Eyes open. Feeling returns. The surrounding darkness bows before their fallen god incarnate, eager to serve him. The incarnate takes his first breath in 5,000 years. Vigor and life take passage through the nostrils. It takes a moment for his sense of self to connect from the subconscious to the conscious. He looks down at his hands. They are feminine, skinny, and delicate. No doubt the hands of the landlord. A woman perhaps? It doesn't matter, either way. It's been a long time, but his blood lust never died. His hatred never diminished. He's sure that he can use this new landlord for his vengeance.
The King of Thieves has returned.
A manic smile spreads across the King's face. It feels so good to be awake! Things can be accomplished when one is awake. Spinning around with arms raised to the heavens, the King gives a prayer to the unholy god with which he fused.
"I swear I will finally extinguish the soul of the Pharoah! This time I won't lose!"
The thief stops his ritual of worship. It is time to meet the new landlord and find out what constitutes "rent" here. Out of the darkness of this mindscape, he slowly makes strides towards a distant light. Closer and closer. Step by step. The darkness begs their ruler to stay, but alas, he has business to attend to. The closer he gets to the adversary of the darkness, the more he can make out a hallway, then a door, then another door, then tile on the floor, then the details of the walls. He instantly recognizes that the door on the right side of the hallway belongs to him. Every person who dares to fall into the temptation of the Millennium Ring instantly gives home to him. Nodding in satisfaction, his gaze lingers on the door to the left. His landlord's room lies beyond that door. Whilst his door was an iron-clad behemoth to prevent any snooping from unwanted visitors, his landlord's door, however, was decrepit. The wood was decaying, scratches garnished the finish, and chains hung from a hook where ornamental wreaths were probably supposed to be. A soulroom is a reflection of the psyche; it is a manifestation of the owner's mental state. To have the door as this… one might be mentally broken. The King of Thieves's curiosity was stimulated as he reached for the rusted door knob. What greets him on the other side is something not even a god would have expected.
The room is very small with a strong odor. It's hard to take it in but… Oh, what a beautiful sight.
Splotches of blood adorn the walls and add a pop of much-needed color to the dirty beige of the rest of the room.
Chains cascade like makeshift curtains on a single dirty window.
A dingy bed covered in stains stands as the lone piece of furniture.
Broken drywall and chipped paint give character to the ordinary room and scream a history that was interesting to hear.
The ceiling, nonexistent, instead gives way to the darkness from the outside of the hallway.
So pathetic.
So ugly.
So intriguing.
But the best part,
THE BEST PART,
A boy no older than about 15 sat at the back wall naked, chained, and blindfolded. His pale skin matched his snow-white hair, his body was unusually skinny. The King couldn't help but laugh. This was going to be easy. He makes his way to the boy in the back of the room. The boy sleeps in ignorant bliss. Time to wake up, landlord. The King kicks the landlord like a football. A cry escapes the pathetic boy's lips.
"Who's there?!" frantically the young landlord turns his head around, blind from the cloth that shrouds his eyes.
"Morning, landlord," the thief holds the boy's face towards his direction, "I'm a new tenant. From now on, I'll be staying with you."
The boy stays silent. Did he not hear? Is he ignoring the thief? The King feels the boy's mouth quiver in fear, slightly. He heard, but where is the response?
"Say something," a glare that could burn a hole into a man emits from the King.
"I'm confused," the boy doesn't skip a beat.
"Confused about what?"
"I'm sorry, I'm stupid. Am I supposed to do something?"
"All you need to do is let me use your body whenever I want and in return, I'll pay the rent."
"The rent?" the boy's body shifted a bit. Obviously, he was interested.
Immediately, though, he bites his lips shut as if he was caught saying something scandalous.
"Yes, the rent. I'll pay you in favors," the thief fails to stifle a smile that sadistically spreads across his lips.
The boy continues to bite his lips. Blood starts to be drawn in his effort of silence.
The King cocks his head to the side in confusion. What is his pathetic landlord doing? Is he trying to kill himself? This isn't a very good way to do it. You're supposed to bite your tongue, not your lip. A trail of blood goes down the chin and makes drops on the floor.
"Stop that, you're wasting it," the King squeezes the landlord's face and brings it closer to his. Letting this blood go to waste is just criminal, so instead he licks up the trail leading from the chin. Squeezing the boy's face forces him to stop biting his lip and the King puts his lips over the wound. He sucks on it a bit, letting more of the red liquid come out to play on his tongue. Delicious. The landlord's stiff demeanor begins to relax. The King heals his pathetic landlord's lip with his tongue. It's easy to manifest this sort of thing into a soul room as the vessel of the god of darkness. He relinquishes hold of the boy's lip. Stupid landlord. He moves his hand from the boy's face to the boy's throat. He squeezes with a tight grip.
"Why would you shed your own blood, foolish landlord?" a grip like a hawk holding its prey, "I'm the only one who has permission to shed it when I see fit. Otherwise, I might not be able to harvest it in time."
"I… I was… punishment…" the boy squeaked through his desperate gasping pleas for air.
"Punishment?" the King cocks his head to the side in slight apathy, "Punishment for what?"
He lessens his strength against the poor landlord's throat to ease him to speak, but not too much. Just in case.
"I… I wasn't supposed to speak… after you mentioned… rent…"
More, the grip lessens. It seems someone broke him before he did. How disappointing. Oh well, at least this will be a sure success. All the thief needs to do is tweak the landlord a bit for his liking.
"Oh, Landlord. You listen to me now," the King moves his hand from the throat to the boy's chin, "That means, no more self-punishment."
The benevolent King softly whispers to the landlord's ear. "I'll make sure to do that myself."
A look of relief washes over the boy. Why is he peaceful about his predicament? So much more is to come.
"Now, nod if you understand," the King commands the lowly landlord.
The boy nods slowly. A smile shows the King's true excitement at the prospect of a new toy, even if the toy has already been used. He sits next to his new toy and flippantly plays with the toy's long white hair. It's tangled beyond belief, but he can't help but be reminded of his own hair from long ago in the Egyptian desert.
"As a housewarming gift, I'll allow you to ask one question," the King passively utters.
The landlord perks up a bit. Silence permeates for a moment as the King plays with the spider web strands of the boy's mane. Finally, the boy quietly and humbly asks his question.
"What's your name?"
What a mundane question. However, it would be rude to never exchange formalities in the time they would be together.
"I'm not who I was anymore, at least not completely," the King is lost in memory as he tries to think of what name to put into his being. "Why don't I just use your name?" The thief laughs.
"I don't have a name," the boy stated.
For a split second, the tenant felt something burn in his chest before promptly dissipating. How could something not have a name? Everything has a name. That is what gives humans the power to exist and power over others. Names define the being. That is how the gods came into being and that is how the humans find meaning in their identity. Names are magic in itself.
"What do they call you then?" the King is suspicious of this inane claim.
"I guess… they call me kid? They said I don't need a name, so they never gave me one."
So that's how it is. A strategy for breaking a child, to strip them of all their individuality so that they may never leave you. His little landlord must have been broken a long time ago.
Too bad. He's the property of the King of Thieves now.
"I'm in such a generous mood today, my untitled landlord," a manic and unsettling smile plasters the face of the thief. "If you could have any name you want, what would it be?"
The boy thinks hard. "I've never thought about it before. I once heard the name Ryou Bakura on the TV in the other room."
The tenant didn't know what a TV was, but whatever. A name is a name.
"Then you will be Ryou and I will be Bakura," Bakura takes the name. He doesn't know anything about the country he's in any way, so he plays along.
The Landlord Ryou looks like he's in shock. Looks like it hasn't sunk in yet. Bakura manifests a thin, metal rod with a white-hot end into the soulroom. Maybe this will get the point across.
"Don't move, landlord. I don't want to mess up the script," Bakura commanded.
He moves the boy's legs away from his workplace on the chest and begins. The searing heat singes Ryou's flesh with a terrible smell, like week-old burning animal carcasses. He can see that Ryou is having a hard time handling the pain as his face looks so desperate to scream yet he struggles to hold it in. He's doing a good job at trying not to react, but that's not what Bakura wants. He wants to hear the screams from the boy's throat.
"You can scream, Ryou, I just don't want you to move," Bakura instructs as he pens in the text.
Ryou lets out a blood-curdling scream but successfully keeps still. The cacophony of triple-digit decibels makes Bakura's ears register it as a sweet symphony. Bakura continues with his handiwork. On his landlord's chest, he writes in his Egyptian mother tongue, "Ryou– property of Bakura." Once he finishes, Ryou pants heavily from his throat orchestra.
"There. Now they will never take away your name and you belong to me," Bakura smirks at his handiwork. He looks over Ryou's naked body loaded with scars and bruises, but notices the tears escaping from under the blindfold.
Bakura laughs at the pathetic kid, "Don't tell me that hurt. That's nothing compared to what will happen in the future."
"Thank you," Ryou whispers. Bakura moves closer to the crying child's face.
"Thank you for what?" Bakura excitedly awaits his gratitude.
"Thank you for giving me a name. And… for letting me scream."
A flash of chest burning.
"What do you mean 'let you scream?'" Bakura starts to clench his fist. But why?
"Whenever I get hurt, they told me I'm not allowed to scream or do anything to react. If I do, then no food," Ryou illuminates a bit on the outside of this mindscape, "When you let me scream, it felt good to finally get something out. I feel better."
Bakura stares at the pathetic landlord. These people on the outside really don't know how to have fun. Screaming is arguably one of the best parts of breaking someone. Such stiffs if they can't even do something like that. But Bakura knows how to have fun. He was definitely going to have to help Ryou unlearn some lessons. For now, though, he caresses the pale, bony face of Ryou.
"Would you like to scream some more?" a smile spreads uncontrollably across Bakura's face.