Author's notes:
Disclaimer: Zoo-chan does not own Yu-gi-oh!
Also, permission to use the wolf idea in the Yu-gi-oh fanfic section was granted by Atarashii-san, who inspired
me with her "Thy Hands of Fate" (which she NEVER updates!!), as well as Star-chan's werewolf fics. For the
vampires, I got permission to use the Yami/Yuugi type of vampire pairing from Madame Ruby, from her "Passion
and Blood". Darkwolves are my OWN creation, and no one can use them without my permission!
BWAHAHAHAHAHA- *coughs*
Rhetorical reminder note: I am doing WEREWOLVES, not vampires. Ryou Bakura and Yami Bakura (who is
named simply "Bakura") are separate people. For stupid conventional purposes, I have named Yami Malik
"Ishtar". -_-;;; I think it's a girl's name….
ERG!!! I had to chop off two pages to fic the R rating!! *seethes* Okay.. the ending is choppy because this fic is no longer a NC-17. *sighs*
***************************************************
"Excuse me – who are you?"
- Perfect Blue
*************************************************
Chapter 4 – Enter the Yami
"Death!"
The sentence roared out, ringing amidst the roar of voices in the crowd.
Bakura bowed his head, letting the two guards take him, not even daring to struggle. It was hopeless
anyway. Darkwolves, though separated by their differences in packs, had a unique bond with each other; an
extrasensory ability able to sense the well-being of other packs.
That had been Bakura's downfall. Only minutes after the bloody slaughter, a nearby Darkwolf pack had
chanced to fall upon the scene of carnage. They had sensed something wrong in the first place, and upon
analyzing the decapitated and grossly contorted bodies, their worse fears were confirmed in a matter of seconds.
As for Bakura, they had dragged the strangely pacified Darkwolf to be sentenced by the Council members.
No one noticed how Bakura didn't struggle. They all thought he was awed, intimidated by the power of
the Council. If the situation hadn't been so serious, the silver Darkwolf would have laughed a long and hard laugh,
full of contempt and vehemence. Oh, the irony of things!
And since all evidence of Bakura's innocence was dead or simply absent, the silver Darkwolf had no way
of proving himself otherwise. In the eyes of the jeering and angry Darkwolves watching the sentencing, Bakura
was a dangerous murderer who had not only killed his pack in an angry frenzy, but had also killed the leader of
another pack, Malik. Though some of the Darkwolves had the brains to wonder what Malik was doing in the
scene, others simply reasoned that Malik, a close friend of Bakura's, was passing by that night, and had tried to
stop the silver Darkwolf from killing any more innocents.
Again, Bakura would have snorted in derision. Innocents. Feh. No one believed the words of a murderer.
Especially a murderer currently sentenced to death.
Bakura had expected that. He flickered his ears to block out the snarls and hoots, fixating his intense
baleful eyes to stare at the crowd. For a moment, the crowd fell silent; shuffling uncomfortably under the "mass
muderer's" glare. Then, the silver Darkwolf broke the gaze, turning once again to directly face the Council
members. He had always had an apprehension for these powerful figures, and had tried to avoid them at all costs.
It really was amazing how many promises and barriers could be broken in a single night.
He faced, fearless and undaunted, the pairs of burning regal eyes watching him. Fur matted in a mixture
of dried blood and dirt, the silver Darkwolf was all too aware of the contempt they had for him; not only for his
reputation but image. He could feel a sneer work on his snout, but it came out as a low, barely audible growl.
"So be it." Bakura stated, voice clipped and still wonderful restrained. "I do not fear death."
The Council Leader, an imposing jet-black Darkwolf who had ruled over the others for a good thirty
years, found himself curious at the reaction. Why did the condemned Darkwolf not struggle and fight like an
enraged beast? Most of them would have been reduced to a primal stupor by now, mouth frothing, and eyes
rolling insanely. Yet, there was no sign of this in the condemned Darkwolf. There was something that oddly
reminded him of defeat, that oddly voiced to him that perhaps, just perhaps, this silver Darkwolf was innocent.
Shaking his long, black muzzle, the Darkwolf Council Leader cleared away these irrelevant thoughts.
"Your death shall be in exactly two hours from now," He proclaimed, voice echoing clearly for all to
hear, "Though I find myself at the lenient end, considering how you treated Malik, whom I believe was once a
good friend of yours."
"Lenient?" Another Council member snorted, face filled with disgust, "He _killed_ Malik. He purposely
killed his best friend – someone who had looked after him. I would say this is an outrage!" The Darkwolf
speaking turned his grizzled snout towards Bakura in contempt. "Never before have I seen such a breach of
protocol. That _someone_ would be desperate and jealous enough to kill your best friend just for that bit of
revenge? Pathetic."
Several other voices from the crowd piped up, encouraged by the Council leader's stinging remark.
"Go rot in hell, you bastard!"
"Die, you piece of Darkwolf shit!"
"I hope that they make you die slowly!"
"How could you _betray_-"
And then, Bakura snapped. A good one-hundred-and-thirty pounds of Darkwolf flesh suddenly lunged
itself towards the jeering crowd, propelled by heavy paws digging furiously against the ground. He was
immediately restrained with a set of chains, carefully monitored by the two guards surrounding him. Enraged, the
silver Darkwolf continued to press his strength against his confines, his actions rewarded when several of the
lighter cords around his feet began to snap and buckle weakly. However, the thick metal chains around his neck
simply dug deeper into his flesh, scoring new wounds across his chest and shoulders. Bakura continued to snarl
and rage, baring his fangs snap them several times in desperate rage. How dare those others mock him? He was
_innocent_ - he had tried to protect Malik! What would the others know about Malik anyway? None of them had
witnessed the scene, and none of them could even guess at the truth.
Just thinking about that simple fact boiled the silver Darkwolf's blood to an intolerable heat. Anger rising
ever so steadily, Bakura continued to growl and thrash against his confines. There was a telltale glimmer of
insanity plastered in his eyes, his mouth beginning to froth and foam wildly while his paws clawed against his
restraints.
The two guards, each one twice the height of the prisoner, easily suppressed Bakura's struggles,
chuckling dully as they watched the silver Darkwolf fight a losing battle.
Upon realizing that they were no longer threatened, the crowd began to laugh and jeer once more at
Bakura's helplessness in front of the Council. They laughed and pointed paws and fingers alike at the prisoner in
the center, laughing at his so easily restrained rage. To them, he looked like a puppet, will all too evident on his
face, though the strings holding him at bay quickly manipulated his actions. None of them noticed the anger, pain,
and suffering in the puppet's eyes, and most of all, the chains cutting the beautiful silver fur, matting it with a
thick scarlet which dribbled and fell like droplets of rain onto the dry sandy dirt.
All Bakura saw was a whirl of faces. The laugher, jesting, hoots, and cries became a single chaotic blur
of sounds, digging like a thick nail into his skull to reverberate painfully through each of his senses. The colours
were just as jagged; just as horribly painful as they clawed gleefully at the silver Darkwolf's vision, filling it with
mocking hate. And most of all, helplessness.
Even as Bakura continued to struggle and fight weakly, he knew that he was doomed. He was helpless in
the hands of the Council. And most of all, no one _cared_. For why would anyone care about the murderer?
There was only anger now. A persistent rage colouring his entire vision scarlet, gouging a deep trail of
pain and internal agony deep into his emotions. Damn them all! Damn all of them for not being able to see the
truth, for leading such blind, pathetic lives. All they ever did was stupidly mimic the actions of the other, blindly
laughing for no reason. They laughed and agreed to a lie!
The assholes.
Encouraged by the jeers of the crowd, the two stoic guards' faces took on a sneer. They began to jerk the
shackled chains painfully, causing the silver Darkwolf's legs to buckle, entire body collapsing ungainly against
the ground. Again and again they pulled the same stunt, waiting until Bakura clambered angrily on to his paws
before once again depriving him of his dignity. The crowd hooted with laughter, noise never dying but rising as
they continued to watch the vigorously struggling Darkwolf like an entertainment.
Yes. Bakura was an _entertainment_. He was as good as dead anyway. His body quivered uncontrollably,
chest rising and falling in tentative gasps. His entire body was caked in grime, and the once-healed scars had split
open, pouring out layers of delicate crimson along his tarnished dull-silver hide. And, the crowd still laughed.
Laughed because the silver Darkwolf struggled; struggled to prove a hidden innocence none could see.
"Stop!"
A single voice rang out from the crowds.
Suddenly, the screams and wild shouts retreated, as did the pain and inflicted agony. Bakura now found
himself standing in a sea silence. The silver Darkwolf's body still buckled and shook with fatigue, though he hid
his exhaustion with a permanent glare of anger and denial. Mustering his last dregs of energy, he stood, stature
proud and defiant.
From the silence came a patter of soft footsteps. At first, they were only vague whispers, but eventually
grew into a steady tapping paw-beats. As the figure approached the Bakura, several voices in the crowd began
murmuring frantically, conspiring in a excited, scared whisper. Even the Council had not stirred since the figure's
arrival.
She was an ordinary looking Darkwolf, the only exceptional feature possibly her bleached golden fur.
And even then, her figure was still small, almost too small for her age. Yet, there was something about this
Darkwolf; something that was able to silence each Darkwolf with a single look and leaves the weaker ones
trembling in its wake.
She was a Seer. Only once per century was a Seer born, each one living to an exceptional age. Unlike the
other Darkwolves, every Seer was born blind, blank silver eyes a proof of their status. They were unlike the
others: distant, highly intelligent, and often, aloof. And yet, the power they possessed was unthinkable. It was a
power strong enough even to rival the infamous Vampire Sages, but, like the Sages, they kept their code both
neutral and silent.
"Isis." Finally, the Council Leader addressed the Sage for whom she was. "Why have you come here?" It
was very rare for a Sage to attend any ceremony, more so the trial of a murderer.
The pale-gold Darkwolf, Isis, bowed her head slightly, showing her respect towards the Elders. "I have
come here to clear up some misconceptions." She finally said, voice quiet, though ringing across the entire arena.
Bakura was shocked. He felt the tension and anger suddenly leave his once-taut muscles as he stared at
this strange Darkwolf.
Isis turned her blank eyes to glance sympathetically at the silver Darkwolf. She then once more faced the
Council, though her voice addressed everybody. "Yes, Bakura did kill his own Pack, but he was provoked by his
kinsman. They had wrongfully betrayed him, and had initially started the fight. In order to protect himself, Bakura
had to fight back." Blank eyes sifted through the crowds, drawing several nervous shuffles. "Now I ask you – is it
wrong? Is it wrong to protect yourself? Or would you rather die at the feet of those who betrayed you?"
There was a moment of silence before another Council leader piped up. "What about Malik? What do
you have to say for him?"
A chorus of whispers suddenly rippled through the crowds. They were immediately hushed by a single
look from the Seer.
Isis sighed, bowing her pale-gold muzzle. "I, out of all people, should testify to the rights of my blood-
brother, Malik. True, he was cruelly slaughtered that night, but not by Bakura. It had been one of the rebellious
members of Bakura's pack which had ended up killing Malik."
However, Isis was still hard pressed. "Don't you feel any anger though? Even if Bakura had not killed
Malik, he had failed to protect your brother from his own pack. Isn't that a lack of control for a Pack-leader?"
Again, Isis shook her head. "I feel no anger but sorrow. How can you accuse someone of not being able
to predict the turbulent emotions of another? Even though we might have packs, our minds and spirits are still
equal. Is that not enough?"
For a moment, the Council seemed stirred by the Seer's speech. However, their resolve wavered, before
breaking into a rustle of debating voices.
"We shall judge accordingly to this new piece of information." The Council Leader finally said. There
was no accusing of false information; it was a given fact that Seers knew anything and everything they wanted to
– to them, hidden knowledge was simply a menial task to find, no harder than searching foraging for a certain
berry or turning over a specific rock.
Bakura's body trembled with exhaustion as he struggled to keep his aloof stance. Sure, the others were
currently debating about his very life, but the silver Darkwolf simply did not care anymore. Live and what? Be
alone and pack-less, with a heavy burden of shame staining his reputation? Even the prospect of death looked
better than that. And yet, there was that part of him which did not want to die. It struggled against its confines,
telling him to continue fighting and survive no matter what. Swayed by both emotions, Bakura simply stood and
watched as the Council Leader finally rose to determine his fate.
"Even with this new information, Seer, we cannot live with a murderer in our hands." The grizzled grey
Darkwolf proclaimed. "Even more, Bakura has proven to be a weak pack leader, unworthy of being a Darkwolf."
Unworthy. That single word burned deeply into the silver Darkwolf's mind like a brandish. He was
_useless_ and most of all, a disgrace. The jeering voices came back again, and this time, not even Isis was able to
stop them.
"So, we lower the sentence of death and send him, instead, to exile." The Council Leader finished, voice
resolute.
The crowd fell silent for a moment before a few surprised gasps and murmurs rang out. To exile? But
where? Half the Shadow World was claimed to be Darkwolf territory, and the other dominated by Vampires. No
Darkwolves dared stray to the Vampire Realm without fearing their death.
Again, Isis spoke her mind. "I know of a new land, ruled neither by Darkwolves nor Vampires. If you
would let me, I will arrange for Bakura to be exiled there."
The Council Leader gave the Seer a puzzled look. "Then, this world you speak of, is it isolated?"
Isis shook her head. "No. Those who live there are called _humans_. They resemble our others selves,
the selves which do not fight and dominate but search for intelligence and progress." To prove her point, the light-
gold furred Darkwolf began to meld forms until she stood upright on two legs, skin smooth and tanned, ebony hair
veiled by a long cloak. "However, these humans are without Magick or power, and would easily be crushed by an
invading force."
"Then why do you propose for Bakura to be sent there?" The Council leader was more intrigued than
defiant.
"Because of this." From her long pale-white dress, she pulled out a beautiful golden pendant. It was
overall etched in a circular pattern, a triangle displayed in the center, its flat face etched with a strange golden
rune. Beneath the lower halves of the circle's brim hung several cold-shaped trinkets. "Though its true nature has
been defied for centuries, this Millennium Ring is able to confine Darkwolf power. Thus, if Bakura was sent to the
human world, he would be no stronger than any ordinary human. All his Darkwolf senses, sights, smells, and
perceptions would be lost as long as he wore the Ring. Strangely enough, once the Ring has found an owner, it
can never be removed again until death."
Upon hearing those words, Bakura's pacified expression twisted into a snarl. To lose his entire Darkwolf
side would be like cutting of his legs and expecting him to run! It was uncalled for – a fate which skinned off any
remaining pride.
"Forget it." Bakura spat, voice acidic and hateful. He had thought that Isis would find a reasonable
solution. He had not accounted for her to be so demeaning. "I don't need your stupid pity. If you want to kill me,
then get on with it." The silver Darkwolf sneered, upper lip curling in disdain. "And I especially don't need help
from any _Seer_."
Isis remained undisturbed. A smile played on her lips. "I had expected that, coming from you. Malik has
always told me how stubborn you are."
However, Bakura was beyond reasoning. He began to snarl and thrash with renewed efforts, flinging his
weight angrily against his confines. Now, he vented his anger at the girl standing in front of him, eyes flashing
maniacally.
And the others laughed. The all too familiar jeering and hooting once again was aroused a maximum, the
crowd this time finding pleasure in the silver Darkwolf's refusal. They laughed, encouraging Isis, egging the
Council to carry out the sentence.
It was all just a game. A silly display they had all come out to watch. And upon seeing Bakura struggle
even harder as the Ring was forced upon his neck, they laughed harder.
The moment the Ring slid over his head, Bakura felt as if he had been pressed by a heavy iron weight.
Just the cold metal biting into his fur was enough to send shivers echoing through his spine. And suddenly, the
silver Darkwolf felt something unexplainable. It was if the Ring was _aware_ of what he was doing, and was
looking around in analyzation, tearing into his very fabric of mind in inquisition. In just seconds, the Ring was
done its search. From the cold metal pulsated a powerful Magick, spreading to every tissue and vein in the silver
Darkwolf's body.
Bakura roared in agony. It was as if someone had stuck tiny needles into his every vein, pressing down
harder when he struggled. His body quivered numbly with pain, allowing the Magic from the Ring to do its work
accordingly. Bakura struggled helplessly as he felt his body shift and re-assemble itself. Once again, the coarse fur
shriveled and disappeared, leaving only a thick mane of hair in its memory. Clothing seemed to scatter from the
air and reassemble itself while the powerful lupine muscles simply faded to leave a trembling, weak, body. One
by one, each sense evaporated, Bakura once again surrounded by a blur of almost indistinguishable senses. His
blunt nails shifted to slender digits, and his body rose, standing erect in an uncertain manner.
Now fully human, Bakura felt his body sag weakly, shoulders drooping in exhaustion. With a final
buckle, his legs gave in so that he collapsed like a pile of stones onto the ground. He could feel himself struggling
to keep his eyes open and fight in rage, but nothing came out save a desire to sleep.
******************************************
Earth, 2000 AD
It is often within that bubble of thought between unconsciousness and reality that one begins to question
their purpose in life. Surely enough, the purpose _of_ life was to discover the purpose of life, in which case, the
infinite cycle would be a resolve in itself. Yet, what was one's purpose in life?
… To be understood?
Even half dreaming, Bakura highly doubted that. There was no pity. There was no such thing as
righteousness or justice or resolve. Life was bitter and his purpose was as insignificant as a fly on a cattle's rump.
He had no purpose. His animus was to writhe in the depths of chaos, spirit permanently contorted in
agony.
… Was it really too much to wish for oblivion?
A sudden, jolting pain woke the former Darkwolf from his reverie. Upon instinct, Bakura immediately
narrowed his eyes and snarled, temporarily forgetting his newly restrained weakness. It wasn't until the white-
haired youth tried to shapeshift that he realized what exactly had happened. His body would not obey, and instead,
quavered and trembled weakly. The Ring around his chest bit into his skin like burning iron.
Bakura's expression dropped in intensity, the snarl allaying to a half-frown, though his eyes still burnt
with anger. Yet, even those collapsed to a dismal droop as he regarded the sight in front of him with his feeble
human eyes.
He was in a damp, narrow path, infested with putrid smells and piles of spoiled garbage. Twin walls of
unbroken concrete protruded from either sides of the path a narrow light glimmered vaguely at some distant point
to mark the exit.
In other words, Bakura was trapped.
There were at least seven of them, huddled close to each other, though their vacant, leering faces
immediately erased any implication they might have displayed of fear. Implanted on each of the dirty, torn faces
was a jagged smirk or a half-amused frown.
Their leader was indefinitely the stolid figure in the center. He had a handsome face, currently half-
shrouded by the shadows he stood beneath.
Something ticked off in Bakura's mind as if to recall a past memory of this gang-leader. But, as fast as it
came, it disappeared, leaving only emptiness and a foreboding vision of fear.
Bakura had not spent his entire life cowering and whimpering. He had been a pack leader, and as painful
as the memory was, he still knew how to act like one. Imprinted into his mind for so many countless years was the
basic pattern of survival – the rules that singled his skills and allowed his superiority over the others. Even
weaponless and unable to use his shapeshifting Magick, Bakura was still a skilled fighter. And even now, body
feebly trembling, he was determined to fight until his last breath.
The outcast Darkwolf braced his weary body against the figures, deep brown eyes daring them to make a
move.
Only the bottom half of the gang-leader's face was enshrouded, and now, said person's mouth curved
into a sadistic smile.
"Well, look who's finally awake."
Bakura involuntarily backed away as the ringleader approached him. There was something powerfully
intimidating about this single person; something almost reverent. Perhaps it was because this menacing gang-
leader reminded Bakura of the leader he could never be. He was an outcast, so why should it matter what
happened to him?
Bakura mentally berated himself. He would survive, dammit! Past and future no longer concerned him;
all that mattered was _now_. And now, he needed to survive. The former Darkwolf half-arched his pack, setting
his expression into the most intimidating glare he could muster.
"Get away from me!" The words came out in a coarse half-growl.
"Get away from me." The gang-leader mimicked in a mockingly falsetto voice. The others began to
laugh and jeer, their chorus of low cries reminiscent of the past. And still then, Bakura was patient, holding in his
temper to carefully watch and analyze his threats.
The gang-leader began striding confidently until he was face to face with the outcast Darkwolf. Said
person focused his pale sapphire eyes on Bakura, setting his hand so that it held Bakura's chin in a painful grip
between the index finger and thumb.
… And Bakura couldn't do a thing. He was paralyzed in shock. For, inches away from his face was not
the sneering, handsome face of the gang-leader but the familiar expression of someone else.
It was impossible. Bakura's mind raced through the possible excuses. It _couldn't_ be him; it _wouldn't_
be him. Yet the dully shimmering golden hair and tanned skin was all too obvious.
"Malik?" The words fell out of the outcast Darkwolf's mouth even before he could recollect his wits.
However, the gang-leader only laughed, dropping his hold on Bakura's jaw. "Look! The little bitch
thinks he knows me!"
The fact that the others found this highly amusing only succeeded in angering Bakura further. How could
Malik not recognize him? Wasn't he and Malik loyal partners? No – it was impossible. Malik couldn't betray
him! It just wasn't possible!
His mind had fallen once again into a pit of turmoil. And this time, there was no one else to comfort him,
to pick him up and reassure him.
"How could you betray me, Malik?" Bakura cried, voice cracking with unrestrained emotion. "How
could you?!"
And suddenly he was up and lunging at 'Malik's' sickenly superior face. A fist impacted against the
gang-leader's jaw, causing an audible crack. Bakura withdrew his fist, gasping with exhaustion while watching
'Malik' rub his bruised jaw.
"Insane bitch!" The gang-leader spat, spitting out blood. He faced Bakura with an equally livid glare.
"My name is Ishtar." The tone was almost too low to be audible. "And I'll make you regret every moment you
mis-called me."
"Liar!" Bakura snarled. There was no mistaking such a familiar person. His muscles tightened in a
buildup of rage, blinding his logic and blurring his reason. "You _are_ Malik!" With a half-angry, half-desperate
sob, the former Darkwolf lunged, swinging another clumsy blow at the gang-leader.
This time, Ishtar blocked it easily. Without missing a beat, the gang-leader delivered a quick blow to
Bakura's stomach, causing the former Darkwolf to buckle and collapse to his knees.
Ishtar's eyes narrowed, one foot on Bakura's back to force the struggling Darkwolf face-down on the
cement. The gang-leader's solemn pale sapphire eyes flickered with disdain and anger. "Never call me a liar."
Satisfied with those words, Ishtar withdrew a thin, gleaming pocketknife from the folds of his cloak.
Even buried face-down on the filthy cement floor, Bakura could see the dull gleam of the silver blade.
The knife seemed to dance and come alive, inflamed by a million shards of undying memories. Mind roiling with
both confusion and chaos, the white-haired youth began to scream, hoarse cries piercing the moment of abstained
silence. His body thrashed with incredible vigour, brown eyes vacant and face bathed in a shadow of insanity.
And still, he was easily restrained. Bakura could feel thick, coarse cords sliding across his arms and legs
until they bit into his skin. He was easily outnumbered. Yet, even with his wrist and ankles cruelly bound, the
outcast Darkwolf thrashed with desperate fury. In his mind's eye, he was not snarling at these shadowy henchmen
but rather at the figures from his tragic past.
He was raging at Ryu, screaming at the Council, snarling at Isis, and most of all, keeping his livid,
fixated glare at Malik. Malik had done this all along! Malik had betrayed him!
Now he could feel a layer of pungent fabric slipping over his head to cover his mouth. Now, he could
only voice muffled, desperate cries, though they neither lost or diminished in fervour.
They were mocking him again; jeering, laughing, roughly kicking the loser. And it was their chorus of
delighted cries that bit into Bakura harder than the jagged cords and beatings.
Or so, Bakura had thought.
Ishtar watches his gang beat and mock the white-haired youth with no more than a bored flicker of
sapphire eyes. He continued to gaze blankly at the scene until finally , he parted his crowd his a single word.
"Enough."
The others immediately stopped and backed away, some muttering reverent apologies.
Yet, that was only to be expected. Behind that calm, beautiful, almost serene face lay a mastermind
seething with sadism. Those who opposed him, even the toughest, hardiest fighters, often found themselves
waking up with a knife between their eyes. And that was when Ishtar was in a light mood. There lay, within that
single mind, every single method of agony, ear, torture, and humiliation, from hammering a million needles into a
victim's skull to lacerating another with a razor-sharp whip. Ishtar was a mastermind in inflicting pain.
Now, he watched the sobbing, raging figure in front of him. He noticed the numerous scares and newly
reopened cuts running down the white-haired youth's back with a disappointed flicker of eyes.
But Ishtar was the mastermind of pain. And pain came in many forms.
When Darkwolves shifted from their lupine counterparts to a more stable, human form, their fur often
melded into suitable clothing – perhaps a shirt and some pants. The material was always tough and stringy; the
same fabric as their wolven pelts, and quite durable in almost any occasion.
And Ishtar was not a patient person. Thumb pressed against the blade of his sharp pocketknife, the gang-
leader stuck the knife forcefully into Bakura's back so that it easily pierced the tough shirt fabric. A pool of deep
red begin to well and collect against the blade. Ishtar grinned as Bakura gasped in pain. With the blade of the
knife still buried in the layer of flesh and fabric, the gang-leader shoved his hand up and against the protruding
handle. The knife tore through the stringy fabric with liquid-ease, slicing a cruel path of scarlet blood in its wake.
Ishtar continued tracing a path across Bakura's back with the knife, enjoying the helpless, almost terrified
screams. He gouged every line in a perfect, precise pattern, drawing out the moment of intense pain to its
maximum. The unbearable expression on the white-haired youth's face was proof enough of Ishtar's success.
Finally, the pocketknife stopped. Bakura hissed as it slid out of from the flesh of his back with a drawn
out, agonized jerk. Warm blood was dripping down his skin, his entire back throbbing with sharp pain. And still,
he was restrained from lashing out; still bound tightly to the ground, forced to docility with no more dignity than a
slave.
Face still pressed against the dirty cement floor, eyes watering with hatred and agony, heart throbbing
with rage and fear, Bakura found himself at the mercy of the other. He envisioned Malik's face leering at him
from where the gang-leader stood.
"Why?" It was a hoarse whisper. "Why, Malik, why?"
One of the gang followers heard the whisper. "That's guy's damn crazy." The stereotypical not-so-bright
henchman proclaimed.
Ishtar snorted. His eyes began glowing a brilliant fiery sapphire. "The crazier they are… the harder they
fall!"
He stuck his hand onto Bakura's bloodied back, burying his fingers into the deeply gouged wound. There
was a square perimeter of dark crimson etched onto the beautiful white skin marking the path of the cut. Fingers
gushing with thick maroon liquid, Ishtar dug his nails deeper into the flesh until he held a perfect grip on the
exposed, uncovered skin. With an unceremonious heave of his arm muscles, the gang-leader lifted his clenched
hand, tearing apart a square layer of fabric from Bakura's back. The etched cut allowed the ringleader to tear apart
an additional layer of skin and muscle tissue that stuck onto the lifeless fabric like a second layer. Now, there was
a patch of raw, skinless flesh stretching from the brim of one rectangular perimeter to the other. A ridge of
uncanny white bones protruded from the torn muscles and flesh, gleaming even until the magnificent spasm of
freshly awakened blood. Bakura's pale white skin only accentuated the horrid injury; the mess of exposed muscle
and tissue shook intermittently to the outcast Darkwolf's muffled sobs.
And Ishtar laughed. He continued to chuckle maniacally, mouth contorted into a demonic grin, staining
his cheeks with the blood. All the time, he admired his handiwork; admired the perfect layer of square flesh
coveting the majority of the white-haired youth's back. The ripped off skin lay in Ishtar's clenched fist, the gang-
leader glancing amusedly at the square piece of skin and fabric. Darkly comical, the ringleader crudely tied the
square fabric and skin around Bakura's neck like a collar. He grinned, watching Bakura struggle.
"Nice doggy!" Ishtar mocked, upon hearing the former Darkwolf's low, muffled growls. "Sit bitch!
Heel!"
The others began laughing again, cheering their leader on.
Oh how Bakura wanted to kill them all! How much he wanted to rip the dripping, wet skin around his
neck and tend to his burning back. Yet, his mind was a whirl of chaos; foreign and unusual emotions welling up to
create a barrier of confusion. Where was he? Why was he here? Who… was he?
… Even more, did it matter anymore?
… Did it really?
Ishtar dismissed the others, forcing them to back away so that he alone faced Bakura. The gang-leader
approached the white-haired youth with a cruelly seductive gait. His sapphire eyes began gazing almost
appreciatively at Bakura's torn body, admiring the well-built muscles and underneath the layer of tarnished
clothing.
The gang-leader allowed himself to be scrutinized by Bakura's own eyes, face twisted in a demonic grin
as if daring the former Darkwolf to object. And suddenly, Ishtar lashed out at Bakura, still-bloodied fingers
gripping deeply onto the white-haired youth's shirt to pull it off with an unceremonious flick of his wrist.
The response was instantaneous. Immediately, the others began jeering, laughing, hooting, cheering their
leader on.
Ishtar ignored them and continued to fixate his gaze at Bakura. He hissed appreciatively at the bare body
in front of him, standing like an alabaster statue. Well, a broken, slightly second-hand statue, but it still looked
beautiful. And to Ishtar, all things beautiful were meant to be broken.
The gang-leader was on Bakura in a blink of an eye, forcing the white-haired youth onto his back,
straddling him by the knees. A single jerk of his well-tanned arm muscles and Ishtar had Bakura's belt undone,
flailing the strip of grey leather into the air for the others to admire. He then pressed his hands against the white-
haired youth's chest, feeling the cool, clammy ivory skin, still so vibrantly seething with energy. Oddly enough,
the Ring around Bakura's neck remained forgotten. For only the beautiful _body_ was important – Bakura's
raging, screaming, pleading face was forgotten to a greater cause.
Next came the pants. Ishtar brought his hands down to his prey's waist, hooking his thumbs into the
pants to slide the durable fabric down the thin, pale legs. He almost lost his concentration in delight. Quickly, like
some corrupt, dirty ritual, Ishtar undid his belt, though the rest of his legs was still coveted by the faded blue
jeans.
Bakura whimpered, fingers gripping the pavement, attempting to draw his knees and tied elbows into a
fetal position. It was useless. Ishtar was on him immediately, ruthlessly pelting the outcast Darkwolf with stinging
belt-whip lashes. The gang-leader forcefully shoved the white-haired youth back onto the ground, prying Bakura's
arms and legs apart. Bakura's exposed chest heaved in tight gasps, nude body glistening with unnatural ivory
luminescence.
Still wielding the whip-like belt in one hand, Ishtar moved his body onto Bakura's, sliding his neck at an
awkward angle to rest his head forcefully on Bakura's chest. The jeers and hoots from the others became a
cacophony of endless cries, stabbing into the outcast Darkwolf's ears like bloodied daggers.
Ishtar quickly discarded the belt-whip, letting his other hand slip beneath Bakura's back to caress the
bloodied tissue underneath. His other hand was at the white-haired youth's neck, preventing the other from
screaming as Ishtar slid his tongue roughly over Bakura's pale chest, tracing slick, wet patterns over the bruised
ivory surface, though careful to avoid the strange, dull, metal of the Ring. The gang-leader continued his caresses,
moving his head so that his tongue slowly dribbled over Bakura's fragile neck, and then towards the chin. Now,
both hands were pressed against Bakura's head; one over the forehead and the other at the cheek to stop
white-haired youth from even moving his mouth. Bakura was virtually a _puppet_ under the gang-leader's power.
A coarse tongue forced its path into Bakura's mouth. Bakura had experienced this feeling a million times
over; yet, this was the only time he felt so violated. He was being _forced_ into pleasure, not the other way around.
And it felt…
Air! Bakura needed air! The horrible, vile, foreign tongue so openly exploring his mouth was cutting off
his air supply, dampening Bakura's own needs with its greed. Finally, just when the sensation had become overly
unbearable, Bakura was freed from the oppression, allowed to take deep gulps of air. Breaths of lifeless and stale
air.
Ishtar was moving again, now sliding his head against Bakura's so that both their ears were touching,
faces pointing at opposite direction, necks pressing directly against the other. The gang-leader's set of warm,
callous hands slithered across Bakura's bare chest, tracing the outlines of the ribs and then pelvis with pleasure.
But Bakura was beyond caring. Lying against the ground in a pool of his own blood, the outcast
Darkwolf paid no attention to the gang-leader abusing his body. He paid no attention to the infiltration of his own
privacy, to the fact that someone had forced sexual pleasure onto him without his consent, or even warning. He
was being raped, and he didn't care. Bakura let Ishtar continue the onslaught, his own face clammy and covered in cold sweat.
And even then, at this extremity, Ishtar did not stop. The others were still crying and cheering, blatantly
treating the violent rape like a game.
The last thing Bakura remembered was Ishtar's body, hot and sweaty, still pressed against his own, both
hands massaging their crotches while their bodies moved in forced synchronization.
And then…..
…
…..
…. What was there to remember?
************************************************
End notes:
010100110100000101010100
Can you figure out what this means? Anyway, that's what I'll be busy doing this (and no, its not sex!) the
next couple of weeks, so updating will be slow.
FC: *scratches head* I have no clue either.
Zoo: ^_^= You're not supposed to. It's my secret computer language! BWAHAHAHAHAH!!!
FC: *sweatdrop*
Eevee muse: It was also on Neopets.
Zoo: Shush! I have a reputation to keep up.
FC: What reputation? Your idiocy?
Zoo: *big teary eyes* It's not easy being an idiot. I have to go through a lot of work to maintain such a prominent
reputation.
Flareon muse: *rolls eyes* Why I even bother…
FC: Aaaaaaanyway, please R & R! Actually, forget the reading part -_-;;; you can just review….
Zoo: Hey!
Disclaimer: Zoo-chan does not own Yu-gi-oh!
Also, permission to use the wolf idea in the Yu-gi-oh fanfic section was granted by Atarashii-san, who inspired
me with her "Thy Hands of Fate" (which she NEVER updates!!), as well as Star-chan's werewolf fics. For the
vampires, I got permission to use the Yami/Yuugi type of vampire pairing from Madame Ruby, from her "Passion
and Blood". Darkwolves are my OWN creation, and no one can use them without my permission!
BWAHAHAHAHAHA- *coughs*
Rhetorical reminder note: I am doing WEREWOLVES, not vampires. Ryou Bakura and Yami Bakura (who is
named simply "Bakura") are separate people. For stupid conventional purposes, I have named Yami Malik
"Ishtar". -_-;;; I think it's a girl's name….
ERG!!! I had to chop off two pages to fic the R rating!! *seethes* Okay.. the ending is choppy because this fic is no longer a NC-17. *sighs*
***************************************************
"Excuse me – who are you?"
- Perfect Blue
*************************************************
Chapter 4 – Enter the Yami
"Death!"
The sentence roared out, ringing amidst the roar of voices in the crowd.
Bakura bowed his head, letting the two guards take him, not even daring to struggle. It was hopeless
anyway. Darkwolves, though separated by their differences in packs, had a unique bond with each other; an
extrasensory ability able to sense the well-being of other packs.
That had been Bakura's downfall. Only minutes after the bloody slaughter, a nearby Darkwolf pack had
chanced to fall upon the scene of carnage. They had sensed something wrong in the first place, and upon
analyzing the decapitated and grossly contorted bodies, their worse fears were confirmed in a matter of seconds.
As for Bakura, they had dragged the strangely pacified Darkwolf to be sentenced by the Council members.
No one noticed how Bakura didn't struggle. They all thought he was awed, intimidated by the power of
the Council. If the situation hadn't been so serious, the silver Darkwolf would have laughed a long and hard laugh,
full of contempt and vehemence. Oh, the irony of things!
And since all evidence of Bakura's innocence was dead or simply absent, the silver Darkwolf had no way
of proving himself otherwise. In the eyes of the jeering and angry Darkwolves watching the sentencing, Bakura
was a dangerous murderer who had not only killed his pack in an angry frenzy, but had also killed the leader of
another pack, Malik. Though some of the Darkwolves had the brains to wonder what Malik was doing in the
scene, others simply reasoned that Malik, a close friend of Bakura's, was passing by that night, and had tried to
stop the silver Darkwolf from killing any more innocents.
Again, Bakura would have snorted in derision. Innocents. Feh. No one believed the words of a murderer.
Especially a murderer currently sentenced to death.
Bakura had expected that. He flickered his ears to block out the snarls and hoots, fixating his intense
baleful eyes to stare at the crowd. For a moment, the crowd fell silent; shuffling uncomfortably under the "mass
muderer's" glare. Then, the silver Darkwolf broke the gaze, turning once again to directly face the Council
members. He had always had an apprehension for these powerful figures, and had tried to avoid them at all costs.
It really was amazing how many promises and barriers could be broken in a single night.
He faced, fearless and undaunted, the pairs of burning regal eyes watching him. Fur matted in a mixture
of dried blood and dirt, the silver Darkwolf was all too aware of the contempt they had for him; not only for his
reputation but image. He could feel a sneer work on his snout, but it came out as a low, barely audible growl.
"So be it." Bakura stated, voice clipped and still wonderful restrained. "I do not fear death."
The Council Leader, an imposing jet-black Darkwolf who had ruled over the others for a good thirty
years, found himself curious at the reaction. Why did the condemned Darkwolf not struggle and fight like an
enraged beast? Most of them would have been reduced to a primal stupor by now, mouth frothing, and eyes
rolling insanely. Yet, there was no sign of this in the condemned Darkwolf. There was something that oddly
reminded him of defeat, that oddly voiced to him that perhaps, just perhaps, this silver Darkwolf was innocent.
Shaking his long, black muzzle, the Darkwolf Council Leader cleared away these irrelevant thoughts.
"Your death shall be in exactly two hours from now," He proclaimed, voice echoing clearly for all to
hear, "Though I find myself at the lenient end, considering how you treated Malik, whom I believe was once a
good friend of yours."
"Lenient?" Another Council member snorted, face filled with disgust, "He _killed_ Malik. He purposely
killed his best friend – someone who had looked after him. I would say this is an outrage!" The Darkwolf
speaking turned his grizzled snout towards Bakura in contempt. "Never before have I seen such a breach of
protocol. That _someone_ would be desperate and jealous enough to kill your best friend just for that bit of
revenge? Pathetic."
Several other voices from the crowd piped up, encouraged by the Council leader's stinging remark.
"Go rot in hell, you bastard!"
"Die, you piece of Darkwolf shit!"
"I hope that they make you die slowly!"
"How could you _betray_-"
And then, Bakura snapped. A good one-hundred-and-thirty pounds of Darkwolf flesh suddenly lunged
itself towards the jeering crowd, propelled by heavy paws digging furiously against the ground. He was
immediately restrained with a set of chains, carefully monitored by the two guards surrounding him. Enraged, the
silver Darkwolf continued to press his strength against his confines, his actions rewarded when several of the
lighter cords around his feet began to snap and buckle weakly. However, the thick metal chains around his neck
simply dug deeper into his flesh, scoring new wounds across his chest and shoulders. Bakura continued to snarl
and rage, baring his fangs snap them several times in desperate rage. How dare those others mock him? He was
_innocent_ - he had tried to protect Malik! What would the others know about Malik anyway? None of them had
witnessed the scene, and none of them could even guess at the truth.
Just thinking about that simple fact boiled the silver Darkwolf's blood to an intolerable heat. Anger rising
ever so steadily, Bakura continued to growl and thrash against his confines. There was a telltale glimmer of
insanity plastered in his eyes, his mouth beginning to froth and foam wildly while his paws clawed against his
restraints.
The two guards, each one twice the height of the prisoner, easily suppressed Bakura's struggles,
chuckling dully as they watched the silver Darkwolf fight a losing battle.
Upon realizing that they were no longer threatened, the crowd began to laugh and jeer once more at
Bakura's helplessness in front of the Council. They laughed and pointed paws and fingers alike at the prisoner in
the center, laughing at his so easily restrained rage. To them, he looked like a puppet, will all too evident on his
face, though the strings holding him at bay quickly manipulated his actions. None of them noticed the anger, pain,
and suffering in the puppet's eyes, and most of all, the chains cutting the beautiful silver fur, matting it with a
thick scarlet which dribbled and fell like droplets of rain onto the dry sandy dirt.
All Bakura saw was a whirl of faces. The laugher, jesting, hoots, and cries became a single chaotic blur
of sounds, digging like a thick nail into his skull to reverberate painfully through each of his senses. The colours
were just as jagged; just as horribly painful as they clawed gleefully at the silver Darkwolf's vision, filling it with
mocking hate. And most of all, helplessness.
Even as Bakura continued to struggle and fight weakly, he knew that he was doomed. He was helpless in
the hands of the Council. And most of all, no one _cared_. For why would anyone care about the murderer?
There was only anger now. A persistent rage colouring his entire vision scarlet, gouging a deep trail of
pain and internal agony deep into his emotions. Damn them all! Damn all of them for not being able to see the
truth, for leading such blind, pathetic lives. All they ever did was stupidly mimic the actions of the other, blindly
laughing for no reason. They laughed and agreed to a lie!
The assholes.
Encouraged by the jeers of the crowd, the two stoic guards' faces took on a sneer. They began to jerk the
shackled chains painfully, causing the silver Darkwolf's legs to buckle, entire body collapsing ungainly against
the ground. Again and again they pulled the same stunt, waiting until Bakura clambered angrily on to his paws
before once again depriving him of his dignity. The crowd hooted with laughter, noise never dying but rising as
they continued to watch the vigorously struggling Darkwolf like an entertainment.
Yes. Bakura was an _entertainment_. He was as good as dead anyway. His body quivered uncontrollably,
chest rising and falling in tentative gasps. His entire body was caked in grime, and the once-healed scars had split
open, pouring out layers of delicate crimson along his tarnished dull-silver hide. And, the crowd still laughed.
Laughed because the silver Darkwolf struggled; struggled to prove a hidden innocence none could see.
"Stop!"
A single voice rang out from the crowds.
Suddenly, the screams and wild shouts retreated, as did the pain and inflicted agony. Bakura now found
himself standing in a sea silence. The silver Darkwolf's body still buckled and shook with fatigue, though he hid
his exhaustion with a permanent glare of anger and denial. Mustering his last dregs of energy, he stood, stature
proud and defiant.
From the silence came a patter of soft footsteps. At first, they were only vague whispers, but eventually
grew into a steady tapping paw-beats. As the figure approached the Bakura, several voices in the crowd began
murmuring frantically, conspiring in a excited, scared whisper. Even the Council had not stirred since the figure's
arrival.
She was an ordinary looking Darkwolf, the only exceptional feature possibly her bleached golden fur.
And even then, her figure was still small, almost too small for her age. Yet, there was something about this
Darkwolf; something that was able to silence each Darkwolf with a single look and leaves the weaker ones
trembling in its wake.
She was a Seer. Only once per century was a Seer born, each one living to an exceptional age. Unlike the
other Darkwolves, every Seer was born blind, blank silver eyes a proof of their status. They were unlike the
others: distant, highly intelligent, and often, aloof. And yet, the power they possessed was unthinkable. It was a
power strong enough even to rival the infamous Vampire Sages, but, like the Sages, they kept their code both
neutral and silent.
"Isis." Finally, the Council Leader addressed the Sage for whom she was. "Why have you come here?" It
was very rare for a Sage to attend any ceremony, more so the trial of a murderer.
The pale-gold Darkwolf, Isis, bowed her head slightly, showing her respect towards the Elders. "I have
come here to clear up some misconceptions." She finally said, voice quiet, though ringing across the entire arena.
Bakura was shocked. He felt the tension and anger suddenly leave his once-taut muscles as he stared at
this strange Darkwolf.
Isis turned her blank eyes to glance sympathetically at the silver Darkwolf. She then once more faced the
Council, though her voice addressed everybody. "Yes, Bakura did kill his own Pack, but he was provoked by his
kinsman. They had wrongfully betrayed him, and had initially started the fight. In order to protect himself, Bakura
had to fight back." Blank eyes sifted through the crowds, drawing several nervous shuffles. "Now I ask you – is it
wrong? Is it wrong to protect yourself? Or would you rather die at the feet of those who betrayed you?"
There was a moment of silence before another Council leader piped up. "What about Malik? What do
you have to say for him?"
A chorus of whispers suddenly rippled through the crowds. They were immediately hushed by a single
look from the Seer.
Isis sighed, bowing her pale-gold muzzle. "I, out of all people, should testify to the rights of my blood-
brother, Malik. True, he was cruelly slaughtered that night, but not by Bakura. It had been one of the rebellious
members of Bakura's pack which had ended up killing Malik."
However, Isis was still hard pressed. "Don't you feel any anger though? Even if Bakura had not killed
Malik, he had failed to protect your brother from his own pack. Isn't that a lack of control for a Pack-leader?"
Again, Isis shook her head. "I feel no anger but sorrow. How can you accuse someone of not being able
to predict the turbulent emotions of another? Even though we might have packs, our minds and spirits are still
equal. Is that not enough?"
For a moment, the Council seemed stirred by the Seer's speech. However, their resolve wavered, before
breaking into a rustle of debating voices.
"We shall judge accordingly to this new piece of information." The Council Leader finally said. There
was no accusing of false information; it was a given fact that Seers knew anything and everything they wanted to
– to them, hidden knowledge was simply a menial task to find, no harder than searching foraging for a certain
berry or turning over a specific rock.
Bakura's body trembled with exhaustion as he struggled to keep his aloof stance. Sure, the others were
currently debating about his very life, but the silver Darkwolf simply did not care anymore. Live and what? Be
alone and pack-less, with a heavy burden of shame staining his reputation? Even the prospect of death looked
better than that. And yet, there was that part of him which did not want to die. It struggled against its confines,
telling him to continue fighting and survive no matter what. Swayed by both emotions, Bakura simply stood and
watched as the Council Leader finally rose to determine his fate.
"Even with this new information, Seer, we cannot live with a murderer in our hands." The grizzled grey
Darkwolf proclaimed. "Even more, Bakura has proven to be a weak pack leader, unworthy of being a Darkwolf."
Unworthy. That single word burned deeply into the silver Darkwolf's mind like a brandish. He was
_useless_ and most of all, a disgrace. The jeering voices came back again, and this time, not even Isis was able to
stop them.
"So, we lower the sentence of death and send him, instead, to exile." The Council Leader finished, voice
resolute.
The crowd fell silent for a moment before a few surprised gasps and murmurs rang out. To exile? But
where? Half the Shadow World was claimed to be Darkwolf territory, and the other dominated by Vampires. No
Darkwolves dared stray to the Vampire Realm without fearing their death.
Again, Isis spoke her mind. "I know of a new land, ruled neither by Darkwolves nor Vampires. If you
would let me, I will arrange for Bakura to be exiled there."
The Council Leader gave the Seer a puzzled look. "Then, this world you speak of, is it isolated?"
Isis shook her head. "No. Those who live there are called _humans_. They resemble our others selves,
the selves which do not fight and dominate but search for intelligence and progress." To prove her point, the light-
gold furred Darkwolf began to meld forms until she stood upright on two legs, skin smooth and tanned, ebony hair
veiled by a long cloak. "However, these humans are without Magick or power, and would easily be crushed by an
invading force."
"Then why do you propose for Bakura to be sent there?" The Council leader was more intrigued than
defiant.
"Because of this." From her long pale-white dress, she pulled out a beautiful golden pendant. It was
overall etched in a circular pattern, a triangle displayed in the center, its flat face etched with a strange golden
rune. Beneath the lower halves of the circle's brim hung several cold-shaped trinkets. "Though its true nature has
been defied for centuries, this Millennium Ring is able to confine Darkwolf power. Thus, if Bakura was sent to the
human world, he would be no stronger than any ordinary human. All his Darkwolf senses, sights, smells, and
perceptions would be lost as long as he wore the Ring. Strangely enough, once the Ring has found an owner, it
can never be removed again until death."
Upon hearing those words, Bakura's pacified expression twisted into a snarl. To lose his entire Darkwolf
side would be like cutting of his legs and expecting him to run! It was uncalled for – a fate which skinned off any
remaining pride.
"Forget it." Bakura spat, voice acidic and hateful. He had thought that Isis would find a reasonable
solution. He had not accounted for her to be so demeaning. "I don't need your stupid pity. If you want to kill me,
then get on with it." The silver Darkwolf sneered, upper lip curling in disdain. "And I especially don't need help
from any _Seer_."
Isis remained undisturbed. A smile played on her lips. "I had expected that, coming from you. Malik has
always told me how stubborn you are."
However, Bakura was beyond reasoning. He began to snarl and thrash with renewed efforts, flinging his
weight angrily against his confines. Now, he vented his anger at the girl standing in front of him, eyes flashing
maniacally.
And the others laughed. The all too familiar jeering and hooting once again was aroused a maximum, the
crowd this time finding pleasure in the silver Darkwolf's refusal. They laughed, encouraging Isis, egging the
Council to carry out the sentence.
It was all just a game. A silly display they had all come out to watch. And upon seeing Bakura struggle
even harder as the Ring was forced upon his neck, they laughed harder.
The moment the Ring slid over his head, Bakura felt as if he had been pressed by a heavy iron weight.
Just the cold metal biting into his fur was enough to send shivers echoing through his spine. And suddenly, the
silver Darkwolf felt something unexplainable. It was if the Ring was _aware_ of what he was doing, and was
looking around in analyzation, tearing into his very fabric of mind in inquisition. In just seconds, the Ring was
done its search. From the cold metal pulsated a powerful Magick, spreading to every tissue and vein in the silver
Darkwolf's body.
Bakura roared in agony. It was as if someone had stuck tiny needles into his every vein, pressing down
harder when he struggled. His body quivered numbly with pain, allowing the Magic from the Ring to do its work
accordingly. Bakura struggled helplessly as he felt his body shift and re-assemble itself. Once again, the coarse fur
shriveled and disappeared, leaving only a thick mane of hair in its memory. Clothing seemed to scatter from the
air and reassemble itself while the powerful lupine muscles simply faded to leave a trembling, weak, body. One
by one, each sense evaporated, Bakura once again surrounded by a blur of almost indistinguishable senses. His
blunt nails shifted to slender digits, and his body rose, standing erect in an uncertain manner.
Now fully human, Bakura felt his body sag weakly, shoulders drooping in exhaustion. With a final
buckle, his legs gave in so that he collapsed like a pile of stones onto the ground. He could feel himself struggling
to keep his eyes open and fight in rage, but nothing came out save a desire to sleep.
******************************************
Earth, 2000 AD
It is often within that bubble of thought between unconsciousness and reality that one begins to question
their purpose in life. Surely enough, the purpose _of_ life was to discover the purpose of life, in which case, the
infinite cycle would be a resolve in itself. Yet, what was one's purpose in life?
… To be understood?
Even half dreaming, Bakura highly doubted that. There was no pity. There was no such thing as
righteousness or justice or resolve. Life was bitter and his purpose was as insignificant as a fly on a cattle's rump.
He had no purpose. His animus was to writhe in the depths of chaos, spirit permanently contorted in
agony.
… Was it really too much to wish for oblivion?
A sudden, jolting pain woke the former Darkwolf from his reverie. Upon instinct, Bakura immediately
narrowed his eyes and snarled, temporarily forgetting his newly restrained weakness. It wasn't until the white-
haired youth tried to shapeshift that he realized what exactly had happened. His body would not obey, and instead,
quavered and trembled weakly. The Ring around his chest bit into his skin like burning iron.
Bakura's expression dropped in intensity, the snarl allaying to a half-frown, though his eyes still burnt
with anger. Yet, even those collapsed to a dismal droop as he regarded the sight in front of him with his feeble
human eyes.
He was in a damp, narrow path, infested with putrid smells and piles of spoiled garbage. Twin walls of
unbroken concrete protruded from either sides of the path a narrow light glimmered vaguely at some distant point
to mark the exit.
In other words, Bakura was trapped.
There were at least seven of them, huddled close to each other, though their vacant, leering faces
immediately erased any implication they might have displayed of fear. Implanted on each of the dirty, torn faces
was a jagged smirk or a half-amused frown.
Their leader was indefinitely the stolid figure in the center. He had a handsome face, currently half-
shrouded by the shadows he stood beneath.
Something ticked off in Bakura's mind as if to recall a past memory of this gang-leader. But, as fast as it
came, it disappeared, leaving only emptiness and a foreboding vision of fear.
Bakura had not spent his entire life cowering and whimpering. He had been a pack leader, and as painful
as the memory was, he still knew how to act like one. Imprinted into his mind for so many countless years was the
basic pattern of survival – the rules that singled his skills and allowed his superiority over the others. Even
weaponless and unable to use his shapeshifting Magick, Bakura was still a skilled fighter. And even now, body
feebly trembling, he was determined to fight until his last breath.
The outcast Darkwolf braced his weary body against the figures, deep brown eyes daring them to make a
move.
Only the bottom half of the gang-leader's face was enshrouded, and now, said person's mouth curved
into a sadistic smile.
"Well, look who's finally awake."
Bakura involuntarily backed away as the ringleader approached him. There was something powerfully
intimidating about this single person; something almost reverent. Perhaps it was because this menacing gang-
leader reminded Bakura of the leader he could never be. He was an outcast, so why should it matter what
happened to him?
Bakura mentally berated himself. He would survive, dammit! Past and future no longer concerned him;
all that mattered was _now_. And now, he needed to survive. The former Darkwolf half-arched his pack, setting
his expression into the most intimidating glare he could muster.
"Get away from me!" The words came out in a coarse half-growl.
"Get away from me." The gang-leader mimicked in a mockingly falsetto voice. The others began to
laugh and jeer, their chorus of low cries reminiscent of the past. And still then, Bakura was patient, holding in his
temper to carefully watch and analyze his threats.
The gang-leader began striding confidently until he was face to face with the outcast Darkwolf. Said
person focused his pale sapphire eyes on Bakura, setting his hand so that it held Bakura's chin in a painful grip
between the index finger and thumb.
… And Bakura couldn't do a thing. He was paralyzed in shock. For, inches away from his face was not
the sneering, handsome face of the gang-leader but the familiar expression of someone else.
It was impossible. Bakura's mind raced through the possible excuses. It _couldn't_ be him; it _wouldn't_
be him. Yet the dully shimmering golden hair and tanned skin was all too obvious.
"Malik?" The words fell out of the outcast Darkwolf's mouth even before he could recollect his wits.
However, the gang-leader only laughed, dropping his hold on Bakura's jaw. "Look! The little bitch
thinks he knows me!"
The fact that the others found this highly amusing only succeeded in angering Bakura further. How could
Malik not recognize him? Wasn't he and Malik loyal partners? No – it was impossible. Malik couldn't betray
him! It just wasn't possible!
His mind had fallen once again into a pit of turmoil. And this time, there was no one else to comfort him,
to pick him up and reassure him.
"How could you betray me, Malik?" Bakura cried, voice cracking with unrestrained emotion. "How
could you?!"
And suddenly he was up and lunging at 'Malik's' sickenly superior face. A fist impacted against the
gang-leader's jaw, causing an audible crack. Bakura withdrew his fist, gasping with exhaustion while watching
'Malik' rub his bruised jaw.
"Insane bitch!" The gang-leader spat, spitting out blood. He faced Bakura with an equally livid glare.
"My name is Ishtar." The tone was almost too low to be audible. "And I'll make you regret every moment you
mis-called me."
"Liar!" Bakura snarled. There was no mistaking such a familiar person. His muscles tightened in a
buildup of rage, blinding his logic and blurring his reason. "You _are_ Malik!" With a half-angry, half-desperate
sob, the former Darkwolf lunged, swinging another clumsy blow at the gang-leader.
This time, Ishtar blocked it easily. Without missing a beat, the gang-leader delivered a quick blow to
Bakura's stomach, causing the former Darkwolf to buckle and collapse to his knees.
Ishtar's eyes narrowed, one foot on Bakura's back to force the struggling Darkwolf face-down on the
cement. The gang-leader's solemn pale sapphire eyes flickered with disdain and anger. "Never call me a liar."
Satisfied with those words, Ishtar withdrew a thin, gleaming pocketknife from the folds of his cloak.
Even buried face-down on the filthy cement floor, Bakura could see the dull gleam of the silver blade.
The knife seemed to dance and come alive, inflamed by a million shards of undying memories. Mind roiling with
both confusion and chaos, the white-haired youth began to scream, hoarse cries piercing the moment of abstained
silence. His body thrashed with incredible vigour, brown eyes vacant and face bathed in a shadow of insanity.
And still, he was easily restrained. Bakura could feel thick, coarse cords sliding across his arms and legs
until they bit into his skin. He was easily outnumbered. Yet, even with his wrist and ankles cruelly bound, the
outcast Darkwolf thrashed with desperate fury. In his mind's eye, he was not snarling at these shadowy henchmen
but rather at the figures from his tragic past.
He was raging at Ryu, screaming at the Council, snarling at Isis, and most of all, keeping his livid,
fixated glare at Malik. Malik had done this all along! Malik had betrayed him!
Now he could feel a layer of pungent fabric slipping over his head to cover his mouth. Now, he could
only voice muffled, desperate cries, though they neither lost or diminished in fervour.
They were mocking him again; jeering, laughing, roughly kicking the loser. And it was their chorus of
delighted cries that bit into Bakura harder than the jagged cords and beatings.
Or so, Bakura had thought.
Ishtar watches his gang beat and mock the white-haired youth with no more than a bored flicker of
sapphire eyes. He continued to gaze blankly at the scene until finally , he parted his crowd his a single word.
"Enough."
The others immediately stopped and backed away, some muttering reverent apologies.
Yet, that was only to be expected. Behind that calm, beautiful, almost serene face lay a mastermind
seething with sadism. Those who opposed him, even the toughest, hardiest fighters, often found themselves
waking up with a knife between their eyes. And that was when Ishtar was in a light mood. There lay, within that
single mind, every single method of agony, ear, torture, and humiliation, from hammering a million needles into a
victim's skull to lacerating another with a razor-sharp whip. Ishtar was a mastermind in inflicting pain.
Now, he watched the sobbing, raging figure in front of him. He noticed the numerous scares and newly
reopened cuts running down the white-haired youth's back with a disappointed flicker of eyes.
But Ishtar was the mastermind of pain. And pain came in many forms.
When Darkwolves shifted from their lupine counterparts to a more stable, human form, their fur often
melded into suitable clothing – perhaps a shirt and some pants. The material was always tough and stringy; the
same fabric as their wolven pelts, and quite durable in almost any occasion.
And Ishtar was not a patient person. Thumb pressed against the blade of his sharp pocketknife, the gang-
leader stuck the knife forcefully into Bakura's back so that it easily pierced the tough shirt fabric. A pool of deep
red begin to well and collect against the blade. Ishtar grinned as Bakura gasped in pain. With the blade of the
knife still buried in the layer of flesh and fabric, the gang-leader shoved his hand up and against the protruding
handle. The knife tore through the stringy fabric with liquid-ease, slicing a cruel path of scarlet blood in its wake.
Ishtar continued tracing a path across Bakura's back with the knife, enjoying the helpless, almost terrified
screams. He gouged every line in a perfect, precise pattern, drawing out the moment of intense pain to its
maximum. The unbearable expression on the white-haired youth's face was proof enough of Ishtar's success.
Finally, the pocketknife stopped. Bakura hissed as it slid out of from the flesh of his back with a drawn
out, agonized jerk. Warm blood was dripping down his skin, his entire back throbbing with sharp pain. And still,
he was restrained from lashing out; still bound tightly to the ground, forced to docility with no more dignity than a
slave.
Face still pressed against the dirty cement floor, eyes watering with hatred and agony, heart throbbing
with rage and fear, Bakura found himself at the mercy of the other. He envisioned Malik's face leering at him
from where the gang-leader stood.
"Why?" It was a hoarse whisper. "Why, Malik, why?"
One of the gang followers heard the whisper. "That's guy's damn crazy." The stereotypical not-so-bright
henchman proclaimed.
Ishtar snorted. His eyes began glowing a brilliant fiery sapphire. "The crazier they are… the harder they
fall!"
He stuck his hand onto Bakura's bloodied back, burying his fingers into the deeply gouged wound. There
was a square perimeter of dark crimson etched onto the beautiful white skin marking the path of the cut. Fingers
gushing with thick maroon liquid, Ishtar dug his nails deeper into the flesh until he held a perfect grip on the
exposed, uncovered skin. With an unceremonious heave of his arm muscles, the gang-leader lifted his clenched
hand, tearing apart a square layer of fabric from Bakura's back. The etched cut allowed the ringleader to tear apart
an additional layer of skin and muscle tissue that stuck onto the lifeless fabric like a second layer. Now, there was
a patch of raw, skinless flesh stretching from the brim of one rectangular perimeter to the other. A ridge of
uncanny white bones protruded from the torn muscles and flesh, gleaming even until the magnificent spasm of
freshly awakened blood. Bakura's pale white skin only accentuated the horrid injury; the mess of exposed muscle
and tissue shook intermittently to the outcast Darkwolf's muffled sobs.
And Ishtar laughed. He continued to chuckle maniacally, mouth contorted into a demonic grin, staining
his cheeks with the blood. All the time, he admired his handiwork; admired the perfect layer of square flesh
coveting the majority of the white-haired youth's back. The ripped off skin lay in Ishtar's clenched fist, the gang-
leader glancing amusedly at the square piece of skin and fabric. Darkly comical, the ringleader crudely tied the
square fabric and skin around Bakura's neck like a collar. He grinned, watching Bakura struggle.
"Nice doggy!" Ishtar mocked, upon hearing the former Darkwolf's low, muffled growls. "Sit bitch!
Heel!"
The others began laughing again, cheering their leader on.
Oh how Bakura wanted to kill them all! How much he wanted to rip the dripping, wet skin around his
neck and tend to his burning back. Yet, his mind was a whirl of chaos; foreign and unusual emotions welling up to
create a barrier of confusion. Where was he? Why was he here? Who… was he?
… Even more, did it matter anymore?
… Did it really?
Ishtar dismissed the others, forcing them to back away so that he alone faced Bakura. The gang-leader
approached the white-haired youth with a cruelly seductive gait. His sapphire eyes began gazing almost
appreciatively at Bakura's torn body, admiring the well-built muscles and underneath the layer of tarnished
clothing.
The gang-leader allowed himself to be scrutinized by Bakura's own eyes, face twisted in a demonic grin
as if daring the former Darkwolf to object. And suddenly, Ishtar lashed out at Bakura, still-bloodied fingers
gripping deeply onto the white-haired youth's shirt to pull it off with an unceremonious flick of his wrist.
The response was instantaneous. Immediately, the others began jeering, laughing, hooting, cheering their
leader on.
Ishtar ignored them and continued to fixate his gaze at Bakura. He hissed appreciatively at the bare body
in front of him, standing like an alabaster statue. Well, a broken, slightly second-hand statue, but it still looked
beautiful. And to Ishtar, all things beautiful were meant to be broken.
The gang-leader was on Bakura in a blink of an eye, forcing the white-haired youth onto his back,
straddling him by the knees. A single jerk of his well-tanned arm muscles and Ishtar had Bakura's belt undone,
flailing the strip of grey leather into the air for the others to admire. He then pressed his hands against the white-
haired youth's chest, feeling the cool, clammy ivory skin, still so vibrantly seething with energy. Oddly enough,
the Ring around Bakura's neck remained forgotten. For only the beautiful _body_ was important – Bakura's
raging, screaming, pleading face was forgotten to a greater cause.
Next came the pants. Ishtar brought his hands down to his prey's waist, hooking his thumbs into the
pants to slide the durable fabric down the thin, pale legs. He almost lost his concentration in delight. Quickly, like
some corrupt, dirty ritual, Ishtar undid his belt, though the rest of his legs was still coveted by the faded blue
jeans.
Bakura whimpered, fingers gripping the pavement, attempting to draw his knees and tied elbows into a
fetal position. It was useless. Ishtar was on him immediately, ruthlessly pelting the outcast Darkwolf with stinging
belt-whip lashes. The gang-leader forcefully shoved the white-haired youth back onto the ground, prying Bakura's
arms and legs apart. Bakura's exposed chest heaved in tight gasps, nude body glistening with unnatural ivory
luminescence.
Still wielding the whip-like belt in one hand, Ishtar moved his body onto Bakura's, sliding his neck at an
awkward angle to rest his head forcefully on Bakura's chest. The jeers and hoots from the others became a
cacophony of endless cries, stabbing into the outcast Darkwolf's ears like bloodied daggers.
Ishtar quickly discarded the belt-whip, letting his other hand slip beneath Bakura's back to caress the
bloodied tissue underneath. His other hand was at the white-haired youth's neck, preventing the other from
screaming as Ishtar slid his tongue roughly over Bakura's pale chest, tracing slick, wet patterns over the bruised
ivory surface, though careful to avoid the strange, dull, metal of the Ring. The gang-leader continued his caresses,
moving his head so that his tongue slowly dribbled over Bakura's fragile neck, and then towards the chin. Now,
both hands were pressed against Bakura's head; one over the forehead and the other at the cheek to stop
white-haired youth from even moving his mouth. Bakura was virtually a _puppet_ under the gang-leader's power.
A coarse tongue forced its path into Bakura's mouth. Bakura had experienced this feeling a million times
over; yet, this was the only time he felt so violated. He was being _forced_ into pleasure, not the other way around.
And it felt…
Air! Bakura needed air! The horrible, vile, foreign tongue so openly exploring his mouth was cutting off
his air supply, dampening Bakura's own needs with its greed. Finally, just when the sensation had become overly
unbearable, Bakura was freed from the oppression, allowed to take deep gulps of air. Breaths of lifeless and stale
air.
Ishtar was moving again, now sliding his head against Bakura's so that both their ears were touching,
faces pointing at opposite direction, necks pressing directly against the other. The gang-leader's set of warm,
callous hands slithered across Bakura's bare chest, tracing the outlines of the ribs and then pelvis with pleasure.
But Bakura was beyond caring. Lying against the ground in a pool of his own blood, the outcast
Darkwolf paid no attention to the gang-leader abusing his body. He paid no attention to the infiltration of his own
privacy, to the fact that someone had forced sexual pleasure onto him without his consent, or even warning. He
was being raped, and he didn't care. Bakura let Ishtar continue the onslaught, his own face clammy and covered in cold sweat.
And even then, at this extremity, Ishtar did not stop. The others were still crying and cheering, blatantly
treating the violent rape like a game.
The last thing Bakura remembered was Ishtar's body, hot and sweaty, still pressed against his own, both
hands massaging their crotches while their bodies moved in forced synchronization.
And then…..
…
…..
…. What was there to remember?
************************************************
End notes:
010100110100000101010100
Can you figure out what this means? Anyway, that's what I'll be busy doing this (and no, its not sex!) the
next couple of weeks, so updating will be slow.
FC: *scratches head* I have no clue either.
Zoo: ^_^= You're not supposed to. It's my secret computer language! BWAHAHAHAHAH!!!
FC: *sweatdrop*
Eevee muse: It was also on Neopets.
Zoo: Shush! I have a reputation to keep up.
FC: What reputation? Your idiocy?
Zoo: *big teary eyes* It's not easy being an idiot. I have to go through a lot of work to maintain such a prominent
reputation.
Flareon muse: *rolls eyes* Why I even bother…
FC: Aaaaaaanyway, please R & R! Actually, forget the reading part -_-;;; you can just review….
Zoo: Hey!