Chapter Text
"Zorc... the Dark Master... and Contract with the Dark Master..."
Bakura stared down at the cards in his hand, contemplative. Contemplation is not the natural state for any child of his age—ten, or perhaps eleven—and the expression looked odd on his dirt-smeared face. Then again, it wasn't at all normal for a child without parents or home to be able to read as well as he could, a level of skill which was out of reach for many economically stable adults. In that regard, and in many, Bakura was an diversion from the norm.
When he had stolen the small, gilded box from the pocket of a fat merchant, after hours of tailing the man's caravan, looking for an opportunity, he had been hoping for jewels. Instead, he'd opened it to reveal two papyrus playing cards.
Rare... cards...
Bakura brushed a shock of dirty hair out of his eyes. He was sitting in a hidden crevice of an alley, trying to ignore the stench of decaying fish coming from the gutter beside him. He was hungry—so hungry that even such a revolting scent was triggering the pangs of need. He kept his eyes focused on the cards.
Rare... cards...
He had thought they were only rumors. He knew of the game they were a part of, of course: Duel Monsters. Children played it, in the streets. Those who couldn't read played by attack and defense values only, but literacy raised the quality and complexity of games considerably. Bakura had heard rumors of rare, powerful cards used in duels fought by nobility and Pharaohs, but he had doubted the truth of them. He didn't grasp how pieces of papyrus could have such power—or, more to the point, value. But he could somewhat appraise the little box they had been held in, and that was of substantial worth. Rarely, in his thieving experience, had he come across a vessel more expensive than what it contained.
If these are worth more... than the box... The thought of that made his head spin. Even if that was the case, though, he would have a very difficult time finding a buyer. He was used to getting far below market worth on most of his wares—he passed a certain amount of risk on with the stolen goods, after all—but these cards were an entirely different matter. Not only did he have no point of reference for their worth, but he had no idea who would be interested in purchasing them.
The streets were alive with the merchant's men, searching for the stolen wears. Bakura wasn't concerned, but slunk farther into the shadows for safety's sake.
I need to find food. I need to find food soon. Survival took priority over everything else—a common theme in the life of the young thief. For a moment, he doubled over; tried to breathe, with only moderate success. He looked at the cards, then at their casing, and decided, quite definitively, that he would treat them as separate matters. The case, he would sell immediately—the cards, he would hang onto for a while.
The streets of Egypt had many hidden passages, navigable only by those familiar with them. Bakura's small size lent him further mobility, as he squeezed through tiny gaps that an adult would have no dream of getting through. His fingers—bony spiders, nimble and starvation-thin—squirmed into the cracks of a door and unhooked the lock from the inside. It swung open as he shook his hand lightly to dispel the sting of scraping it against stone.
"Ah. It's you, kid," the shopkeeper said, as Bakura slunk into the back of the shop. The jewelry dealer was one of his frequent buyers—a man who operated on the line between legal and illegal business. "What've you got for me, today?"
"Not much," Bakura said, with a bitter curling of his lip. He produced the case which had held the cards. "Hoping for something inside it, but it was empty. Pretty little case, though. The gold is real."
"I would hope you wouldn't bring it to me, otherwise," the merchant said, with a false note of cheer in his voice. He examined the gilded box, and Bakura saw a subtle narrowing of his eyes. The little thief's spine prickled. "... Where did you say you got this?"
He knows. He knows what it is. Though the merchant's tone and posture hadn't changed, Bakura was certain. Even if he doesn't know who it belonged to or what cards it held, he knows what it is. He knows what it was made to hold. "Someone was trying to sell it at a bizarre," he lied. "It didn't look like they knew how to open it, since they were just showing it to people closed. That's why I was hoping there was something of value inside, and they just didn't know what they had."
The latch was some sort of trick mechanism, and the jewelry dealer didn't look entirely sure how to open it, either. Bakura reached forward; demonstrated, and the little thing sprang open.
"See? Empty." Bakura gave a false sigh of disappointment, then continued appealingly, "The latch is a bit clever, though, so maybe someone will want to buy it to hold a gift?"
The merchant's eyes were still narrowed as he stared at the cushioned insides of the box. Bakura's empty stomach was in knots, and the cards—tied with some twine to the inside of one of his thighs—felt suddenly like rough stone against his skin.
"Pity..." the merchant said, then shrugged. "It's an odd shape, so not many things will fit well, inside. But I like the craftsmanship on it, so..." He reached into his pocket, and Bakura's heart lifted despite his mounting anxiety. "This seem fair?" he asked, holding out two copper trinkets and a cracked tiger's eye stone.
It didn't seem fair—far from fair, farther from fair than even Bakura was used to accepting. The raw materials the case was made up of were more valuable. But he was desperate enough to rid himself of the thing—and desperate enough for funds—to nod. "Sure. Considering."
"Considering," the shopkeeper agreed, and dropped the objects into Bakura's thin hands. The boy bowed briefly; scuttled off, feeling the cards shift slightly against his skin. He felt the merchant's eyes follow him until he was out the back door, and then heard the lock click into place behind him.
Bakura let out a soft sigh of relief, then straightened; ran his fingers through his sand-matted hair and trotted toward the market. He knew, logically, that he should save at least a copper piece—that he should use the damaged stone and one of the coppers to get some bread and some beer, and make due. But he felt weak; his body was close to giving out on him, he could tell. It had happened before. Saving resources was a useless gesture if he didn't have the strength to so much as stand.
"That," he said to a seller of fish, pointing to a slab of pink flesh hanging from the edge of the stall and then holding out the sum of what the merchant had given him, making an effort to look hopeful. He found that, if he spoke in fragments—better yet, single words—adults dropped their guards a bit. He was just another impoverished child, uneducated and made further stupid with hunger, who'd managed to swindle a bit of copper from someone; that's what they thought. Someone who couldn't even speak in sentences couldn't possibly have the wherewithal to swipe a few bread rolls when their back was turned. The merchant wrapped up the fish in papyrus; traded it for the tokens, and Bakura nodded dumbly in thanks. He went to great lengths to not make any sort of impression on anyone—the streets were full of children like him, after all. By the time this shopkeeper discovered his missing wears, he would have seen a dozen small, dirt-smeared faces.
Bakura tucked the fish into his robes, feeling his insides twist with hunger at the scent—far more appealing than the rotting stench he'd been surrounded by, earlier. He almost lost himself, but he forced his steps to be steady; skulked around another vendor until he could steal a jar of beer, then darted into a nearby alleyway. He squirmed into a gap in a wall, forging on through the cracked stone until he was so deep into the construct that he was left in near darkness. Then he wriggled, thrashing slightly until he managed to sit comfortably in the tiny space.
Only then, with shaking hands, did he unwrap the fish and sink his teeth into it. The cards were completely forgotten as he ate, the food tangible assurance that he would stay alive for a few days more. When a chunk got lodged in his throat, in his zeal, he gulped down some of the beer. By the time he swallowed the last of the drink, licking the salty remnants of fish from his fingers, he felt a bit ill—satisfyingly so.
Life would continue, at least for a few days longer, because the pain in his stomach was no longer due to hunger.
Bakura let himself nap there, for a while, a dagger held ready on his lap. When the light had faded to nothing—the sun set, outside of his little hiding spot—he felt for the cards still strapped to his leg. He couldn't read them, in the dark, but he remembered their names and pictures.
"Dark Master... Zorc..."
He wondered what significance the cards could hold. Now that his mind wasn't consumed with matters of staying alive, at least for the moment, he couldn't stop himself from speculating.
If I can figure out how to use these cards, I'll never be starving again.
Bakura blinked in the darkness, surprised. He couldn't trace the thought to its origin—it had appeared out of nowhere, as if it wasn't even his own.
Never... starve...?
The thought was ridiculous; maddeningly tempting, like the scent of roast meat. And it was that thought that swirled about in his mind as he drifted to sleep, and it was that thought that followed him into his dreams.
... ... ...
The next day, Bakura didn't go hunting for food, nor did he go hunting for gems or gold.
Bakura went hunting for cards.
He crawled out of his hiding spot as the sun rose; spared a bit of copper he had stowed away to buy a glass of beer and a bit of bread, and then set off. From the shadows of an alley, he watched two children playing a game—Duel Monsters.
"Spell activate!"
"I summon my servant to attack! Destroy the enemy!"
"I set a card, face down, and end my turn."
"You've activated my trap card!"
Bakura drifted from game to game. Children and adults alike played; poor and rich alike played. All over the city, Bakura wandered, observing. There was a difference in cards, between social classes, but not once did Bakura see any resembling the two he held hidden close to his body—the cards which seemed to radiate living heat against his skin.
Eventually, Bakura's nature as a thief made itself known. When a player looked away, he would snatch a card or two from the top of their deck or graveyard. It didn't so much matter which cards he pilfered, only that he had gathered dozens of them by the end of the day. When night fell, he crawled into a well-known hiding place and fell deeply asleep.
Again, his dreams were haunted by visions of cards and the scent of roast meat.
When the dawn light woke Bakura, he rose, without thought or plan, and bought beer and bread. He wandered, watching games and collecting cards. He heard; leaned; gathered stolen monsters and spells and traps. The rare cards hidden against his flesh hummed approval.
What's... come over me...? Bakura couldn't remember what could possibly be more important than cards, but he was sure there was something. His sudden single-mindedness unsettled him, but he lacked the perspective to determine why. So he wandered; watched games; stole cards. It was a relief, to not think about whatever had to be more important than cards. And when night came, he slept and dreamed of roast meat.
Bakura rose again; bought bread and beer, and trolled the city for ongoing games to watch and cards to steal. He fell asleep; rose, on a fourth day, ate a bread roll and drank a glass of beer, and hunted for games and cards. He crawled off to sleep, wondering why his limbs were trembling; decided it was too tiresome to think about, and dreamed of savory things.
When he woke again, he found he had nothing left to trade for so much as a crumb of bread, so he drank water from the side of the road and began his hunt for cards. He was unbothered by this. What mattered were the cards. He couldn't think of anything else he should be concerned with. He lost all track of time, sleeping or waking—lost track of his own body. What mattered were the cards. The cards were the only things that was real, that had substance.
Eventually, though, he dropped off into utter darkness where there weren't even cards—where there weren't even dreams.
... ... ...
When Bakura regained consciousness, every single one of his instincts was screaming.
I'm dying. I'm dying. Get up. I'm dying. I'm dying. Get up. Get up!!
Bakura struggled onto his elbows—it hurt. He was in one of his own hideouts, as far as his blurred vision told him; there was that, at least. And around him, scattered on the ground where he had fallen, were cards.
Oh gods...
Bakura's insides twisted—shrieked with pain, and he retched. His mouth was coated with sand, and only a drizzle of acidic bile came up as his body tried to vomit.
Oh gods... oh gods how did this happen?!
The cards. The cards. It all started when I found those cards.
With hopelessly shaking hands, Bakura ripped the cards from their hidden spot against his leg and threw them, albeit weakly, away from himself. Then he scrambled, wriggling out into the cool night air and half-crawling, half-stumbling through the city streets.
Bakura was no fool. It wasn't often that he had excess, but he had stashes—emergency cashes, in half a dozen places throughout the city. He scarcely made it to one such hideout, squirming under the crumbling foundation of a temple and dragging himself beneath it, in the pitch black, until he bumped into the little chest. Fumbling with the latch, he opened it; drank the beer, first, lest he crumble to dust from dryness, and then bolted the scraps of bread and preserved meat he had hidden there.
Shuddering, Bakura sat back; took stock of his situation, as the urgency of imminent death faded. He flopped onto his side, weakness rising like a physical force to pin him down.
I was so close to dying. If I hadn't been able to move...
Those cards... why...?
If I hadn't eaten that fish... if I hadn't thought to eat properly that day... I would be dead right now.
Maybe there is one god... just one god... who's looking out for me...
... ... ...
"Thought you might've died, kid," the jewelry merchant said, when Bakura slunk into the back of his shop.
Bakura shook his head; held up a necklace of gold and obsidian. "How much?"
"Sure you're alright?" The man gave him a sideways glance. "You look thin. Thinner."
"Doesn't matter. Do you want to buy this or not?"
"That little box you brought me the other day—it caught someone's attention."
Bakura felt his bones go cold; didn't speak. All his hideouts in the city had cards in them, despite the fact that he couldn't remember acquiring most of them. Several seemed to be of higher-than-average quality. He hadn't dared to so much as look at original two—Contract with the Dark Master and Dark Master Zorc—and hadn't even been back to the particular hideout where he'd abandoned them.
"One of the pharaoh's priests," the merchant said, and Bakura took a slight step back, "was very interested in where I got it."
"I'll slit your throat while you sleep."
The merchant gave a tight smile. "I know better than to cross little demons like you. You've got nothing to lose, and that makes you dangerous. But I want to know what was in that box."
"Rot!" Bakura spat, tucking the necklace into his pocket and turning away. "May Ammit eat your heart!"
"What cards were in that box, kid?"
Bakura froze; didn't answer.
"It was clear, from their questions," the merchant continued. "My father dealt in cards, for a while. I'm familiar enough with them to be able to tell that that's what the priest was looking for."
"What makes you think I'd tell you?" Bakura growled, though his heart was racing.
"Because I might be able to tell you exactly what you've got."
"I don't want anything to do with it!" Bakura spat. "You hear me? It doesn't matter, because I'm not dealing with it!"
"Then sell them to me."
Bakura turned; saw that the merchant was watching him.
"I'll make an offer, sight unseen. I don't even need to know what they are, or how many there are."
Bakura didn't reply, but stayed still; held the merchant's gaze.
"200 standard rations. Per card."
It was all Bakura could do to remain impassive, in the face of such a number.
The merchant looked a bit perturbed, when he didn't respond. "300 for each, and you'd be a fool to refuse that offer."
Bakura's whole body shuddered, and he said at last, "Let me think about it. I'll give you an answer tomorrow."
The man nodded; motioned, and said, "Let me see that necklace."
Bakura, with some reluctance, fetched it again from his pocket. He still needed to eat, that day.
The merchant examined it cursorily; rustled in his pockets, and held out three gold ingots. "How does this look?"
It was a gross over-payment, but Bakura only nodded.
... ... ...
Bakura gathered his stolen cards from each of his hideouts; scoured the whole city for them, and ended up with over three hundred stockpiled in an abandoned shop's crumbling basement. Then he went out for supper.
With some of the merchant's gold, Bakura bought himself some leeks, a jar of beer, and two roast pigeons. Such a purchase—all from the same vendor, no less—was indiscreet, but he was too weary to care. He returned, then, to the cards; sat down and tore into one of the birds, trying to curb the usual ravenous pace he ate at. For once, he had plenty—he couldn't allow hunger to muddy his thoughts, not that night.
You'll never starve. Not if you figure out these cards... That was the thought that had driven him nearly mad, as far as he could remember—the thought that hadn't been his own; had appeared, with the cards. It seemed, now, that that premonition was coming true, despite his brush with death.
But 300... 600 standard rations...
A standard ration was somewhat of a starvation wage—one loaf of bread and one jar of beer, each with standardized nutritional content. One per day could sustain life, but not entirely well; most of the lowest-paid laborers were allotted at least two per day's work. Most employers paid more, since a well-fed workforce did better work.
He's basically offering me a year's worth of food. I wouldn't be hungry for a year's time.
That year would, theoretically, afford Bakura a chance—a period of time when every scrap of his energy didn't need to go into surviving. He could get, somehow, ahead, during that time. But that type of thinking was a gamble, and if it didn't work out...
Bakura tore a chunk of flesh off the pigeon's bones; miscalculated, and for a moment struggled to chew and swallow. He took a gulp of beer to wash it down.
Cleaning his fingers as well as he could, on the filthy linens he wore, he picked through the cards piled on the floor. Mirror Force... Feral Imp... Trap Hole... Robbin' Goblin...
Bakura swallowed, his throat feeling suddenly dry.
... ... ...
The next day, Bakura appeared again at the merchant's shop. He brought no stolen wears to sell.
"Did you eat well, last night?" the merchant asked, and Bakura nodded. "Glad to hear it. Did you make your decision?"
"I did."
There was a pause. The merchant's eyebrows rose slightly.
"And?" he prompted eventually, when the silence became uncomfortable.
"Have a duel, with me."
The merchant's eyes widened. "A duel? With you?"
Bakura nodded; met and held the merchant's gaze with a narrowed, upturned glare. "If you win, I'll accept your offer. If you lose, you'll tell me what the cards are actually worth, and what sorts of powers they have."
The merchant gave a wry, pained grin. "Can't pull anything over on you, can I?"
Bakura shook his head once—resolute.
"Fine. You know how to duel, at least?"
A nod.
"Alright. Meet me back here at nightfall—I'll show you the true power of Duel Monsters, then."
Bakura made sure, again, to eat well throughout the day. Hunger was a distraction he knew well, and knew he couldn't afford. He spent his remaining time with the cards—the forty he had chosen to create a deck. He memorized their artwork and descriptions; synthesized combinations in his head. Those days when he had wandered the streets, almost dead, he had watched many duels of all kinds and skill levels. He had learned many things.
When night fell, he returned to the jewelry shop and found the merchant waiting for him, behind it.
"Follow me," the man said. Bakura obeyed, though he kept one hand on the hilt of a dagger concealed beneath his tattered robes.
The merchant led him to a temple, where they descended a flight of ornately carved stairs into the basement. The merchant lit a torch.
"My father, when he dealt in cards, had permission to use this duel field," the man said, as Bakura stared at the empty expanse of stone floor. Runes glowed softly at each of the four corners. "The priests have been kind enough to offer me the same agreement, should I ever enter the world of Duel Monsters, myself. I prefer to trade in tangible things, though, like jewelry."
Bakura preferred gemstones, too. He was contemplating attempting to barter with the merchant, rather than this stupid notion he'd had of a duel, when the man pulled out his own deck.
"You stand over there," he instructed, "and I'll stand opposite."
With little else to do, Bakura obeyed. His heart pounded ever-harder in his chest, and he wondered how he could have possibly gotten himself into such a mess. The glowing ruins made his skin crawl. Each player drew five cards.
"I'll go first," the merchant said. "No player, of course, can attack on their first turn." He selected a card from his hand; held it up, and declared, "I'll summon Mudora, to attack!" Just as Bakura was wondering how he was even supposed to see the card, at such a distance, it vanished entirely from the merchant's hand. The ruins' glow intensified.
Bakura shivered, watching as violet energies swirled across the field and slowly, deliberately, came together. The monster—Mudora, with 1500 attack points—materialized on the merchant's side of the field, moaning and swinging its khopesh like a living creature.
Bakura began to tremble.
"You see?" the merchant asked, spreading his hands. "This is the true power of Duel Monsters—the power held only by priests and pharaohs. Do you see, yet, your error? Are you frightened, child?"
"Do you end your turn?"
The merchant blinked. "What?"
"Quit stalling," Bakura said, a smile taking shaky purchase on his face. His trembling grew worse, excitement rising to seize him with all the power of life itself. "Do you end your turn?"
The merchant huffed, seeming disappointed. "I end my turn."
"Good..." Bakura breathed. "My turn." He looked over his cards, trying not to be distracted by just how hard his hands were shaking. He didn't exactly know what his next move should be, but he was pleased the merchant hadn't had the presence of mind to set any cards. He selected one of his own; said, "I set a card, and then summon Souls of the Forgotten, to defend. I end my turn."
The merchant laughed; Bakura tried to keep the smile from creeping onto his face. Come on. Attack me.
"Foolish child! You are only a beginner, then!" the merchant cackled. "I draw! Then I send my servant to attack—Mudora, destroy his defender!"
The beast charged; Bakura, scarcely able to move for his trembling, stood still as he was buffeted by wind from the resulting battle. Souls of the Forgotten shrieked as it vanished to his Graveyard.
"I set one card, and end my turn," the merchant declared, his lips curling with smugness.
"I draw," Bakura said softly, and did so. He reordered the four cards he held; thought, for a long moment, and then said, "I summon Dark King of the Abyss, to defend. I end my turn."
The merchant laughed again. "You won't win by merely playing defense!" he shouted. "Pull yourself together, boy! I summon Skull Red Bird, to attack! Destroy the defender!"
The monster screeched, and Bakura raised one hand to shield his face from the force of the attack as Dark King of the Abyss dissipated. The merchant's laughter intensified.
"And your set card can't be anything special, if you haven't used it yet!" he shouted. "Go, Mudora! Attack the boy directly!"
The monster groaned; swung it's khopesh, then charged. Bakura, though nearly unable to stand for the excited tremors wracking his body, raised a hand.
"I activate my Trap: Zoma the Spirit, to defend me!"
The ghoulish monster, all darkness and gnarled limbs, roared as it came into being. The khopesh of the merchant's Mudora tore through it, but it was the merchant who cried out in pain as Zoma dissipated.
"Zoma the Spirit manifests as a Zombie-Type monster, in defensive position," Bakura announced, as the merchant stumbled. "When it's destroyed in battle, damage equal to the attack of the monster that destroyed it is inflicted on your life points!"
"Lucky boy," the merchant spat, straightening. "But now you've angered me, so perhaps not lucky, after all."
"Your turn it over! I draw!" Bakura announced, then allowed himself to smile. "I set one card, and then summon Abaki to attack!" The demonic little creature formed, cackling and dancing about on the field.
"Ha!" the merchant crowed. "I activate my set card, Trap Hole! It destroys your silly little fiend instantly!"
"And I flip my set card, Seven Tools of the Bandit!" Bakura shouted. "By paying 1000 life points, I can negate Trap Hole's effect! Abaki! Attack his Mudora!"
The fiend cackled with glee, smashing through Mudora with it's demented club. The monster shattered, and the merchant's face twisted as his life points dropped to 2300. Bakura's stood at 3000, after the activation of Seven Tools of the Bandit.
The merchant sneered. "You think you can actually win?!" he demanded, then drew a card. "You were better off sticking to defense! I summon Faith Bird, and play the spell card Polymerization!" Bakura watched in amazement as the spell activated—the two feathered beasts blurred together and emerged as one massive monster. The merchant announced: "Crimson Sunbird! With its 2300 attack, your little fiend is finished next turn!"
Bakura drew a steadying breath; struggled, for a moment, to take his eyes off the winged beast on the field, and then drew a card. He considered his hand. "I set two cards," he said slowly, "and end my turn."
A flicker of uncertainty crossed the merchant's face, and he gave his own hand a careful look after his draw. He glanced at Crimson Sunbird; at Abaki; at his hand; at Bakura's set cards.
"Come on!" Bakura shouted suddenly, startling the merchant of jewels. "Attack me, if you aren't coward! What am I? Some child? Some filthy little cur? Attack me!"
The merchant's face twisted, and he bore his teeth. "Very well!" he roared. "Crimson Sunbird, attack the unsightly little fiend!"
The winged beast screeched; swooped, and slashed through Abaki with vicious talons. Bakura braced against the shock-wave, but held up one hand.
"My trap is Defense Draw!" he shouted, over the fading sounds of the battle. "I take no damage, this turn, and draw one card! Thanks to Abaki's effect, though, you take 500 points of direct damage!"
The merchant scowled, but crossed his arms. "You'd better summon a monster, this turn," he said. "If not, all your clever little moves will be for nothing."
And you should have summoned a monster last turn... Bakura thought, drawing another card. He ran the pads of his fingers along it's edge; held it up to the firelight, examining the artwork. But you weren't thinking clearly, were you? You expected me to be rattled by this duel field, by the monsters, by the spells and the traps... but I'm used to pressure, you soft bastard. You're the one who's about to crack.
"I summon Earthbound Spirit to defend, and end my turn!" he said, and the merchant's grin widened.
"Out of tricks, I see!" he said, with a laugh. "Very well! I'll finish you quickly, then!" He drew a card; announced, "I summon Dark Bat, to attack! First, Crimson Sunbird attacks your Earthbound Spirit!"
"Your turn ends there!" Bakura shouted, and the merchant drew back as if struck. "I activate my set trap, Spirit Shield! I can banish one fiend monster in my graveyard, Souls of the Forgotten, to negate your attack and end your battle phase!"
Crimson Sunbird's claws bounced off the shining barrier that manifested, and the merchant gave a shriek of frustration. Bakura drew a card; his breath caught.
"It's here..."
"Get on with it, child!" the merchant shouted.
"In such a hurry to not be able to attack?" Bakura scoffed, and watched with satisfaction as the man's face reddened. "Very well! First, I play the spell Monster Reborn, to re-summon Abaki to my field! Then I play the equip card Bashing Shield, which ups Abaki's attack power by 1000 points, to 2700!"
The little fiend came back to life, cackling and dancing about gleefully, and Bakura felt a laugh bubble in his own throat. He swallowed against it, though; kept his eyes fixed on the merchant's face.
"Abaki! Attack his Crimson Sunbird!"
The merchant gave a pained shout as Abaki, armed with the spiked shield, slammed through Crimson Sunbird, shattering it.
"You have 1400 Life left!" Bakura called. "Your turn!"
The merchant braced his feet wide; scowled, and spat into the dust. "You haven't haven't beaten me yet, rat!" He drew a card; grinned. "I have a rare card of my own, boy, and it will end you! I tribute Dark Bat, to summon Diabound Kernel! I play the spell Rush Recklessly, which ups its attack by 700 for one turn! Then, Diabound's own effect increases its by attack by 600 when it declares an attack, for a total of 3100 attack! Go, my servant, Diabound! Attack Abaki!"
Bakura braced himself; covered his face with his forearms as the demented little fiend monster shattered again with a shriek. But he didn't flinch as his life, though untouched by battle damage due to Bashing Shield's effect, dropped to 2500 due to Abaki's effect; the merchant's fell to 900. When Bakura raised his head to gaze up at the huge white serpent, Diabound, he was smiling.
"What a magnificent monster..." he breathed. "I think I'll steal it."
"You'll what?!" roared the merchant.
"It's time to end this," Bakura said, simply. He drew a card; tucked it into his hand, and then held up a spell. "Ritual Spell: Contract with the Dark Master! I tribute Earthbound Spirit, from my field, and Chaos Necromancer from my hand! Come, Dark Master Zorc! Heed my summon, most powerful of gods!"
The merchant's eyes bugged as wind buffeted him; he took a step back. "I-Impossible! You couldn't have—!"
"Couldn't have what?" Bakura asked, his grin twisting cruelly. "You thought that I wouldn't put the rare cards into my own deck, really?" Then he raised his voice; shouted, with honest rage and heartache behind the words, "Just what kind of fool do you take me for?! Dark Master, attack his Diabound Kernel! Finish him!"
The merchant's legs gave out, and he watched with dull eyes as the monster formed; attacked, with brutish claws, tearing through Diabound and reaching the human beyond. The shock wave hit him, and he covered his face with his arms, giving a cry of distress. His cards began to re-materialize, as his Life dropped to zero, fluttering to the ground around him.
"You're done for," Bakura growled, gazing up at the majestic, beastly creature; at Dark Master Zorc. He stalked across the field, past the softly growling monster, and stood over the merchant. "Bow down."
The man started to sneer something, but Zorc roared; the merchant covered his ears with a cry, and then, already on his knees, dropped down onto his hands.
"Lower," Bakura commanded, and the man prostrated himself among his defeated cards. Zorc, at last, began to dissipate. Bakura paced; glowered down at the man. "I'm tied of playing to fool. I'm tired of playing submissive to cur like you!" He lashed out; kicked the merchant in shoulder, and the man cringed. "I've won the duel, so there'll be no deal. And I don't need your information. I've got everything I need." He paused; looked down, and picked up a card. "I will take your Diabound, though."
The merchant's head shot up. "That's not—!" he began, but Bakura kicked out again; caught his temple, this time, and the merchant fell with a yelp of pain.
"The winner makes the rules—that's how this world works," Bakura said, then spat on the merchant. He looked approvingly at the card in his hand; held it up to examine it in the firelight. "I'll claim this card, Diabound, as a symbol of my pride, and Zorc will represent my strength. And I will never crawl about in the mud looking for crusts of bread, ever again."
The merchant kept his head lowered; said nothing. Bakura's gaze flicked down.
"Well?!" he snarled, and kicked up a cloud of sand at the man. The merchant didn't respond. "What do you have to say?! Nothing?!"
When the merchant kept his silence, Bakura reached down and grabbed the shoulder of his silken robes; tore it, at the seam, as he wrenched the man somewhat up.
"You think not talking will save you?!" he screamed, and the merchant cringed away. "You think you can make yourself invisible if you just shut up and take whatever abuse I give? You think I'll get bored? You think I'll stop? That doesn't work! It doesn't work! I know! I've tried that, and it doesn't make the abuse stop!!"
The merchant still didn't speak, face twisted in fear and eyes screwed shut. Bakura gave a wordless snarl, furious to feel tears streaming down his own face, and drove one bony knee into the man's face. The merchant flew backwards, with a spray of bright red blood from his very broken nose, and Bakura followed; kicked him again, in the head, and then ground his foot into the man's stomach.
"It doesn't... stop...!" he wheezed, then took a step back, breathing hard. The merchant was unconscious, and Bakura wondered disconnectedly if he should finish him.
Better to let him live with a misshapen nose... he decided, after a moment, and spat once more on the battered figure. Then he stooped; rustled around for loose gold and anything of value in the merchant's robes. He refrained from picking up any more of the man's cards, though, for Diabound would serve as his special memento from the duel. He also hung one of the merchant's necklaces, a lapis lazuli pendant, prominently from his neck. He felt his pocket; confirmed that his own deck had reformed, there, and tucked Diabound away with it.
Though it was late, Bakura wandered out of the city and found, following the scent, a stall selling fish beside the Nile. He walked up to if with his head held high.
"I'll take that one," he told the man, who looked at him in surprise. When the fish-seller didn't reply, right away, he pointed. "That fish—I'd like it." He produced a gold figurine, taken from the merchant's pocket. "Will this do, for payment?"
The fisherman nodded dumbly; fetched the fish down, and wrapped it. Bakura thanked him, then made his way down to the bank to enjoy his meal.
That's right... he thought, devouring the tender, well-seasoned flesh. Such a fish should have fed him for days, on the strict rations he had set for himself, for the sake of survival. He was determined to eat the whole thing that night. I won't be starved—never again. I won't do it to myself, and I won't let others do it. I'll eat like a king, tonight and every other night of my life.