Pachelbel's Q&A: Yay! Reviewers! *glomps* I'm enjoying writing this. It seems every time I enjoy writing something, people ignore it, but the crazy ones they love...*sigh* Ah, well. Yep, it's got a plot! *huge grin* And...er...I haven't actually seen the whole series. I've read the very last 4 mangas where Malik is featured. I don't have money, or else I'd have loaded up on the show, and since sometimes mangas are different from the anime, I didn't put up a Spoiler warning. BUT, if you go to E-bay, they almost always have the series (non-dubbed, with English--or Chinese--sub-titles) up for bids.
Two Years Ago:
Snow lay in a thick, frozen, 2 foot blanket over everything in sight. Familiar objects were strange and obscured by the white, muffling substance. Even people were unrecognizable now, covered from head to toe with heavy clothes to hide them from the winter's wind.
Malik Ishtar stared in bewilderment at the foreign sight.
He had grown up under the harsh desert sun; his dark skin was evidence of that. Snow, to him, was a thing of distant lands. A legend, even. Isis had told him that snow was colder than the darkest Egyptian night. Malik had trouble imagining anything like that; he had spent those nights (which were never cold enough to freeze water) shivering near the stove. But here he was, far from Egypt, and he had to go to school. The Pharaoh would be there.
Experimentally, he opened the front door and stuck his bare foot into the powdery snow bank that awaited him. The blond teen yelped in horror at the biting wetness and staggered back inside, slamming the door shut. What in all the underworld was that?
Malik peered dismally out the window. "What am I going to do?" he groaned.
He searched his room for winter clothing, hoping idly that his shirts had magically grown sleeves. But no. Aside from color, his shirts were all alike: smooth silk, showing off his well toned abs and sleek, muscular arms. That was all well and good, but the snow would surely kill him before he'd taken ten steps if he didn't find something to wear.
He went to Rishid's room and scoured his friend's closet. He found a little-used black sweat shirt and quickly pulled it on over his bare shoulders. It was several sizes too big, but Malik didn't notice. He then yanked on a knit, short-sleeved white shirt and went back to his room to finish changing, as Rishid's pants were not at all likely to fit him.
Once his thickest pair of pants were on, and his boots laced up, he searched the house up and down for a cloak. He found none, but now he was sweating from the frantic search while laden with so many more layers of clothing than he was used to.
Malik decided to brave the weather. He was wasting time, and besides, it wasn't all that far to the school, was it?
The youngest Ishtar was met with a very strange sight when he had trudged all the way down the slushy side-street his apartment was on. Where there had been a lake was now a snow field, and several little kids were playing on it.
Malik stood, blinking, and then decided to take advantage of this sudden transformation. The school was straight across the lake, and he could even see it.
He was almost past the middle when the dark ice caved under his weight. Frigid water enveloped him as he sank.
Today:
Malik jerked awake, and the memory of the first snowfall he'd ever seen suddenly vanished. He was intensely grateful that he could no longer hear the creak and groan of fresh snow under his feet, or the squealing crack of breaking ice, or the rush of water filling his ears.
He'd been so young then. 15 or so; before he had founded GHOUL, which was the real 'maturing' point in his life. Perhaps he dared call it 'maturity' now because his life as master of countless minds had forced him to find more and more ways to deal with guilt. All of them had failed.
He didn't remember what had happened after falling beneath the ice. Obviously, someone had saved him, but who or why Malik supposed he would never know. If his rescuer had known that Malik had been on his way to kill someone, then he'd probably have been left to die.
Unless Rishid had saved him. Where had Rishid been that morning, anyway?
...Where was he now?
The Moto kitchen was turning into a war zone.
Flour and chocolate powder created a thick cloud in the air which even the ventilation fan above the stove failed to clear. Cans lay sitting out of open cabinets; many of those containers had been knocked over and then pushed across the room by busy feet. Droplets of milk, water, and eggs spattered the counters and floor.
Yami stared in disbelief. "Tell me again why you wanted to make brownies with me."
Yugi's expression was one of amazed horror. He had just put the pan of brownie batter into the oven, and now his mind was taking in the awful mess his yami had created. "It's not just my fault, or yours." He offered.
"I know. I'm sorry. There weren't so many useless ingredients in the palace kitchen. Or...at least, I don't think there were. I don't suppose I did much cooking then." Yugi's mood lifted at Yami's mention of life in Ancient Egypt. It made the hours of cleaning ahead of them worthwhile.
"Oh, it's alright," Yugi smiled to assure his yami that he accepted the apology. "If I'd shown you where everything was, we wouldn't have had to make this mess."
Yami peered into the oven while Yugi tasted the remaining batter. "Besides, Yami, it really turned out nice."
The former Pharaoh straightened and smiled at that.
This cooking-bonding experience hadn't gone as successfully as his time with Anzu had, but he could tell the spirit was in a better mood now. And if Yami hadn't been scrambling around 'making things more efficient', they might have had a more productive conversation.
"Maybe we'll make something easier next time," Yugi said thoughtfully, gathering rags to mop up the worst of the messes.
"Hm." Yami answered. "Like ice water?"
Malik had been behaving for well over a week now. He knew that the Doctor, despite all the 'privileges' he was handing out (decent food, an extra blanket, more free time) was steadily breaking Malik's body down.
He could sense his loss of weight. At times, he could feel his heart pounding in his chest so hard it made him feel as though his rib cage were rattling; his body shook from exertion if he stood for more than a few minutes.
As well, long-forgotten memories were resurfacing. Newton explained this as being caused by two things: Malik's recovery from Multiple Personality Disorder (something Malik was still not sure he'd ever had. His yami had been real...hadn't he? Regardless, he wasn't about to try explaining the Millennium Items). And also a side effect of the drugs.
Every couple of days, the medication was cut off. Malik would go through withdrawals, Newton would do a few examinations, ranging from simple things like blood pressure and bone density, to blood and urine tests. When this was done, Newton would give his patient the medication back.
Malik began to build his own supply when he could no longer stand the thought of showing so much weakness around Newton. No matter how much the drugs were hurting him, when he was off of them it was a thousand times worse. So every other day he would palm his pill, find a way to distract the nurse (not difficult for Malik) and then stash it. Because of Newton's random orders to stop giving out meds, it wasn't a reliable way to count days, but it was better than nothing. It helped to have even that little bit of power placed back in his hands.
Always his thoughts turned to escape.
When his stash held forty pills, he felt it was time. He couldn't wait any longer, or become any weaker.
During his extended free time, he worked on rousing the other patients into a riot. It wasn't hard. Some of them must have been in their testing-withdrawal week, to be so irritable and aggressive.
Malik stayed back, inching his way along the wall to the door. He was in no condition to fight, and wouldn't have jumped into the frenzy if he had been in good health. He would shove the other patients if they lost interest, quickly anger them, and send them back to the enemy, but otherwise kept himself out of the way.
Soon the door opened and six orderlies raced in. Malik wasted no time in abandoning the room.
Once out in the hall, he ran, hoping he could find an exit. He had no idea if there were cameras, or how many guards there were or where they were stationed. In truth he didn't even know which direction he was going, what time it was, or...
Once he turned another corner, he stopped short.
The lights in this hall were all covered by red cellophane, which blended all color into shadow. The strange pounding he had heard was much louder here, and offset by cages rattling and low moans.
Malik knew the doors didn't lock on the outside. The administration took off the doorknobs inside the cells and replaced them with coded, fingerprint activated security locks. It would be very easy to see what was in those rooms, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to get back out again.
On the other hand, Newton wouldn't think to look for him *inside* a cell. In the end, Malik chose to pass this hall without stopping. The moaning and screaming became harsher as he walked by each room. Though all of these doors had windows, metal privacy screens were blocking the sight of any curious eyes.
About six doors down, he found an open window. His legs froze altogether, and he peered inside to a crowded room. It was filled with the same rushed thoughtlessness of a ship's medical galley during wartime.
A long table held dozens of supplies and medicines. Near that on a metal operating table, half covered by a soft white blanket, a man slept on his stomach. He was only a few years older than Malik, if age could reliably be guessed from such an awkward angle.
Stitched to the man's back were blood-stained white wings, like a dove's, but large enough to fit a human.
Next to the operating table in a cage sat a smaller human. Malik couldn't tell if it was male or female. Human-sized bat ears had replaced its original ears; black claws protruded from the tips of the scarred fingers which gripped its cage bars. Its eyes were large, and dilated; they lacked the sclera that humans had. Even from the dim hallway, Malik could see that this person didn't yet have its wings. Malik supposed that would be in next week's operation.
Four more patients were there; one was half-covered by scales, and yellow venom ran from her open mouth while she slept.
Malik heard footsteps from the direction he had just come, and forced himself to run.
Seto Kaiba was young, but already a shrewd businessman and leader. When he spoke, it was with a purpose. He hated wasting time, and those who dared to use an undue amount of it soon regretted it.
Shiro Motsamoru found himself squirming under the teen's penetrating blue gaze, while he waited for Kaiba to acknowledge him. Like a peasant kneeling before a king, Shiro mused.
"Let me get this straight," Kaiba said at last. "You're here asking for donations from KaibaCorp."
Shiro nodded slowly, resenting his intimidation at the hands of one so young. " Yes. For Forest Hills Mental Institution."
Kaiba stared at him. "But you're just their lawyer."
Shiro hid his surprise at those words, and decided to pretend that he'd known all along Kaiba had knowledge of his true career. "My firm is known for doing special projects for our clients."
Kaiba scoffed, glancing down at a single sheet of paper on his desk. "Your 'firm' consists of only you and your cousin." Shiro's respect for Kaiba's ability to gather intelligence on other people went up a few more notches. Kaiba went on, "In fact you lost most of your business six years ago, did you not?"
Shiro sighed. "If you will, Mister Kaiba, I'd like to show you Forest Hills' need for contributions at this time."
He reached for his briefcase, but Kaiba spoke, "There's no need. I've had my own dealings with the mentally unsound and I'd rather have them off the streets and away from me. I have work to do, so take this check and get out." He slid a thin, rectangular slip of paper across the immaculate black desktop.
Shiro took it, but when he looked up, Kaiba's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I just want you to realize that I can find out where my money is whenever I choose."
Shiro looked back at the six-figure number on the check. "Th-thank you!" He gathered his coat and briefcase and rushed out the door.
Doctor Newton would be very pleased.