So you're the one, he thinks,
The face in the mirror stares back at him, hard, sullen, and dark. A last, fleeting glimpse; the burn of a handprint on his soul before it fades to A man and not a man but a monster in the guise of a too small frame; a host within a host. Who had he been before?
He knows him.
He does not.
He knows him.
He does not.
Deja Vu, a presence sometimes in the corner of your eye, a series of blackouts and memories and horror that you have adapted into a love, a hobby, to maybe pacate whatever is in you and maybe a little joke to yourself.
Is this what it is to be perpetually drunk? Diseased? Mentally disfigured? At the mercy of someone who calls you 'Master' and then grinds you against the stone. Who lets you believe he was a gift, a wish come true, but doesn't quite hide the tormented memory of possession gone wrong and then violence gone right.
He knows him, this man,
who crackled like a madman as the medics lifted him onto the stretcher and broke his fingers trying to pry the ring from his clenched hands
who directed his hand to his first tarot deck in the back alley store that smelled of incense and cigarette smoke.
whose presence rested beside him during horror movie nights, a thin shadow that was never quite there but just enough to make him understand that the monsters in the film weren't quite far enough removed from reality.
who whispered the dialogue for dungeons and bought the scenes in his head to life as hazy nightmares that both seemed like memories and vapid, watery glimpses.
who pulled souls from bodies, minds from stability, lives from existence, and dolls into the world of the living.
who had plastered his soul upon a card, stood him as trembling offering before a god, and worked his hands to the bone to cast a land of magic and sand.
who had been there throughout the duels, the tournaments, the life changing, world ending events with a boy who shared the same possessed look.
So you're the one, Ryou thinks. Exposed, betrayed, beaten, and powerless. Come back to leave a last imprint on the one thing that the world might remember you by. The one being who might tell your story, no matter how cruel he makes you sound.
You knew me too? Didn't you?
The face in the mirror sneers, but its effect is broken on the scar that burns red and the sting of defeat in its eyes. The truth is already known, the outcome is already clear, and what does it matter if the Master knows now, except that they've always played this game.
Perhaps if he could talk he'd tell him the answers to other things. Whether or not there had been more, if the girl's fate had been written in the tomes of destiny, how far the reach of power really extended.
Is this what it is like? To play caretaker to a beast? To assert your dominance over something greater, something stronger, something not wholly human? To lay in bed at night, to twist and toss and turn and whisper, 'You may need me, but I do not need you.'
Oh yes, Bakura knows him.
And Ryou knows himself too.
Ryou, who,
who had torn himself free of possession with a shriek and a ferocity stemmed from a love and a vile hatred of what was being done onto him.
who had first read the ghost stories in bed with a flashlight in hand and nothing but curiosity and fascination in his heart.
who had grown into his own habits, taking the rumblings of the ring not as cage bars but rather as wooden planks upon which he built an interest, a lifestyle, a sense of self.
who had written the stories so cherished by others, who had breathed life into his creations and painted new worlds as vast and expansive as anything designed by illusion and corporation.
who had declared the souls free, slammed the dolls before the judge and held out his hand for the keys and snapped their bonds upon release.
who had not changed his heart, who had stared down a god, who had crafted the pharaoh's memories and given equal voice to the wretched as well.
who had been there through the duels, the tournaments, the life changing, world altering events with a darkness he had tamed, he had held, he had borne, and he had conquered.
I know him, thinks Ryou.
But Bakura has always known me too.