A/N: Greetings, all! Here is the much-awaited first chapter of mine and Aluminium's epic, shiny new project!

Warnings: Aluminium and I are of the firm opinion that shonen and shojo ai are not warnings, but enticements. Consider yourself enticed.

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

- Oscar Wilde

Egypt, 1870

"Someday, you bastard, you are going to get us very killed."

"Killed? Nice night for it, I suppose."

"Nice night for dying? Pay attention, Bakura."

The moon hangs placidly in the sprawling sky, beckoning the heat-drowsy crowds to their assorted temples of worship, as Ryou crouches starving in the dust. The gazes which rest momentarily upon him flicker automatically away, consigning him to the neutral hands of fate. Those whose eyes linger long enough to note his colouring scurry onwards with anxious haste.

A sandaled foot scuffs the edge of his tunic. Ryou clears his throat to apologise for blocking the edge of the street, but the words expire on his desiccated tongue, and the stranger is gone by the time he manages to gulp down any amount of cooling desert air.

Briefly, he wonders what it will be like. To die, that is. His thoughts are awfully rough around the edges, dulled by lack of food and blurred by insomnia. But he can sense it very sharply, a bitter tang on his aching tongue: all signs declare he is not long for this world. The next, he thinks, might not accept him, bereft as they are of any indication of his existence. No real name - no relatives to care for the body. His ka will surely fade away, a hushed whisper on a dying breeze, just like the rest of him…

The moon glimmers in the corner of his vision.

Live.

It is like a prayer. A short, blunt word, stemming from the vast, inexorable drive of self-preservation. Not that there is much chance of survival, money, and sustenance, and sympathy being as scarce as they are. That the moon is indeed speaking directly to him is about as likely.

Nonetheless.

Live.

Undoubtedly, it is a hallucination, fuelled – as it were - by malnutrition. Dehydration. Delirium, most likely. What possible way is there for him to live? None – none at all. Ryou owns what is left of the clothes on his back, and literally nothing else. No money, no food... no water. Despised by all for the deadly combination of stark white hair and pale blue eyes, Ryou has all the status that befits a demon. So, most importantly, no connection.

How can he possibly live?

Live.

Stop it.

A few men shuffle past him, giving way to miniature plumes of dust. Returning from worship, perhaps. Indulging in a stately stroll back to their stately homes – all offerings left at the feet of impassive Khonsu; all guilt effortlessly assuaged. All in all, they are as predisposed to aid Ryou as the sunbaked huts around him, or the airships hanging vaguely on the horizon, ethereal twists of steam trickling esoterically from their hatches.

Hanging behind the worshippers, are two noblemen – arguing, it seems, yet with an assertive air of nonchalant poise. A shock of tawny hair, framing dusky Kemetic skin denotes the one - yet, incongruously, he is wrapped in the sharpest of Albion finery: a gray, clear-cut suit, with that fatal simplicity that betrays colossal expense. Adorned with a jaunty top hat and swathed in a light, ruffled cape, he makes for a curious sight – like fire clothed in shadow. The second man is all shadow decked in light. A pallid, placid, smirking face; there is a luminous quality to his features that betrays neither Albian nor Kemetic origin. As they step closer, Ryou notices that the second, taller man is adorned by countless jewels. Two pearl droplets quiver at his earlobes, and his throat glistens with gold chains. Thick, metallic bangles drip from his ghostly wrists, whilst a glimmering broach peeks coyly from his cravat. Ostentatious even for Alexandria. Ryou turns a dizzy head to face them directly, hypnotised. Hanging from one hand, swinging casually, chain looping from one finger to another like some complacent magician's trick, is a pocket watch.

It shines like the moon.

Live.

"Are you honestly so upset that I seduced that fool Ambassador's daughter? Because frankly, Marik, it isn't like you to be so prudish."

"I'm not upset about the daughter! That was part of the plan. You remember those, don't you? Plans? No, the fact that you had to go and screw her brother alongside is what I'm upset about."

"How could I resist? He was rather lovely..."

"Bullshit. You mean he was willing, thus you couldn't pass up on an opportunity to cause chaos. You know, someday, I'd like to see one of these operations run smoothly – namely, minus the presence of a livid father cursing us in the name of every god under the sun and moon, and sending assassins to kill us with swords."

"That didn't seem to be your perspective back in Memphis, if I recall correctly."

"Fuck Memphis."

Marik increases his pace, to signify to Bakura that this strand conversation has reached its end. Hopefully, it will also convey how furious he is with this latest exploit – a futile venture, for the realisation will leave no dent in his partner's pride – that damned assurance will remain as flawless as ever. However. On principle, he speeds up, moving out of step with Bakura; purposefully, he ploughs through the crowd, ignoring various squawks of protest. With any luck, the assassins will cut the bastard down before they reach the Diabound. Serve him right for bringing up Memphis. And for neatly sabotaging such a promising scheme with his unrepentant lack of restraint.

But mostly for bringing up Memphis.

Halfway through a particularly dense cluster of people, Marik swivels around, eliciting more indignant cries of which, again, he takes no notice. "Kura!" he yells. "Where the hell did we park the ship, anyway?"

No answer, for his elusive eel of a partner has apparently melted into the shadows. Meaning Marik is, for the moment, isolated in this sun-baked gem of a city – which, frankly, is no hardship. Alexandria has the power to continually startle him: once a battered colony in turmoil, enduring the agony of occupation; now the pinnacle of a hard-won Empire, rich, thriving, and constantly changing. Marik was not alive when it was merely a fragment of Albion rule, but as a child, he witnessed much of its rise to glory as the focal point of all Kemet. Like a microcosm of Egypt itself, it scraped the ignominious depths of servitude as an impoverished slave to English rule – then rose to fiery heights during a heated clash for independence. Marik saw the latter half of Egypt's rise to world prominence reflected in the development of Alexandria: the background scene of crumbling pyramids gradually effaced by a steely skyline of trading airships; the visible affluence of the growing city centre, clustered no longer with solitary stalls of dubious produce, but packed with wealthy marketers, selling specialist goods, and the sumptuous native foods that the country could now afford to keep rather than export. He learned the city as studiously as he learned the English tongue, as a young adolescent.

The slums, however, are new.

With great prosperity inevitably comes great paucity to balance it. Marik smirks grimly; the more Egypt seeks to emulate its lofty rival-nation, the more it follows the foreboding trail of excess and poverty blazed by Albion. With rampant industrialisation – set in the context of a stubbornly feudal society, no less – come areas like this. Pitiful mud-shacks which cling to the edges of the vast city, rubbing unhygienic shoulders with the heights of skilled architecture. All cities have an underside; this one is refreshingly visible.

"Bakura!" he howls once more – trapped in his musings, the crowds have passed him by, and he is now the only standing figure in this dusty, beggar-laden street.

Bastard must have slipped away – why is beyond Marik's capability of guesswork, but it must undoubtedly have been some heavily capricious whim of which he did not feel any particular need to inform his partner. As a rule, Bakura never operates on anything besides the spur of the moment - and it must be an extremely recent moment, at that, else he will change his mind with all the speed of a desert snake.

He turns, disorientated, and takes another breath, preparing to yell one more time. "Bakur-"

A cool hand clamps firmly over his mouth. "Calm yourself, brat, or someone will alert the authorities," sneers a voice from behind.

"Brat yourself," retorts Marik, cheerfully, and although the words are somewhat muffled, the meaning is undoubtedly relayed.

Bakura lets go. Marik spins around to face him, and with some trepidation, notices that Bakura's other hand is preoccupied with holding the wrist of a woebegone beggar boy in an exceedingly painful looking grip. The boy struggles somewhat limply, and Marik shudders. Eyebrow raised, he inquires: "Who's your, ah, friend?"

"Oh, this?" says Bakura, twisting the boy's elbow until he gives a mewling sort of squawk. "May I present to you the next of the great Egyptian thieves?"

Oh hell. Bakura is in that kind of mood – the playful, teasing one in which he painstakingly eviscerates the target of his contempt. Like a cat toying with a half-dead bird. And, indeed, this boy looks more than half dead; judging by his sullen, emaciated looks, he is only a handful of missed meals away from the afterlife. Marik has no intention of watching Bakura play with his food.

"Cut the crap and leave him be," groans Marik, eager to leave this tedious place. He makes a lackadaisical grab for the boy; Bakura wrenches him out of reach before anything can come of it, cue another pitiful squeal. "Oh, for the love of... what did he do to you? Step on your toes?"

Bakura laughs the sadistic laugh of a supercilious predator. A crocodile, decides Marik. "This little guttersnipe had the temerity to try for my pocket watch," he says, still grinning. The things Bakura finds funny... "I've never seen such appalling technique in my life. If I had to guess, I would imagine this might even have been his first attempt at stealing. Wretch ought to be more experienced in crime, by all rights."

When pain is not anchoring him to earth, the boy has a glazed look which denotes that unique kind of death-drenched apathy. He has ceased to struggle, instead hanging resignedly from Bakura's grip, knees splayed uncaringly in the dirt.

"Spare me from your criticisms of the youth of today," snaps Marik. "If you're not going to slit his throat, hurry and let him go. What do you want him for?"

"Indeed, what would one want him for?" rejoins Bakura, mockingly. "Contemptible, isn't he?" He gives the boy a provoking shake. "Barely lucid enough to whine for mercy."

Amidst Bakura's harshness, and the boy's unresponsive torpor, something shifts in Marik. He is not, and has never been, cruel, after all.

He steps closer. Kneeling to face the beggar, he runs a gentle hand through his grimy hair. "I don't know," he mutters, musingly. "He's rather pretty underneath all the dirt."

Bakura sighs, impatiently. "He's not pretty; he's deplorable."

Marik tilts the boy's head to face him. His eyes hang exhaustedly, fixated on the floor. "What's your name?" he asks, almost kindly.

"Mm? 'M Ryou..." he murmurs hazily in reply, as though plucking the words from a dream.

"Ryou," repeats Marik. He glances up at Bakura. "White hair and blue eyes. You've found us a demon."

Bakura laughs, a full, appreciative guffaw. "Right. Deadly, this one." Yet his eyes seem to glitter.

Marik meets his partner's gaze, boldly. "What say we adopt ourselves a demon child?" he says, roguish and semi-serious. Half-formed plans begin to surface in his mind, involving mute tea-boys clad in ornate Egyptian finery, and petit young thieves flexible enough to do all the irritating legwork and shimmying up of drainpipes involved in their exceptional line of work - or, failing that, wonderfully loyal slaves to act as decoy during the trickier heists...

"Oh, Marik." Bakura's hand meets his forehead, in elegant exasperation.

"The more I think about it, the more I like the idea," continues Marik, regardless. He knows the requisite methods for Bakura-persuasion. Insert alluring hypothetical reasoning. "Clean him and polish him and make him our pretty little demon apprentice." Enhance with a pertinent observation. "He's small enough to be quite agile, if given the chance." And then finish on a challenge. "You said he was a terrible thief; train him, then."

Bakura runs a contemplative hand through the beggar's much-abused hair. "A demon apprentice..." he muses.

"A pretty new toy," smirks Marik.

"Who could miss him?"

"He has no prospects. No friends or money. From the look of it, no more than a day or so on this earth, minus our munificent intervention. It'd be merciful, really."

"It'd be interesting."

"Exactly my thoughts."

"All right. I'm bored enough. Why not?"

The sky is the deep blue of spilt ink, marred only by swirling plumes of steam and cloud which mingle and dance about the aircraft. The thin brass railing is cool against his hand, but for a moment, he forgets about that. Amidst the clatter of cogs and the gentle rumble of the engine, high above the bustle and interference of modern life, Seto soars.

"Brother?" Tentatively, Mokuba steps out onto the deck. He looks drowsy; Seto wonders vaguely whether he should enforce a curfew. His younger sibling is usually so very self-sufficient. "Seto, I'm sorry I didn't thank you earlier. Your present was very nice."

Seto had given him coiled gold wires, tensile and gleaming. Intricately linked cogs, the tiny teeth locked perfectly together. Bright leather, polished and nearly blue– wings. Seto had given Mokuba the most beautiful clockwork toy ever to spring from a workshop bench.

"Was it? I have been… inspired, of late." And he has been: his mind has been filled with hopeless whimsy. Truly, he cannot help but succumb to it.

"Yes, I know. You've been very distant."

With the night stretched out before him, Seto frowns a little. Surely his recent absentmindedness has not impacted on his work? "I have been. However, I feel that it is warranted. We are headed for London, and my latest innovations are to be the centrepiece of this year's exhibition. If I have been distant, I have merely been contemplating our new situation." Suddenly, terse explanation floods into expansive expectation: "There are so many places to go to from here, Mokuba."

"From where?"

"From our new world."

Before them, Albion rushes into view. Below the very lowest clouds, the coast nestles against the sea. Beyond it, the vast expanse of green is darkened by nightfall, lit only very faintly by the full moon. Seto feels a weight on his arm, slightly warm through the sleeve of his thick jacket. Automatically, he recoils.

"Brother?"

He replaces his arm on the rail, and allows himself a tentative smile as Mokuba rests his head below his shoulder again. For a moment, they stand, silhouetted against the soft light of the Blue Eyes' lanterns.

Tomorrow, they will dock in London. Tonight, he stands with his brother, and the whole of the sky shines in anticipation of their arrival.

England, 1870

"Ante up."

"How many cards?"

"... Two."

"Here ya go. I'll exchange three."

It is a sumptuously decorated room, laden with imperial furniture, which in turn is strewn with delicate ornaments. A deep expanse of carpet encompasses the floor, framed by a sweep of heavy brocade curtains. At the centre, beneath a white waterfall of a chandelier, King Yugi Mutou and his bodyguard, Katsuya Jonouchi, sit opposite each other, at a small, intricately carved oaken table. Splayed across the surface is a haphazard array of cards and a a few uneven towers of plastic chips.

"See your one and raise you two."

"See your two and raise you three."

"See your three and raise you four."

"Aw, come one Yug, this is getting ridiculous..."

With a click, and a scrape, the door slides open.

"Ah. Glad to see you're working so hard as head of state. Don't overdo it, Yugi - we wouldn't want you to collapse from the burden," calls a wry voice from beside the corner. The King's Regent Mai Kujaku does not so much enter a room as she does invade it, capture it and label it as her conquest. True to form, she strides through the door, stopping the progress of the game in its tracks, and slowly places a masterful hand on her hips. Typically, she is clad in a sleek violet dress, trimmed just enough to border on daring: a touch of ankle showing here; a shred of petticoat visible there; neckline laced perhaps a fraction too low. Yugi and Jonouchi gradually look up, guiltily, in unison.

A peal of laughter snaps the silence cleanly in two.

Yugi and Jonouchi grin back.

"You know I'm joking," she says, serenely, as they begin to play once more. Sweeping aside her skirts, she moves to occupy the vacant chair between them. "Play all you want to; the tedious tasks are my job. You're losing, by the way, Jonouchi."

An indignant growl from her left, which she sweetly blanks.

"So... to business," she says. Cue exasperated groans. "Briefly." A pacified shrug from her right; she takes this as permission to continue. "Small sentences, if you want. Fragment sentences, no less. Ryota Kajiki. Our Ambassador to Kemet. You with me so far?"

Enthusiastic nods.

"Stripped of all his possessions, including the virginity of both his son and daughter, courtesy of a couple of Egyptian airship-pirates-stroke-thieves."

Slow silence. The card game pauses. Jonouchi's eyebrows wrinkle in confusion at the both his son and daughter update.

"Mm-hmm. That's right," she says, enjoying the moment somewhat. "Two most notorious thieves in the Kemetic Empire. Now apparently targeting Albian victims. Known by the names of 'Bakura' and 'Marik'. Fragment sentences still preferable, or does the situation merit proper grammar yet?"

Dazed expressions seem to indicate compliance. Jonouchi appears still to be pondering the dilemma of son and daughter.

"Right, so judging from previous experience, this is a situation with which I ought to deal. We can't allow this attack on Albian hegemony to go unacknowledged – I think we all agree that a little retribution is in order, no? I say we beat the Kemetic authorities at their own game." She grins.

The silence stretches. Mai glances at the boy king to her right. He is trying, he really is trying; making so much effort that his soft face is crinkled in thought, and his eyes dart across the room, as though investigating a particularly complex puzzle. Smiling, Mai can tell that the pieces are beginning to slot together – his face suddenly smoothes and it is evident that the picture is finally discernable.

"We're going to send someone of our own to capture them!" declares Yugi, triumphantly. He brings an excited fist down on the table, causing the cards to tremble. He scrunches his nose, entertaining another brief notion. "Maybe the Kemetic government will be grateful if we catch them. It'll make them better friends with Albion if Albion helps them out!"

Mai purses her lips to smother the faint laughter which threatens to spill over. Close enough. "I'll get right on it."

"Who are we going to send, Mai? The police?"

"Leave it to me," she says, smoothly. "Hey, Jonouchi? You still with us?" Jonouchi sits slumped in his chair, chin held in one calloused hand. Uncharacteristically pensive.

"Hmm?" he says. "Ah, yeah. Look, not to be a wet blanket or anything, but what makes us better than the Kemetic police? We're looking for an airship. It's like, world's tiniest needle in the world's biggest haystack, right?"

Mai rolls her eyes. "Trust me on this one, like you do everything else," she says. "Guy I'm hiring is better than the entire Kemetic police force combined."

"Whoa, really? All right! Sounds great." All doubts dispersed, he settles into a more comfortable position and picks up his cards (wincing slightly at the content of his hand).

Mai stands, and pads halfway across the room before turning again. "You know, sometimes, the insane amount of faith you two place in me? Borders on scary."

Cheerfully, they bid her goodbye, and resume their interrupted game. Shaking her head, in a combination of mirth and despair, she exits.

Not long after they set off through the moonlit streets, Ryou collapses, shocked and weakened – a not altogether uncommon reaction to the rather traumatising experience of prolonged interaction with Bakura. On the whole, Marik sympathises.

"Now what do we do?" asks Marik, pointedly, nudging the motionless body with the tip of his boot-clad toe.

"Leave him as prey for ravening vultures, of course. What else?" Bakura scarcely pauses, striding onwards – presumably in the direction of their as-of-yet absent airship.

Marik sighs, gustily, and reluctantly slings Ryou's arm around his neck. With little effort – for he proves feather-light – he begins to carry the boy. His pale skin is alarmingly feverish; Marik winces at the heat. The moonlight renders his hair vaguely luminous – disturbing, for it is almost the mirror of Bakura's. In the dark, they both seem unearthly, resembling the slender shadows of spirits.

(Well, certainly, Marik has often disputed to himself whether or not his partner is completely human, but that is probably another matter altogether.)

"I'm going off this idea," Marik mutters, as they approach a desolate expanse of land. A dark, angular shape in the distance suggests – at last - the presence of the Diabound. Yes, upon reflection, Marik definitely recognises this deserted patch of ground. Absolutely filled with familiar piles of sand. "We can't take on an apprentice who won't pull his weight, demon or no. He doesn't even weigh that much! It's not like there's a lot for him to pull!"

Bakura turns and smiles, deviously. Teeth which glint in the dim light. "Tired of your new toy already, Marik?"

Something hot and resentful in Marik flickers at the provocation, and he resolves to see this whim through to its conclusion. "Not at all," he says, calmly, and Bakura laughs, damn him.

They approach what is indeed the Diabound. She is, put technically, a dirgible. Her rounded envelope drifts gently in the darkening sky, straining at her tethers; absurdly thin bounds which barely seem to contain her. She is fierce, their Diabound. Fierce and free and ready to fly, niftily evading any and all authority that might question their actions. Naturally, her gondola ruins the effect – it is an obscene shade of crimson that only Bakura would deem permissible on a ship built for stealth.

Most importantly, she is home. Home is a concept largely foreign to a pair of peripatetic criminals, yet Marik and Bakura apply it, at least vaguely, to this ship, possibly in the hope that she will, somehow, reciprocate – or at the least refrain from breaking down in flames several hundred miles from the nearest major city. At any rate, she has evaded several hundred bounty hunters, several thousand bullets, and more than a few attempts on Marik's part to repaint (or at least wash) her hull, all of which have been thwarted by an affronted Bakura. The Diabound is the cockroach of the airship world, and losing her would be tantamount to the loss a trusted comrade. She is also more than a little outdated and liable to falling near to pieces - but they face these shortcomings with no small amount of sanguinity, as indeed, they face most troubles in life.

"You got the problem with the hitch in the doohicky-type-thing that linked with the whatjamacallit gear fixed - right?" asks Marik, somewhat incomprehensibly, as Bakura fumbles with the lock on the opening hatch.

"Naturally," he replies, with dignity. "I hired the most skilled engineers Egypt could offer. They've been supervising the ship whilst we were gone."

The hatch swings wide open, revealing a plaintive cluster of the most ragged street urchins Marik has ever encountered – excepting, of course, the inanimate creature currently weighing down his arms. One of them grasps a filthy spanner, whilst the others are smeared with what appears to be streaks of engine oil. All grin gleefully upwards at the two gentlemen and their newly acquired ward.

Marik blinks.

Idly, Bakura tosses a jingling cloth bag to them, at which they eagerly snatch. He jerks an imperative thumb in the direction of the door. For a second, they gaze at him, open-mouthed, like startled rabbits. Then: comprehension dawns. Hurriedly, they exit the ship and run out onto the sand, treading little clouds of dust in their wake. One glances over her shoulder and shyly waves: "Goodbye, Mister Bakura!"

Marik looks at his partner, who smiles in what might almost be considered an avuncular fashion. Which is, frankly, terrifying. "Skilled engineers?" he repeats, sceptically.

Bakura responds with a sidelong glance. "Really, Marik, are we judging by superficialities now? I wouldn't have expected elitism from you. Call yourself an egalitarian?" He shrugs. "I suppose it's residual snobbery from your upbringing..."

Marik glares, and follows him into the ship's interior.

Extra notes:

- So, in case this wasn't made clear... this fic is set in an alternate, steampunk universe, in which two Empires dominate the globe: Albion and Kemet, whose centres are Britain and Egypt respectively.

- This has been a long time in the making, and subject to some pretty intense world-building. There have even been maps drawn. Maps, I say. Scribbled, incompetently scaled maps. Aluminium despairs of me sometimes.

- Nobody mentions Memphis. Ever.

- When writing this, Aluminium was insistent that the Bakura we are using is the Thief King. In terms of what he looks like, I agree - but I tend to see him as more of an amalgamation of the two. So... whatever floats your boat?

- On historical accuracy (or lack thereof): we love the Victorians. We love the Ancient Egyptians. So we've written them into the same universe. Therefore, what you get is an insane patchwork of history, some of which may even have bearing on reality. Bear with us. The exposition will come as necessary.