The Requisite Author's Notes.

Weeeeell… It seems ye like this story enough to read the second chapter. Good for me. ^__^ I should warn you though, before you go any further: this is an idea I had. I don't know how far it will take me. I don't know if it can ever reach a satisfactory conclusion. I hope it can, but, well, knowing me, I wouldn't bet money on it. So, that's the warning. The first part, at least, can be enjoyed on its own, as a one-shot kinda dealie, but…

… … …Anyway. I would like to thank those kind people who reviewed the first part – here's hoping you'll keep reading, even after my ominous warning. Other things, other things… Things I can tell you now as opposed to later… Well, this fic was inspired by ponderings on Fate and Fortune, and the thought: "Ya know… 'archaeologist' is really just a politically correct way of saying 'professional tomb robber.' *snerk*"

New Notes: The Azy would also like to thank her new and spiffy beta-reader, Tyger Dracofire. The fic is better because of you.

Oh, and: Yuu*Gi*Oh isn't mine. It belongs to Kazuki Takahashi, who wins the prize of Only Manga Artist to Ever Make Azy Cry at the End, Damn It. ;_; I wouldn't want to own it, because there's no way I could do a better, equal, or even adequate job. m_ _m ::bows::

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Four years later.

It was an Egyptian town on the west bank of the Nile river, but that was all the place had in common with the first town, Ryou reflected, as he crept along its streets in the wee hours of the morning. Every town was compared to that first one, if only subconsciously. He was a very different person now, from the little boy who had fled into the desert night. He was taller, for one thing. Barely a meter tall at age seven, he now stood near a meter and-a-half. Unruly white hair hung to the small of his back, and never seemed to grow dull with dust, no matter how much he put in it. Dye didn't seem to want to take either, so he wore a long jacket with a hood over the standard white caftan, to hide his hair when necessary. His skin was tanned golden by the sun, to the point where he almost fit in with the natives. The only thing that remained the same were his eyes – wide and apparently guileless.

Ryou shifted the sack on his shoulders slightly, listening to the muffled sound of the cloth-wrapped items within. He was pretty sure that he could get at least 1,900.00 Egyptian pounds for the Bastet idol, and each of those alabaster carvings had to be worth at least 300.00. Not bad for one week.

It was strange, though. He always seemed to know where to look to find near-intact temple ruins, or un-raided (and unexcavated) tombs. And even though he knew that what he did was wrong – how would he feel, after all, if someone went rifling through his grave? – there was always a sense of amusement, of downright glee, sometimes, accompanied by a deep sense of satisfaction when he did his "job." He swerved to avoid bumping into an early riser, and one of the hanging pointers of his Millennium Ring scraped across his chest, reminding him of one of the two constants in his life.

The Ring.

It was the last thing his father had given him, and so it was his most precious possession. It would be priceless to him anyway, even were it not for that, if only due to the odd stories he had heard. It wasn't much – just dark and fragmentary legends, whispered by a handful of old men, when they thought no one could hear. But what he heard was enough to convince him that his Ring was something special. A unique artifact, as his father would have put it. It seemed sometimes though that there was something more to it; something that would make him fight to hold on to the Ring, even with his last breath. He didn't like to be parted from it. In fact, in all the time he had had the Ring, he had only ever taken it off twice – once to lengthen the cord, and once to crawl through a narrow tunnel. And even though he had been holding onto it both times, it had still felt almost as if a piece of himself was missing.

Which is stupid. But I still don't like taking it off. Ryou turned off the street he was following, and down an alleyway. He followed it through several turns, and then bent down, and rapped a pattern of knocks into what was, to all appearances, the ground. There was a muffled return, to which Ryou replied with still a third pattern, before the "ground" shifted slightly, and revealed itself to be a cleverly concealed trapdoor.

Ryou climbed down, and was lead through another door, before his host said anything.

"Ah, Barakah! My favourite customer! You always bring me such beautiful and unique things. What do you have for me this time?" the man said. Ryou smiled crookedly. Fareed's ebullience could be infective. What was amazing was that the fence never seemed to exploit it. An honest criminal. Tch. The truth was, in a way, Ryou envied Fareed. The man was, ultimately, what in his heart-of-hearts every good thief wants to be – completely unremarkable. His only outstanding feature – and the reason why he was no longer the excellent thief he had once been – was an artificial leg.

"Let's just sit down, and I'll show you," Ryou said. Fareed grinned, and soon, they were engaged in the ancient dance of haggling.

A few hours later, Ryou emerged into the morning sun with an empty bag, a full belly – the rules of hospitality demanded that Fareed feed his "guest" – and three-hundred Egyptian pounds richer than he had expected to be. All in all, he had made out rather well. Life hadn't always been so profitable, of course. Most of his first year in Egypt had been spent just learning the language. If he hadn't found his father's wallet in his pocket (with no clue as to how it had gotten there), he might not have survived.

But survive he had, and had even come to thrive, in a way, especially after he had discovered the profit to be had in robbing old tombs. He knew it was wrong; every time he thought of the subject, he reminded himself of that fact. In the darker hours of the night, he often wondered why he continued to do it. That was when the little voice in the back of his head (was it his conscience? He didn't think so; a conscience was supposed to prevent you from doing bad things, not encourage them. Right?) whispered to him, reminding him of the second constant in his life.

Revenge.

Even if he didn't always think about it – indeed, forgot it for weeks, and at one point, even months on end – it was always there, simmering in his soul. The need for vengeance, present in the culture he had been born into, and cultivated by that which he had lived in these past years. Vengeance against those who had killed his father, and stolen everything away from him. It was their fault that he was where he was, stuck on the streets of Egypt instead of in Japan where he belonged.

Of course, at this point, do I really belong there? Often, it didn't seem like it; it seemed as if he belonged in this place of heat and sun and sand. Still, he would never have had to belong here, if it weren't for them. He had spent the better part of the past four years saving money. He knew that to get anything in the world, you needed money. So he was saving. Saving until he had enough to find them and make them pay.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when he bumped into someone.

"Sorry," he said automatically. Then he blinked, taking in the appearance of the person he had bumped into. It was a boy, who looked about his own age. That in itself wasn't any cause for the double take. But his eyes… his hair… He's as weird-looking as me, Ryou thought self-consciously. The boy had light blond hair – almost as pale as Ryou's – and pale violet eyes. He was standing near an older girl.

"No, it's our fault," the girl said. "My brother and I don't get out much. Excuse us." She stepped off, going neatly around Ryou. Her brother followed as if pulled on a leash. "We need to get home, Malik."

"I know, Isis, I know," the boy sighed, as he followed his sister. He cast a regretful glance back, the slight change in posture shifting his caftan to reveal the top of an elaborate tattoo inscribed on his back. It struck Ryou as somehow familiar. Unconsciously, his hand drifted toward his chest. Maybe he had seen it in a tomb or temple somewhere? It seemed almost like… an old familiarity. Maybe it was the part of him that recognized that tattoo, and maybe it was just the part that was an eleven-year-old kid, but he wasn't quite certain why he did what he did next – he had come as far as he had, and managed to survive because he avoided other people.

"Wait!" he called. The boy and his sister stopped, and looked back. Ryou ran up to them. "I live around here," he started, which was true enough for the moment. "Do you want to come play with me sometime?" His general reclusiveness, and the fact that Arabic was his second language usually left him somewhat less than glib. But now, the words were coming to him the way they came when he was haggling a price with his fence – easily. It was strange; sometimes it was almost as if another voice was speaking through him. He gave a hopeful smile. The boy glanced up at his sister, and Ryou saw her give a miniscule shake of her head. That's unusual.

"I'd love to," the boy replied. "But… I can't." The bitter disappointment was obvious in his voice.

"Oh," Ryou replied. "That's too bad. Well, if you ever change your mind…" he hesitated for a moment. For the majority of his time in Egypt, he had been calling himself "Barakah." No reason not to continue. And if he does come looking, that's what I'm known as. "If you ever change your mind, I'm Barakah." Something told him not to extend his hand. Instead, he bowed slightly, as he had in Japan. A twinge of… something passed through him as he noticed the odd look that the boy's sister was suddenly giving him.

"Bakarah…" the boy repeated, apparently oblivious to his sister's reaction. "I am Malik." Before anything else could be said or done, Malik's sister tugged on the neck of his caftan.

"We have to go, Malik," she said. "Father will be missing us before long."

"It's not fair," Malik sighed, as they were walking away. He cast one more glance back at Ryou. "Goodbye," he said, raising a hand in farewell.

"Bye," Ryou replied, doing the same. There was a very solemn feel to the whole thing. He watched as Malik and his sister walked away, vanishing into the morning crowd. As soon as he was sure that he wouldn't be spotted doing so, Ryou ducked down an alleyway, and climbed to the roof of one of the buildings on it. From his new vantage point, he was just able to spot Malik and his sister.

As quickly as he safely could, he moved from roof to roof, following them. I'm just lucky that all the roofs around here are pretty low and close together. It quickly became apparent that they were leaving the town, and heading into the desert. His curiosity was roused. Before, he had only been following them from force of habit - meet someone new, follow them home. It was common sense. But now, he wanted to know.

Again waiting until he was sure he wouldn't be noticed, Ryou jumped to the ground, and pulled the hood of his jacket over his hair, glad once again that the jacket was the same colour as the landscape. As he moved carefully over the mostly open ground, Ryou found himself wishing that it was night. Even though he was moving with great stealth – low to the ground, every step carefully measured so as not to disturb the slightest bit of dust – he knew that in the bright light of the morning sun, it would be all too easy to be spotted out here. Don't look back, don't look back, please don't look back.

Ryou followed their trail for what seemed like ages. Where could they be going out here? When he finally caught sight of them again, it was just in time to see Malik take one last look back out at the sun, before descending into a trapdoor in the ground.

Into the ground on the western bank of the Nile, Ryou thought to himself, as he watched the door close behind them. When the dust had settled, the door was hidden even better than Fareed's. It's like an old tomb. Can they live down there? It seemed like a horrible idea. He waited a little while longer, then walked over to the door. It's almost like magic, he thought, as he paced around the space he had seen the door in. And it was; if he hadn't known the door was there, he would have never noticed it. Not a single seam, or grain of wood could be seen. He could have walked over it a thousand times, and never known that it was there. He stomped experimentally on what he thought was the approximate middle of the door, and sure enough, no sound came back but the ordinary noise of stomping on the ground.

When Ryou bent down to get a closer look at the door, his Millennium Ring spilled from its customary place inside his caftan, and much to his surprise, began glowing. He had always suspected that the Ring was more than just special – was, in fact, magic – ever since its pointers had, of their own accord, defied gravity on the first day he had owned it. The fragmentary legends he had learned, along with a few other incidents over the years had bolstered his belief. But he had never had any concrete proof, until now. The Ring was glowing. Not just shining in the sun, but visibly glowing. And, quite suddenly, he could see through the camouflage to the door underneath. When he reached down to touch it, there was nothing between his hand and the wood. What…

"Illusion…" It was just a whisper in Ryou's mind; a voice not unlike his own. It could easily have been his own thought, except… There was just something about it. Some eldritch, unfathomable quality that Ryou couldn't place. But he knew, somehow, that it wasn't his voice. It seemed to have come from inside of him, but… He glanced around quickly; there was nobody else in the desert with him. He closed his eyes, and, directing the thought at the place he had heard the voice, asked, "Who are you?"