EXPOSURE
1. The action of exposing a photographic film to light.
2. The state of having no protection from something harmful.
CONTRAST
[Ryou]
Bang.
Bang. Bang. BANG.
Ryou Bakura's life is an offbeat musical; a beautiful, cacophonous symphony. Truly no expense has been spared in this glorious, melodic mess. The talents of a full orchestra — oozing enthusiasm, and unadulterated passion for their craft — provide the accompaniment, observing his movements religiously. Although an unwitting conductor, unprofessional and unpractised, Ryou Bakura maintains perfect control.
In fact, he selected this particular sonata himself. Loud, obnoxious chattering of machine guns, coupled with the ominous hissing and booming of falling artillery shells.
Eventually, the percussion — erratic and punctuating, an almost-forgotten afterthought of the composer — introduces itself. The heavy thud of booted feet, the groans of buildings caving in upon themselves, disintegrating to rubble in mere seconds.
In similar fashion, the vocals are sporadic and somewhat minimalist. In the rare moments of silence, one can hear the rapid barking of commands in a foreign tongue — an exotic opera, of sorts — and the occasional whine of a stray animal; but then the instruments begin again, viciously and dissonantly drowning out all other noises, save for the wordless, high-pitched screams of the damned.
At night, nothing is different. Ryou Bakura drowns out the onslaught of sounds with a machine of his own, albeit less destructive and installed with more well-known pieces of music; pop standards mostly, some hip-hop for when he's in the mood. While he sleeps, he wears earplugs.
BANG.
Yes; life in a war-zone is an offbeat, discordant musical, with many hundreds, if not thousands, of instrumentalists bringing their own individual talents to the backdrop of a ruined city. Ryou Bakura finds that it is grotesquely alluring.
It's morbid.
He's morbid. There is nothing remotely resembling beauty in humankind's inherent savagery, or our draconian ability to sabotage, torture, and annihilate. But one copes with the situation at hand in his own way, and Ryou Bakura heard the music of death — macabre, yet tantalisingly seductive — and somehow managed to stay sane.
No, it's not a conventional career choice. Not in the slightest. Ryou Bakura knows this. In fact, he's pretty certain that most ordinary people — who work in offices, in classrooms, or in receptions — don't have such gruelling schedules as this one. That said, he wouldn't have it any other way.
Ryou Bakura isn't a soldier, these are not his battles to fight. Nevertheless, this does not make survival that much easier for him. It is his duty to follow in the footsteps of these brave fighters; through dust, debris and gunfire, if the situation so requires. Through this he carries his own weapon — although it offers him little protection — and often raises it to strike, to stun, to capture.
Click.
Ryou Bakura is a photojournalist, one of world-renown and critical acclaim. His 'weapon' — so to speak — is a Nikon D7000 DSLR camera, which he carries with him everywhere, like a small child or a fifth limb. He captures images; snapshots of desolate landscapes that were once magnificent cities, soldiers barely half his age forced to bear firearms and take lives; destruction at its finest.
It is his duty to show the world these horrors; the extent of humankind's greed for power, or control. On occasion, he finds himself empathising with a certain spirit, who must've experienced something similar to this in his youth, during the creation of the Millennium Items. Other times, he can't help but resent him for what he became. In the end, he is gone and it doesn't matter.
Thinking of the spirit always seems to lead into thoughts of his father. After all, they are both nothing but shadows to him now, whispers of an unpleasant past that is probably better off forgotten.
Ironically, his father once declared that he was 'a careless idiot' for partaking in such dangerous activities. His father, who'd been killed in a rockfall while attempting to excavate an Egyptian temple three years previous. His father, ever the hypocrite.
Despite this, Ryou Bakura felt no need to dwell on the wasted years of his youth, barely alive and nothing but a vessel to the Millennium Ring's malevolent inhabitant. That's the past. Over. Done. Finished. Gone. Forgotten. Now, he looks forward. He soldiers on. He is on the edge of death frequently, through choice, and he's never felt so alive.
Click.
His father is right. He is a stupid fool, and he can't possibly deny it. His life is on the line; he could kick the bucket tomorrow, if Fate, the gods, the universe or a rogue bullet so decided, in this foreign city so far from his home and his friends.
That fact is painfully, yet exhilaratingly, obvious.
He's already been injured multiple times. Shot in the arm while covering the conflict in South Sudan, a broken leg after an explosion in war torn Chad. Next time, it could prove fatal. Or it could provide him with another battle scar, to add to his ever-growing collection. Nevertheless, these thoughts don't deter him in the slightest.
He's not dead yet, and he plans on having it stay like that, at least for a little while longer. He's finally in control of his own life, making his own decisions, living each day to the fullest, like it could be his last — because it very well could be.
He's not prepared to relinquish that control just yet, though.
He stares death in the face, and he laughs.
BANG.
Click.
Life in-and-out of harsh, desertified war zones left Ryou Bakura an arthritic, exhausted mess; oftentimes, he found himself wishing for a more laid-back, relaxing career. Although he loved his job, his aching muscles, shattered joints and general bad health (courtesy of unyielding floors serving as makeshift mattresses, and hours upon hours of trekking — or sometimes crawling — through hazardous terrain) didn't share the same opinion.
He'd spent the past five-and-a-half months covering the ongoing conflict in Libya but, with the uprising beginning to fizzle out, he'd been pulled out and informed he'd be returning home after a short rest period.
Emerging from the porcelain-white bathtub — muscles soothed, and feeling refreshed, clean and relaxed — he sighed. He'd be leaving later this morning, once he'd stuffed the remainder of his luggage inside his suitcase (cameras, and lens hoods, and adaptors, and tripods, and various lenses of different of focal lengths; the general equipment of a professional photographer) and checked out of the hotel.
Not leaving for home, though; Egypt required his attention first.
It felt strange, the idea of returning to Egypt. To Ryou, the arid, ancient fossil of a nation represented nothing but loss. The Sennen Ring — which had stolen his physical body, along with his free will, for so much of his childhood — had been created there.
His father had been killed there; dead at just forty-six, leaving behind a devastated son, the last of the Bakura lineage, the end.
At some point in his past, Egypt had robbed Ryou Bakura of everything that he held dear. All of his troubles could somehow be traced there; Egypt was the root of his endless suffering.
Yet, something closely resembling nostalgia stirred within him. He pondered this strange feeling as he discarded the damp towel wrapped around his waist, and attempted to locate some clothes (surprisingly difficult, despite the small size of the hotel room — where did all his clothes go, exactly)?
He located a crisp, cream-coloured shirt, and that all-too-familiar, warm sensation began creeping through his veins, and coaxing him towards the desert lands of his past.
It was odd, certainly.
Despite his birthplace — London, England; the Maternity Ward of Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, to be precise — Ryou Bakura couldn't shift the strange sense of belonging, of being home, after setting foot on Egyptian soil.
He'd been freed in Egypt, after all. He considered the destruction of the Sennen Ring as the greatest day of his life (although graduation came a close second, without doubt). In Egypt, the slate had been wiped clean, and all the sins of the past had been cleansed.
His life began on that humid, August afternoon; emerging from the chrysalis, from the chains of the Ring Spirit's control, prepared to grasp all possible opportunities. The only souvenirs he retained from his past, from the half-life he'd led, were the scars across his arm, chest and left hand, which faded as the years — and as a decade — passed, and a famishing hunger for both sustenance and life itself.
So, when his boss had contacted him three mornings earlier, informing him that 'The London Post' intended on running an article regarding the seventeenth-dynasty tomb that'd been excavated a fortnight earlier, he leapt at the chance.
'Egypt... here I come.'
[Marik]
In the small, dank office of the Egyptian Antiquities Museum in Cairo, Marik Ishtar contemplated life as he chewed on the end of a pencil and avoided work, as per usual.
Ishizu was out of the country and so, as assistant curator, Marik was officially in charge of the day-to-day management of the museum until her return. For Marik, this meant delegating the brunt of the work to the long-suffering employees of the establishment — namely Mohammed and Samir — while doing next-to-nothing himself.
Marik often wondered what the fuck he was still doing here. He was in his mid-twenties, living with his sister and — thanks to his sexuality being both a social taboo and a criminal offence — he'd never been in a proper, lasting relationship. Since Battle City he'd done absolutely nothing of interest with his life, to the point that he loathed himself dreadfully and sometimes even caught himself wishing he'd killed the damned pharaoh when he'd had the chance.
He slammed his fist onto the cool metal of the desk, scattering pens and pencils onto the floor. He needed a cigarette, and fast. Removing the pencil from his mouth, he tossed it carelessly to the floor and leant back in his chair, reaching into his jacket pocket for his supply of L&M Reds.
A filthy habit. Ishizu had told him a thousand times that he should stop, and even threatened to throw him out of their apartment over it. "You're sending yourself to an early death, Marik," she'd shriek, as he worked his way through an entire packet on their balcony, often just to spite her.
Well, Ishizu could go and fuck herself for all Marik cared. She had a life, she travelled the world, she had something to live for. All Marik had was bitterness. Once, he'd had ambitions — dreams of moving to the US or Europe, starting afresh, creating a life for himself, falling in love — but he just didn't have the energy for it anymore. He barely had the energy to drag himself out of bed in the morning, let alone move halfway across the world.
He really needed that cigarette.
He wasn't supposed to smoke in the office — by order of her highness, his sister — but she wasn't here so he pulled out a lighter from a desk draw and lit up. He kicked his feet up onto the desk, inhaling the fumes and pressing his eyes closed. No more worries, no more problems. Bliss.
Of course, his co-worker Mohammed chose that exact moment to burst into the office, breaking the blonde out of his short, nicotine-induced trance.
"Marik, I'm sorry to interrupt you," he paused, taking in the scene before him with barely concealed disdain, "But we're completely run off our feet outside."
Marik snorted and swung his legs off of Ishizu's desk, getting out of the chair and walking over to the flustered-looking man. "I'm not doing any fucking tours," he growled darkly, narrowing his eyes at Mohammed and taking another drag on the cigarette, "That's not my job."
Mohammed frowned at him. "That's not what I'm asking, Marik. I'm supposed to be collecting that journalist; the one from the UK, you know, doing the article on that tomb," he looked for any form of recognition in the blonde's eyes, sighed and then continued, "Anyway, I'm supposed to pick him up from the airport this afternoon, but I'm too busy with the tours, so I wondered if you'd be able to go instead?"
Marik snorted. He'd forgotten about that hotshot showing up today. "Sure, I can do that," he eventually decided. It'd be good to get out of the goddamned museum for once.
Mohammed breathed a sigh of relief. He thrust a pair of keys at Marik, almost knocking the cigarette out of his loose grip. "What the hell, Mohammed?" the younger man snapped, snatching the keys out of his outstretched hand.
"They're my car keys, Marik," Mohammed sighed, "I don't think the journalist will be too pleased if you turn up to collect him on that motorcycle of yours."
Marik supposed that his co-worker had a point, put didn't like his patronising tone. He pocketed the keys. "So, where exactly do I have to go?"
Mohammed was already turning to leave. "Check the email the journalist sent to Ishizu, all the information will be in that. He sent it about a week ago, I believe."
Marik followed the taller man out into the corridor. He didn't fancy trawling through the hundreds of emails that his sister would've received since then, especially when he didn't even know what he was looking for. "What's his name again?"
Mohammed turned slowly, a pensive look gracing his features. "I can't remember," his brows furrowed, "Not something I thought sounded very British—"
"What does it matter what the hell you think?" Marik cut him off, irritated by his co-worker's incompetence. He scowled at the nearly burnt-out cigarette hanging languidly between tanned fingers, which hadn't done anything to improve his foul mood.
He took another quick drag before tossing the damned thing onto the floor without a second thought. 'The cleaners will pick it up, it'll give them something to fucking do for once,' he thought, as he pressed the stub into the tile with the heel of his foot.
Mohammed was frowning at him disapprovingly, arms folded across his chest. He'd been working at the museum before Ishizu took over, he could remember the old Marik, the Marik with a hunger for life above the ground, the Marik who gave a damn, the Marik who had a bright future. Who was this sad excuse for a man, standing in front of him? He could no longer recognise him.
Marik realised that, each and every day, he descended further and further into the darkness. If he allowed himself to go any deeper, it was going to consume him. Again.
Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing. It'd be exciting.
He was snapped out of his dark thoughts by a sudden outburst from his co-worker, "Oh, that's it, yes! His name was Ryou," he heard Mohammed exclaim, "Ryou Bakura."
This simple fact took Marik Ishtar a long while to process. As he retreated back to the solitude of the musty office, 'fuck' was the only semi-coherent thought that came to mind.
Slouched awkwardly behind the wheel of Mohammed's dusty Toyota Corolla, Marik toyed idly with the key chain dangling from the ignition and attempted to while away the minutes before Ryou Bakura's arrival. His free hand, clenched tightly around the steering wheel, kept inadvertently jerking and reaching across to the passenger seat, where his satchel — complete with cigarette carton in the front pocket — was perched.
His entire body itched with temptation, with a desperate and uncontrollable need.
Meanwhile, his stomach churned uncomfortably; as if it were somersaulting and tying itself into knots inside his abdomen. Nausea threatened to overcome him, brought on by dread, guilt, regret — a mixture of emotions he'd refused to acknowledge for so many years, slowly fighting their way back to the forefront of his mind. It was excruciating; painful memories he had no desire to recollect began to slowly resurface.
Each individual letter of ancient script — carved so carefully into the skin of his back — burned with renewed strength. His right hand, once the wielder of the Sennen Rod, tingled. His clothes were stained with the blood of his father, his guttural cries filling his ears. The sense of powerlessness, of being a prisoner inside his own body. Of manipulating the minds of innocent people, stealing their bodies and causing them pain. Of...
Marik pressed his eyelids together, in a futile attempt to squeeze the unwanted images from his vision, and his mind. It seemed impossible. Eyes still crushed together, he made another blind grab for the bag on his left-hand side. Right now, he wished for nothing more than to smoke himself into a carbon-monoxide induced oblivion, drowning in those beautifully toxic fumes and numbing his pain. An unconventional, self-administered anaesthetic.
'There is no peace for the wicked.'
That old proverb often proved itself the bane of Marik Ishtar's existence. 'Wicked' he most certainly was, and 'peace' seemed to permanently elude him. Karma — although he would never proclaim himself to be either Hindu, Buddhist or anything of the sort — was a motherfucking bitch, so it seemed.
He opened his eyes.
The empty carton balanced on his smooth, flat palm taunted him, goaded him, made him want to scream with frustration despite the fact he was currently in the middle of a busy parking lot. He clenched his fist, crushing the paperboard container with a bitter passion. His lungs ached.
He rolled down the window, tossing the now unidentifiable crumpled-up ball out on the tarmac with unnecessary force. Outside of the car, the seemingly innocuous paper sphere no longer provoked him with as much intensity.
'You're so pathetic,' an all-too-familiar sneer seemed to ridicule him, 'Look at what you've become.'
"I know," he answered himself, laughing sardonically, "I'm a wreck."
Marik caught a glance of his reflection in the rear-view mirror and mentally reprimanded himself for allowing his emotions to get the better of him; especially at a time like this. He couldn't let Ryou Bakura see him in this state; out of control, wild-eyed, hair askew and panting furiously, as though he'd just completed a marathon. The thought was truly mortifying.
'That's right, Marik. Show Ryou Bakura you're still a complete maniac.'
In an effort to distract himself from the thought of his imminent humiliation, he shifted his gaze to the windscreen. Staring through the glass, he watched the passersby as though they were the characters of an incredibly mundane film, tracing their routes. Blissfully unaware of their newfound audience — courtesy of tinted windows — the various groups of people towed suitcases and searched for their vehicles among the countless sea of others. Marik gradually regained the ability of rational thought.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
He could last another couple of hours without a cigarette, no problem, sure. He just needed to relax. Meditate, or whatever. 'Find your centre, Marik, and then you will find inner-peace,' he mocked, barking out a few short laughs. 'Inner peace my ass.'
However much he mocked, though, he couldn't deny that the technique worked, to some extent at least. On the rare occasion that his emotions started overpowering him, deep breathing helped to return him to his usual self. It wasn't peace; far from it. Marik simply slipped back behind his expressionless mask, once again moulding himself to fit amongst the dull, quotidian surroundings of which, thanks to his past, he could never truly be a part of.
It was a well-kept lie, though. Sometimes, Marik could even fool himself into believing that he belonged here. What with his conformity to many of the social norms; he wore conservative clothes now — in public, at least — and the jewellery was long gone. His hair was shorter too, although Ishizu still claimed that it was too long for a respectable man. On the inside, however, nothing had changed. He was still the same Marik Ishtar, a puzzle piece accidentally placed into the box of another game; no matter where it was placed, it would never fit.
He really needed to stop being so damned philosophical. It was downright depressing.
Glancing at the clock, he calculated that Ryou's flight was due to land in precisely fourteen minutes — if it was on time (pfft, the likelihood of that was slim-to-none). He'd left the museum early — a little too early — so as not to get caught up in Cairo's notorious mid-afternoon traffic and end up arriving late. He didn't want to give the museum a bad name, after all. Besides the fact that he didn't care to lose his source of income, Ishizu would castrate should he bring disgrace to her establishment, her pride and joy, her salvation.
'That goddamned museum,' he thought bitterly. Although beloved of his siblings, the stifling, claustrophobic atmosphere bled out his will to live, like a leech. He'd needed to get away and, for once, he had the perfect excuse; 'Ryou Bakura.'
Marik couldn't help but let his mind wander to that strange, white-haired boy — well, man, although the image engrained within his mind remained that of a teenager, for the moment.
'What in god's name will he think of me, after all these years?'
Ten years had passed since Battle City. That didn't make the wounds any less painful, or the memories any less poignant. Marik wouldn't be surprised if Ryou was bitter; he'd allowed the pain he'd caused — and the hatred as a result — to fester for nearly a decade, after all.
This situation could've been avoided, Marik realised, if only he'd worked up the courage to apologise to Ryou at the Ceremonial Duel. Of course, he'd been too cowardly. He'd avoided the boy like the plague, too proud to apologise for his actions.
Apologies just weren't Marik's forté; but would an apology to Ryou Bakura now bring the closure he needed so desperately? Or would the confrontation send him over the edge completely?
Marik fiddled with the air-conditioning dial, cranking it up another notch purely as a distraction from his unpleasant thoughts. He knew that if Ryou was anything like him, he'd still be holding a grudge. He'd want revenge.
It transpired that Ryou Bakura was nothing like him, though.
Curiosity sufficiently piqued, Marik had researched a little into the journalist and his work. He'd typed his name into the battered office laptop — Ishizu refused to replace the godforsaken thing, despite its sorry state and painfully slow connection — and scrolled through pages and pages of sites.
The information he'd dredged up was surprising, to say the least. It turned out that his old 'acquaintance' was rather successful; in fact, that was an understatement.
The name 'Bakura' had become synonymous, among various circles of photographers, with perfection. The images he captured — beautifully stark, even to Marik, who found no particular appreciation of art — had earned him global recognition. He'd even been awarded two prestigious Pulitzer Prizes, which was an achievement not to be overlooked. To say that he was simply 'successful' would be disrespectful.
He was clearly a man who had dedicated his life to his work, a man with ambition, a man with drive. A man to envy, of course.
'Who'd have thought it, eh? Me, envious of Ryou Bakura?' The idea was almost laughable. Ryou had been such a pathetic little waif when they'd first met, so easy to bend, to manipulate, to control.
It appeared that a lot could change in a decade.
Marik drummed his fingers against the dashboard violently. The tables, it seemed, had turned. It was infuriatingly embarrassing. Ryou Bakura was symbolically sticking two fingers up at him — because they did it with two in Britain, not one — and saying, 'Fuck you, Ishtar. I won't let what you did to me ruin my life.'
Although, really, Marik still found it difficult to imagine Ryou cussing.
Chewing on a mangled fingernail, he tilted his wrist awkwardly and checked his watch. The flight would be arriving in just over ten minutes now. Although he desperately wanted to start the engine of Mohammed's car and drive back to his — 'No, Ishizu's,' he bitterly reminded himself — apartment and not have to confront the misdeeds of his past, he got out of the car.
Reluctantly dragging himself in what he hoped was the direction of the Arrivals Lounge, he braced himself for impact.
A/N: For reviewing the original first three chapters, I'd like to thank: Izuna the Fujoshi Fangirl, TheOriginalGloryGirl, TheeWiccaChick, Silver-Haired-Thief, Crystia, Albino Shadowz, Avii Sohen, Binks95, Mei1105, Jax, NushiKasai, TheMysticWonder, theabridgedkuriboh, Lazy Gaga and Nekojen9.
Also, a huge shout out to everyone who favourited and followed: AndDownWeGO, Kuja-chan, generalpegasus, xXxXBrokenxWingsXxXx, Arrianna Blood, Darth Mudkip, EmberHeart17, Erisna, Glermon, King Dave of Blingees, Nani-1-9-5, TelsaCat, facelesskiller, hahahehehoho, icantevenword, ilovemanicures, lovebxb and yamistar22.
You guys are all wonderful; I hope you'll enjoy the rewritten/edited version as much as the original! The first two chapters will mostly contain old content, with the new material being introduced from chapter three onwards. I'll try to get the next two chapters uploaded within the next few weeks!
(The first few chapters are set in August 2011, 'The London Post' is a fictional newspaper, and I'd love if you could leave me a review!)