Disclaimer: I don't own YGO

Headache

And when Odion fell, Malik knew that something was terribly wrong. The gods were mad. And there was a pulsing, a beating, and a throbbing, an unbearably painful headache pulsating through his skull. Odion was no longer able to protect him.

There was a shifting. He couldn't see, think, hear. Colors were blurs. Pain was the only thing he knew. People moved past, running up to the dueling arena. He heard voices, not words. A voice was chuckling at the back of his mind… then the forefront; the Voice was everywhere.

Then the Voice quieted and Malik saw Odion's green-grey eyes, staring at him with a pained expression. Someone held his brother as he endeavored to stay conscious. The pharaoh. A voice that was his and wasn't his laughed.

"So we finally meet," Malik grinned, the beads of sweat dripping into his mouth. The pharaoh just stared at him. "I am Malik." He glanced down briefly at the Millennium Rod clenched in his hand. "And yes, this is the real Millennium Rod too, you dumbasses. Fools. All of you. Did you really believe that I was honestly poor, genuine Namu?" He scoffed. "Pathetic."

"You brained-washed Jou and Anzu," the pharaoh said.

Malik's smile dwindled as he fought the Voice, but he regained control and smirked again. "I can tell you're observant." He chuckled, a low, malicious sound. "And it was all to get to you."

"Master…" Odion's voice was weak. Malik ignored it.

"Me?" The pharaoh seemed honestly shocked, but still kept his regal composure. "And why is that?"

"Two reasons." Malik held up one finger, "to take the Millennium Puzzle for myself. That is the weaker of my reasons though." He held up the other one and a sliver of the Voice broke through with his own, "and the second was revenge on you. You're blood is going to spill." A blinding headache ripped through his skull again and he clutched his head in agony, trying to keep control. This was not the Voice's plan, it was his.

Really now? The Voice hissed. You're playing that card? That's too cute, hikari-dear.

This is my fight, Malik chided. My idea.

His reply was laughter and another migraine. The world blurred.

"I'm coming, Malik-dear," his voice shook as the two voices blended and fought, clashed, sparred. And he screamed. The pain was white-hot, white. All he saw was white, felt white. He screamed a blood-curling screech and he felt a burning on his forehead as an eye slowly ripped his skin. The Rod blazed in his hand. The world was white and scorching; everything was on fire. And suddenly everything went black. The Voice drifted toward him from far, far away.

"Thank you for letting me proceed with my plan, dear little Malik. Marik won't disappoint."

Malik screamed irately before the shadows devoured him.

The monster was free.

Marik's an asshole.

Review?

Over and out,

Mahersal