Title: Power and Distraction

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh and I'm not making any money off of this.

Summary: On the boat to Battle City, Malik reflects, despite his efforts not to. Oneshot, Character Study.

Notes:
(1) Senet is an Ancient Egyptian board game. During the New Kingdom (which is the period Takahashi set the Egyptian parts of YGO in) a Senet board served as a talisman for the journey of the dead. This was because it was believed that the winner of a Senet game was predetermined, and that he was under the protection of the gods. Are we noticing any parallels here?
(2) This takes place after episode 62 (Master of Magicians) but sometime before Malik arrives in Battle City. All you need to know is that Yuugi has already defeated Pandora/Arkana, and Malik would have allowed Pandora to be killed by his own trap, had Yuugi not saved him.

==o==

He was not going to think about it.

For the time being, this wasn't that difficult of a task, actually. No one could deny that Malik Ishtar had plenty of other things to think about. He wanted to close his eyes and concentrate on little things, stupid things, like the way he could tell the speed of the boat from the strength of the wind through his cloak, the way that the spray from the craft's wake splashed against his face, or the way the midday sunlight was painfully, blissfully, too bright in his eyes.

He loved boats. He loved anything that could travel with such speed and power. It suggested the possibility of escape.

You can't run forever.

No. He shuddered and pulled his cloak more tightly around his arms. (No. It was the chill of the ocean wind, or the first bite of the oncoming fall in this unfamiliar climate. It was the chill of the ocean wind. No.)

Apparently, stopping to smell the proverbial roses was not going to be sufficient, so he turned his mind to larger issues. And oh, here there was so much to think about. Chief among his thoughts was the Mission—his Purpose. His Destiny.

The Mission was beautiful.

There were a thousand possible actions which could get him from where he Had Been to where he was Now to where he Would Be, and each path shone like a beacon, lighting the darkdark recesses of his mind, filling him with so much beautiful distraction. The beams of light crisscrossed, bifurcated and merged, and only he could see them through, only he could follow them, only he could travel from the Beginning to the End. Together they formed a…web. A sort of…mesh. Soft against his skin.

It's a net, you imbecile. It's a net and you're too blind to see how trapped you've become.

No. Perhaps not a web, then. He searched his mind for a better metaphor, looking hard enough to keep himself occupied but not so hard that he might uncover something nasty in an untended corner. (Did minds have corners? No, of course not. That was just crazy.)

He finally stumbled upon it and almost laughed. The Mission was a game. (But of course it was, because the gods played games and he played the Gods.) It was a holy game, then. Like Senet. Or Duel Monsters. A skilled player could see a dozen moves into the future, and a master could see a dozen possible variations on each of those moves, a four-dimensional array of possibility. A champion could predict his opponent's array as well as his own.

But what good is prediction compared to abject control?

Perhaps. He extracted his right hand from the folds of his cloak and brought it to rest on the hilt of the Millennium Rod, tucked securely into his belt loop. Still looking out to sea, he traced the contours of the Eye of Horus with his thumb. He smiled.

Gods, he loved this Item.

He loved the way he felt a surge of power whenever he grasped it, power that resonated within him at the frequency of his soul, power that felt so rightfully his that, just for that instant, he could be free of fear and doubt and just know that he'd achieve his revenge.

He loved that he never had to ask permission, never had to fear punishment, that he could just manipulate minds until he got whatever he wanted. This boat, this sky, this mission, this freedom—he'd stolen them all and would never, never give them back.

He loved the fact that it allowed him, a sixteen year old boy from a hole in the ground, to command a multi-national criminal organization using nothing more than the power of his mind. (His consciousness was spread thin, true, but the headaches and tremors and dizziness and nausea were worth it, really, and he knew he could handle it because he knew he was brilliant and he knew he deserved this and, gods damn it, he knew he was right.)

Most of all, he loved the act of taking over. He loved that he could take a mind and shut it off from everything, every whisper of the outside world, until there was nothing left but him, his voice, his control. Each time he replaced another's consciousness with his own, it was like getting the tiniest taste of the sweetness of revenge.

Revenge can only come from death, from death and pain and powerlessness, as you have suffered and as he will suffer.

(Yes. That was his power. He was the puppet-master and he cut the strings. He blinded the clown and took the key and left him to die by his own blade.)

No! Damn it, no! (Think about something else, think about Rishid and Isis and your people, think about justice and freedom and pride and pretty words and abstract thoughts and gods damn it think fast because this hurts too much for me to take and you're a murderer. Yes.)

He was clenching the rail of the boat hard now, knuckles white and teeth gritted. His right hand was still wound around the Millennium Rod, its decorative hilt cutting into his palm. Inhale, he told himself. Exhale. There, that wasn't so hard. If he could control everyone around him, then surely he could control himself, right? Of course. Inhale, exhale. Breathing synchronized with the wind and the tide. Inhale, exhale. The Pharaoh killed his father.

And you are angry.

Yes. He was angry. He was not a murderer. The Pharaoh killed his father. The Pharaoh killed his father and imprisoned his family, and his anger was righteous and pure. He would kill the Pharaoh and take his power, but this did not make him a murderer. He was a freedom fighter, and the Pharaoh was the deserving target of his rage and hate.

And oh, how much rage and hate you have.

Yes. Gods, yes. He would gag the Pharaoh with his own self-serving sense of justice and hope he choked to death on his own pride. He would cut the Pharaoh as he had been cut, let him bleed as he had bled, not even allow him to scream because the gods knew he hadn't been allowed. He would whisper in the Pharaoh's ear, tell him stories of the lives wasted and the children maimed in his name, stories of a man who never loved his children, of a woman who died in the darkness, of a son with the skin of a dead man upon his back. And Malik would watch the blood drip off his own hands and onto the Pharaoh's. Malik would be guiltless, blameless, and the Pharaoh would be the one to die a murderer.

And the radiance of his pain will be exquisite. And he will beg for death, but you will not be so kind.

Yes. Three thousand years of wasted lives could not be avenged quickly. He would take the Pharaoh to the point of insanity and push him over and watch him fall, as he had fallen, as he was still falling.

Let yourself think it.

Yes. He was Malik Ishtar and he would kill and destroy and burn in the name of liberty and righteousness. He would burn for his mother and his sister and his brother, for the whole tombkeeper clan, and gods, even for his father. He would burn for a child who had only wanted to see the sun, he would burn for the descending madness. He would burn the Pharaoh in the fire of his own rage and insanity. And when the Pharaoh was ash, he would step into flames himself, because he was half-consumed already. He would step into the flames and allow himself to burn.

And you will die, and I will set the world on fire.

Yes.

The boat pulled into port.