Bakura frowned and finally turned around. "What?"
Marik shook, studying the words on the paper as though they could tell him something, anything, about where his tulpa had taken Ryou now. But there was nothing. He'd been too slow. Curse that fucking thing!
A white hand dropped into his field of vision, the same color as Ryou's but very distinctly different. It gripped the top of the note and tugged gently until Marik's fists relinquished their hold.
With nothing but a stern purse of his lips, Bakura scrutinized the message. The whole situation had caught him by surprise; from the moment Marik had turned away from the phone, fixed him with his wide lavender eyes, and asked if anyone had followed him, to this moment staring at a bloody, crumpled note. He didn't like being surprised. Being surprised meant he'd lost control.
He remembered waking up in the sand somewhere underground. He remembered cold, dead Millennium Items scattered around him. He remembered the former bearer of the Scales and the Key standing over him, now a translucent specter. He remembered feeling heavy and confused as the man demanded to know his intentions. He remembered waiting to taste the acrid hate rising in his throat.
He'd opened his mouth, ready to spit the familiar vitriol he'd been spitting for thousands of years, but had only uttered one breathless word. A name that summed up the emptiness and longing in his heart. Marik.
The man had crossed his arms and lowered his head. Very well.
Then Bakura remembered being alone, both physically and, for the first time in thousands of years, mentally. The calm clarity afforded by the quieting of the screams in his head. Finding his way out of the collapsed tomb. Finally making it back to civilization only to discover that Marik had left. Doing whatever he could to make it to Marik's door. Throwing his arms around the sobbing blond, but refusing to cry himself. Settling into his own life in a city just far enough away to avoid the people Ryou knew, purged of the shadows, a patchwork of the thief the world forgot at the boy the world overlooked, determined to leave the past where it belonged and embrace the second chance Marik had given him.
Had this thing been hunting him all this time? Consumed by the rage of some possessive, murderous delusion?
The door slammed shut.
Bakura whipped around and raised his knife in time to catch a glimpse of legs and feet as the gap closed.
Marik dove for the door and yanked at the handle, but it wouldn't budge. He heard a familiar laugh on the other side. Growling, he threw his shoulder against the shutter. "Open the fucking door!"
The mad spirit laughed harder. "Are you scared, little thing?"
"I hate you too much! I'm done being scared! But if I have to break out of here to kick your ass, you'll sure be!"
It sounded positively delighted. "Listen to you, little thing. At this rate we'll wind up with two of me."
Marik clenched his jaw, his fists, his shoulders, everything. Every muscle vibrated with tension. "Fuck you! Just... fuck you!" He moved to ram the door again, but came up short when Bakura grabbed the backpack.
After making sure Marik wouldn't injure himself, Bakura called out, "Where's Ryou?"
"And the thief," the mad spirit cooed. Then it chuckled. "For a moment there, I was worried nothing would convince you to step inside."
Bakura rolled his eyes. "Why all the drama to trap us here when you could have simply left?"
It let out a short, sharp bark. "If you honestly thought I would let the man known for holding thousand-year grudges continue... walking around, I'm very disappointed."
"So you're going to kill us?" Marik crossed his arms. "Go ahead and come in here. See what happens."
"Actually," the mad spirit answered languidly, "I was thinking I'd leave both of you in there to starve to death."
Marik's shoulders slumped slightly. He hadn't thought of that. He opened his mouth to retort, but Bakura covered it. Marik glared at his companion. Bakura only closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.
"Nothing to say to that, little thing?" The mad spirit jeered.
"Afraid not," Bakura sighed. "It seems you have us over a barrel on this one."
There was a pause. "You're screwing with me." The voice had gone dangerously flat.
"What makes you say that?" Bakura asked.
"You've never been the type that rolls over and accepts defeat."
"I've never been the sort to beg for my life, either. If that's what you're waiting for, you'll be waiting a long time," Bakura said.
It snarled and punched the door. "I don't give a fuck what you do! Just rot!" Its frustrated growling faded as it stormed away.
Bakura waited a bit, holding his breath and keeping his hand over Marik's mouth. Surprisingly enough, Marik didn't offer a single protest. Once the ex-thief decided that the thing was truly gone, he let Marik go.
"So, Bakura, what are you really thinking?" Marik whispered. He pinched his nose and frowned at the body in the corner. With what little ventilation they'd had cut off, the smell was starting to make him a bit woozy. The stench would probably kill him before starvation. Not that he expected to be in here that long. He knew Bakura wasn't giving up.
Bakura didn't bother answering. He pulled the neck of his shirt over his nose and mouth. Then he scanned the floor with the flashlight until he found the crowbar. He wedged it under the shutter and pressed. The door budged maybe half an inch and stopped. Bakura sat back on his heals and drummed his fingers on his thighs. His eyes found Marik watching him from a couple feet away. "Hold it open."
Marik nodded and obeyed. Bakura got on his hands and knees and searched along the gap for a clasp or an anchor of some sort. Nothing. Huffing behind his makeshift bandanna, he got to his feet and traced the shutter's perimeter with his flashlight. He found what he was looking for on the left side at about waist height. The heads of four bolts. Smooth, rounded, flush with the metal surface. He thought he remembered seeing padlock latches on the closed doors. If he was right, if could get those bolts off, the latch should follow.
Marik took off the backpack and emptied it onto the floor. Med kit, gloves, extra batteries, water, wire cutters, screw drivers, pliers, small bolt cutters, tin snips...
With the foul air burning his throat, Bakura went to work. He used the thinner edge of his hunting knife to work at one of the bolts until he created a gap just wide enough to wedge a flat-head screwdriver under the edge. More determined prying and wiggling loosened it enough to get the bolt cutters around the body. Both hands squeezed.
With the one bolt removed, he paused and flexed his fingers inside the gloves. Marik was stretched out on the ground, trying to breathe through the crack under the door. Bakura didn't blame him. As a tomb robber he'd dealt with corpses in confined spaces, but mummies in dry climates weren't nearly as pungent as the bloated carcass behind him.
Marik rolled on his back and gave Bakura a wry smile. "I was thinking of cutting it into little pieces and sliding them out under the door. Is that desperate or crazy?"
"Both," Bakura snorted.
Marik groaned and rolled onto his side. Bakura wiped his eyes on his sleeve and kept working on the bolts. Some time later, a metallic crash outside made him smile. His companion didn't even bother to open the door the whole way. He lifted it maybe two feet and crawled away gagging. Bakura followed him to the relatively fresh air, though he tried to remain as alert as his overwhelmed senses allowed. He wouldn't let that psychotic thing get the drop on him again.
