I'm almost home from vacation now, just a few more days! I wanted to update sooner, but the cabin where I was staying had wi-fi slower than a snail. I'm not sure if I like this chapter, it felt a bit...choppy. But it is pretty long, so I hope you enjoy! Sorry for the wait! When I get home I plan to return to my regular updating schedule. Enjoy

It had been a week since Bakura dropped Malik off. It was a quiet week, surprisingly so given all the work that Bakura was expecting. He assumed the boss would be relentless, giving him tedious tasks and assignments. But Bakura had not received a word. Part of him was relieved, but another part was worried; after all, he knew he would never get off the hook for his mistake, so what was taking the boss so long?

Bakura shook the thought away and continued to watch the TV. It was always the same, filled with celebrities, economies, and terrorist activities. Nothing new. Nothing interesting. With a sigh, the he flipped off the TV. He really was bored; no work meant nothing to do. And he almost always was occupied with a job, be it hunting, pulling off a heist, or just simple surveillance work on a soon-to-be-hit location. But now he just sat around and waited for night to come so he could go to bed.

"Quite the existence I live," Bakura mused bitterly to himself. He got up and slipped on his white and blue sneakers and stepped outside into the cloudy afternoon.

"I can't stand it. Anything is better than sitting around all day." As if to answer him, his cell phone began buzzing in his pocket, playing a ringtone from a band that Bakura didn't even like anymore, but was a good enough ringtone for Bakura to leave it be. He roughly reached into his pocket and yanked out the vibrating device, sneering at the number. Or rather, the unfamiliar number. His boss was smart always changing his number every few weeks.

"About time you call," Bakura huffed.

"Tonight. The big pub, you know the place. Be there, and don't ask questions."

Bakura paused, then growled, "Are you fucking kidding me? You want me to do chores? Couldn't you have informed me of this task yesterday?" How dare the bastard order him around like a child!

"I'm not in the mood for your griping. This is the first of many. If you were better at your profession, this would not be an issue." Bakura could practically see the smirk on the boss' face.

"Bastard," he growled and hung up, wanting to throw his mobile against the wall but not wanting to have to buy a new one so soon after he broke the last one. He had a short temper and was prone to chucking things that made him angry at things that would amuse him when they hit, be that a phone to a wall or a knife to a chest.

He shoved his phone back into his pocket angrily and carried on with his walk, kicking each and every rock that was on the sidewalk, even if he had to stretch his leg out awkwardly to reach it. After about fifteen minutes he finished the loop around the familiar, luxurious park filled with rich people and their dogs. Bakura hated people, and he especially hated people that treated their dogs like children. It was bad enough when parents treated their obnoxious kids like precious angels capable of no wrongs, but doing that with a stupid mutt was just idiotic. Evidently Bakura had no pets.

He made his way back into his house, unlocking the double locked door (his distrust for people showed itself outside his career, too) and stepped inside the darkness, locking it behind his again. Though it was broad daylight, the closed blinds among the scarce windows made sure the darkness stuck at all hours. Bakura liked the dark. He worked in the dark. He slept in the dark. He did most everything in the dark. He didn't understand how anyone could be afraid of the dark. After you get over the childish notion that there are spectres in the closet, the dark was satisfyingly peaceful.

Bakura sat idly on the edge of his bed, awaiting the time when the darkness would take back the sun into its depths, and he could once again be relaxed in his own element. But time was the ultimate slut, and it screwed everyone. Eventually time would once again deliver the orb of yellow light back into the sky, and Bakura would once again be jolted back into existence with the vague realization that today would be just another yesterday. And now that he had nobody to hunt, nothing to plan, nonentity to thieve, his existence was wrought with an uninterrupted uselessness and a perpetual pointlessness.

Eventually though, after hours of sitting, watching, thinking and reading, the night did come. Bakura threw on his coat, long and black, contrasting with his white hair that shone bright in the moonlight. He clambered into his car, likewise black as to camouflage with the night, and drove off.

"19:00. It should take about 45 minutes to get there," he said to himself. He had grown into the habit of talking to himself. Being a naturally reclusive person, he was the only one who truly understood himself, the only one who would listen.

After a while of driving, fraught with screaming insults at people who drove like they were drunk and retarded, and possibly 5, he finally arrived at his destination. Before he was even entirely out of the car, a voice rung in his ears.

"Gad you could make it." Bakura looked up, and the figure of his boss stared at him. His sarcasm hung in the air like fog.

"What's the deal with calling me out here on short notice?" Bakura growled.

"I had need of your services. We're short staffed this evening, and expecting a lot of guests."

Bakura stared at him for a short moment, then glared. "What the fuck! You call me out here to wait on some fucking drunks?! Fuck that shit, I'm not degrading myself like that," Bakura yelled, angrily climbing back into his car.

But the boss just laughed, "Would you rather talk to my friends? You owe me, and you're paying it back, one way or another." Bakura knew that meant either he would do his tasks or he would become another head on his wall of victims. It was rumoured that he actually had a wall of the left knees of people who crossed him, though Bakura didn't know if that was true. He also didn't want to find out.

"Goddammit, fine" he growled, climbing out of the car and stomping past the smirking face of his boss and into the pub.

…

The pub was rather large, and had a basement with a stage and red curtain. Bakura had a feeling that the business of this pub was not just alcohol. The other staff made him changed into a black and white suit, quite itchy and stuffy for someone who was used to a T-shirt and jeans. But he didn't protest much because he supposed there was nothing he could do about the current situation.

Another waiter was filling him in on what was going on tonight, "Of all the time to be short staffed, tonight is a bad night. We're expecting to be packed because of the show, and-"

Bakura interrupted, "Show? What do you mean, show?"

The waiter paused, blinking at him, "You know, the sale."

Bakura looked back at him, annoyed, "If I didn't know what you were talking about before, why would calling it a sale help?"

The man just coughed, "Well, we're selling off a bunch of people. An auction, so to speak."

"An…auction?" Bakura paused a second, then growled, "You have got to be fucking kidding me!" He yelled, startling the waiter and storming off up the stairs. He grabbed the shoulder of the boss and spun him around, glaring, "Sex trafficking?! Are you kidding?! Of all the things to drag me into, why this?!"

The boss just smirked back "What, your morals getting in the way? If you have a problem with the business then I can direct you to the complaints desk."

Bakura glared harder and gritted his teeth, "You disgust me. You better not drag me into this. I never want to be part of this again."

"I'll keep that in mind when I assign your next task."

Bakura stomped away, trying his hardest not to punch the smirking bastard square in the jaw. He was beyond pissed. It was bad enough that he was being assigned degrading chores when he was one of the best criminals in the country, but of all the things it had to be the most disgusting thing possible. His boss was truly a despicable person. Bakura was no saint, but he would never sink so low as to make a few thousand by selling off some unfortunate and supposedly innocent people.

At least it wasn't him, though.

…

It was well into the night now, and the pub was certainly packed. Mostly rich old men, waving around their bids in one hand and their drinks in the other. Bakura mostly spent his time taking orders, half of which were yelled at him across the room in drunken slurs that he couldn't understand, though if he got the order wrong the men were too drunk to notice. He did his best to ignore the various people in cuffs brought up on stage. They all looked dizzy and confused, most likely they had been drugged, and one after another they were dragged on stage, sold to the highest bidder.

Bakura scrunched his nose when a young blonde girl was sold for 650,575 pounds. It was disgusting to Bakura, a profession he would never partake in. Killing was one thing, kidnapping was one thing, but even he was not that huge a low life. He had some sense of human sympathy.

The entire thing carried on for hours. They must have sold fifty people. 'Almost done. It's three in the morning. They're almost done,' Bakura repeated in his head, awaiting the time he could go home and be done with this madness.

But that wish would not be granted.

Up on the stage was one of the last people. A young blonde man, lavender eyes glazed over in a drugged cloud, tanned skin looking pale. It was Malik, the kid Bakura had dropped off just a week before! No, no, no, this was not possible! Bakura stated up at him, ignoring the man he was just taking an order from.

Bakura couldn't believe how stupid he'd been. How could he have forgotten about that kid? How could he have not realized that he would be here? It made perfect sense, they had to do something with him. How could Bakura not put two and two together?

Guilt washed over Bakura like a wave. He had kidnapped many people, and no doubt horrible things had happened to them, but they were all criminals, murderers, people that had made deals with other criminals and then run away so they didn't have to pay them back. Bakura had no sympathy for them. But Malik was innocent of those crimes. He was different. He did nothing wrong. And Bakura had delivered him into the hands of other criminals. The guilt of the situation churned his stomach, making him feel disgusted with himself. Was he no better than the low-lifes running the entire operation?

Bakura watched as the exotic young man was sold for a high price, to a gruff, muscular man. He knew his stature matched his personality because of all the things that were yelled at him by the bastard. Surely Malik would not have a pleasant time in the hands of such a man.

Thought swam through Bakura's head as the auction finished. What would he do? He couldn't just leave Malik like that. It was his own fault this was happening. No way could he live with himself knowing he had taken a part in this.

Deep in his own thoughts, he didn't hear the boss behind him until he grunted loudly. Bakura spun around and glared.

"Heh. Nice job tonight."

"Shut the fuck up," Bakura growled, hating the huge smirk plastered on the man's face.

"Watch it. You might just end up in the next show," he cackled and walked off, leaving Bakura steaming, wanting so much to mess up the man's face but knowing that he would mess himself up even more in doing so. He turned and went to the men's room and changed back into his regular clothes. Hands jammed in his pocket, he walked out the back where some 'customers' were still filing out with their 'merchandise'.

'Dammit…' Bakura swore at himself. He looked up, and his eyes widened for the umpteenth time that night. There was the man that bought Malik! The young Egyptian looked slightly awake now. A large, purple bruise, one that wasn't there before, was forming on his cheek. Evidently he had been struggling before, but quickly his small revolution was put down.

Bakura moved without even thinking. Walking up calmly to the man, he pulled out his gun.

"Hey."

The man turned, glaring. "Oi, what the fuck do you want-"

Bakura shot him quick, only once in the head, and he fell, releasing the rope. Malik screamed, and backed away from Bakura. Panic shot through him. Oh shit. He just shot a guy. In a parking lot filled with criminals who no doubt armed. He had to get away!

"Shut up!" he growled, taking out a knife. He cut the rope that tied his wrists together. "I'm trying to help you, so stop screaming! If you don't stop, we're not gonna make it out of here!" He yelled, grabbing Malik by the arm and taking off running in the direction of his car, which, lucky for him, was parked away from where all the others were. A gunshot rung out behind him and he felt the bullet whiz by him.

"Shit! Get in the fucking car!" He screamed, shoving Malik roughly into the car. He slammed the car door shut just as another bullet hit the car door. He put the key in the ignition, and the car jumped to life. Bakura backed out of the parking spot, going so fast he almost ran into the other curb. He sped off towards the exit road, coming close to hitting three people who managed to jump out of the way of the car currently tripling the speed limit.

Bakura wiped the sweat from his brow as he sped down the highway, thoughts racing through his head.

Not a single one was positive.

If you can't already tell, I'm not British. I've been to London once. But I wanted to write this in a British style to match the setting. Sorry if it seems off a bit. Please review! Your feedback is extremely helpful and motivating!