DEF: Quite possibly the goriest, bloodiest, psychotic piece I've ever written, as well as being the longest one shot I've done. Not for kiddies. Contains Yugi, Tea, Duke, Joey and Tristan bashing as well as character death and insanity.

Blite: If none of the previously mentioned had turned you off this fic, then read on! And I think it's fairly obvious neither Robin Daniel Blite nor Dove Marika Terrox own Yugioh, if you didn't catch that, then this is our way of disclaiming.

The apartment was silent, just as he had left it the other day, just the way he expected it to be, exactly the way it would remain, even after he had left for good.

"Did you miss me?" he questioned dropping his backpack at the door, shucking off his black jacket as he moved into the apartment proper. It was so cold, he wondered how his 'guests' had fared through the day, that is if they had survived through the day, only one need to really. The one he'd left untouched, untouched until today that is.

"Don't worry, we have days and days before anyone even suspects you're missing. We have a three day weekend," he added idly, pale fingers tracing the cold, cold arm of his enemy, his enemy finally in his grasp, his revenge finally within his reach.

He smiled brightly at his prize, patting the slightly tanned arm lightly before turning away to inspect his other…projects. All of the bastard pharaoh's friends, Tea, Joey, Tristan, Duke, he had almost gone after Marik as well but decided against it in the end, after all, they had been partners once, and there was much to be said for the bonds between thieves.

There was Tea, the Friendship Queen, well now she more resembled the Red Queen. Hmm, if she were the Queen, then Joey was her knight, Tristan was the Bishop, Duke would be the Knave and the pharaoh was so obviously her damned King. What did that leave him then, he wondered, after all, they had considered this body their friend. Fine friends they had made had they not?

"Am I the white rabbit, your majesty?" he murmured, bowing deeply to her, she groaned pathetically, pulling at her silver bracelets. Oh but he couldn't have that, not after he'd worked so hard to make sure they didn't come off, couldn't come off. He couldn't have a repeat of the first time when the bastard pharaoh's necklace came undone and he had tried to escape. He hadn't made it far but the neighbors had heard the yells, now they thought he was a sexual deviant but he didn't much care what they thought, not any more at least.

"Oh dear, dear, I shall have to adjust those bracelets a touch," he fretted, dancing across the red painted room to his red stained equipment. The metal was so, so cold, freezing to the touch, but that just made it all the more satisfying when he held it tight in his hand before relaxing his grip.

"Now, my Queen, just say when to stop alright? I'm starting now," he informed her, cupping her cheek, strange that she would be warm when he was not, not anymore, never again.

He sighed quietly, such a spoiled Queen had he, she never answered him, how was he to know if he had pleased her or not? Ah well, he would just have to go by his own instincts, they hadn't failed him yet. Carefully, he inserted the screwdriver into the screw and began twisting, it was slow work, precise work, but he was used to it now.

The rod had been difficult to insert, he had to be careful that he didn't shatter her wrist when he put the metal through it but now it was much easier. The clamp was slowly closing in on her wrist, the already bruised skin began to bleed anew and the copper scent of fresh blood permeated the air once more.

He breathed in deeply, relishing in the fragrance as a wine connoisseur would a particularly old vintage. Her blood was heady, intoxicating, addicting, he wiped some away with the tip of his thumb, immensely fascinated with the contrast between his snow white skin and the deep crimson liquid. He still couldn't get over it, no matter how many times before he'd done this, how many mistakes he'd made and all the breakthroughs.

He kept twisting until she began to scream, well, she appeared to be screaming at least, he couldn't tell with that gag in her mouth, tsk such a spoiled Queen, not even trying to answer his question. He twisted and twisted, loving the repressed screams that came out as mere squeals, was he sick? Yes, yes he was, did he care? Not one damn.

"Alright my Queen, it doesn't appear as though those pesky bracelets will be coming off any time soon. They're clamped directly to the bones now, so if you want to take them off without my help, you'll need to rip them out of your wrist," he explained cheerily.

He wiped his hands on a towel, or was it rag, enjoying the way white surfaced beneath the red once more, always so clean and perfect. He sorted through his tools, maybe he would tighten the Knight's armor a bit as well, those chest plates were a bit shaky or he could stitch up the poor Knave's torn legs, they were a dreadful mess. In fact, he wasn't sure the poor Knave would be able to walk ever again but that was alright, the Knave was pretty enough that it would never matter.

"Hello Knave of Hearts, are you ready to return the tarts?" he whispered, caressing the torn skin beneath his fingers, flickering emeralds trying and failing to focus on him but that was okay.

"No answer? Well I suppose I can let it go, you never were much of a talker except for when it came to persuading others, right?" he agreed, lifting that once handsome face so he could see those perfect emeralds.

"You persuaded me, quite the charmer when you want to be, Duke Devlin," he continued, inspecting the damage he'd dealt, one side of that once perfect tanned face was now black and blue, not bad for a few days he thought. There was a fair amount of dried blood on the other side, but not enough to completely hide the fact that the top layers of skin had been ripped away and that teeth were visible.

A few teeth were missing as well, no more perfectly alluring smile for Duke Devlin, the Dice Master. He tsked unhappily where some blood had begun to spot those lovely emeralds, those horrible emeralds, that in itself had decided it for Duke, there was no point in keeping a torn card.

"Poor Knave, it seems you shall be the first of the court to be dismissed. Fear not darling Knave, your end shall be quick albeit painful, or perhaps the Knave has had enough of pain. Would you like that Knave? For it to be as painless as possible?" he cooed, stroking that marred cheek.

"P-please, Bakura," the brunet moaned, his mouth snapped with an audible snap.

"I'm sorry Knave, wrong answer," he hissed, digging his free hand into the deep gashes in the other man's thigh, relishing in the high pitched scream. He chuckled darkly as he dragged his table of instruments across the room, the apartment was sound proof, no one would come to investigate until it was too late.

He hummed softly as he sorted through his equipment, he didn't bother with the injections of toxins, yes they would cause pain but he wanted to do this with his own hands. Or perhaps sometimes his hands would be more accurate, he did share this body. What would his other half say when he finally regained consciousness and found the gang of false friends murdered, would he be pleased? He hoped his other half would be pleased.

He finally lighted upon his needle and thread, he had wanted to piece the Knave back together, perhaps he would still do so, while tearing off new pieces as he worked of course. He selected a deliciously sharp scalpel from his miniature collection and treaded a needle, this would be fun.

The repetitive work of looping the needle through the Knave's shredded flesh was relaxing, calming even, it helped him forget, forget the other one he'd lost on his way here, the one they'd driven away. He cut off the first stitch and admired his work briefly, the stitching was nice and tight, if allowed to heal, there wouldn't be anything but a faint scar to indicate there had ever been anything wrong in the first place, if he had been allowed to live.

He continued with his sewing, enjoying the screams and hoarse cries of pain as he worked, whenever his needle stabbed into the fat or maybe that was muscle? He didn't care anymore, all he cared about was fixing the broken card, taping it together, unfolding the bent corners, smoothing out the creases while he tore it apart.

For every stitch, he made another cut across the Knave's chest, shallow cuts, only deep enough to bleed, to stain his fingers crimson. In fact, his pants were stained with the stuff, well that's what he got for ripping out the stitches as soon as they were done. The scarlet liquid had gotten everywhere, on his hands, on his pants, on the floor, in his hair, pretty soon the Knave would bleed out but he would relish every nuance of pain he could eek out of the once proud bastard.

"There, now you look so much better than before, don't you think?" he questioned happily, his Knave was perfect, his chest was a bloody mess, his legs were raw but they were no longer bleeding, perhaps his Knave was finally dead?

He buried his hands in those raven black locks and yanked the lolling head upwards where he could easily inspect the emerald orbs he loved, no hated, no loved. The spotting of blood had receded but they had gone curiously flat, why was it when someone died there eyes became so ugly? Why did the sparkle have to leave, why did the lovely shine have to go?

He smiled ruefully to himself and selected a new instrument, a scoop, much like an ice-cream scoop but smaller. He used to remove those lovely, lovely emeralds, no those disgusting shards of jade, so very pretty they were.

"Bakura! Bakura please!"

He whipped around, the pretty, pretty emeralds clutched in his crimson, no white, hands. His eyes were wide, he knew, and his mouth had fallen just a bit open, but he was smiling still, because he had them all here. His revenge was finally here.

"Don't worry Knight, your turn will come," he promised, waving his hand in a be-patient manner, honestly, the Knight was such trouble sometimes but he was such fun indeed, like a disobedient dog.

"You bastard! You're insane, I hope you rot in hell!" the Knight yelled, he pursed his lips, that wasn't very nice, he thought the Knight had better manners than that.

"Knight don't insult me, how does one rot in one's home? Do you wish me to suffer in my own house? How very impolite," he admonished, crossing the room to a large wooden bookshelf. He had cleared away the books long ago, now the bookshelf housed a variety of jars which held preserving alcohol and various other preservative agents.

He cautiously deposited the lovely, lovely emeralds in a special glass jar, he had bought it special for those eyes. Now he would be able to look at the pretty emeralds whenever he wanted, without having to see that nasty light in them, that condescension, how he hated that condescension.

"Like I give a damn what you think, you sick, demented bastard! You said you wanted to see your family when you died. Do you think they'll be waiting for you when they can see what you're doing?" the Knight hissed. His brows furrowed in confusion, his mouth turning downwards in a frown, what was the Knight going on about now?

"What do you mean Knight? You know nothing of my family, how can you make assumptions as to how they would judge me? I didn't even get to know them because of the bastard pharaoh over there," he added carelessly, jerking a thumb over his shoulder where the pharaoh and his Queen were surely watching.

"Bakura! Fight it! You're good, you don't want this, you never wanted this!" the Bishop shrieked, he cocked his head to the side, silver white locks tumbling over his shoulder.

"I never wanted this? When did I ever say such a thing? Revenge is a strange concept, Bishop, at first I wanted revenge on the Pharaoh for destroying Kul Elna, then I wanted revenge on the world for my imagined slights, it soon progressed to the stage where I simply wanted everything to burn.

I apologize for the last but the first was all I ever truly wanted, and now I shall have my proper vengeance. You say I never wanted this, though much time may have past, though their voices might have been silenced, the people of Kul Elna still call for blood," he finished contemplatively.

Their voices had faded in and out as time passed but now they were all screaming, screaming so very loudly in his head that he couldn't think properly. Did he want to work on the Knight or the Bishop, the King or the Queen? Wh-what?

"Bakura!" he snarled, a true snarl, that was not his name.

"No more talk, Bishop, your hat is lopsided, allow me to straighten it," he growled, snatching a chisel and hammer from the table and striding over to where the Bishop was chained to the wall. He set the chisel between those unappealing feldspar coloured eyes, so bland and not at all pretty, but he would keep them all the same.

He pulled his hand backwards, licking his lips as the Bishop's eyes widening, realizing what he was about to do, then brought the hammer down with as much force as he could. There was a satisfying crack then screaming, horrible, lovely, screams, the blood had splattered on his face when he cracked the skull but that made it all the more enjoyable.

He unsheathed the chisel from its nook two inches deep into the Bishop's forehead, the light already dying from those terrible, nice, feldspar eyes. The Knight was spitting profanities and the King was gagging on vomit, he scoffed, the King was too naïve. He moved the chisel so it rested above the Bishop's temple, brought the hammer down once more, crack went the skull, splatter went the blood, hahahaha went the white haired man.

"Hmm, I've made quite a bit of mess, haven't I? At least the hat is straight," he sighed, picking up the scoop once more and taking those ugly, bland chips of feldspar from the Bishop. He deposited them in an open bowl on the wooden shelving, he didn't care if they started to rot, feldspar was an ugly gem, father had feldspar eyes, he hated them so.

He tapped a bloodied finger on chin as he surveyed his work so far, the Knave had stopped twitching so he could assume he was well and truly dead. The Bishop was dead, no one survived an impromptu lobotomy, but even if one could, the severed jugular would do them in for sure. He smiled a bit ruefully, he hadn't meant to cut the Bishop's neck but he had needed to see the lovely, disgusting crimson flowing from his neck.

"Hello Knight, I suppose it's time for your refitting," he murmured, more to himself than to the Knight, the Knight was one of his best pieces. There was a sheet of metal attached to his chest by bolts that pierced through his collar bone and lower ribs to emerge on either side of his spinal cord to pin him to the wall behind. That had been almost as hard as equipping the King and Queen with their bracelets and anklets and necklaces, but it had been worth it.

The Knight loved to mouth off but one jerk on the chest plate and he would be reduced to a pile of gibbering meat, it was delightful to have such power over one considered so strong. He had wanted to fit the Knight with a helmet or perhaps a mask but hadn't the time or the energy to bother with it, maybe he would do that now. The Knight might as well look dapper before his end, his encounter with the dragon would be retold for ages to come.

"Stay away from me you psychotic asshole!" the Knight all but screamed, he smiled encouragingly and slipped his fingers between the plate and the Knight's chest, one hard jerk had the Knight screaming in earnest.

"P-plea," the Knight panted, he pursed his lips, eyes narrowing at the show of weakness, no! The Knight was supposed to be strong and valiant and loyal to his King, how was this loyalty? He must know that as soon as he faced his dragon, the King would be in danger from a traitor of the court.

"Be silent," he whispered, yet another coward pretending to be a hero, how he hated them and their lies. He slipped both hands between the chest plate and the Knight's chest and pulled as hard as he possibly could, slipping in the blood that had started to pool, ignoring the high pitched screams. Until a sound, one tiny sound that he hadn't expected, broke through his concentration.

"Ryou."

He fell flat, his fingers were bleeding from where the edges of the chest plate had cut them, he was lying on his back, one leg crooked. He stared up at the Knight, he had stopped screaming, instead he was spasming, the bolts had been a tad too close to the spinal cord, one had to have crushed something when he was pulling.

"Oh dear, I so wanted you to be awake, Sir Knight, while I was putting on your mask," he whimpered, grasping at the floorboards, the once so clean floor boards, now covered in pools of blood, bloody footprints, bloody handprints, vomit, bits of skin, pieces of bone.

"Dirty, dirty, dirty," he muttered, getting to his knees and snatching a cloth off the metal table, he started rubbing it on the floorboards, trying his damnest to get rid of the filth. If he cleaned it all up, then his other half would come back, if he killed the Red Court, then his White King would come back, or was it his Mad Hatter, his Yami?

A Yami was supposed to be the darkness, the evil of his soul, the Yami was the one who killed, not him, he was the Hikari, he was the light, the good half of their shared soul, he wasn't supposed to kill, he wasn't supposed to be malicious, he wasn't supposed to crave revenge. But-but, what was he supposed to do when they took away his Yami?!

It was far easier to extinguish a light than it was to create it, why did they think fire was one of man's greatest inventions? Man was a being of light, whether he acknowledged it or not. They craved it, they needed it, they needed it to illuminate the darkness wherein any manner or monster lurked, even the darkness of themselves.

Psychopaths, serial killers, rapists, they were the small sect of humanity that had forgone the light, or perhaps they had lost their balance, and chosen to sink into the darkness, to hide from the world that would never accept them. They who were broken, they who were unnatural, they who were free, free of a biased society that projected a vision of perfection that could never exist, a society so lawless that one had to disregard all laws if one wanted to live.

He paused his violent scrubbing to inspect his work, he stared at the bloody streaks he'd created and threw the rag away as far as he could with a shriek of disgust. Could he do nothing right?!

He got to his feet, grabbing onto a sharp corner of the table and cutting open his palm in the process, he frowned slightly as the crimson rose to the surface. The scarlet liquid contrasted beautifully with his pale white skin and the scent was, was…intoxicating.

There was just something about his own blood that fascinated him so, the others, their blood was dirty, dirty with lies, dirty with hope, it was all so disgustingly light of them. They couldn't come to terms with their own evil so they pretended it didn't exist, he, he had come to terms with his a long ago, long before he had even met the Spirit of the Millennium Ring.

What else could he be? Did innocent, pure, naïve people kill their mother and sister? The police had ruled it as an accident, a tragic, preventable, idiotic accident, but an accident all the same, for what else could it be? The brakes had been cut, Mrs. Bakura had taken the turn just too sharply to not crash into her daughter, what had her daughter even been doing outside in the middle of the road?

"Bakura," the Knight groaned, he cocked his head to the side, the Knight was bleeding quite a lot now, there were thick streams of blood running from underneath his chest plate, seems the Knight had more fight in him than he had anticipated. Perfect.

"Poor Knight, fear not, the White Rabbit will have you back in top condition in no time at all," he promised, a soft smile gracing his angelic features. How true was that old saying 'Even a pretty face can hide a poisoned heart.' or perhaps 'broken mind' would be more applicable in this situation.

He snatched a key off the table and went to his wooden shelf, dropping to his knees to pull out a metal box, he traced the soft swirling designs on the outside of the box, the keyhole, the hinges, his one last treasure. He opened the box with a sigh, carefully lifting the cover to reveal various coloured swatches of cloth, the last of his RP days, the last of his materials, the rest he had burnt.

He sorted through the colours and textures until he came upon a piece of red satin, stiff red satin, he remembered this satin. He searched through the box until he found his cloth scissors and began to cut out a mask freehandedly, something he used to hate but now could care less about, it would be perfect, it had to be perfect.

"All done, Sir Knight, now all I have to do is fix it so it can never come off," he explained, picking up the needle and thread from where he'd dropped it, after using it on the Knave.

"G-get away from me!" the Knight screamed, thrashing wildly, he couldn't be too sure if the screams were from pain or fear, either way they were absolutely delicious.

"Worry not, Sir Knight, I have a steady hand, all your writhing shall not affect your mask," he promised raising the mask and threaded needle so panicked chrysoberyl shards of get a good look at them. He had mercy in his soul after all, he wasn't Bakura, he would at least let them see their death. How many people had Bakura killed and they hadn't even known what was going on before it was too late?

He shrugged, that was the past, a past he couldn't change and, truthfully? He didn't want to change it, Bakura, Bakura had been his friend, they had been…friends, nothing more, no matter what he wanted to think, no matter what idiotic could-have-been romances his mind concocted in the aftermath. Aftermath, such a strange word to use in the situation, 'aftermath' was nearly always paired with 'death and destruction'.

When you heard the word aftermath, you were always waiting for the adjoining that explained whatever disaster had struck, what misfortune had visited the undeserving, or was it seemingly undeserving? Was that what their entire relationship had been? A disaster, an unfortunate turn of events?

He grit his teeth against the thoughts that were swirling around his mind, a tidal wave of information he didn't want to deal with. Instead, he stabbed the needle through the satin and pinched the skin at the side of the Knight's chrysoberyl eye before piercing it. The screams weren't as sweet as before, the voices were laughing, whispering, taunting, he ignored it all as best he could and continued on with his devil's work. If he pierced his own fingers then all the better, pain helped him focus on the present, forget about the past, not care for the future.

In and out, in and out went the needle, pull tightly now otherwise the mask might come loose and you don't want that to happen, do you? The Knight had stopped screaming, maybe he had passed out from the pain or maybe the bolts had crushed something vital, he didn't know nor did he care, all he cared for was finishing his work.

He didn't even realize when he'd finished the mask, his fingers had stopped but his mind had carried on, in and out, in and out of the memories, every painful kiss, every pleasured moan, every drop of scarlet to mar their white, white skin. The scars that didn't exist, the pain that never faded because the wounds were on his very soul, had Bakura meant it to be that way?

Had he meant to leave the scars, cause the pain? Or had it all been an accident? The Spirit of the Ring knew nothing of love, knew nothing of love because it had been so long since he had experienced love. His parents, they had died when he was but a child, all memory of them had faded away until they became just another soul he had to avenge.

"You're all better now, Sir Knight, all ready to face the Dragon," he murmured, to himself or the Knight he wasn't quite sure, he wasn't sure about a lot of things these days, there were so many voices in his head. So many, the people of Kul Elna, the Ring's pervious hosts, Mother, Amane, and yet, the one he wanted so badly to hear was absent. Life was such a cruel, fickle thing, for years he hated that snide voice at the back of his head, thinking it a sign of his ever growing insanity, now that he was insane, the voice had disappeared.

The humming started again without his even noticing, that song he had never heard, that no one had heard in millennia, not even the accursed pharaoh. The words always eluded him but the tune was all he truly needed, he could make up his own words, words that probably went better than the actual song. He plucked the scoop from the table and relieved the Knight of his mocking chrysoberyl eyes, one more to his collection.

He left the Red Court, or what was left of it, and disappeared in the kitchen, banging pots and cupboard doors looking for the dragon's flame, he knew he had some from the last time. Or rather, Bakura had some left over from last time, same thing really. He exclaimed softly when his fingers closed around the plastic container, he pulled it out from underneath the sink and hugged it close to his chest, so tightly the handle pressed into his skin painfully. He snatched a box of matches off the counter, plastic container held by the handle as he all but skipped back into what used to be his living room, now it was the courtroom of the Red Monarchs.

"Are you ready to face the Dragon, Sir Knight?" He giggled, shaking the container by the Knight's ear so he could hear the sloshing. The Knight screamed, chrysoberyl eyes going wide before rolling backwards into his head, poor Knight would hurt himself if he continued on like that. Might damage something important and not be in fit shape when he went to fight the Dragon, he better call in the beast soon then, before the Knight was too broken to duel.

"I am positive thou shalt best the beast, Brave Knight, however, should you fail, the Knave and Bishop await you and the Queen and King shall follow soon after," he promised, giggling again, he was so light and happy. The Knight moaned softly as he regained his consciousness once more, the white haired teen shook his head abruptly, sending red stained silver flying over his shoulders.

He uncapped the plastic container, smiling widely as the scent of its contents permeated the room, oh the Dragon was just rearing to go. He stood on tip toe to pour the contents over the Knight's blond locks, not caring when his own hands were soaked as well, not caring that his sneakers were splashed with the substance. All he cared for was the Dragon about to appear, so beautiful would it be.

Tossing the now empty container away from him, he retrieved the matches from his pants pocket, taking a few seconds to appreciate the thin stick of wood that would call the Dragon forth from its slumber. He dragged the black head of the match across the flint and sighed when the tiny yellow flame with its blue heart ignited, he let it burn halfway before letting it drop from his fingers.

The rush of air stirred his red stained locks before the fire caught properly and oh wasn't it magnificent! The reds and oranges that leapt into the air, the blue violet heart of the flames that consumed the brave Knight and the screams, oh the screams. The high keening pitch was unlike that of the Knave or Bishop, higher, pain filled screams of pure agony, the Spirit would have loved it, loved it all.

The mask had burnt to a blackened outline and the skin had begun to melt, a black slush was more accurate than skin now, the blood either crusted or dripped off in globs. The smell, Gods, the smell, acrid burning, disgusting but oh so intoxicating, it was perhaps better than the scent of blood. The high he'd gotten off countless pawns, the Bishop, the Knave, it was nothing compared to watching the Knight face the Dragon.

"Just watch him burn, it's what he deserved. Gods I've tried, am I lost in your eyes?" he sang softly, some song he'd heard playing, the irony was sweet, so sweet. He didn't blink, only watched as the Knight burnt out, until it was only a vaguely human shape trapped against his living room wall. Skin had charred, the hair had burnt, the face disfigured, good thing he had taken the shards of chrysoberyl before the Dragon came otherwise his collection would have been incomplete.

"Now, my Lady, do you have anything to say for your lost subjects?" he prompted, rounding on the pharaoh and his Queen, his damn Red Queen. Friendship, that's all she ever talked about, always going on and on about it and yet, she knew not the first thing about it, how he wanted to put his fingers around her neck and just squeeze, but no, there were rules. Instead, he simply unbuckled the gag and allowed her a few moments to get used to the privilege of speech once more.

"Y-you're a monster! I thought you were our friend, we even forgave you for helping Bakura!" she screamed, he raised both his brows as a sign to continue, he wanted to hear all of it, wanted to hear exactly how he had screwed up, needed to hear it probably.

"I always thought you were a nice guy b-but you were, you were in league with him, weren't you? That demon of yours, I-I bet you even loved him! Sick, twisted, disgusting, that's what the two of you were!" she ranted, oh so she was a homophobe as well as a hypocrite, would wonders never cease?

"Anything more you wish to add, my lady?" he suggested, stalking, yes stalking, up to the bound girl. There was quite a bit of blood running from underneath her hair line, down her chin and onto the floor, it had dried of course but the line was still there. Her lip was bloodied from her biting it, her arms were strung above her head, more blood had run down from her bound wrists.

She knelt before him, the restraints through her ankles allowing little more than that, she could stand but nothing more, he felt perhaps he had been too generous with that one but it wasn't something he could correct just then. There was a collar around her neck with a chain bolted to the wall behind, it had taken days to set up his little throne room but it had all paid off. The Knave was strung up next to the Bishop, both held there by shackles pinned to the wall by a heavy iron peg, the Knight was burnt and being held upright by the chest plate alone.

Then there was the crown jewel, his pièce de résistance, the pharaoh, the rest were all the opening act, the pharaoh was the main event. He wore his collar proudly, it was sewn into the skin of his throat after all, his bracelets and anklets followed the same principle as his Queen's. He was naked but for a shendyt, and his jewelry of course. Golden hoops adorned his neck, cutting into the skin just enough to restrict easy breathing, the white haired man was pretty sure the pharaoh's arms were numb from the upper arm bands and his legs most definitely from kneeling on them and the gold caressing his calves and upper thighs.

"Just one, I hope you fucking burn," she spat, he tutted her as a scolding mother would her disobedient child.

"Such vulgar language, my lady, you should wash your mouth out with soap, or better yet, allow me to remove that which always for the obscenity," he offered, grabbing her chin in a bruising grip. Her mouth fell open, catching the glimmer of crimson swimming in sapphire blues, this wasn't Ryou but it wasn't Bakura either, it was the Thief King. The Thief King back to finally finish what he started so many millennia ago.

She twisted her head as much as the collar would allow, cutting her eyes to where Yugi knelt, she couldn't tell if he were awake or unconscious once more. She let out a shuddering breath, she had long given up the hope of escaping, since the day she and Yugi were taken, Yugi had gotten away but Ryou had caught him. She'd never heard someone scream as much as Yugi had that first night, when Ryou put the bolts through his wrists and ankles, then sewing the collar to his neck.

"Here we are, your majesty, now open your mouth for me and this will go that much easier for us both," the white haired demon explained, wearing the face of her once friend with his soft, angelic smiles.

"Go back to hell," she hissed, he tsked, lower lip jutting out in a pout, why must his Queen insist on being difficult? Couldn't she see he was just trying to do the right thing? The honorable thing.

"Please remember, you brought this upon yourself," he sighed, sorting through the small array of tools he'd brought from the metal table and spread out on the floor, just out of the Queen's reach. It didn't matter that she was bound head and foot the wall, desperation made humans do strange, illogical things, he should know from all his firsthand experience.

He took her chin in hand, turning her head to the side to get a better look at what he was working with, then quick as a viper strike, he hit her across the face, dislocating her jaw. The scream that followed was purely vocal as she couldn't use her bottom teeth to scream anything coherent at him. Smirking to himself, he selected a pair of dental pliers and gripped one of the four canines, I think we all know what comes after, right?

One by one, painfully, torturously slowly, a pile of bloodstained teeth was created at the White Rabbit's knees while the Queen cried without a voice. He shushed her occasionally, whether out of sympathy or annoyance, neither he nor she could tell, there was so much wrong here that neither one tried to make sense of it.

"Alright then your majesty, are you ready for your coronation? To become the true Red Queen to your broken court?" he questioned, raising the length of rope he'd bought at the hardware down the road, it was almost scary just how much of his 'equipment' he'd bought at the hardware. Perhaps that's where Bakura had bought his toys as well? The bolts, the pieces of iron might have been a bit harder to acquire but he was a master thief after all.

She whimpered pitifully, lank strands of brown falling into lapis lazuli gems, true gems were they, such a pure colour, unlike his own tainted sapphire. T'was the pity that he enjoyed tainted things so much better than pure, Hikari he was no longer, Shadow would he ever be, darkness he would try to emulate but never succeed in reaching.

He lifted her chin gently, tainted sapphires sad as he looked upon his once so proud Red Queen, how far had she fallen to beg mercy of the paranoid White Rabbit, or had he risen from his post of Jester? If they were the broken Red Court, then he was of the shattered White Court, but what part would he play?

The Kingship belonged to the true darkness, Bakura, while the Thief King took up the part of the Knight, or was it Knave? He was a master at weaving lies, the Liesmith if not the Thief King, but he was also bravery embodied but seduction come to life, how strange, to what role would he be cast?

Would Marik belong to his court as well? Would he play the Bishop, the Jester then, take up the neglected role of the prized White Rabbit? Or maybe, maybe he would play the Queen, yes, he just might play the Queen to the Thief.

Bakura and Marik, partners in crime. 'As Thick as Thieves', no doubt created and coined by that pair. Had Bakura not admitted there had been an Amrid in the past, one of the few people whom he could stand without wanting to kill in less than a day, and even that was a lot. Bakura had given up his body to help the other boy but Bakura had also saved him from the Sky Dragon, which did the Spirit like better?

He would bet Marik and Bakura had done it before, more times than he would ever know about, could ever know about seeing as he had nearly always been locked away in his Soul Room during Bakura's stints in their shared body. But, he didn't hate Marik, it wasn't the Tomb Keeper's fault that the Spirit chose him over his host, his pitiful, insignificant host.

"You damn Red Queen, why must your counterpart be the one I would not kill?" he hissed, applying pressure to her already dislocated jaw, it just wasn't fair! Must they take away everything from him? For so long it had only been him and the voices and then one of the voices decided to speak to him. He had been so happy and afraid at the same time but at last he had a friend who didn't think he was weird for playing with his RPG dolls all the time or studying the Ring father had given him for hours on end.

After the voice had appeared, all the people he tried to get close to started going into comas and or just outright dying on him. He realized nearly immediately what was going on, his new friend; his closest friend didn't want him talking to anyone else. Ryou belonged to Bakura and no one else.

Then he transferred to Domino and wanted so badly to be friends with Yugi but bad things started happening again, always as soon as he got close to someone, anyone, his friend was insanely possessive, but he secretly enjoyed it. At least he thought it was a secret, he'd never said it out loud but did you have to when the person you were trying to keep the secret from lived in your mind?

"Those damned lapis lazuli gems, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them!" he screamed, wrapping his long fingers around her neck without a thought, he just wanted to get rid of this anger, to get rid of them! The ones who took away his friend, the ones who left him alone, he wanted them all to burn in hell!

He was squeezing, squeezing so tightly his fingers had begun to hurt, hurt so much, and now his nails were digging into the skin above the collar. There was blood flowing over his fingers and she was making soft little gagging sounds that annoyed him to High Heaven, wait that was wrong wasn't it. He wouldn't be allowed anywhere near Heaven, not after what he had done, what he was about to do.

He released his fatal grip just as she was about to pass out, her windpipe crushed, she wouldn't live much longer either way. He only needed those damned lapis lazuli gems while the fear was still in them, the fear would be trapped in them for all eternity, until everything fell to ruin and the creatures of darkness made their true final stand. And in that stand they would finally prevail over the light. Zorc would rise and hell would claim the Earth.

He snatched the scoop off the ground and relieved her of those damned lapis lazuli gems, dropping them in a narrow necked jar, almost a perfume bottle. Now, how to end the lovely Red Queen? He picked up a length of rope and looped it around her neck experimentally, slowly tightening until she gagged once more, blood leaking from her ruined mouth. She made soft 'muh' noises but couldn't articulate anything more, be it the pain, her ruined throat or missing teeth.

He regarded her with merciless sapphire blues, she had helped them take away his one friend, his ring, his Bakura, they had taken him away, had killed him!

"Down with the bloody Red Queen," he whispered, tightening the loop until he was sure she could not breathe, and continued until she stopped fighting altogether, dead. Ding dong, the witch's dead and here be her cursed head. He giggled slightly at the rhyme he and Amane used to sing, Amane was dead too, was she a witch as well? No, Amane was the prized White Princess, Bakura and Marik would have adored her, spoiled her, where they cared not for him, they would love her.

"Now, your majesty, Pharaoh, it's just you and me left here, what games shall we play?" he asked, the innocence he had never possessed lacing his tone, transforming from Fallen Angel to Prince of Heaven. Once upon a time he had wondered how Bakura had fooled everyone into believe he was Ryou, now he knew, it's easy to emulate good because it didn't exist.

Purity, innocence, goodness, none of it existed, only blind eyed ignorance. Everywhere held darkness in their hearts; everyone knew the monsters that hid in the shadows were only themselves, themselves stripped of all pretenses. Once he had been afraid of the monster in the closet, now he relished in the monster in the mirror.

"Ryou, I'm sorry." He froze, hands hanging down at his sides, blood dripping onto the floorboards. He felt the hot tears, boiling hot tears, leak from his eyes, stream down his face, and yet, the smile was still there. The smile that hurt, that damn near split his face was still there. He couldn't stop, not even if he wanted to, didn't the Pharaoh understand?!

Bakura had been taken away, the Thief King had been sent to rest, but how could he, Ryou, remain sane after they had influenced him for so long? His actions were his own, his thoughts his own, but his will, the undercurrent that made him get out of bed to face each day, was theirs. The need for vengeance was theirs, now his, and he would exact it, even if it meant blinding himself so he didn't see what he was doing.

"Your sorry means nothing, Pharaoh, it's too late, five thousand years too late and a village too dead," he replied calmly, the smile finally falling away until there was just quiet acceptance. Even if he didn't want to kill anymore, even if he was tired of this vengeance, he had to finish it, finish it and then he could rest.

He left the Pharaoh to his own devices while he routed through his kitchen and bedroom for the heavier equipment, the pieces he couldn't store on the tray. He hefted the wrench in his hands, it was heavier than he remembered, or maybe it was because the last time this body had hefted it, it had been in Bakura's control.

He laid the sewing kit, the wrench, the special golden flask, the dagger and the scissors all out in a neat line, plucking the sharpest needle from its cloth, threading it and holding it aloft. The perfectly silver metal had no flaws, it was smooth and straight and generally perfect; it was one of his favorites. The pain was unexpected, that such a tiny sliver of metal could cause such agony; he had used it before on himself, pure bliss, how it grounded him after Bakura had left him. Left him to deal with the voices on his own so very inconsiderate but what more could he expect from a thief?

Grasping the Pharaoh's chin firmly, he tilted his head upwards, sapphire met tanzanite and held. Where the Red Queen had cursed him with her damned lapis lazuli, the Game King seemed to accept his fate and that was good, at least he realized he had done something wrong. Ryou would have hated to have gone to all this trouble and the Game King still didn't understand why, this era had changed him, his narcissism was gone, as well as his pride.

"Tell me, Game King, did ever you ever hear the story of The Gift Of the Gods? A Scandinavian tale, after your time but it's quite popular," he searched bound tanzanite for any sign of recognition and found none so he continued on.

"It was believed by the Norsemen that once the God of Mischief, Loki, made a bet with a dwarf that the dark elves were the finest smiths in all the worlds. The dwarf claimed that his brother was the best smith and so the bet was made with the wager being the others head. By the by, Loki lost the bet and tried to worm his way out of the punishment by claiming he wagered his head but not an inch of his neck.

As you can imagine the dwarf was furious and appealed to the Gods to help him as he had gifted them such fine weapons. The God of Thunder, Thor, agreed and brought the mischievous Loki back to Asgard. Now there still lay the matter of punishment so the dwarf came up with an alternative. He would sew shut Loki's lips everyday for a month so that they would all be free of his lies and mischief, for what is a Liesmith without his silver tongue?"

Without another word, he backhanded the Game King across the mouth, throwing his head to one side and breaking his jaw in the process. Carefully, easily, he grabbed those tricoloured locks and pulled the man's head back up to his, pinching his tongue with two long fingers he used the scissors to cut it off. There was a tremendous amount of blood for so small an organ but that didn't dissuade him.

Wasting no time, he pinched the Pharaoh's pale lips together and made the first stitch at the corner of his mouth, a tiny drop of blood appeared but that was okay, there would be far more soon enough, already some blood was seeping out of the King's ruined mouth. Lips quirked in an eerie smile, the white haired man began his slow, careful task of sewing that blaspheming mouth shut, no more heart of the cards, no more Gods, just silence. A double stitch then a looping stitch, blood dribbling down the man's chin while glazed tanzanite gems watched on.

When he finally ran out of surgical thread, the Pharaoh's mouth was a bloody mess but that was alright, perfection was never any fun. He patted the King lightly on the head, not caring anymore that glazed tanzanite had lost all emotion, not a sound could be heard but for the soft whirring of the air conditioner, as close to the desert sands as they could get.

Hefting the wrench once more, he dragged the King to his feet, made him stand with his hands held high above his head as he swung the wrench, breaking the kneecaps. Once, twice, thrice and the King was on the ground once more, broken legs and half severed tendons did not allow for support, still glazed tanzanite stared on. He threw the wrench away, snatching up the scissors, so sharp, he began to cut open the man's stomach, letting intestines spill onto the floor, not caring because the Game King was still alive, dying but alive.

Finally, finally, he lifted the dagger from its place next to the scissors and began to cut into the Pharaoh's chest. Long strokes, short strokes, all deep, all fatal if not treated in less than an hour, not that the Pharaoh would even have an hour. He took his time with the intricacies of his work, a curve there, a crack there, his own blood mixed with that of the Red King's but he didn't care. In a way, it was fitting, to have the blood of a mere thief, nay, the Thief King flow with that of the Son of the Gods, age old enemies that had become engrossed in this modern time.

"Your blood, your death, can never atone for that of my people's but vengeance is still sweet," he hissed, cutting around a rib to get the design perfect. After an hour that seemed as millennia, the millennia his spirit had spent in the ring, he had finished. The name of his village carved into the Game King's throat, the puzzle over his left pectoral, the ring over his heart, the key on his right bicep, the necklace over the left bicep, the scales in the crease of his elbow, the eye on his forehead and lastly, the rod reaching down from cheekbone to jaw.

They all stood out wonderfully well against the ever whitening skin of the dying Game King, especially since they were bleeding. Bleeding so Gods damned much that he just wanted to paint the walls with it, use his fingers, leave handprints, splatter it on the windows, soak into his hair, stain his skin! But no, he's not finished yet, when he was finished he could do all those things. He had to finish first.

He got to his feet, kicking away the intestines that tangled around his ankles and wiping away the blood that had managed to get onto his face he needed to break the spinal cord, somehow. Not the wrench, it was too cumbersome and he didn't have any other pieces of equipment that were heavy enough. No equipment but Bakura had taught him his body was just as deadly as a blade, another tool to use.

He raised his foot high and brought it down with as much force as he could generate, smirking at the sick squelch as intestines, kidneys, the bladder, the liver and Gods knew what else, were crushed beneath his sneakered heel. He lifted his foot out of the mess of once internal organs to inspect the work done, tissue had started to seep into his sock, he could feel the wetness enveloping his ankle, but the spine was still intact.

He brought his foot down again, still nothing, he sighed heavily through his nose, only the Pharaoh would make things so very difficult. Stooping, he grabbed tricoloured locks once more, dazed tanzanite locked with tainted sapphire for but a brief second before slipping closed. That one action, that simple submission, said that the war was over, the battle won, and by the least likely suspect.

Good triumphs over evil, light chases away the dark, but what if light were not light at all? What if light were merely shadow masquerading as light, had donned a costume that it had molded to so perfectly that it had begun to believe the lie? He deposited those shards of tanzanite in their glass bottle before gripping the head on either side of the jaw and twisting it so swiftly that the crack was barely heard.

The Pharaoh was vanquished, his revenge realized, and now it was time for rest. Fatigue accented his every movement, from his arranging of his gem collection to the redressing of the Red Court, he was bone tired, exhausted, but he needed to finish it. He needed to right his collections before anything else.

The Knave was wrapped in red cloth, his pants had been shredded days ago while a shirt was out of the question, a red blindfold served to cover his gaping eye sockets. The Bishop wore a splendid white hat with a golden cross upon it along with a blindfold of his own and a pink cloak that hid most of the blood stains. The Knight was fitted with a silver and black cape that billowed beautifully and fell to his ankles, the mask might have been charred and burnt but it was still visible.

The Queen was given an elegant circlet of gold to adorn red streaked locks, a red blindfold, a length of red silk that was wrapped 'sari-style' served as her royal robes and a necklace of spindly gold decorated her pale neck. He lifted her bloodied hand to his lips and pressed a kiss upon the cold flesh, a memory from years past flashed across his vision.

'Friend? Is that what you wish child? A companion to chase away the loneliness of your days?' He swallowed past the lump his throat, the white haired man was scary but he hadn't tried to hurt Ryou yet.

'Yes please,' he replied, hands clasped together to stop their trembling. He might not know much about the man but he could sense the man hated weakness of any form.

'Then I am your friend.' And just like that Ryou had a friend, someone to talk to and play with and sit with him during the long, lonely nights.

'Thank you.'

He moved onto the King at last, the monarch that ruled these unruly peasants, the Game King, the accursed Pharaoh. An intricate golden crown with the Eye of Horus and flairs that resembled wings graced the gravity defying tricoloured locks. Last came the purple cape, his royal robe. The one thing that was allowed to be not red, because a red cloak, red cape, they belonged to the Thief King.

The Thief King was allowed a red cloak, a red cape, a red cloak that had once been white as the moon above, that had been stained with the blood of the Pharaoh's people. The traitors, the discriminators, the liars, the betrayers, the hypocrites, the damned.

Tainted sapphire surveyed his work, his devil's quest, before slipping closed. So tired, so exhausted, but at peace, because it was done, his people avenged, their souls appeased. The voices died down until even their whisperings were gone, he was alone, alone but for the carcasses of his enemies.

"I am the bloody White Rabbit. I belong to Shattered White and Broken Red. I am the betrayer, the Judas of the land," he whispered, falling to his knees. Red, red, red, it clouded his vision until it was so red it was black, then white.

He stared on with emotionless lavender orbs, where the police had turned and vomited, where the forensics had turned and run, he watched on. The room had once been Ryou's living room, it had been cleared of all furniture but for a lone wooden bookshelf in the corner and a mobile hospital tray. Bloody handprints covered the bare walls, there were even a few words written there.

Silence, Vengeance, Need, Loneliness, Broken Red Court, Shattered White Court, Bakura, Game King, Lying Knave, Accursed Red Queen, Damned Pharaoh. Bakura.

"You were friends with all of them?" the police chief asked, he waved his hand non-concomitantly, making his way to the one of the walls, the one that housed the Red Knave, Duke. He had heard something about Duke and Ryou dating a while back but Duke ended up cheating on the blue eyed almost albino. Marik supposed he was the Lying Knave, he had read the poem about the thieving Knave before, the connection was a bit skewered but there all the same.

"We knew each other," he replied cryptically, that had all happened nearly three years ago, Battle City, the Pharaoh, all of it, they were little more than acquaintances nowadays.

"Any idea who could have done all this?" the policeman questioned, he shot him a sharp glare, what did he mean have any idea? The answer was staring them smack in the face, hell it was even laughing at them. He inspected the Bishop, Tristan Taylor, he didn't bother removing the hat, he could tell there were holes in the man's skull.

"What do you mean? Isn't the killer obvious?" he snapped, rounding onto the burnt remains of one Joey Wheeler, the loud mouthed Knight.

"Obviously not if I had to ask," the policeman retorted waspishly, one blond brow quirked in disbelief, not even bothering to answer as he moved on to the bloody Red Queen. Ryou had done a marvelous job on cleaning up his victims, if he didn't know better, he would have thought they were all merely sleeping, but the copious amounts of dried blood on the floor put quite a few holes in that supposition.

"Then what do you think happened here, officer?" he asked quietly, lavender gaze shifting from the Queen to her Pharaoh, or not Pharaoh, to the Game King. The scars on his back prickled as he saw the sewn shut lips, the seven millennium items, the spilt intestines, the broken neck. So much death and sorrow and pain, all because of one man, a man who had died millennia ago, leaving a bloody legacy in his wake.

"Well, and this is off the record, I think the killer kidnapped all of them and forced the little white rabbit," here he pointed to Ryou, "to go about his normal business until his college classes were over. I mean these four were always together so if all of 'em played hooky, it wouldn't seem weird, and as far as I know, that one," here he pointed to Duke, "didn't have any classes this week. My guess is that he killed one of 'em each day and had the little white rabbit watch, today he finally finished them all off and the little white rabbit couldn't take it."

Lavender flashed violet, a once familiar darkness clouding those vivid gems before clearing away. He stooped to inspect the rod carved into the Game King's cheek, he traced it lightly, biting down on his cheek at the familiar shape.

"Brilliant deduction, officer, but you forgot the most important part. The part where you think I am this killer," he stated calmly, straightening up, not even bothering to go to Ryou, the bloody white rabbit.

"We know you had disagreements with all of them three years ago during Battle City," the policeman revealed, again the flash of violet.

"Maybe you ought to check your database again. I've been travelling around the world for the last three years with my sister and the museum staff. I only returned to Domino last night around four in the morning, you can check my passport and I can even give you a list of the people I've been travelling with," he offered, a mockingly helpful smile pasted onto his lips.

The policeman glared at him but he had seen much worse in his life, and not only because of his father, most people tended to forget that he had travelled the world many times over searching for the rarest of cards. He'd been to some rather shady establishments and Odion couldn't protect him all the time.

"Yes, well. We just wanted you to come in, gauge your reaction if you catch my drift and you're the first person I've seen come in here and not run for the hills," the policeman admitted but it came out more as a threat than anything else.

"Really? Maybe your men need more life experience, now if you're done with your impromptu investigation, I'd like to return to my hotel room and catch up on my sleep," he spat, and there was no mistaking the wave of darkness barely concealed behind splintered amethyst.

Splintered amethyst for when darkness has touched the light, neither returns to the pure state it once was. Shadowed light and lighted darkness was all that was left to them now. Even as he turned on his heel and left the bloody apartment, an all too familiar voice whispered just beyond consciousness.

The White Rabbit has taken up the empty throne of the Bloody Red Queen. The Shattered White Court reveals its true colour as the Broken Red, the once thought of as Broken is Shattered. The devil in angel's clothing is his King, the once King is the Knight and the perceived Queen has become the Knave.

You can't live in darkness, cannot exist side by side without becoming tainted yourself. The Game King forgot or did not want to remember, and now his Court lays murdered by the turncoat Rabbit. Vengeance has been brought, the once King appeased and now Bloody Red King and Queen dance in the blackened seas.

DEF: Don't even ask where inspiration for this came from cause I have no idea, possibly from a series of recurring dreams I only catch fleeting scenes. Anyway, just to clear up the last part which is spoken by Marik's darkness who I call either Marid or Mariku.

Ryou is the Red Queen, Bakura is the Red King, Thief King Bakura(Akefia) is the Knave of Hearts and Marik/Marid is the Jester while Yugi is the White King, Tea is the White Queen, Joey is the White Knight, Tristan is the White Bishop and Duke is the White Knave. The Red Court's too badass for a Knight or Bishop.

Blite: Well you just read it, obviously, what'd you think? Too messed up, too much over the top gore? We tried for some more unconventional methods of murder but I dunno. We also tried to integrate our knowledge of BDSM into the fic, as much as we could without it becoming a rape fest because even and Insane!Psychotic!Ryou isn't a rapist. We leave that to Marid.

Flames will be used to light candles while reviews shall be laminated and stuck on a wall.