The handcuffs around his wrists were less than comfortable, and Marik kicked and thrashed as the two men dragged him forcefully down the hall. Normally he would have been quite able to free himself, but it seemed as though these people were used to their captives putting up a fight; each man was armed to the teeth, and Marik himself was blindfolded, making escape virtually impossible.
(Not that he wasn't trying, of course.)
Marik growled as he was forced around another corner, and he lashed out once again with one of his (steel-toed) boots. He managed to catch one of the guards in the shin, and the man let out a list of well-chosen curse words. Marik cackled.
Still, as he dragged down yet another corridor, Marik couldn't help but wonder what he was being hauled in for this time. Perhaps it was for that car... no, that one was all Bakura, no matter what the witnesses might have said.
Then maybe it was for the... no, never mind, they had already brought him in for that. Anyway, he had never touched that damn cat.
So what…?
Marik heard a door slam open, and he assumed he was being forced into another room. Good. Maybe now he could finally find out why the hell he had been dragged out of his house at twelve o'clock on a Sunday night. It had better be something good. Ooh! Maybe they wanted him to beat someone up. But, no, they could beat him up (vowed to never ever admit that out loud, and quickly scrubbed the thought from his brain), so they could do their own dirty work. He wouldn't help them anyway, stupid rude people who dragged a perfectly respectable psychopath from his bed in the middle of the night without so much as—
"Sit," someone snapped, shoving Marik down into a chair. Someone else ripped the blindfold off him, revealing a man in a trench coat, half hidden by the shadows, and a brightly glowing laptop.
"We've brought you in today," an electronically filtered voice said, "for questioning about the 'Kira' murders."
Marik was not amused.