Chapter 8: A Deep Breath Again

/Open the door,/ Marik commanded.

It took less than ten seconds for Odion to obey, and the door to finalist room number one slid open. Marik brushed past him, then stopped in his tracks.

"No window?" The room was too much like home: confining.

"Apologies, Master Marik." Odion bowed as the door slid closed. As if he was in any way responsible for the placement of windows.

Marik sighed and waved him off. He rotated a chair at the table and sat slouched, tilting the water bottle in his hand back and forth, watching the single air bubble slide from one end to the other.

"Someone," he said, by way of explanation for his presence, "threw up in my room. It's being cleaned."

Both of Odion's eyebrows rose at that, but he didn't ask, and Marik didn't offer.

After a few seconds of silence, the older man seated himself on the floor in a meditation pose, closing his eyes. Seeing Odion grow calmer only made Marik more fidgety. Condensation grew on the outside of the bottle, and he wiped it with his thumb, leaving a streak. The moisture gathered at his thumbprint, tracked down the bottle like a tear.

It was stupid.

She was stupid.

Her face was stupid.

Marik smiled. Just as quickly, he scowled, slamming the bottle down on the table. He stood and paced to the wall just in time to remember there was no window; his scowl deepened.

Odion hadn't moved.

"Do you remember"—Marik hesitated, but there was no point to stopping something halfway through—"your first time above ground?"

Slowly, Odion's eyes slid open.

"Yes, master."

"How did you feel?"

Marik rarely ever did that—asked about feelings. It was strange; the lack of free choice as a tombkeeper had been torture in many ways but simple and easy in others. He'd never needed to wonder about feelings, opinions, plans . . . not when everything he was meant to think and feel was laid out for him. If he'd lived out life as his father had intended him to, he would have received the initiation, recovered, and returned to his duties the same as before. Around his eighteenth birthday, he would have married some girl from another clan who was deemed "most likely to produce a strong male heir." They would have had said male heir, whatever it took, and the cycle would have started all over again, with Marik as father this time.

But in reality, by the time Marik's initiation had arrived, he'd been so far off the path that he'd had to be physically dragged back and chained to it. And if he was honest, it had all started with feelings. He'd been too emotional to be a tombkeeper from the very start, the boy who cried over killing scorpions, who missed the mother he'd never met so hard he sometimes couldn't breathe. While Odion could take beatings without a sound and Ishizu could endure Father's screaming with a straight face, Marik couldn't even handle a look of disapproval without trembling.

His father had tried to discipline the weakness out of him, and look where that had led them.

"I felt . . . sore," Odion finally said.

Marik snorted. Not because it was funny but because Odion had misunderstood his question, and he couldn't blame him.

"I worried you were dead," Marik said quietly.

He could still remember . . .

It had been fourteen days to the initiation, and Marik had sobbed into Odion's shirt in a way he'd never done before. His emotional weakness had led Odion to ask if he could receive the initiation on Marik's behalf, if he could truly be eldest son to the Ishtar family despite the lack of bloodline.

Everything that followed had been a result of Marik's weakness.

But he wasn't weak anymore. He gripped the rod, pressed his fingers into the gold and imagined leaving nail marks. He wasn't—

"It was sunrise."

Odion's voice had gone quiet, choked in a way Marik had rarely heard before. He turned, lowering his hand, releasing the rod.

"Above ground." Odion blinked hard, looking up like he could see the sun even now. His expression hovered just before a smile. "I think . . . it was the first time I saw . . . pink. I think it was the first time I called anything . . . beautiful."

Marik smiled.

Joey knew exactly what Serenity wanted to talk about, and by the time the door to his room slid closed behind them, he'd prepared every argument possible to tell her exactly what kind of class-A scumbag Duke Devlin was.

And, boy, did he tell her.

She sat at the table, but he was too wound up, so he paced, waving his arms as he spoke when the leg movement wasn't enough to burn the energy volcano in his stomach. He told her everything about their meeting in detail: Duke's scam, his underhanded challenge for Yuugi, the way he tossed Joey like bait. Duke was arrogant, violent-tempered, mean. He had a puffed-up store with greedy prices and crap selection. His ripped-off dice game had more rules than a self-righteous government. He had a tattoo and a ponytail and came from California; that should have ended the discussion right on the spot. He was the bad news that even bad news feared.

Joey kept going until he was out of dirt to kick, and then he planted his own and kicked it, too. Only when he was satisfied there was no possible way Serenity could dig her would-be boyfriend out from under the mountain of his clear scumbagginess did he finally sit and release a sigh.

He waited for Serenity's acceptance.

He waited for her protests.

He waited.

And she just looked at him, chin propped in her hands, elbows braced on the table.

"Do you remember"—she smiled—"when you took me to the beach for my birthday?"

If she hadn't been nodding along while he spoke, he might have thought she hadn't heard the whole rant.

He shrugged, picking at a scratch on the metal table. "'Course I do. It was what made Mom take off."

Serenity reached out to grip his hand. "Mom wanted to leave for years. She just finally decided on an excuse."

Joey shrugged again.

"We made a sandcastle at the beach. We found a little crab, and you gave me a seashell."

He couldn't see what any of it had to do with Dice Devlin. "And?"

"Mom and Dad wouldn't take me no matter how I begged. You had to step in for both of them." She squeezed his hand, smiled at him with tears in her eyes. "Joey, you don't have to be my parent just because ours fall short. Just be my brother."

Joey looked away. He had something stuck in his throat that wouldn't clear no matter how he tried.

"I don't like him," he finally managed.

"I know," she said. "But I do."

He scowled at the wall, tried to ignore the burning in his eyes.

"Joey, if I have to choose, I'll choose you. Please don't make me."

She'd snuck into the tournament after their mom clearly and forcefully said no, snuck out of the hospital while still blind with nothing to guide her but trust in his friends, people she'd never even met before. Joey was sure that even if the whole world turned against him, Serenity would still be on his side.

He wanted to be on hers, too.

"If he hurts you," he said, "I'll kill him. That ain't a metaphor—I'll straight up chop his head off."

She smiled. "I'd expect nothing less from my best brother."

She got up and hugged him. Half of him hoped Dice-boy knew how freaking lucky he was. The other half of him wondered if he'd ever be as lucky. Truth was, the mountain of dirt he threw at Duke was barely a speed bump compared to what he could throw at himself. Girls at school either saw him as a thug or a loser, with nothing between, and he could joke about it all he wanted, but . . .

"We better head to the lounge." He forced a grin. "I got a good feelin' I'm duelin' next!"

"It's about time," Serenity teased. "I came to this tournament to see you duel, and it's taken so long, I picked up a boyfriend first."

Joey winced. "Let's just go easy on that . . . 'boyfriend' stuff for a while. Okay?"

"Sure thing. I'll let my boyfriend know you want us to play it cool."

He scowled while she giggled.

But at least she was happy.

Dehydration was the final diagnosis for Ryou after a full examination. He needed rest and fluids, the main doctor said, and after he awoke, he would need a full meal.

"This is basically what we expected from the tournament," the doctor added. "You set hundreds of people loose in the city, and they run all over without stopping to think about food or water. Not to mention the physical toll running a Duel Disk takes on someone after a couple of back-to-back matches. We put all kinds of warnings in the tournament rulebook, and a packet of waivers as thick as my fist, but when has that ever stopped anyone? Your friend will be just fine."

Anzu thanked him and took a seat next to Ryou's bed, careful not to disturb the metal stand that held his IV fluids. She nibbled on a cracker. (After the doctor had asked about her own condition, she'd hesitantly admitted to throwing up, and she'd immediately been given a new water bottle and a full sleeve of lightly buttered crackers.)

The doctor stepped outside the curtain, leaving her alone with Ryou.

Anzu tapped her nails on the water bottle, picked at the thin plastic label.

"I think I'm crazy," she admitted quietly.

Ryou, of course, gave no response. She wondered what he would say if she told him the truth about Marik. He would probably toss her a die and say, "Odds of a monster encounter are 90 percent. Up to you if you proceed." Unlike Joey and Tristan, Ryou was always calm no matter what crazy came their way.

Unless the crazy came from inside him. Then he was in a worse boat than her.

"We're crazy," she amended, smiling faintly. "At least we're not alone."

She knew she should tell Yuugi about Ryou's condition. He would want to know.

She should tell him a lot of things.

Static crackled faintly from the overhead intercom, then cleared as the announcement started for finalists to meet in the lounge for the next lottery.

What if Yuugi dueled Marik?

Anzu groaned and started to drop her head into her hands, only stopping when she remembered her brace. Courtesy of Marik.

She really was crazy.

As she waited for the next announcement, she rubbed her sweaty palm on her skirt, pleading silently that the duelists wouldn't be Marik and Yuugi. Let it be Ishizu. Let it be Odion. Let it be Yori. Let it be Joey.

"The first duelist of the third match will be—"

Anzu held her breath, squeezed her eyes closed.

"—finalist number six."

Yuugi's number. Anzu clutched the water bottle to her chest, her throat burning.

"The second duelist will be finalist number—"

Yori. Joey.

Anyone but Marik.

"—one!"

Marik was finalist number two.

Anzu's breath expelled from her in a rush; she sagged in her chair. The announcement continued, inviting spectators to head immediately to the aircraft's roof.

She lifted herself, set the crackers and water aside, and ducked outside the curtain. A member of the medical staff sat at the room's entrance, going over a small stack of papers on a clipboard. Anzu asked if someone could take a message to Yuugi Mutou that she would miss his duel because she was helping Ryou. It felt like a silly thing to ask, but even if Yami was dueling, Yuugi would worry if two of his friends were missing.

"Yes, ma'am," the woman said with a friendly smile. "I'll send someone right away. The matches are broadcasted live, so if you'd like, I could see about arrangements for you to view it here."

While Anzu would have liked to see her best friend duel, she didn't want to create a hassle for the staff.

And it wouldn't really be her best friend dueling anyway.

"I'm okay," she assured her, "but thank you."

She returned to her chair. Drank half the water bottle. Reached for a cracker.

No matter how she tried, she couldn't get the image of Marik's father out of her mind.

All is done by the pharaoh's will, the prophecy had said. Marik had read the record a hundred times. Was it just an empty expression? Was it a lie?

She set the crackers aside.

"Everything's a mess, isn't it?" she asked quietly.

Ryou, of course, didn't respond.

"It's your own fault," Ryou muttered to himself, painting the model before him as if it meant something, as if it made any difference, as if it were real.

If he didn't paint, he'd think about his sister again, hear her humming like he used to whenever walking by her open bedroom door. She'd be sprawled on the floor, drowning in sheet music, trying to commit every measure to memory while she couldn't touch the keys. Father had promised to buy a piano at least a hundred times, but there was always a new excuse why money had to go somewhere else first: a new expedition, a new car, a new investment, absolutely necessary. So Amane continued practicing in borrowed music rooms between lessons, and she continued humming sheet music at home. If she saw Ryou walk by her room, she would sing his name to the current tune. Every time.

And Ryou didn't want to hear it now. So he painted.

If he didn't paint, he'd think about his mother again, see her standing by her silver candy pot at the stove. She'd have on her yellow apron and gloves, mixing flavoring into sugar syrup before pouring it out to fold and cool until she could pull it with her hands. That was Ryou's favorite—watching something liquid turn into something she could pull and twist and pull until it hardened into something completely new. It was magic. And when the candy was ready, he and Amane would fight over who could have the first piece. His mother always made taffy on the weekends, when she was home from work. Sometimes she would sell it to the neighbors and sometimes she would give it away at her office, but there was always extra in a glass dish at home, and Ryou always took some to school so he could close his eyes and taste the peppermint or lemon or strawberry while imagining he was home.

And he didn't want to taste it now. So he painted.

Everything was real in his mind. It wasn't just a memory or a dream; it was as real as when it had happened the first time. It was the worst part of being aware now while the spirit was in control, and Ryou had to imagine something to keep his hands busy or else he'd go crazy trapped in the realness of truth that had long since expired.

Another scream ripped the air open. Ryou's flinch dropped the brush from his hand, but all he had to do was imagine another one. The scream died, gave way to the spirit of the ring's familiar cackling laugh.

"It's your own fault," Ryou repeated. His hands trembled.

He'd tried to interfere in the shadow game, tried against his best judgment to stand in for the spirit who'd made his life a strawberry-flavored, humming hell. But the spirit didn't want help, didn't want anything from Ryou except to stand in his shoes in mortality. He'd made that clear a hundred times before, and Ryou had decided it was time to finally take the hint. If he went charging in like a hero, the spirit would either laugh or curse at him. Either way, he'd tell Ryou to get lost. Besides, the spirit had more power than Ryou could even dream of. If he couldn't help himself against the shadows, there was certainly nothing Ryou could do.

There'd been no reason to start a shadow game in the first place, no reason it couldn't have been a friendly match. After all the work it took to make it to the finals, facing the tournament organizer himself should have been the match of a lifetime. Ryou would have savored every minute, win or lose. He'd certainly never have another chance to face Kaiba head to head.

But the spirit couldn't let anything be simple. Not even a game.

Another scream. Ryou pressed his palms to his skull, rubbed the skin around his eyes. He imagined a tray of blue paint, willing his favorite color to calm his mind.

But his mind didn't calm. Instead, it reminded him of Bonz's blue shirt and how the duelist had screamed after losing a shadow game to the spirit, of the way he'd convulsed like a man dropped in a tank of live spiders, of the way he'd fallen ominously silent at the end of it all. It was no coincidence; Bonz had dueled Joey in a cave during Duelist Kingdom, and Ryou had seen the way he spasmed away from a spider after the duel's conclusion. Although Ryou was nowhere near Yuugi's level of control with his item, he wasn't daft. He understood the basic rules of the shadows, the way the games were decided and the way the punishments were just as personalized.

With the next scream, Ryou overturned the tray of paint. It disappeared.

"You shouldn't have made it a shadow game!" he shouted. Who knew if the spirit could even hear him.

He'd be a fool to pit himself against the shadows for the sake of someone who hated him.

He'd be a fool to try to save someone who'd just betray him. Again.

He'd be a fool.

After another few moments, Ryou exited his soul room and stood before the spirit's. He'd never been inside. There was no handle on the elaborate gold door, but the spirit had made it abundantly clear that a doorknob didn't matter in the mind; otherwise Ryou could have at least had some peace and quiet while caged.

He pressed a hand to the gold, forced it open.

Even before the door finished its full arc, the banshee shrieking of the shadows filled Ryou's ears as an omnipresent wail. The darkness in the room was so thick he could breathe it, feel it crawling in his nostrils and down his throat. Red skulls swirled around him in a tornado, cut off his light until they were all he could see, and the unhinged jaws laughed at his audacity.

If Ryou hadn't spent his life obsessed with the occult, he might have been scared.

As it was, he was just irritated. At the shadows, at the spirit. At himself.

"Let him go," Ryou said, steel in his voice now that he'd made his decision.

Justice, the shadows whispered.

The spirit certainly deserved karma for his actions, but Ryou had always been in support of undeserved mercy. After all, he was a fool.

"It's not a negotiation. Let him go."

The shrieking began to calm, to peel away, like a wave of shadows falling back. Another sound rose in its place, almost a purr.

Power.

One of the skulls passed through his chest, making colors burst in his vision. His mind tingled with the promise of an end to his weakness. He would be the one in charge. He would be the one commanding the ring with absolute authority. The spirit would bow before him—

"I don't want your power," Ryou spat. "I never wanted any of this."

Power, the shadows insisted, and a new idea entered his mind, one that tried to convince him he could use the shadows to end his suffering, to put everything back the way he wanted. But the high had passed; the only power Ryou had ever wanted in life was the power to raise the dead, and the shadows couldn't give him that.

"You have to the count of three," Ryou said, imitating his own mother in moments when she'd been most irate.

Price.

"Pay your own bloody price. One."

Price.

"No. Two."

Price.

"Three."

They stood at an impasse. It had been a long shot to think he'd be able to simply pull the spirit away, to think he could command the darkness to break from its basic rules when he didn't even understand where its power came from or where the rules originated.

The air shivered as the spirit screamed again. His screams had been belligerent at first, but now his voice cracked at the edges.

"If we have a need, we need to pay." It was what Ryou's father had always said as he headed off to make the next very-necessary purchase. His dad may have mixed up his priorities, but it didn't mean he was wrong about everything.

"Let me share it, then. But two people means half the torture, half the time, half the intensity."

The purring grew, like Ryou had scratched the perfect spot behind the darkness's ear.

Yes.

So it was that after nearly a year of owning the ring, Ryou made his first deal with the dark.

Note: Ugh, there are so many character dynamics happening right now that make me happy. TT_TT Characters are the whole reason I enjoy writing. Next update will be Thursday, September 26th.