he leans forwards – and back. The chair rocks. For a moment, this is the height of entertainment – better even than the dying house fly that has been throwing itself repeatedly against the kitchen window: his previous source of amusement.
He rocks again, throwing his body weight into the chair. If he scratches the floor, it will be the cause of much whining from his hosts, but it might at least be satisfying-
A streak of motion out of the corner of his eye, and Ryou is powerless to stop the clatter of several objects toppling from shelves, upset by his movement. Fortunately, nothing appears to be harmed, and Ryou hastily replaces the objects. The first is a heavy breadboard, which was balanced precariously close to Ryou's head. The second, a glossy tin painted with bright, incomprehensible words in Albian (upon opening it, he finds the last few dregs of some dried tea leaves – and, rather inexplicably, a large sapphire ring). The third and final object to fall, and by far the most intriguing, is a plain wooden box, a few hand spans across, and closed with a heavy gold clasp – though not locked.
Deciding that digging through whatever is stashed above the Diabound's stove is not a great invasion of anyone's privacy (and quite possibly a display of initiative, given his status as an apprentice of thievery), Ryou opens the lid. He is not sure what he expects. Miscellaneous kitchen utensils, perhaps, or an array of valuable foreign spices. At best, gold, or jewels: loot from some past venture, shoved haphazardly into a box in front of an array of jam jars in a vague attempt to make it appear less conspicuous.
Well, he is correct on one account: what he finds is definitely gold.
The two objects are polished to a heightened sheen; ripples of light pierce through the dim cast of the kitchen. They share the same lustre as every piece of gold littered about the Diabound, only curiously intensified: the heady gleam of conspicuous wealth. They are two necklaces, Ryou realises, but so heavy and elaborate that it was not immediately apparent. Something about them is infinitely fascinating. One is a perfect circle of metal, five sharpened pendants dangling dangerously from its edge, whilst the other is a Wedjat, elaborate and beautifully crafted. Not a single dent or blemish mars either surface.
If this is what he can find in the kitchen, Ryou hardly dares to think what other treasure might be hidden about the ship. Reluctantly, he closes the box, replacing it on its shelf next to the preserves. He will, he decides, ask Bakura and Marik about the necklaces. There has to be a story behind them, and Ryou intends to find out what it is, regardless of the fact that whatever inquiry he makes will invariably be warped beyond recognition, mocked, and then twisted into a political debate.
On second thoughts, he will wait a while before asking.
A loud crash shocks him from his reverie for the second time in one day – Ryou narrows his eyes. This particular noise sounds less like misplaced kitchen utensils and more like the return of the thieves. He pads into the hall to investigate.
"I got a gal acrosh the shea, she's an Albon- Alban- Whashamajiggy beauty an' she shays to me…"
Ryou blinks. "You're late," he says, after a moment.
Marik and Bakura are grinning. They have been highly successful – that much is alarmingly evident. Marik is carrying a small sack, the dull brown cloth offset by a gold chain dangling casually from within. Both thieves are decked in jewels, wrists jangling with delicate silver, throats glistening with every imaginable shade of gold. A pair of purple stones hang at Bakura's ears, and Ryou thinks absently that they go nicely with his hair, before returning to his initial observations: that the thieves are streaked with blood.
"You're getting the wordsh wrong," says Bakura, shaking his head pointedly. "It doeshn't go like that. You heard the- the- the posh version."
They are also, against all odds, drunk. Exceedingly so. Ryou briefly considers that there might be a rational way for Bakura and Marik to have spent an entire day on board the ship they ransacked, managed to consume copious amounts of alcohol, rob the occupants blind and come back bleeding from a dozen minor injuries. Presumably in that order. Then he dismisses the notion on the grounds that injecting sense into proceedings such as these amounts to flawed methodology from the outset.
He thinks, somewhat abstractedly, that drunkenness is rarely this incomprehensible.
He then realises that approximately half of all of this has been cultivated for the purposes of show.
"Now wonsh I had a gal, an' her head – hair, it'sh hair not head, hah, or it doeshn't rhyme, see? Her hair wash red! Hah, it'sh funny, Marik, 'caush your hair'sh all gold an' mine'sh all whi- gre- it'sh all a shtupid colour…"
Sea shanties, Ryou realises, are dangerous things.
"'Twash curly all over exshept for her head… hah, hah, and that'sh funny becaush-"
Ryou intervenes. "I didn't know how to steer the ship, so I just left it. I was hoping that you wouldn't mind."
Bakura turns to stare at him - with disconcerting speed, given his current inability to pronounce 's's. He cocks his head to the side, as though trying to remember something, lapsing into silence.
"It runsh better when we don't do anything," says Marik, blithely, before collapsing against the wall of the ship in uncontrollable giggles. "Or – heh, heh heh – when you kick the control panel. Righ', Bakura, righ'?" Gasping for breath, he dumps his stash of stolen goods on the floor, stumbling towards the chaise longue. Ryou is torn between following in order to save him from breaking his neck, and staying to snap Bakura out of the stupor into which he has fallen, which seems to be some form of bizarre staring competition with the ship's back wall.
In the end, he compromises, and, dragging Bakura with him, manages to settle both thieves on the chaise longue. Hopefully, they will pass out quietly, and Ryou will not have to deal with more gleefully exaggerated drunken antics than necessary. Gently, he detaches Bakura's clawlike grip on his arm, and takes a few steps back.
He is fixed with two dejected looks of unmitigated sorrow.
"You're…" Marik looks, for all the world, like a child who has been told that their favourite toy is broken. "…going?" If, of course, that child was slightly cross eyed.
"They always do," says Bakura, with remarkable lucidity, before throwing one arm over the back of the sofa, burrowing his head in the upholstery, and collapsing into what appears to be sleep. Sleep, or catatonia.
Marik pouts. "Shtay," he commands regally.
Against all his better judgement, Ryou sits himself between the thieves. Marik glows with happiness. Bakura promptly starts snoring, before rearranging himself so that his head is on Ryou's lap. Ryou hopes that neither have lost too much blood, and wonders where Marik's pistols went. He has no doubt that Bakura has somehow managed to hide his cutlasses in his coat, improbable as the action might be for anyone else.
"Mm. I knew we kept you for a reason." Marik rests his chin on Ryou's shoulder, each breath sending a flicker of warmth into his ear. "You're a good cushion."
"Well," says Ryou, pondering this, "at least I'm not a demon."
"No!" cries Marik, and Ryou jumps, wincing at the noise. Bakura mumbles something and wraps a lopsided arm around his shoulder, before seeming to find this too much effort, and allowing it to fall back by his side. "No," Marik amends, more quietly, face contorted in thought, "you are not a cushion."
"Oh," says Ryou, interested. "Am I not?"
"No," says Marik, speaking more quickly, "you are not, becaush… becaush…" he waves one arm in the air, as though this might illustrate his point. Ryou gives him a blank look. "Becaush you are a human being!"
Bakura makes a sound of unease, and Ryou drapes an arm on his shoulder, figuring that the thief cannot hold the display of indignity against him whilst asleep. Marik does not notice, which is good, because it might result in mockery, if Ryou has learnt a thing about his hosts since arriving on the Diabound.
"Human beings have rightsh," Marik says, seeming incredibly excited about the idea. "Cushions don't. And you don't even know it yet becaush you're ignorant." His expression melts into distress, and Ryou gets the strange feeling that he is being condescending. "Not stupid, though. That remainsh to be seen." Marik leans closer, as though imparting a great secret. Ryou holds his breath. "Demon-cushion-person, I don't think you're stupid. I think you're really smart, becaush, becaush…" Halfway through this admission, he seems to lose focus and falter. The resultant concern dissipates almost as soon as it blossoms. He closes his eyes, content.
Ryou waits for a reason, but it does not appear to be forthcoming. Bakura yawns, breaking from sleep for a moment (given the amount of noise Marik has made, Ryou feels that this is hardly unjustifiable). "I'm all bloody." He wrinkles his nose. Ryou prays that he does not notice that his arm is around him. There is only so much biting sarcasm he can handle in one day.
"It's your fault," says Marik, without opening his eyes. "You're so melodramatatatic. Stabbing people and stuff."
"You stabbed someone?" Ryou asks, in mild alarm. He wonders why it had not occurred to him that some of the blood might not be the thieves' own.
"No," spits Bakura. "Damned kneecaps." He slumps before Ryou can question him further.
"He's annoyed because I don't let him murder people," chimes Marik, and Ryou looks at him quizzically. "He was in a big, epic battle with a guard person, and I shot him in the kneecaps." A pause. "The guard, not Bakura."
"I gathered," Ryou admits.
"'M going to sleep now," Marik informs him. "Don't move." Sighing quietly, he snuggles his nose into Ryou's hair. Bakura is motionless. Ryou gives it until Marik begins drooling, and gingerly wriggles out of his position. He will not spend the rest of the night on the chaise longue. Perhaps Bakura and Marik are willing to do so, but they have the excuse of being exceptionally inebriated.
As he edges towards his room, Marik calls out, and for a moment, he suspects that he has been caught, but a glance back reveals that the thief is wholly unaware his absence. Indeed, he is conversing quite earnestly with the air.
"D'you ever think life is like… it's like… like…" An incomprehensible mumble, and then: "D'you ever get lonely, Ryou?" Ryou feels inexplicably guilty, but continues his progress. There is only one floorboard that might creak loud enough to wake Bakura, and he is almost sure that he has passed it. Meanwhile, Marik seems adequately absorbed by his phantom conversation to take no notice of Ryou's departure.
"…No… You wouldn't."
Foot meeting the threshold, he throws himself behind his door. Ryou has no energy left to deal with Marik and Bakura tonight. He is sure that they will be perfectly peaceful, collapsed like toddlers amongst their stolen, golden playthings. He cannot quite bring himself to forget the ease with which they would throw themselves over him and confess their insecurities, but he does have some semblance of tact. Tomorrow, he will allow them their usual sardonic demeanours – and, in all likelihood, will feel as intimidated by them as he always has.
Odd, that he cannot think of anything that he would enjoy more.
xXx
Extra Notes:
- Yep, this world does contain heavier-than-air travel, but only in the smallest of airships. The main mode of travel is gas-propelled envelope... hence Marik's (slight) trepidation at the prospect of fire on board the Diabound...
- Hands up if you spotted the veiled Kuroshitsuji reference!
- In answer to a review from Admireree: Ryou is actually eighteen in this – the same age as Yugi and Anzu. Bakura and Mai are twenty four; Marik, twenty two; Kaiba and Atem twenty; Mokuba eleven. The young vibe could be Ryou's lack of experience and general bemusement at his situation - or possibly because Aluminium, who has primary veto over his characterisation, tends to specialise in childlike characters.
