Bakura doesn't ask. He takes.

x x x

Since time began (or since time began for him), he had always done what he liked.

Pretty?

Mine.

Shiny?

Mine.

Pleasing?

Mine.

Appealing?

Mine.

He got what he wanted, regardless of the consequences. And on the occasion that he got caught, he would run. Run and duck and slide and turn and just listen to them chasing him.

He got caught because he didn't care. He ran because he liked it. How could they possibly catch him anyway? He knew the city like he knew the back of his hand (which he studied quite often). He would run and run and run and keep on running long after they had stopped chasing him.

The chase was part of the thrill. Bakura liked thrills. And Bakura always did what he liked.

He liked lots of things. Anything he liked was his. Whether it was jewelry, money, clothing, or women, they would be his. Some people called it stealing, but he didn't think so. If he liked it, it was his. He was just taking back what was his. There was no crime in that.

There was once a gold bracelet he had coveted. It was just so shiny, and he couldn't help it if it caught his eye. He liked it. Therefore, it was his. When the shopkeeper saw the bracelet on Bakura's wrist, he shouted, "Thief!"

Bakura turned around amid the crowd of frozen merchants and merely looked at the shopkeeper.

"But this is mine," he said so convincingly that the onlookers shook their heads at the shopkeeper and muttered under their breaths about how the old man was losing it. Even the shopkeeper felt shamefaced and apologized. Bakura waved it off, saying it was nothing really. Because it wasn't.

He had walked away without a second glance. Because he didn't feel guilty at all. Why should he? He had told the truth, hadn't he? The bracelet really was his. At least, it was now.

When he had grown tired of the bracelet, and after it had lost its appeal, he had decided to give it away. He didn't like to give things away (because why give something to someone when they could easily have one as well?), but he'd make an exception this time. Because this time, it'd be a trade.

It was a girl. She was his age, if not older, and she was very attractive. She was dark, just like the rest of the world, it seemed, and she had dared to approach him despite her mother's numerous warnings. She had eyes the color of the gems on his bracelet, and she had a sweet smile as well as quite the figure. She would talk to him, and he would listen.

Only when they walked along the river did they do so without talking, and one day she asked, "Would it be okay if we held hands?"

And he was thoroughly confused. Why would she bother asking him? She could have just done it, and he wouldn't have minded. If he had said no, sure, it would have been embarrassing, but no less embarrassing than just grabbing his hand and having him pull away. So why bother?

His confusion threw her off, and she let the subject drop.

Two days later, she was baking. He tapped her on the shoulder, and when she turned around, there he was. They stared at each other for a split second before he dived in. He didn't ask.

"You stole my first kiss," she accused later.

He didn't bother explaining to her that it had been his to begin with.

So he traded his bracelet for his kiss, and it had felt like charity. He had given her something that belonged to him for something that also belonged to him. Maybe she was the thief.

To others, he seemed hard and cold and sometimes even a bit aloof. They couldn't understand why he was so good at what he did. Why was he so fast? Why did people believe him when he said that he didn't steal?

He was fast because he liked to run. Running was his. They couldn't catch him when they ran because really, who did they think they were? Running wasn't theirs. It was his. People believed him when he said that he didn't steal because the items in question were his. He believed it. They couldn't catch him in a lie because he wasn't lying.

The day finally came when something that had belonged to him was taken. The pharaoh had died. The pharaoh's life had been taken. And damn it all, the pharaoh's life had been his! Not because he liked it, however. No, no, he didn't like the pharaoh's life. It was just his. His to take. It was supposed to have been him. He was outraged. No one had ever taken what was his before.

The pharaoh.

damn damn damn damn pharaoh.

He had been the only one to ever have taken something away that had belonged to Bakura. His parents, his house, his village, his life. The one who had taught him everything. They had all been taken from him.

"Bakura, do you see this?"

"Yes."

"Do you like it?"

"Yes."

"Then it's yours. You see, it used to be mine, but you liked it. So now it's yours." He smiled. "The whole world belongs to you."

So the pharaoh's son's life would just have to do. It was entirely the old pharaoh's fault anyway. Who had given him the right to die? Because of him, his son would pay the full price. Then they would be able to meet each other again in the afterlife.

But the heir to the throne's life wouldn't satisfy him. It simply wasn't enough to trade. The new pharaoh's life along with the old pharaoh's body would do just fine. For now, anyway.

He planned, and he schemed, and he plotted. He honed his sorcery, for it seemed as if he had always had it within him. On occasion, he would laugh and think that if he wasn't who he was, then he could have been one of the pharaoh's trusted priests and advisors.

Wasn't it ironic that one of the priests was wearing his ring, then? When he snuck into the palace, it had caught his eye. It called to him. It was his.

Since all he had to do was kill the man, it wasn't a very difficult task. Imagine, the nerve of that man! To wear his ring around his neck like that. As if it belonged to him. But it was back to its rightful owner now, and everything was alright. He could continue to sneak around the palace undetected with just the tiniest bit of blood on him.

In the end, it seemed it was all for naught. Not that he'd ever admit it.

Oh, the ring was rightfully his, of course. Nobody disputed that. The problem was that Bakura had sorely underestimated the previous pharaoh's son. He certainly hadn't accounted for the pharaoh having control of magic as well. To add insult to injury, the damn teenager had sealed him inside his own ring.

The thing he was proud of was the fact that he didn't go down without a fight and that he had gone still cursing the pharaoh's name.

He had been driven to the brink of insanity, but he found that he rather liked being insane. It took his mind off of things. It wasn't always horrible inside the ring either. It was dark, and he wasn't always bothered by people that didn't understand him. The only thing that bothered him was that there was nothing but darkness and monsters. He controlled the monsters, and he was the darkness. So he waited.

Until the day a man purchased the ring and gave it to his son. Bakura nearly laughed. Many had tried on the ring only to end up murdered horribly. Really, what were they thinking? It was his ring, after all, wasn't it?

But something surprising happened. The boy tried it on, and the ring did…nothing. It had accepted him.

Anger roused in the spirit dwelling in the ring, and he took up an incorporeal form (his first time out of the ring) in order to—

And that was when he saw the boy.

Inside the ring, he could not see, hear, smell, taste, nor feel anything. He only understood what was going on. The ring wanted him to know, as if it was alive. He knew there was a boy who had been accepted by the ring. That was it.

Mm. So pretty.

Bakura could do nothing but stare. Ah, but this boy was lovely. The two looked quite similar, and if Bakura could have seen himself, he would have known that he took the boy's form. This boy had the whitest hair—where Bakura had hair so dull and dirty it shouldn't even be put in the same category--and the palest skin—where Bakura had tan and scarred skin—he had ever seen.

Light and dark. My light.

This was a whole new game.

The spirit took a step towards the boy and placed his hand on the boy's cheek. He could touch him, but nothing else. The assault of memories came at him at once. Flashes of dreams, of days spent alone, and a name.

They really were similar…

Smirking to himself, Bakura brought their faces closer together until they were mere millimeters apart.

"Bakura Ryou," he purred.

"Y-yes?" was the timid reply.

After a moment, he flung the boy away from himself and disappeared into the ring once more.

Releasing a relieved sigh, the teenager thought that he was alone (and maybe a bit delusional) until he heard a voice clearly state—

Mine.

x x x

Owari

Whoa, randomness again. Anyway, I hoped some of you liked it and didn't receive a headache from reading.