Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! or Vampire Hunter D.
May those who are reading this enjoy what I have provided :D
Thank you to those who are still reading. Each chapter gets us closer to the end, and I am hoping to get us there soon. I'm loving the journey, and I hope that you are too, but how many of you still reading are just itching to get to that finish line?
Not to mention...this site, am I right?
Anyway, enjoy!
Chapter Sixty-Nine: Sympathy
Elsewhere, as the sun threatened to bless the day with its morning…
"So…When'd you join this guy's service?"
The young man sat upon a large upended wooden carton, swinging his foot to kick at its slatted side in a steady rhythm. Just beside him was the manservant, arms crossed and looking haggard, whether by the day or the impromptu drummer's antics was anyone's guess.
"Lord Greylancer," came the curt warning.
"I'm guessing a relatively new addition?" Bakura pressed. He ceased his tapping and shifted forward on his improvised chair. With one hand he scratched just under the mask where it still chafed from time to time. "You're not mad at me, are you? For taking you away from him?"
To that there was no response. They sat in the warning brightness of the sky, the signaling that a proper dawn would be upon them soon. The air felt chill and heavy with dew, even though the summer weather would evaporate that soon and replace it with a heat that made Bakura recall a waystation amidst dusty hills and winding mountains. Currently, he felt as weighted as that dew, and as lightheaded as the gathering gnats by a nearby puddle left over from whatever the workers had been assigned to do. Part of the shifting, and the obnoxious rapping on his wooden seat had been nothing more than an attempt to stay awake. He trusted himself enough that falling asleep near the man that stood beside him would be of no issue, but he could not extend the same trust in the presence of vampires or their vicinity—no matter the promises of protection. All it took was one proper look at him disrobed for whatever purpose, and he would be doomed.
Breathing in the scent of the wafting early morning air—its freshness a stark contrast to the fading burn of machinery—he watched as the outer crew members stored their vehicles and excess materials for the day before making the descent to their chambers. Their work was evident, as the ground floor wall placements looked almost complete, and the upper areas had their flooring in. Normally such speed would denote something wrong with the structure, but not with these creatures. Bakura wished he could appreciate the curious architecture before him without worrying about what its existence forewarned. He figured in a few days, if not less, the outer brick laying would commence, and someone would have a fully modernized castle on their hands.
"Is there going to be a moat?"
Silence.
"I ask because there are some interestingly spaced stakes over there…"
Nothing.
"We're going to be traveling together for some time, right?" Bakura said, nudging the man in yet another attempt to keep himself awake rather than to demand attention. Internally, he agonized at how rude he was being. Clearly, the man wanted to be left alone, and he himself had no intentions of becoming friends. "So, we might as well talk about something."
A resolute thin line formed on the man's mouth.
"At least tell me your name? A like? A want—wait scratch that, you'll tell me you want me to be quiet."
The line faltered.
"Okay, okay…" Bakura conceded with an unseen smile. The man might not break yet, but he would in time. He went back to silently watching the cleanup crew and hoped that he could keep his eyes open for at least another half an hour. By that time, he hoped they would be moving away from this place with its vampires tucked away in their coffins.
"Do you like playing games?"
He could not tell if the words were accusatory or the formation of an honest question, but he was shocked that this resolute stuck-up had broken so soon. "I do?" he offered unconfidently.
"What games do you play?"
"The usual," he said. "Mostly things like Blackjack, Poker, War, a bunch of dice games; but my friend Ryuji was teaching me Duel Monsters before…"
"I played that game once or twice," he said. "Maybe we could play it later?"
"You have a deck?"
"Not here. Do you?"
Bakura smiled an unseen apology. "No, not here."
"Definitely later then, if you fulfill my master's orders."
The man turned away then, which was for the best. Bakura's false personality had crumbled for an instant, and the fought back tears were glittering warnings at the corners of his eyes. This poor, utterly obtuse, sycophant. Would there be any way that said shell of servitude could be broken open, and the thinking human released once more? He let out a muffled sigh of his doubts and waited for whatever this order would bring.
The wait was not long. Greylancer approached with the reigns of the animatronic beasts that carted their load with thoughtless motion. Handing them to his manservant, he nodded to Bakura and handed him a packet of documents.
"You are first to go to the Ustra II outpost and check in with Sir Aureliu," he began, "Be certain to call him 'Sir', as he is less prone to informalities than I. It has been a while since I have been able to make a trip there and assess its progress—"
"Progress?" Bakura interrupted and bowed his head a little in apology after receiving a pointed look from Greylancer.
"As you can see, we are working within our means. We update our systems only when possible. Check in with my man and report back to me either with his allotted communications system, or this," he handed him a two-way radio and headset attachment. "That's just in case he does not wish for you to use the repaired long-range terminal you will be bringing him," he pointed to the crate sat in the carrying cart, "or I'm not present here. He usually runs a tight ship, but many of his officers are green, so he's less prone to allowing others to manipulate anything that may be attached to His work. I will be out on the field as well, so this may be the easier way to get a hold of me, in any case. It's already set on the appropriate channel.
"Next, you can visit your group to let them know you are well. It is for you to decide whether you rejoin one another or remain separate until later, as that is not my place to say. Afterwards, I need you to travel further east to Varvara. There was word of a human skirmish there and He has a particular interest in it, but I have no time to travel there with all of my other duties."
"And that's all you need me to do?" Bakura asked.
"Yes. And then I will fulfil my end of the bargain," Greylancer replied. "The 'animals' and the cart are yours to fulfill your desires along with those of the Great One."
"Okay. Can I speak freely for a second?"
"Have you not?"
Bakura grinned. "This has got to be the most expensive trip I've ever taken."
Greylancer shrugged, hinting at a good nature the man knew he would never truly see. "You've still accepted to the terms."
"Yeah, yeah…you're just reminding me to check the fine print next time."
The start of their journey to this outpost (although Bakura doubted it would remain an outpost for long; in fact, if it were built like what he had seen under construction, it would probably be a certifiable castle in its own time) was blissfully mundane. In fact, Bakura accidentally nodded off for a few minutes, coming to suddenly when he realized that he had begun to doze. While not a perfect amount of time, it had been the refreshing burst he needed to push through just a few more waking hours.
"Have you ever been to this place?" Bakura asked his driver, turning his bleary gaze to the unfamiliar scenery.
"I rarely leave my master's side," the other said. As if ashamed of his brusqueness he added, "But…to answer your question, yes. I am certain it is far greater than what it was when we first visited it, though."
"Cool, cool."
The climb began then into the mountains. Seemingly more inclined to speak—out of boredom or to inform, Bakura did not know—the manservant began describing the area. How they would take what some knew as 8673 until it merged with 5084 to the town where the outpost had been built. With great excitement (something that vaguely reminded Bakura of his father's passions for history) he began talking about the ruins of the castle that lay just beyond, atop the mountain that overshadowed the place. The beauty of its ruins, which seemed to meld in with the surrounding nature, and how the site had been left alone to conserve this relic. Bakura had at this point asked if it would not have been better to build the outpost on the adjoining mountain and received a knowing smile for it. There would be a castle erected, but currently they wanted easy access to more familiar territory. Why give up the skeleton of a pre-made town when it was just there for the taking?
Also, the man continued, there were so many options to build underground, to build tunnels that could connect one important building to the next without the future transplanted population's knowledge. This would even allow passage during the day if an average vampire so desired.
"An average vampire?" Bakura inquired with a laugh.
"You're probably aware that most follow the rules that we know them to follow: they cannot go outside at night, holy things harm them…but the strongest ones," the man said with a certain relish, "they can walk amongst us during the day. No different than us either."
"There are some differences," Bakura said.
"If you're playing semantics, sure."
"I don't know if drinking blood for sustenance is really semantics."
"Is it really that different than how we eat meat?"
Bakura wrinkled his nose. "I think liking rare steak is still a bit different. It's cooked for one."
The man shook his head. "So, cooking a human would be better?"
"Never said that," he said with a snort. "I'm just saying those of us humans who would attempt to chug blood for dinner may have some…ah…adverse side-effects? So, not really semantics."
This seemed to give the manservant pause. "You don't seem as antagonistic about it as other humans are."
"People have to eat," Bakura shrugged. "I won't begrudge anyone that. But if there are willing donors, I don't see the point in hunting for sport. If you couldn't tell, I also have a bit of an issue with authority. And what do you mean other humans? Aren't you one?"
"For now," the man said, flicking a bit of plant fluff from his shoulder, which had landed by chance, carted by the wind. "For most of my life I've studied the paranormal and supernatural, knowing that there had to be something real in all of this 'scary story' nonsense. I took the gibes in the same stride as those who tout their religions. What is wrong to think there is something out there more powerful than us that we had yet to discover? If tales persist, isn't it believable to think that something in it had to be true for it to stick so firmly in our minds? To have my theories be proven true…that vampires at least had existed at one point—not just the wild flailing of selfish lords and ladies, but REAL vampiric existence, I thought that would have been enough for me. But then, all of this," he waved his hand about the beautiful and mountainous countryside, but Bakura knew what he meant. He was talking of the war. "And suddenly all anyone could be concerned about was survival. That is where I saw the real monsters. Humanity has something sick within it that it refuses to deal with. Within vampires…that sickness has been refined with an honest purpose. When I thought I was at my lowest, at death's door thanks to our useless governments and all of those nonbelievers turned into no better than packs of feral dogs, one of the very things I had searched for saved my life. Gave me a new purpose.
Now, I want to be of help. I want this festering sickness inside of me distilled until it is something pure. Mock me if you want, for 'evil always provides empty promises', but I see no evil in my master, or his. I see the future there. Lord Greylancer is a man of honor, and not prone to trusting our disgusting existence. He is the one that made me this promise, which means he has seen something worthy and one day I will be changed. I will be better. And, if you are worthy," he paused to glance Bakura's way, "I hope the same for you."
"Thank you," Bakura replied, clearing his throat. "Although, I can't imagine it. Living forever sounds like it would suck."
"…"
He offered that incredulous silence a nudge and a shrug. "To be serious, that sort of life is not high on my to-do list."
"Seeing the world would be easier."
"At night."
"Which is still beautiful, and they can see just as well in the dark."
"I'd miss the sun," Bakura added, and with a sadness stated, "and I think somewhere in them, they do, too."
Silence befell them for a time after that. Bakura let his mind wander but held fast to wakefulness. The crisp morning air was sparking with the heat of the day, and the full-leaved trees paired with their evergreen allies created a picturesque ride upwards. Past the winding, rusting, railing, the brief clearings, and the low shrubbery that coated the ground between the aforementioned tree trunks, they could see the ruins of homes on the hilly inclines as they mechanically clopped their way up the asphalt road. He thought they were nearly there and hoped that everyone back at camp was not too angry with his sudden disappearance.
He noted to himself with a little self-reproach that he worried most about D's reaction.
"You asked for my name," the manservant said, breaking that silence. "It's Bertalan."
"Oh, I did, didn't I. Pleasure to formally meet you." He could think of nothing else to say. The more time ticked on, the less he wanted to know of him. It would only make things more difficult in the future; he was beginning to like the man, even for all his faults.
"Likewise. And I'm not going to lie, I am worried for you, Dream Eater," he confessed. "If you really do have a problem with authority, you are going to struggle in this new world. Were I you, I'd keep my head down and go with the flow."
Bakura gave him one of his hidden grins. "Going with the flow is my specialty."
Their travels continued with Bertalan going on about his old hometown and the emigration to another country in his youth, the struggles that brought—things Bakura desperately did not want to hear and did his best to sway the conversation elsewhere to no avail—about his family, and his lack of friends due to his unique interests. Interests that mirrored many of Bakura's own. He inquired about "Dream Eater's" history, and the young man bit back an expletive before twisting falsehoods and realities into something palatable…and now something he would have to remember, if the other were to relay it anywhere else. 'Wonderful, the dam has been broken', he bemoaned to himself, 'and has mutated into a double-edged sword.'
The manservant had then begun to talk about some place called Pripek that was supposedly nearby, and Bakura grit his teeth for another sympathetic barrage. However, the tale seemed less personal, and he sighed in quiet thanks that it was, until his next intake of breath caught an odd scent in the breezy morning air. Smoke? Blood? He sat up straight in his seat. What was that?
They could see the tops of the castle-like fort (had been able to for a few minutes now—it would occasionally appear and disappear behind the bends that guided them upwards, but never visible for too long at their pace) and if he squinted just so, he saw faint lines of smoke drawing up and out, following the wind's path that they were currently downwind of, at times hidden by the errant puff of clouds. Bertalan's focus had been the road, but when he saw Bakura almost rise clear from his seat to see if his eyes and nose were playing a trick on him, he reigned in the robotic horses to a smooth halt and looked to where the other gawked.
"Is that...?" Bertalan asked without completion. Bakura understood.
"Hurry," he instructed the man, uncertain of how to feel about this new development. He sat back down, scratching at the side of his mask in thought. "This does not bode well for our report."
The manservant did as he was told.
They arrived at the site not much later, the smell of death and ruin having been clear to their all too human noses for the past minute. Yet, once they rode up to the site, Bertalan having parked their cart just short of the plant-lined entrance, there was no sign of fire on the outside—just a few straying whisps of smoke that fluttered out through half-open windows above them. There was, however, a sign of a scuffle, and a little further up, the remains of said fight.
Literally.
Bakura swayed his one-eyed view side to side. There were tracks everywhere, some leading off to the side, and some leading into the keep. He crouched, observing the corpses in their varied states, and mused on who could have done this. These were clearly the remains of younger vampires, so in theory it was a doable feat for humans who knew what they were up against. But why? He touched at the wakizashi that rested at his side, grateful for its presence.
'They could be like that mob,' he thought to himself, his observation taking his attention back to the trio of footprints that lead into the brush. He stared intently at it and found that the leaves and twiggy stems of other plant life only moved with the breeze that had carried the scent of smoke to them. 'Or…they could be like me.'
Either way, better to take precautions.
"What do you think?" he asked, turning back to Bertalan. "Take a look inside, or contact the boss?"
"I'm not sure," he confessed. "Normally, I would be against tampering with machinery that is not ours to touch, but if anyone were in danger, I mean, wouldn't it be for the best? But then again, maybe we shouldn't…"
"To be fair, we have the smaller radios at our disposal. On top of that, we don't know how far whoever these people were," Bakura motioned to the scuffed ground beside the corpses, "ended up getting."
"I don't see them getting very far. Even for being not fully staffed, this place has protections."
"Then why didn't anyone come to clean this up?" he countered.
"Then I defer to you."
Bakura chuckled. "Yeah, let the newbie take the fall." He waved away the man's protests. "It's fine, I'm joking. Anyway, a new guy would get in less trouble for not following protocol. 'I don't know any better'."
"If you feel so," Bertalan said, crossing his arms as if the day were growing colder rather than warmer.
"Your guess is better than mine," he chuckled. "Let's get this stuff off of the cart first so if we have to make a run for it, we have speed on our side."
There was a skeptical look from the man, but he moved to one side of the cart, eying their load as if it would explode. Nodding at him, Bakura took the other side and began shifting the main console of the hodge-podge radio off the cart after unstrapping it from its ties, only to stop abruptly once the heavy contraption began to sway back and forth, a rattling of sensitive parts tinkling with each sway. One unsteady tilt threatened to upend their main purpose for coming this way. Sighing and rubbing at his eyes, then his temples, he said, "This…ah…needs multiple people to lift, doesn't it."
"Usually."
"Could have said something sooner…"
Plan B, then.
He flicked on the two-way radio and popped in the headset, murmuring to the questioning other that it would help him hear their instructions clearer, and give anyone watching them less opportunity to know their plans. In reality, he wanted to be able to twist any instructions to his benefit once he knew where they stood in this whole mess. It made him feel like an asshole but riding the wave of intuition had gotten him this far, and he was going to need to follow it a bit further.
"Testing, one, two, three…Are you there Lord Greylancer?...Over?"
"Already calling? You both made good time," came the voice of the vampire, clear and pleasant—almost impressed. Almost. "You don't need to say over, however, unless you don't think I will recognize that you are finished speaking."
Bakura waited a moment to make sure the man was through and sucked in air through his teeth before starting. "Wish current scenario would make for a better report, but…we may have problems."
He relayed what he could and waited as the silence lengthened. There was enough time to consider the rough sound of the earpads rubbing against his ears, the creaking of the headpiece straining against a portion of his mask. Enough time to lower his hand from the collar of his shirt multiple times. "Problems," Greylancer stated rather than asked. The pleased intonation was gone. "How bad of a position are we in out there?"
"I'm not sure." He had an inkling.
"Concerned enough to call me, however?"
"Yes."
Another pause. "I will need the two of you to go in there to check. With luck, the situation that sparked what you have seen may have been resolved quickly, and they are just preoccupied with the cleanup inside. Stick together; I want no more casualties. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"By the by, I took the initiative to track down your comrades," Greylancer said, and Bakura's body seized in fear. He was grateful that Bertalan was still waking from his own shock and eyeing the remains with a hand hovering over his mouth. Currently, his own wide eye might have given away that something else was amiss. "Or I should say, I sent a few sentries out to check on their well-being. There was no one present in the area you mentioned, but they did leave a note. Shall I read it?"
"By all means," Bakura stated calmly, although his masked mouth twitched after the words had left them.
When he had, the one known as Dream Eater let out a rush of air that he did not realize he had been holding in. What lead? He did not know, but it did (gratefully, oh so gratefully) fit in with his story so far. Also, if he were reading the intonation of the vampire's voice correctly, there was a distinct lack of suspicion, thus nothing familiar about or within the handwriting itself. This was good. While the circumstances he was currently presented with could end in a less than stellar way, at least they were safe and away from prying eyes. With luck, he would find his patchwork family, and soon.
But first, he would have to shake his new companion.
"Once the damage has been assessed, contact me again. I will give you further instructions at that point. Understand?"
"Affirmative."
There was a pause. "What has you suddenly so formal?"
Bakura scanned the grounds and did not need to hear the surrounding environment to know of the unusual silence that blanketed the area. Having experienced the handiwork of D's father firsthand, he knew something far greater than he had originally anticipated had occurred. He wondered if Greylancer had caught on, as well. There was a distinct lack of guards, even for a budding outpost. Why? If anything, should there not at least be a few human variants roaming the grounds?
"Something tells me this is not a joking situation," he responded.
"I see," the voice on the other end lost some of the cool tones it tended to hold when speaking with him. "Then know that I appreciate that you are giving the issue its proper respect."
"Thank you. I should probably relay this information."
"Yes, do that. Find the commanding officer, assess the situation, deal with any that come your way, and contact me once you have completed your objectives."
"Understood. Dream Catcher out."
He turned off the two-way and nodded to Bertalan. It was time. "Bertalan, things could be dangerous in there. How well-versed are you in fighting?"
The man sighed, an anxious little thing coming from his lungs. "Not very. I will do what I must, if necessary."
"No. That won't be necessary." Bakura pulled the blade from its sheath and held it just behind him, flipped along his arm and blade facing out. He knew it was not the right way to hold it, but it was about keeping it from view for the longest stretch of time possible. He then moved toward the main door and tried it. It swung open with a nudge. Not even fully closed.
That did not bode well for the status of those inside.
"Stay out here," he commanded, and Bertalan moved to just behind the cart without further question. Not one for a physical fight, he noted to himself, but who could blame him? If this world had not thrust such ugliness upon Bakura, he doubted he would have chosen to risk himself in an endeavor such as this, either. Well, the aggressive portion of it anyway. In any case, he was already blatantly ignoring the rule Greylancer had placed upon them, and it was best if he could bank on the manservant's fears to stay out of the loop before he ended up tripping up in front of him.
Creeping inside, Bakura took in the overtly rich display with a pragmatic eye. Nothing appeared disturbed. The decorations hung and sat as still and ordinary as ever. He would have said the silence was the only thing amiss, but that would not be true, for it was not entirely silent. There was an angered wheezing sound emanating from what he thought was one of the hallway rooms, and a muffled alarm droning below him, inaudible from the outside.
He bypassed all the closed doors for the one that hung ajar; the one where the strained cursing was coming from. Before entering and assessing the status of the room, he glanced back at the entrance and saw that Bertalan was mostly out of view. Only his foot could be seen from behind the large wheel on the opposite side of the cart that carried their load. Better efforts at hiding had been made throughout history, but at least the line of sight was broken. Whatever Bakura decided to do, he would be able to smooth-talk his way out of it.
Holding his breath, the young man peered around the corner with his unblocked eye and felt it widen with his surprise. He was not certain what he expected, but the visual that lay before him was certainly not on the list.
The entirety of the room was upended. Papers everywhere, blood soaking the ground in great swatches of rusting red. There was a gash in the wall that spread four claw-like marks down and across the middle half of it. And just to the side, hunched in a corner, was a vampire.
He looked worse for wear to say the least.
"Sir Aureliu?" Bakura ventured.
The creature jerked his head up and leveled an animalistic glare at the young man that slackened a tic once he registered this intruder knew his name. Bakura did not hide his surprised look, not that it could be much seen; the vampire's skin—what remained that was—upon his pallid face was warped like heated wax, and he would have felt a dash of sympathy if it were not for his own current position. This would be no friend of his. "State who you are, and why you are here. Now. Before I make a meal of you, like all those in your vile turncoat species deserve."
'Touchy,' he thought. Yet, he kept this to himself and instead said, "My name is Dream Eater. I have come with a delivery from Lord Greylancer before continuing my duties given to me by…"
"By?" the gruff and pain-laced voice spat.
The words fell from his lips with ease at the pressing, but his mouth felt dirty, as if filled with filth by the mere utterance. "The Great One."
"Delivery?" This and the title of his leader seemed to soothe the creature a little, and Bakura advanced into the room. There was no rise to meet him, but neither was there a champing of teeth nor a shrinking away.
"An updated communications radio."
"An updated…?" The question was cut off by an incredulous laugh. "We needed new damned cameras weeks ago, and he sends a—"
"Lord Greylancer," Bakura cut in as politely and pointedly as possible, "is a very busy man, and pardon my assumptions, but perhaps if he had better access to hearing from you, he could learn of your more immediate needs."
"I'll hear none of that attitude in your voice again, human," Aureliu slurred. "Or assumptions. It is not your place."
"My apologies. For the record, and to keep true to my duties: may I ask what happened here?"
A shaking, tattered-gloved hand rose to pasty, unhealing skin. "I…cannot be certain. The shifts were changing as normal, and I heard nothing out of the ordinary. If it weren't for the fact that I saw them, I would have assumed it was a splinter cell of my own kind."
"Saw them?"
"The humans!" he snapped. "The damned prisoners that we were holding for questioning. Somehow, they were released and—"
"How were they released?" Bakura queried. Inwardly his mind screamed, 'Who?! Who were they?!' but as he leaned down, his heart steady, his blade still behind his arm and out of sight of the injured creature, he held it in and let a glacial indifference cover it. "He will need to know."
"Something technical. The doors were locked by keycards. But how anyone was able to get down there…Only a select few are allowed—even less if they are human."
"And no one has come up from…wherever you're talking about?"
"The basement levels," he grumbled. "And no. That was the first mistake I made. I heard the ding of the elevator and assumed that it was one of my men coming up to debrief just before I went to my rest. I was wrong, and got this," he pointed to his face, "as a thank you for that ignorance."
There were many things he wanted to say, but none of them were polite, so he pursed his lips and simply asked, "How?"
"Holy water. These intruders were prepared."
"And must have known who your prisoners were. Interesting…" he rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand. "Aside from the prisoners, did you see any of the others?"
"No, which I will admit that I failed on. However, only so much can be done after getting what would be to you a splash of acid in the eyes."
"Ouch…" Bakura commiserated.
"It was odd, though," the vampire murmured, more to himself than in response to his utterance. "I remember a voice yelling for them to 'wait for him', but they all left abruptly, and I heard no sound of additional footsteps."
"Do you think this guy is still in the building? That he might have been the one who did this?" 'If so, I want to shake his hand,' Bakura mused. 'That takes guts to free your friends like that.'
"There is a chance. I have not heard from or seen anyone else aside from yourself as of late. I cannot move from this spot as injured as I am. If the Sacred Ancestor has any foresight, he will direct us to find a method to make you all forget the benefits of holy water and the like," he winced, and covered his face with a hesitated touch. "Damn it all, this hurts."
"Hm," was all Bakura responded. He had heard enough.
Attacked. Holy water. Keycard. May still be in the area with others long gone.
Not giving Sir Aureliu a chance to look up once more or to express shock that he would dare, Bakura flipped the blade into the correct position, and with both hands on the handle, one on the top for additional pressure, he slammed it into the vampire's back, angled to slide between the ribs and reach its intended target—the heart. Blood spurted from the wound, and the creature would have howled in agony if Bakura had not thought to immediately throw the writhing body on its side and knee the mid-keening throat until sound would no longer come from it. Bakura yanked the bloodied blade out and sliced at the pinned head, releasing it from its shoulders in a deft cut that he attributed the strength and accuracy to the rush of adrenaline he felt coursing through him. Heaving ragged breaths, he watched as the body began to decay and disassemble itself in front of his eyes. Each time he was able to best a vampire in reaction time, he knew it was luck. There was strength in them that he could not even hope to best, and if he had given him as much as a second to react…
'Callous," the voice within whispered, but with a glee that the young man for once did not like.
"A bit cowardly, more like it," he murmured, standing fully upright once more. He cleaned his blade on the remains of Sir Aureliu's coat, shifting it just under the refuse of cloth and creating pressure with the side of his foot. After taking great care in placing it back in its sheath, he assessed himself and the mess around him once more. Thankfully—if one could call his position thankful—the blood had spattered onto his hands and the floor, somehow missing his clothing in the process. A problem for leaving fingerprints, but if it could dry a little before he moved on, that would solve some of the problem. He did not dare clean his hands in the same way that he cleared his blade of the gore. There was too high of a chance that they would be looking for fingerprints of an attacker. His foes were aggressive and spiteful, but not stupid. In fact…
He looked back to the remnants of what seemed to have been a vampire that had lived at least 100 years, if he could guess at the appearance of the corpse, and down to the gloves. There were clear holes where sharp claws had burst forth, but otherwise they would do. Wrinkling his nose, he carefully plucked the gloves and shook free what remained inside. Putting them on was another trial, and the gritty, wet feeling of their cover did nothing to eliminate his disgust for his decision.
'Just for now,' he told himself.
The person that committed the initial break in could be dead, and the lower levels could have been swarmed with more of the vampire ilk, but after hearing all there was to know, Bakura did not think he would run into much resistance. If there were anyone around to defend this place, then they would have found Sir Aureliu before him. That, and probably had a look-out for any strangers coming upon them in their weakened state. Nodding to himself, he plucked the keycard from the emptied belt loop and went on his way.
The elevator offered him no resistance, and when he reached the basement level, he blinked at the clear signs of vandalism done upon the cameras. Shattered glass twinkled below the sparking technology. Well, some of them still sparked. Others smoked, or sat dead, sagging upon their wall stands as if weeping for their failure. This was no happenstance. This was methodical. Precise.
Yes, whoever had let the prisoners out had been prepared.
He wondered if he should have told Bertalan where he was going but figured that it would be best to find a way to clean himself off, at least enough to not alarm the man with blood encrusted arms. At the thought, he held them before him, looking for the tell-tale sign of a bathroom. There were markers everywhere denoting what each room was; why not have one for that usage?
Eventually, he did find a bathroom—of sorts. There was a half-cracked door amongst five other closed ones as he ambled through the empty hallway. After a brief listen to hear if there were breathing, he nudged the door open with his foot, and immediately dropped to his knees once he caught sight of the interior.
Gray. Gray. Gray. GRAY.
Air wheezed out of his lungs in painful gusts, through his mouth and nose, beating against the lining of his mask. A scream sat in queue, a soft "aaaa" humming in the lower portion of his throat, undecided of whether to act as another gasp, or to finish off as the shriek he so longed to let out. Bed. Desk. Bathroom hidden by small closet-like door. He was hot. No. Cold. No. His heart was beating too fast. No. His lungs could not fill. No. They filled too much. He was back. He was stuck. No. He was free. He could turn and—
He tried to lower his upper body to the ground, to both cut the sight from his eyes, and to beat the impending splotches of black dots before he lost consciousness. He managed to get to his elbows before he heard an actual scream free from his lips and then all was dark.
When he came to, his ears were ringing, and the front of his head thrummed with a pain that made his stomach roil with its tumultuous emptiness. With great reluctance, he lifted himself from the ground and patted his throbbing forehead. The smell of blood filled his nose, but neither his nose nor forehead were bleeding. However, there was blood. A great quantity. On his arms.
"I'm an idiot," he muttered to himself, and he stood, swaying on his feet. He shuffled over to the bathroom and took great pains to clean himself off without leaving a mess. He washed the now dirty gloves and stored them half-folded on his belt. He even undid his mask enough to suck in some air not humidified by his own exhalations.
Of course, this place would look similar to the one he had been held prisoner in, but it was not the same. The shading was off, the furniture almost cheaper looking. It was an outpost trying to replicate the clinical nature of what probably had become a popular style of cell. Why? He had no idea, but it was not the same. Not. The. Same. He took this phrase and recited it in his mind like a mantra as he fumbled through the rest of the floor he was on, finding the silence save for his own breathing and mental repetitions to be eerie.
The destruction on this floor was minor, but here and there he would see a door open to an empty cell. Curious, Bakura pulled on the handle of one of the doors not already cracked and it swung open with ease to a room just as gray as the others, but twice as empty.
All the prisoners had been released, then.
But where had they gone?
He found his answer once he reached the second basement level. A soft whimpering caught his ear, the only other outer sound that had reached him aside from the hum of the fluorescent lighting. The scent of smoke was down here, as well, although considering the venting he had seen on his way down, and the fact he could still breathe without hunching over, must have meant there was another way out—otherwise the whole floor should have been shrouded in grey cloud-like fumes rather than the uncomfortable haziness that floated around the caliginous ceiling.
"Hello?" Bakura called out, and the soft sobbing stopped. There was faint ragged breathing to his left, a clear sign that they were trying to stifle the gasps coming from them. He redid his mask and walked toward the sound.
In a doorway, hunched over on stairs that led even further down, was a man in a lab coat. When he turned, alerted by Bakura's shadow, the young man could see tears streaked down those fear-splotched, stubbled cheeks. The scientist's glasses were askew, and blood slowly oozed from a cut on the side of his face. Dark curls were matted against damp temples, and his hands shook as they continued to cover the lower portion of his face.
Bakura saw the fear in those all too human eyes and offered his hand.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he soothed, his heart aching for the man even if he knew that in another when, this one may have easily aided in the experiments on him if given the chance. "What happened here?"
It took some time, but the man was finally coaxed into telling his story. In a quavering voice, he said in a rush that his name was Georgi, and explained how his day had been perfectly normal, and Bakura got an earful of somehow both the most benign and horrifying depiction of experimentation that the man was privy to. Either this person did not fully understand the implications, or he chose not to, but still, with the way he now clung to Bakura as if he were a sole lifejacket at sea, hatred was hard to hold onto. Then, according to the scientist, the computer he had been working on began to act strangely—and began downloading something massive that no matter what he attempted to do, it would not stop the process. He tried turning off the computer, afraid that he would have been blamed for whatever was happening, but even then, no command worked. Sulkily, he noted that he prided himself on being the most tech-savvy human there, and to not have a clue what or why such a thing was occurring was a punch in the gut. He apologized to Bakura (like he cared) for probably losing important information when he ripped the chord from the wall, unable to think of anything else to save at least some of what was stored on there.
It was at that moment Georgi had heard a commotion from all around him, and he had turned from his blackened monitor, finding it odd. He only ever heard movement in the basement levels at night, and he was beginning a dayshift, even then never to this extent. It had sounded like many beeps, and doors opening. In a few seconds there were hushed whispers in the corridors. A rush of footsteps. A thunk by his door. More footsteps. Then all was silent again.
The scientist had called to his friend (a guard who kept watch on the door as he did his work) but had received no response. When he opened the door, he found that very friend unconscious, and in a panic, he had hopped over his friend's body and ran to call for help.
In an instant, everything had changed.
Empty corridors had swung into shrieking disarray. Suddenly, he had been pulled back and forth, shoved, punched, and he had bolted another way. A way that he had known would lead to safety. The emergency tunnel.
As he had run, he had smelled something burning. Someone, somehow, had caught something on fire. He had not stopped to chastise or look around for the source. All he had known was the small tendrils of smoke that filtered and flowed through the vents and hallways hammered in that something had gone very wrong.
Those pursuing him had persisted. Not one behind him let up, which he had suspected was normal for their violent tendencies being the cause of the recent territorial unrest and all (and while he explained this, Bakura's eyes widened—this man knew they held prisoners, but it did not appear that he knew why exactly they were being held) and he had just opened the exit door, the very one that they now stood by, when he had been pushed. Hard.
He had tumbled halfway down the stairs, crying out and sobbing, afraid that his neck would have been broken in an instant and all would be over—before he had stopped upon the intermediate landing. A few people had then run down to him, and began to kick at him, and all he knew was pain. Until…
A powerful voice had silenced the world with their "Stop!"
Georgi had looked up then, and through blurred vision, he could see the darkened silhouette of a slight form take a few measured steps down to the step before him. The voice had been young but had such a command that even the toughest of his assailants had given up his torment completely. Shadows shrouded most of their features, but he thought that there was a familiar profile there although he could not pinpoint from where he had seen it. All he knew at the time was that had been the face of his savior.
"Leave him," the youthful voice had directed. "If you want your freedom, take it now, but don't waste your time lashing out at people like him. Spend that energy on your real enemies."
Things still could have gone sour, Georgi confessed, as after the initial shock, many began to turn their ire on the short individual, spitting vile words. Yet, this youth stood there with a calm he could not have imagined feeling at the time and had pointed down the corridor. They had told them to go, that there was not much time. Somehow this person knew that this downward tunnel was an exit.
Once the bulk of the horde that had run him down had passed, this person had looked down at him, shaken their head, and walked past his sprawled form to follow the crowd out. Georgi could not tell if he was being judged (and for what, if he was) or if this person had felt some iota of pity for him. All he knew was that he was alive, something was on fire, and that his way out may not have been as safe as it once was. So, with nothing else to do, and with his legs quavering and in pain from the hefty bruising, he had crawled up a few steps and burst into tears—where he remained until a stranger had come and extended their hand in kindness.
"I see," Bakura murmured. "Let me be a stranger no longer, then. Call me Dream Eater."
"Dream Eater?" Georgi asked, voice finally cleared of the phlegm of his past sobbing. "How did you even know to come here? Did Sir Aureliu call for your assistance?"
"I'm thinking I was lucky that the elevator still functioned," Bakura said, ignoring the questions. He had no idea what the escapees had set on fire, but whatever had been set, and wherever they had started the flames, they had burned hot and high enough to somehow seep up to the surface enough to have alerted the human pair to the trouble. In his unprofessional opinion, the place may have become structurally unsound. "Let's not risk it. Follow me. We're going to see what happened down this tunnel once they left, and then report back to Greylancer."
The scientist blanched at this but stood up on shaky legs to follow after him.
They reached the surface easily enough. Some of the smoke had filtered through this way but was not the source of the larger stream. Here, though, they saw the remains of what looked like a minor battle. One where the numbers of the prisoners and the first rays of the sun had finally won out over the surprised but armed guards. Bodies lay prone on the muddied concrete, both human guards and a spare number of prisoners. Ash, or less fresh-looking corpses spoke of vampires if the surrounding smell of burnt flesh meant anything. He did not blame the scientist for turning away to retch. His own stomach had been roiling for some time.
'What a waste,' he thought, chewing on his lower lip while toying with the backwards facing pin by his throat. 'Things could have been so much different if we all got along. If they had helped instead of trying to subjugate. If he didn't allow for this injustice.'
Would any of this have had to happen? Would humanity have attacked if presented with a viable option of survival…of some type of symbiosis?
Surely there was enough kindness in the world, enough interest in the unknown, that it all could have had a chance to not have played out like this. For every wrongdoing Bakura remembered, he recalled an equal kindness shown. Internally, he grappled with the thought that once, maybe, someone had tried. Maybe it had failed. Maybe that was why—
No. Regardless of what the initial reaction would have been, what they were presented with was not a viable solution. Humanity, if penned, could not be penned forever. That had never been their way and he had seen these building blocks from the beginning—weak—and built on suppression and conquest. Certainly, such methods could start changes, history showed that—but were they ever good changes? Bakura did not think so. And they never lasted.
He is dooming them all.
Bakura flinched at the voice that echoed through his mind.
"This wasn't all of them?" he stated more than asked the scientist.
"No. Do you think they're waiting? That there's an ambush?" The quaking man stepped behind Bakura, as if his lean, hodgepodge-dressed form were somehow more imposing.
"How long were you on that staircase for, again?"
"I don't know. A while. Time didn't really mean much to me—I was still in shock I think."
"Then I doubt we have anything immediately pressing to worry about," Bakura said, "At least, when it comes to the prisoners themselves."
"What do you mean?"
He scratched where the mask chafed under his chin. "I'm trying to figure out how to tell Lord Greylancer that Sir Aureliu didn't make it. We were here to make a delivery to him, after all."
This seemed to knock whatever wind was left in his companion. He could feel the scientist lean against him as if his knees had given out. Based on the way he had been acting previously, the younger man took this as a show of devastation rather than relief.
"How?!"
"I'm not certain," he said, almost believing the lie himself as he uttered it. "But I know that this puts a damper on whatever plans were in motion. You are the only survivor I have found so far. I can't say he will be pleased with my report, and I don't know if he will accept what I relay as good enough intel. This…uh…isn't my forte."
"My sympathies," Georgi breathed.
"Yeah," Bakura replied, staring at the outer wall that led to the entrance. "Thanks."
When he returned to where he had left Bertalan, he was surprised to find him no longer in his hiding position, but rather guiding out some half-woozy guards, and doing his best to fireman carry out one of their still unconscious brethren. He was even more surprised (and quietly thankful) that they had heard nothing of the interaction between himself and Sir Aureliu and were just as morose about his demise as the scientist Georgi was. While their input on the attack was welcomed and helped expand upon the story of what occurred there, Bakura's gut sank once he heard it.
He had a good idea as to what that lead might have been—and the destroyed covers it had just caused.
Knowing at least that Greylancer would not make the connection of the two parties being the same (but perhaps connecting that "Dream Eater's" party may be on the way to intercept Bakura's party—what else would the "lead" mean?), he did his best to leave any of his own speculation out of it, stating only the facts he had seen in his report back once he turned on the portable radio once more. Bakura had expected checked rage upon sharing his findings with Greylancer, but not the way all went radio silent for a near minute before he heard from the vampire once more, the voice that spoke to him icier than he had ever heard it. There was a faint sound of disorder behind the pointed instructions. Something about computers being down? —Bakura could not tell. At least whatever anger that had been unleashed was not pointed his way. Likewise, he had expected to be tasked with a new mission, but he had not expected it to be one where Bertalan would need to follow.
Although, he supposed he should have known better.