Previously, on Stars From the Gutter...
Ryou goes all introspective on the raindrops, manages to put his foot in his mouth, and is fondly yet resoundingly mocked for it. Mana and Ishizu head off to the first round of diplomatic talks with Atem in tow. Ishizu and Mai engage in an antagonistic political face-off with regards to the treatment of Kemetic citizens in Albion territory, ending in a fraught stalemate. Anzu, Jonouchi and Honda eavesdrop on the meeting; Yugi exits, somewhat tearstained. They head to their favourite haunt in the palace gardens. Here, Yugi's anguish at Mai's gung-ho approach to foreign policy becomes apparent; Anzu resolves to go speak to her mentor on the issue. Yugi discovers a basket in the roots of the tree containing sweets and an anonymous note. Anzu confronts Mai and ends up with a mouthful of marbles for her troubles. We conclude with a focus on all our major characters at midnight, each experiencing their own different turning point. Which brings us to the next morning...
xXx
All is ill at ease at one half of the quasi-royal breakfast table. Specifically, the side of genuine quasi-royalty. Anzu, the other half, seems considerably more relaxed. The first incidence of toast and tea with the King's Regent has solidified into something resembling comfortable routine. Yugi and Jonouchi – and now that new guard, Honda, who seemed to simply appear one moment and never leave, with little prompting from anyone as far as Mai can gather – leave early more often than not. They depart with haste, grabbing a fistful of bread rolls, or the odd bunch of grapes, and propelling themselves outdoors at what Mai, an inveterately late riser, deems the first flush of dawn (what others, more reasonably, might term 5-6:00am). So company is often curtailed to encompass just the two of them; Anzu's dainty cup of Earl Gray shadowed by Mai's black coffee at a prim little table cloaked in silken white cloth. Anzu once remarked that the room resembles an incredibly fancy teashop for two, complete with quaint lace hangings and unusually shaped teapots adorning the window sill. Mai was laughingly inclined to agree, indicating that the palace holds the most charming scenes from all aspects of interior life, and the gardens the exterior; in short, why ever venture outside the gates?
Anzu simply giggled at the time, with the ease of one who could not imagine taking the suggestion seriously. Lucky for some.
Today, Mai is nowhere near so sanguine. In fact, she is currently face to face with an uncomfortable reminder in bold, slightly smudged newsprint of how boundaries yield to all forms of unpleasantness once quitted. With a thwarted snap, she folds the newspaper in two, obscuring a front page most offensive to the eyes.
Anzu looks up around the rim of her teacup, questioningly. How very pert. Yes, she has a very charming kind of pertness.
"Too annoyed to explain," mutters Mai; even to her own ears, it rings a little sullen, a little childish. "Damn Otogi," she adds, dimly aware that such an enigmatic little outburst will only serve to heighten the girl's curiosity.
With a fluttering sigh, she pushes the paper over to Anzu. Inquisitively, Anzu unfolds it (with a little roll of the eyes at Mai's unnecessary melodrama) to peer at the headline. 'NOBLES ATTACKED BY ITINERANT THIEVES'.
"Huh," she says. Blunt, expressive and straight to the point, one must admit; both the headline and the response.
"My thoughts exactly," agrees Mai, darkly.
"Who is Otogi?" inquires Anzu.
"A Goddess-damned, incompetent layabout who can't stay on the job without letting slips like this occur," replies Mai, promptly. Then, after a reprimanding look from Anzu, she elaborates."A bounty hunter. I sent him to catch these people – not to allow them to attack Albians! I was told he was the best. By people other than him, even. He's never failed before. Never been clumsy. He's always been reliable-to-middling. These things are a game to him, and if there's one thing he's serious about, it's games."
Anzu blinks, half-comprehendingly. Then, with one of those unexpected flashes of perception that she so often displays: "Maybe he's found a more interesting game?"
Oh hell. Another extraordinary thing about those precise little sparks of insight: quite often, they are unnervingly correct. Mai feels a headache begin to scrabble at her temples. Foreign policy. So dreadfully hazardous to the health.
xXx
Three o'clock, and Mokuba is finishing his lesson work; his brother makes for an exacting tutor, and punctuality is his most prominent demand. Sheets of formulae litter the desk of his and Kaiba's shared study, a place decorated in solemn mahogany, reserved for algebra and airship blueprints. They have spent many an afternoon here, engrossed in their work, and today is no exception: Kaiba idly watches his brother complete a particularly difficult problem with a flick of his pen, absorbed in thought.
A brief knock at the door causes them both to glance up in irritation. "Come in," says Kaiba curtly, motioning with one hand for Mokuba to continue writing.
Kumo enters. Kaiba is sure that Kumo knows his employer well enough to interrupt him with only the most serious news when he is in the study with Mokuba. Indeed, Kumo appears somewhat apprehensive, taking his time to speak – which only compounds Kaiba's exasperation. "Mr Kaiba. The Duke of Wellington is here to see you."
At this, Mokuba gingerly places down his pen. He shoots Kaiba a meaningful look, who merely shrugs in response. "See him in. Tell him that I will be with him immediately."
As soon as Kumo leaves, Kaiba turns. "Well, Mokuba?"
"The Duke of Wellington-" Mokuba sputters, "that's Pegasus!"
"Yes," says Kaiba wryly, "I am well aware."
"He's the one who hired the cab driver to murder us, Seto. You mustn't see him. He wants you dead!"
A raised eyebrow at his earnestness. "That may well be." Kaiba stands, inspecting his shirt for nonexistent ink blemishes. "However, I can hardly keep a guest waiting. Besides, he merely wished to give us a message. I am sure that he is visiting to elaborate on the matter."
Leaving Mokuba bereft of coherence, he steps out. The hall is dark and foreboding, and he pays its shadows no heed, stepping lightly down the staircase.
He finds Maximilien Pegasus, Duke of Wellington, reclining upon a sofa in his living room. Kaiba briefly considers the cost required to have the thing incinerated once his visitor has left, but decides that, on the whole, his dislike of the Duke is not nearly as important as his fondness for his hand sprung, birch framed furniture, and dismisses the notion.
"Good afternoon, Your Grace," he greets Pegasus, crisply enunciating the title with the necessary undertone of derision. He takes a seat across the table, adding as an afterthought, "I was not expecting your arrival."
Pegasus laughs, throaty and good natured, and it sets Kaiba's teeth on edge. "Oh, I was in the neighbourhood. Surely the presence of a fellow creative type is a gift, to one as… talented as yourself?" The pause is perfectly audible.
"Indeed," Kaiba replies cordially, "your drawing was most creative. It is to be a great inspiration for all the novelists of our time."
Pegasus' smile merely widens. "Novelists? Why, Mr Giffard was far more complementary when I approached him with my designs. I am shocked by your lack of faith, Mr Kaiba."
Kaiba's immediate retort is stifled as Kumo enters with sandwiches and tea, and for a moment, all is calm once more, with the Duke and the engineer daintily sipping at their respective beverages. Kaiba, leaning back in his chair, considers the leaves in the base of his cup. If anyone would develop Pegasus' fanciful designs, it would be Kaiba's greatest rival: Henri Giffard. The man is old, and his ideas in the field will be outdated within the year, if Kaiba has his way. Besides, he is French.
"Giffard wishes to present my designs to London's university in three months time."
Kaiba gently replaces his teacup on its saucer.
"It seems hasty, I know," continues Pegasus, "but this airship would be revolutionary. It would bring boundless changes to the field." He inspects a cucumber sandwich, before peering at Kaiba innocently through his eyelashes. "Yet, I feel a strange sense of déjà vu, saying all this. It seems I've heard it before – though, last time, the promises felt rather empty. Where was it…?"
Kaiba schools his expression. Again he must think of the furniture – blood would be so unsightly.
Pegasus answers his own question with contemptuous glee. "I recall it being in the Crystal Palace. Was the KC-01 not designed to 'open the gates to a new age'? A cheap engine built to accommodate only Kaiba Corporation airship models, using a new alloy to prevent overreliance on increasingly costly reserves of aluminium. A good idea, certainly – and little else. Is the great Seto Kaiba all talk? When Giffard presents my ship, this is certainly a question people will be asking themselves."
Taking a bite of his own sandwich, Kaiba considers. The cucumber seems bitter. Perhaps it is out of season. As is the Duke, in terms of his position with regards to the current monarch's favour. Presumably, this is the cause of Pegasus' paltry threats. "I suppose you want something in return for my co-operation."
"Quite possibly," replies Pegasus, his tone enigmatic.
"I have no time for games, Your Grace."
"And nor do I." Pegasus picks up a second sandwich. "These are delightful, by the way. You treat your guests so well!" He titters, happily.
Kaiba does not sink to giving him a dark look, but rather, remains forcible impassive. "I try. Returning to the matter at hand-"
"I say! Is this sofa birch framed? Such nice fabric, too…"
Impossible. The man is diverting the conversation. With domestic trivialities, of all things. Kaiba would laugh, but he is afraid that, should he fail to keep his face expressionless, he would be more likely to retch.
Within the next twenty seconds, he comes to realise that he has lost their battle. He cannot pry another word from the Duke about any matters pertaining to airships, Giffard or, indeed, death threats. He sees the man out as soon as possible, after the minimum number of polite inanities needed to constitute a conversation have passed.
Then he returns to his brother, whom he has so rudely kept waiting. He far prefers correcting Mokuba's imperfect understanding of mathematics to regaling him with the longwinded and altogether pointless tale of his and Pegasus' conversation, so he allows the matter to rest, and Mokuba does not pursue it.
The rest of Kaiba's afternoon is spent in quiet contemplation. He must, he recalls, consider himself fully booked in the coming April. There are battles that remain to be planned for.
xXx
The continuous stream of chatter fades to an unintelligible trickle, as Atem allows his attention to drift. The second round of diplomatic talks has run along relatively smooth lines thus far. Between the formidable Ishizu and the poisonous Lady Kujaku, there has been no more than the usual chary antagonism. He blots out all sound, for consideration of Yugi's face consumes his senses. His brother is lost, gaze cast miserably down to the tips of his fingers – and yet, he concentrates, for he twitches at every sentence. Atem shifts uncomfortably, pulling his voluminous hood further about his face.
The background hum gains a sharper edge, and Atem snaps back to attention.
"It appears we are here under false pretences," says Ishizu. Glacial, her voice. "The Kemetic consul were under the impression that this trip was to bring about peace. Instead, somewhat inexplicably, we find ourselves preparing for war."
Atem blinks back into focus. What did she say? Tell me it isn't all going sour just two days in; tell me it isn't falling apart so soon...
Mai tuts, softly, amidst frantic murmurs from either side of the conference table. "I merely bring up the suggestion –" she begins, her tone sheathed with conciliation, but audibly impatient.
Yet a surge of rage seems to have eradicated all Ishizu was ever taught about etiquette, for her interruption is prompt and furious. "Egypt will not function as Britain's imperial lackey!" she snaps. "Whatever bout of adventurism you have planned in South America is none of Kemet's concern."
Ah. South America. A touchy subject, to say the least. And hardly conducive to amicable peace arrangements.
Why exactly has Mai Kujaku introduced the issue of Kemet and Albion's greatest rival?
In truth, the term 'rival' singular is inaccurate; the region consists of various disparate states, all under the command of separate governments. Many of whom, following the French experiment, incorporate varying elements of democracy. Moreover, though North America remains a colony of Albion (safely flourishing under the wing of imperial power for decades, following a short-lived, unsuccessful revolt in 1776) South America is staunchly independent. Independent, albeit fragmented – and yet, for the past decade, the prospect of unification has shadowed all imperial discourse with the dark cast of imminent threat.
If Atem is not very much mistaken, Mai has given voice to this tacit concern. Given voice – and more, judging by the tremor in Ishizu's voice.
"This is not and will never be a military alliance," says Ishizu, measured and firm. Yet such control can do little to erase the stain of her previous outburst.
With all those flares they have pelted at each others' defences, it is little wonder that one of them should break. In an atmosphere too tense for calm to be perpetuated, ineluctably one of them would choke. Atem had simply wished it would not be Ishizu.
Well – and what if the opening gambit is lost? That says nothing with regards to the outcome of the final battle.
Ignore Mai's predatory smile – shamelessly unconcealed.
Please say something, Yugi. Please speak.
(Vain hope; no response.)
"You misunderstand my intentions," says Mai. "I only wished to introduce the possibility of a defensive alliance. Should South America become a menace, we shall support one another in combat. That is all. Albion does not plan to be the aggressor – and nor, I imagine, does Kemet. Yet, if external forces dictate that we should find ourselves at war with a third party... I believe it would be in our best interests to protect each other."
Ishizu looks sharply away, for all of a split second – and Atem can translate her expression with alarming ease. If you find yourselves at war... Albion can go rot for all I care.
She does not say as much; for which Atem is thankful. She settles for a terse, scarcely audible reply: "You overstep the mark, Your Highness."
"I believe that to be a contradiction in terms," is Mai's smug reply. "There is no mark to overstep. No boundaries to any achievement."
"Indeed," says Ishizu, gripping the edge of the table with venom. "Boundaries are there to be scorned; that is your philosophy. Both political, and... personal."
Incomprehensible and vague as the statement is, it seems to achieve the desired effect. Mai drops the topic like a startled cat, and the discourse drifts elsewhere.
xXx
Leaning over the escritoire, Ishizu dawdles over her letter, methodically chewing the edge of the quill. She lets the ink drip in particles to stain the blotter with esoteric, irregular patterns. Damned if she knows how to report to Mahaado. How to condense the events of the past week and leave the truth, if not intact, then at least virtually unscathed? How to quell the potentially incendiary?
In other words, how best to lie, effectively and unobtrusively?
Normally, this would lie firmly within her area of expertise. Tonight – some kind of block has struck.
Possibly she simply has too many separate strands of thought, all jostling for consideration in the back of her mind. (Determinedly, she forces them back down, to no avail.) Tonight at dinner, for instance, when Atem disappeared on one of his lovely evening ramblings, ostensibly touring the more murderous of London's alleyways. Mana tapped, birdlike, at her fragile teacup, before saying: I don't know where you've been going every night, but whatever it is, be careful - agreed? I'll only play deaf and dumb as long as I know you're safe.
To which Ishizu replied: I'm hardly about to plunge voluntarily into peril.
I'm assuming I shouldn't even bother to get you to tell me what it is you're doing? Asking for a hint would be silly, right?
Family matters, is all.
Or perhaps it is yesterday's one-to-one interview with Lady Kujaku that ushers out all other considerations. Certainly she is playing an increasingly reckless hand – and yet, if properly exploited, potentially rewarding. Little to fret over; everything to gain, Ishizu assures herself.
A trickle of breeze creeps through the crack of an open window, allowing the unwritten letter to flutter, as though feebly intent on escape.
Nothing to be done; she will report tomorrow once her head clears. Tonight – it spins at too great a velocity to control.
xXx
The sun sets over Rome's intricate streets, casting filigree buildings in swathes of gold that shimmer amidst a fleecy net of gray, threatening storm. Gold, and black, and something incommensurably spectacular, thinks Marik – something that seems to spell enticing disaster. A scene whose majesty rivals that of Egypt, for certain – but unmistakeably a nation under Kemetic dominion. None of that staid Albian glamour here; rather something exotic, untamed. He loves the very idea of this city. Its reality even more so.
The Diabound makes its jerky, haphazard way to comparatively clear ground. Marik expected nothing better, given who happens to be steering ("Freeze, brat. Don't let me catch you anywhere near the control room, else we'll end up face first in the fucking Colosseum.") – Bakura's self-professed navigational skills are greatly exaggerated. Marik makes no hesitation in yelling something to that effect from the confines of the living room (an area that Bakura deemed a 'safe distance' from all things technological). He is answered by something irate, incoherent and most likely irrelevant.
Chuckling, he moves over to where Ryou stands, transfixed by the view from the window.
"It's all so... glossy," marvels the boy – amusingly rapt. "Glistening. Like someone emptied a flare out onto the streets."
Intriguing imagery that, if not quite internally coherent. Marik slings an arm about Ryou's shoulders. "Tonight's just a glimpse. A sedate stroll down starlit streets – then back to the Diabound for some rest. We'll sightsee properly tomorrow morning."
Ryou pouts, to rather disconcerting effect. "Can't we stay at an inn, or a hotel? I want to be in the city properly tonight!"
Marik laughs, teasing his fingers through Ryou's fine, baby-thin hair. "S'cheaper this way," he says, brushing off the demand with equal ease.
In return, he is greeted with a sceptical look. Really, those newfound expressions! Though, in all fairness, the excuse was a far cry from convincing; Bakura and Marik live like emperors – and, for the most part, consider any expense spared to be a colossal waste of resources. Ah, but the demon child shall have to be satisfied with the illogical reasoning for the moment – stubborn as he is. Marik is hardly going to supply him with anything more.
And aside from one eyebrow, pointedly lifted, Ryou makes no further remark on the matter. Instead, he ventures: "A 'stroll down starlit streets' wouldn't happen to involve moderate acts of thievery, would it?"
"Indeed it would," confirms Marik, teeth a-glitter in an anticipatory grin.
"We're certainly dressed for the occasion," says Ryou, smiling back.
Following the principle that they prefer to be strangers in a strange land wherever they happen to wander, Bakura and Marik decided unanimously that they would be Albian for tonight. Hence, it is to be a veritable extravaganza of trim, claret-coloured overcoats that veer inward and outward in a pattern both sharp and sleek; silky gushes of cravats, tied immaculately – if somewhat anachronistically - a la Beau Brummel; velvet waistcoats cinched tight as any lady's corset; and, naturally, the indispensable addition of cloak and cane, introducing that obligatory spark of flair to any ensemble.
Marik has always enjoyed the occasions in which he can be Albian.
"You've forgotten your hat," he reprimands, pedantically. With obedient haste, Ryou disentangles himself and runs to fetch it from where it hangs on a bright yellow stand near the doorway. "And remember – in Albion, they call it the dishonest appropriation of property belonging to another."
There is a long, jolting clatter as the Diabound plunges to earth. Ryou's hat, precariously balanced, topples from his head. Marik stumbles a little, catching hold of an armchair for stability.
Bakura emerges from the control room in a faint haze of dust. "With the intention to permanently deprive," he adds, tweaking at Marik's lapels, which seem to have come askew. "We've landed," he adds, somewhat superfluously.
"You know, I always forget that part," muses Marik, brushing Bakura's hands aside with impatience.
"I know," says Bakura, flatly. "As soon as we take something, you're downright adamant that we give it away."
"Some would call it philanthropy," says Marik, with a touch of mischief.
"And others would call it a damned nuisance," is the prompt reply. "What's in an epithet? Now let's move. We mustn't deprive the brat of his first glance at the city."
xXx
The next few days pass in a happy, Italian blur. Ryou finds that the agonising pick-pocketing lessons were not wasted – for, though acquired through a somewhat painful process, they have proved invaluable. Wandering amidst the thronging crowds near every major landmark, he has encountered plenty of opportunities to practice. His thieves comment quite ungenerously on the general lack of perspicacity shown by your average aimless tourist, and the probable correlation between this factor and his increased success; this, however does nothing to dull the shine of his happiness.
Here, the very air tastes of olives. It is garnished with a tangy sort of zest, and served up to the palate with that warm exuberance which permeates all aspects of the city. The smooth cobbles and buildings are glossed with a sheen reminiscent of liquid sun, or melted butter – here the luminescent twines bizarrely with the culinary - and Ryou frequently feels that he is drowning in it all. Nonetheless. It is a pleasant, airy sort of drowning, and he finds he is quite enamoured with the experience in general. Floating. It is rather like floating. Perhaps he is floating, after all. He has never been outside of a small, concentrated network of dilapidated streets in Alexandria. Perhaps that accounts for what feels rather like a decidedly pleasant form of motion sickness.
By day, the three thieves – and Ryou is absurdly proud to be able to refer to them so, rather than the previous epithet, the two thieves and their inexplicably acquired hostage – frolic amidst the crowds as Albian tourists, doing (contrary to expectation) all those things that one would ordinarily assume tourists do. Or, rather, Ryou assumes they would assume so; tourism is hardly an area with which he is particularly familiar. One patch of dusty ground looks rather the same as the next, and all are too dismal to find much comfort in variety.
Here, every patch of ground seems fitted for wonders.
He plunges headlong into this bizarre occupation of the nobility known as tourism with abandon, trailing excitedly behind his thieves as they guide him through squares, monuments, towers – honey-coloured buildings enclosing art galleries, cathedrals, museums... The list continues ceaselessly; he finds he cannot separate one experience from another – all have mingled into one, warm haze in his mind.
They take a trip to the Colosseum, with Marik happily trilling facts in relation to its history – "Construction began in 72 AD and ended in 80 AD. Eight years! Can you imagine? When certain medieval buildings took generations! And yet, it saw the advent of another Emperor midway – shows you something about the stability of such regimes..." – and Bakura contentedly radiating utter disdain for being, in his words 'drowned in the muck of your babbling history-deluge, you godsdamned bibliophile'.
("Shouldn't we get a guidebook?" Ryou inquires, tentatively, one morning at a museum.
"Wretch," says Bakura, seriously, with a long-suffering sigh, as Marik wanders from room to room, marvelling loudly at the contents of each exhibit, "the brat is the guidebook.")
However, Bakura perks up considerably at the mention of gladiatorial shows – to a rather alarming degree, for that matter. It seems that, indifferent as he is to the lives of Emperors long since deceased, he is completely at home hearing tales of mass torture, animal hunts, and blood-drenched battles staged in elaborately constructed settings. In fact, his enthusiasm for such stories knows no bounds. He and Marik form an equilibrium of sorts; Bakura is perfectly content to subject his ears to 'historo-babble' so long as it involves a suitable amount of senseless carnage, whilst Marik is delighted to narrate, and even perform, lengthy tales of the same. The two stride across the walkway that bridges the centre, animatedly eulogizing on the topic of murder, injury and entertainment.
Ryou, for his part, finds that standing at the centre of this gargantuan theatre borders on unsettling. Squinting at countless rows of pillars on tall tiers where, he is informed, spectators once stood, he feels scrutinised by a thousand hollow eyes. The empty Colosseum gapes at him. It is like peering into hundreds of open, decaying wounds. Marik might find it beautiful – and in an odd, objective way, it is – but he cannot see it as anything other than haunting. And, oh, yes, there are other people – great throngs of tourists, all, incidentally, with pockets brimming with spare change – but they are creatures of another age, and thus irrelevant. The building itself remains untouched by their wanderings.
He ducks along through a corridor, on a whim – longing, above all for enclosure, sanctuary – and hides himself somewhere along the first floor, finding a small alcove in which he crouches, arms curled defensively around his knees. Too much light. Too much space. He wraps himself in cooling darkness, and breathes uninhibited for a few moments. Then, inexplicable fears momentarily assuaged, he lifts his eyes to the bright air once more, allowing light to seep back through the half-closed mesh of his lashes. He contemplates the walls. The brickwork is so intricate; the stones so small – terrifying to think how long construction must have taken, and how arduous the task...
Now that his calm is restored, he can appreciate the splendour of this place. In all honesty, the memory of exactly what frightened him is rapidly trickling away. He is glad of it.
When he returns to the centre, he finds his thieves surrounded by bemused onlookers, engaged in what appears to be a no-holds-barred battle to the death with their jewel-tipped walking canes.
"And – Thraeces," says Marik, breathlessly blocking an assault, "wore broad-rimmed helmets – " briefly, he doffs his silken bowler hat " - carried small shields – and – were armed with a curved – sword..." He jabs the cane in Bakura's direction. From the looks of things, they have diverged from mere narrative into a practical demonstration of the gladiatorial arena.
Bakura parries skilfully, slicing at the air with his impromptu weapon. A faint breeze stirs. "Which would I be?" he demands, sun-drenched and sparkling with perspiration. Ryou is not sure what the correct name would be, but he admits that, even clad in an embroidered frock-coat, Bakura carries the magnetic aura of a fighter.
Marik considers, whilst dodging another attack. "Dimanchaerii," he decides, shortly. "Armed with two knives." He ducks, just in time.
Bakura grins, appreciatively. There is an excited murmur from the crowd, as Marik takes the opportunity to lunge forwards – only to be met with another, equal blow from his partner. Ryou winces. Their play-fights always seem far too earnest for comfort. And yet, they seem to both be enjoying this beyond words. Unfathomable creatures.
"What about you?" asks Bakura, with a hiss of breath as he veers out of the way. "What type of gladiator would you be?" He edges away, fractionally. The crowd hustles back hurriedly to accommodate him.
Marik smiles – all sly teeth and subtlety. "Retiarii," he says, without hesitation.
They have paused, for a moment, canes held defensively against their chests, breath lightly audible from exertion. "And what's that?" asks Bakura, gruffly.
"Net fighter," says Marik, smile practically gleaming. Before Bakura can properly register this, he whips off his cloak and flings it over his partner. Bakura stumbles disorientated, before tumbling to the floor with a startled yelp. "Victory goes to the retiarii!" proclaims Marik, triumphantly, punching the air. The audience laughingly applauds.
Bakura, now sprawled across the ground, gives the cloak an indignant yank, freeing himself. A few strands of his hair, Ryou notes, are now standing perpendicular, to rather comic effect. He seems to be undecided as to whether he ought to be infuriated, amused or grudgingly impressed – for all three emotions flit across his face in rapid succession. They collapse into good humour, and amusement wins over, though not without a touch of cunning.
Magnanimously, Marik leans down to give Bakura a hand up – and, naturally, is pulled violently to the floor, in a torrent of dust and indisputably ruined clothing. More laughter from those who still linger.
"Brat," concludes Bakura, with no small amount of satisfaction.
Marik sits up, a little dazed. "Cheat," he says, fondly, wiping a fleck of dirt off Bakura's nose. They exchange slow, furtive smiles.
Later, when they are sauntering down the Campidoglio Square with bowls of ice cream, Marik remarks: "Actually, we'd both be Noxii – criminals. And probably blindfolded. But what of it?" And then sets about licking the line of melted ice cream that has trickled down the side of his wrist. Ryou cannot decide whether he finds the comment harmless or disturbing.
xXx
Otogi is feeling unappreciated. Having scoured land and sky for weeks, leaving not even the dustiest, least threatening towns in the back end of Moldavia uninvestigated, he has yet to see hide or hair of Kemet's most notorious thieves. He has made sure to keep Lady Kujaku well informed throughout, and yet all he has received in response to his reports are impeccably polite, slightly troubling letters. Each warns him in no uncertain terms of the dangers to his Nation's foreign affairs, should he fail to apprehend the criminals, whilst subtly implying that his own well being is in a similarly precarious state.
Naturally, he decides that the situation is hopeless, and sets a course for Italy. After all, he has always wanted to see St. Peter's Basilica, and he has heard that the Impressionist movement is just taking off in Rome.
Thus, three days later, after an afternoon spent perusing some of the local art galleries, he finds himself sharing a glass of wine and a game of cards with a boy of about eighteen, whose inhibitions, judging by his chatter, have been slightly dulled by alcohol – though his fear of strangers is most likely lacking at the best of times.
"So then," the boy says, brushing a few strands of bright white hair over one shoulder, "they grabbed me by the wrist, and took me back to the ship!"
"Really," says Otogi, hoping that his acquaintance will cease with the fantasies and get back to the game. "I suppose that its hull was made of diamonds, and there was a beautiful princess living below deck."
"No," comes the blithe response, "The Diabound's not made of diamonds! That would be silly!" There is a pause, during which the boy appears to ponder the mysteries of the nature of the universe, and also the tablecloth. "And I don't think the thieves are really princesses. They just act like it, occasionally."
It takes a few seconds for this to truly sink in. "Right," says Otogi, mentally thanking Sophia for all the good fortune which she has somehow – in her deep and unfathomable inscrutability – seen fit to grant him, "what did you say your name was, again?"
"Ryou Bakura, of course!"
xXx
Extra Notes:
- Been a while since we've heard from Otogi, hmm? Not to worry; as you can see, he hasn't been forgotten.
- All the gladiator-related information is accurate – or, at least, so Wikipedia reliably informs me.
- Henri Giffard was a real French inventor and engineer from the 19th century. Here, he is Kaiba's greatest (and most irritating) competitor.