It was the woodsmoke that set Ryou off.

Sickly sweet, yet with a hint of grit, it rolled into his nostrils in thin, invisible tendrils. He shifted his hand, sweeping it across something soft and stringy. He recognized it as fur, and his mind continued to weave itself out of a fog, the snapping of a fire crackling in his ears. He blearily opened his eyes, staring up at a wooden ceiling, slightly confused at how close it was to him. He slowly realized he was in a bunk. He blinked as he looked over at the wall, logs protruding, weaving like perfect ocean waves. He sighed heavily, rolling over onto his side as he stared into the rest of the room.

It was small - with a kitchen, two other bunks, a table and a wood stove. The kitchen wasn't even much of a kitchen, just a few counter tops cluttered with dishes. Heavy, cast iron pots and pans hung on the wall. Completely devoid of a sink, refrigerator or cook stove. The wood stove sat in the middle of the room, heat flowing from it like hellfire. It was an older one, ornate cast iron with nickel plating. A small frying pan lay on the top, empty and hot.

The table was a hodge-podge sort of thing, something made out of scrap wood. The chairs weren't even chairs, they were logs and stumps too big for the woodstove. A single window sitting above the table cast a dim light through an otherwise dark area. He dully realized he was in a cabin of sorts. Small, but cozy. Yet who did it belong to? The owner wasn't here - not from what he could tell.

He shifted from the bed, rolling his legs around as his feet touched the wood floor. He was suddenly aware of the various scratches and bruises that littered his body, that ached when he moved. Agitated, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, blinking heavily. He slowly tested his strength, raising himself away from the bed. His legs were slightly wobbly, but not enough to where it would hinder him. His clothing consisted of a large t-shirt and loose shorts, neither of which he recognized. He furrowed his brows in surprise, slightly disturbed. Rising his arms above his head, he stretched out as he eyed the cabin for a sort of note. His body ached as he moved, and he felt his shoulders pop. He felt a sharp pain in his side, and poked at it from beneath his shirt, realizing it was a large cut. Rubbing it gently, he stuck his gaze on the table.

A few books cluttered the table. He took note of their titles and contents, slightly perturbed. Sociology, psychology, human relations, body language. He began to imagine the owner of this cabin was socially inept. Or merely interested in how people were, and how to get into their heads. How to break them. He knew all about that sort of thing, and he didn't want to be in the presence of another individual like that.

Ripping his eyes away, he began to walk around the small cabin, careful not to get too close to the stove. The heat billowed off of it, dangerously hot. He explored the small kitchen, feeling slightly guilty when he sifted through the boxed crates on the floor, looking for something to eat. He found a few grains of rice and hard crumbs of something he couldn't recognize.

Sighing, he walked over to the other two bunks, wondering if perhaps someone may be sleeping in one. They were piled with blankets, sleeping bags and furs. Upon closer inspection, he realized there was also clothing and odd trinkets. He ran his hand over the smooth surface of a clay item, realizing it was an ocarina. It was painted with folkart, bright and colorful like that of Mexico. Kind of neat. An old guitar lay atop another bunk, crude drawings sketched into it. He plucked at the strings playfully before leaving it alone. On a lower bunk lay some sort of boxed case, the black paint chipping away. Several knik knaks and books also lay strung across the bunks. He ran his hand over some of them before averting his attention elsewhere.

He noticed there wasn't any indication of a toilet or restroom, and this frustrated him.
Walking away from the bunks, he went over to the door. It was large, thick and well made. The hinges were of wooden pegs, layered and intricate. With great effort, he pushed it open, and a front of cold assaulted him. It was completely white outside, and the cold wrapped around his bare feet like icy daggers. He poked his head out, looking around. His breath fogged in front of him as he assessed the area. He was in a forest, the trees dark and bare, encased with snow. A trail through the snow led away from the door of the cabin, out into the woods. It broke off in several areas, going to different sides of the cabin and behind it. He supposed it was the owner's trail. On one side of the trail lay an old snowmobile, bright oranges and yellows a striking difference in the dull landscape.

He glanced around his immediate area outside the door, realizing there was a porch that he had overlooked. Not a hard thing to do, considering it was small, with piles of wood on either side, flush against the walls of the cabin. Old, rusty traps hung from the wall, along with various skulls and antlers, cracked and sun-baked. "Hello?" he shouted out. His voice echoed back without an answer. "Hello?" he shouted out, once more. He strained to hear a reply, but none came.

He looked around nervously, stepping outside and onto the porch. The cold ripped through the bottom of his feet as he stepped off to one side of the porch, eyeing for an outhouse. Looking to the ground, he noticed a small area of snow was yellowed and sunk in, and he dully realized this was a makeshift quick-toilet that he would make use himself.
After relieving himself, he clicked his tongue and retreated back into the warmth of the cabin, the door making a loud thump as he closed it.

Deciding to wait it out, he went over to the table. Nudging one of the makeshift stools away from the table, he set his hands on top of the surface, balancing himself, and plopped down. The rounded log was uncomfortable and stiff, and he attempted to adjust himself for a more comfortable position, but it was in vain. He reached for one of the sociology books, peering at the various bookmarks protruding from the top of the pages, and began to seek out the individual pages in which they resided, interested in what parts the owner of the cabin had been looking at.

The boy was awake.

He had heard the shout. The sound of a voice, something foreign and strange in this cold, barren wasteland. Sniffing, he raised himself from his parry, wiping his brow with his arm, encased in fur.

He lifted the lifeless form of a white rabbit from the snow, its entrails leaving a stark red tattoo in the white snow. He began the slow trek back to his cabin, bowing his legs for the girth of his snowshoes.

Ryou suddenly heard footsteps, and his stomach jumped into his throat. He heard shuffling for a moment, a couple bumps and clatters. Maybe it wasn't footsteps. Maybe it was some sort of animal. Frozen, he watched the door open, his hand still sitting on the pages of the sociology book. A dark skinned boy walked in, quickly scanning the room before meeting the gaze of the individual sitting at his table. His nose was red from the cold, his eyes drowsy.

Ryou cocked his head slightly in surprise, "You. I know you. You're that one guy," he blurted out, before he could stop himself.

"...Yeah." the other answered. He closed the door behind him.

"No, no that sounded stupid. I mean - you're from Battle City. Right? Malik, I think."

"I...I don't..." he trailed off. "I'm not Malik. Not really."

"You look like Malik."

He sighed, "I'm...Malik." He looked to the side, refusing to make eye contact. His face was set in anguish. The suddenness and direct assault of the boy's words cutting through him like a knife. This was not what he expected when he had returned. "But I am also not Malik. Do you...do you understand?"

"...I don't know. What are you called? What is YOUR name?"

And that was it. He didn't know what his name was. He had always thought that HE was Malik. But now he knew the truth, that he was simply an alternate personality, a coping mechanism against all the pain and hatred. As the books had told him. He was a being who, by all rights, shouldn't even exist as he did now. He blamed it on the ancient, dark magic of the Millennium Items. Of the Millennium Rod, which fed off of his darkness, and in turn made him more powerful. More poignant. It used him, as he had used it. It was an ancient magic that could never, ever be fully understood or controlled.

His face suddenly felt hot and wet. He removed his gloves, throwing them onto the floor near the stove. His hand went up to gently dab his cheeks. His fingers came away wet and sticky, and he was confused at the pain in his chest.

"I don't know my name," he whispered back, sad and broken.

The boy in front of him stared, upset with himself for making the other cry. He felt awkward and ashamed for the other boy. "That's alright. We'll figure it out. Um. I'm Ryou. Ryou Bakura."

"I know."

A heavy silence resonated in the room as the not-Malik began to remove the layers of furs and coats from his body, stripping down to nothing but a shirt and a pair of longjohns. Ryou took in his disheveled appearance. Ashy-blonde hair frayed out as if he had been electrified, gnarled and unruly. Heavy lidded eyes stared at nothing in particular, bags residing beneath the dull, violet orbs. A tired, gaunt -yet still handsome- face with dark tattoos framing the tops of his cheeks. Skin as dark and smooth as chocolate milk. His body was lithe, but Ryou could see the small indications of muscle through the thin clothing.

Not-Malik threw the coats and furs on one of the bunks, then turned to Ryou, "Are you hungry?" he asked. The boy's voice was thick and gritty, as though he were sick. Or perhaps he didn't use it often.

Timidly, Ryou nodded his head.

Unabashed, the tanned boy wiped the remaining tears from his eyes, walking over to the kitchen. He reached for an old blue jar, popping the glass lid off by sliding the metal frame away. He dipped his fingers into it, a wad of fat curling into his hold. He placed the jar back on the counter, then walked over to the stove, flicking the fat into the pan that lay on top.

It melted down and sizzled quickly, and the tanned boy walked over to the bunk that Ryou had woken up in. Ryou realized, with some surprise, that there was a cellar door in the floor. It didn't go down very deep, as not-Malik merely reached his hand in to bring something back out. He threw something red into the pan, and let it sit.

"So," Ryou mumbled, "What should I call you? I mean -"

A deep, violet gaze met his own, and Ryou involuntarily shuddered. His eyes were so dead. Devoid of happiness, of any inkling of life. They were sad, lethargic and dull, "I don't know," was the answer that was mumbled back.

Averting his gaze, Ryou began to ponder. "What have others called you? Any names that stuck out, or striked your interest?"

The tanned boy looked away to the wall, shrugging to himself. "Demon, monster, shadow-child, freak. Others I can't really remember."

Ryou looked at him closely, saddened as he studied the other boy's lonesome face. Suddenly it clicked, and he felt very, very, very stupid for not realizing it sooner. He blamed it on his still sleeping mind, and weary confusion. This was the darkness that Malik had created - the one that had banished Ryou's body to the shadow realm, the one that had hurt Yugi and his friends. Who had destroyed Mai, and set a huge rift in Malik's family bonds. He had heard snippets of stories from Yugi and his friends, of how violent and evil this being was. He began to doubt their words. The boy before him was a broken creature, depressingly quiet and overtly morose.

He watched as the darkness poked at the sizzling food, at times pinching spices out of rusty canisters. "Have you...have you ever thought of naming yourself?" Ryou pushed, tentatively.

The darkness shook his head, "Not really."

Ryou blinked at him, unforsure with how he should handle this situation. "You must have a name. Everyone has a name."

The darkness scratched at his head irritably, flustered that the other boy was so bent on getting a name out of him. "I don't know. It's just - I was Malik. I was a part of him as much as he was a part of me. I wasn't like...I wasn't like the pharaoh or that one guy who was in your body -" at this, Ryou pursed his lips "-I wasn't a spirit. I didn't have a previous life in Egypt. I didn't have a different body. I was Malik. Malik was me. Malik's body was mine. As much as it was his. But -"

The darkness put tanned fingers to the bridge of his nose, squeezing the area between his eyes, "I was just a coping mechanism. I was created to protect him from the pain, to alleviate the horrors of the world. He couldn't handle it - no child could. So he, unwittingly, created me. Created me so I could deal with it. So I could take the pain in his place." He poked at the sizzling meat some more, though not really paying attention, merely needing something for his hands to deal with, "But - but something went wrong, I don't know. My creation provoked the powers of the shadows, and they kind of...made me worse. Made me like the pain. And made me like giving pain. It warped me. Messed me up, made me want to destroy the very person who I was created to protect. The Millennium Rod - it ruined me. Ruined Malik."

Ryou watched as the boy broke down in front of him. The darkness uncomfortably pulled at his shirt and rubbed his eyes, pulling at his hair. He paced the small area from the kitchen to the cellar door, shuffling back and forth. The darkness was extremely upset with himself for telling the other boy all of these things. His secrets, the way he thought. What he knew about himself. It was so sudden - too sudden. He hadn't been in the company of another person for several months - at times he would go to the town to resupply himself by trading out furs and meat, or jewelry pieces he had made from bone and teeth- but those were quick dealings. Not times that he would talk about his life woes. But Ryou knew him, had met him - in a different offhandish sort of way. He sort of understood the situation. But not really. He shouldn't have told Ryou anything. He got caught up in the moment, like an idiot. He wasn't used to socializing, and he had overdone it.

He suddenly stopped pacing, and huffed heavily as he stared Ryou down. The boy looked at him fearfully, and that broke a piece of the darkness's soul. The pale, fragile face that he had only seen set in a smirk or sneer was soft and worried. The familiarity of it was muted, and, recalling himself, he had never actually met this boy - not as he was now. It was the spirit that he had dealt with, alongside Malik.

The darkness apologized softly, moving his hands about nervously before giving the food his undivided attention. Ryou watched him dabble in the kitchen area, organizing some sort of plates and cups. He tried to absorb this information - tried, but failed. It was a lot to take in, to attempt to filter through the previous knowledge that he had of this individual. He breathed heavily, the atmosphere thick with the smell of meat and spices, and something else he couldn't quite place. He looked down at the books again, slowly processing and organizing his thoughts. He began to stack the books against the side of the table, flush against the wall, in order to make room for their meal.

Before long, an old, copper plate was set before him, along with a small tin cup and an old fork. The plate held some sort of mystery meat, along with a few fried potatoes, chopped up in tiny pieces. The cup was empty.

"Do you - do you want whiskey? Or I can melt some snow..."

Ryou looked up at him, somewhat surprised at these offers. He gave a small, amused laugh, "Snow, please."

The darkness nodded before strutting back over into the kitchen area. Grabbing a small, porcelain enameled pot, he went for the door. Completely barefoot, he jumped outside, reached over the railing of the porch, and scooped himself a pot of snow. He tippy-toed back in, shutting the door behind him before placing the pot on the stove. "Needs to melt," he stated, an awkward look on his face.

Ryou smiled up at him, lifting his fork as the darkness set himself on the opposite side of the table. Ryou bit into his first chunk of meat. It wasn't anything he had ever tasted before, and the fork left the stagnant taste of silver in his mouth.

"What kind of meat is this?"

"Porcupine."

"Oh. Okay."

The darkness looked up at him, licking his lips, "Is it bad?"

"No. No, it's just different."

The darkness nodded his head in response and continued with his meal. Taking a few more bites, he removed himself from the table to check on the melting snow. Satisfied at what he saw, he removed it from the stove and carefully poured it into Ryou's cup. This wasn't how he usually did it - normally he'd boil it down and filter it out and save it for later when it cooled - but he didn't have any stored away, and Whiskey was his only other option. A bit of moonshine as well, but he wasn't sharing that. It was a trade-drink that he couldn't afford to swindle away so easily. Lukewarm snow never killed anybody, anyways.

Ryou mumbled his approval through a full mouth, taking a sip as the darkness set the pot back onto the stove. The darkness sat himself back down and continued with his meal.

Ryou, deciding to break the silence, and to perhaps get to know the other individual a bit better, had asked "Those things you said. About the defense mechanism thing with Malik - did you learn that from the books?" he pointed his fork towards them, and Malik looked from him over to the messily stacked pile on the opposite side of the table.

He nodded his head, then continued with his meal. The conversation starter had failed. Ryou decided to try it again.

"Oh, I keep forgetting to ask - how did I get here? I mean -"

The darkness shook his head, nonchalantly looking around the room. "You got in a plane crash."

Ryou suddenly felt sick.

He remembered - he was in a small bush plane, heading to a small excavation site where his dad had relocated to a different continent, his expertise wanted for certain types of relics. Something about linking the two peoples of Egypt and those of North America by studying some ancient items that had been dug up the previous summer. A major breakthrough, as he had been told. Ryou had wanted to go and visit him, to take a quick vacation. To get away from the thoughts that plagued him - thoughts of the spirit that had controlled his body. Because the spirit was back, in his own body, along with the Pharaoh. His spirit didn't look anything like he had assumed he would - dark and tall, with stark white hair and hard, violet eyes. He caught a glimpse of a scar, the fearful look on the spirit's face when his gaze had met Ryou's...and then he was gone. His spirit had left immediately and he hadn't heard from him - he didn't even know the man's name. But that suited him just fine, his life had been ruined because of that fiendish monster.

Ryou needed to clear his mind. Go somewhere different, somewhere new for a bit. Get out of the stagnant air that surrounded him at Domino City. But then something went wrong, and the plane went down - and all he remembered was the shouting and how loud everything seemed. It explained the bruises and scratches, but he was extraordinarily surprised that he was otherwise relatively unscathed. Then he thought -

"How long was I asleep?"

The darkness looked at him, then to the stove, thinking. "I think...maybe a week, almost. Maybe two. I don't know."

Ryou paled.

"What about the pilot?"

"Dead."

"What, did you just leave him there?" Ryou asked, bewildered.

The darkness nodded, "Yes."

Losing his appetite, Ryou put his fork down on the half-empty plate. "Why bring me here? Why not a hospital? Wasn't there a radio in the plane?"

The darkness licked his lips thoughtfully, "I was very, very far from my cabin. Farther still from any town. The radio wouldn't work, it was all busted up." He said it so easily, and Ryou began to notice that this individual was the type who was straight to the point. No play of words. Just wham-bam, that's how it is.

Ryou couldn't believe this. The chances of a bush plane crashing weren't impossible, but landing in a place where someone such as this...this individual resided, and was able to care for him - well, it was too farfetched. And his wounds - he should be dead, by all reasoning. Or at least have several broken bones, or thick lacerations.

"I'm not in that bad of shape, though...considering. I'd have thought I'd have worse than a couple of bruises and cuts."

The tanned boy cocked his head "You've healed a lot. I sewed up a few deeper cuts."

Ryou was quiet, brooding over this. Sewed a few deeper cuts. He shuddered.

"Also, luck," the darkness added, almost as an afterthought.

Popping his lips, Ryou furrowed his brows. "Weird. Are you sure - is there anything else I'm missing here? I mean, this is so...odd. Here. With you, of all people."

Feeling the uncomfortable vibe, the darkness attempted to explain ,"I know. My sister -" the darkness fumbled with himself, twitching his face as he slammed his eyes shut "...Malik's...sister...believed in fate. Said if two people were to meet again, the gods would make it happen."

Ryou watched the darkness's face twist in pain when he mixed up his words. He realized this individual had no real connection with anyone. Especially not himself. It must have been a strange, awkward feeling. He had every right to belong to a certain family, to have a certain name, and yet at the same time, he did not.

The rest of the meal was spent in silence, though Ryou merely poked at his food, at times drinking from his cup. He mulled over his situation. His father would have been worried, maybe had even sent out a brief searching party. Maybe the plane that had went down had sent out some sort of signal, a radar point that had tracked it or something. Perhaps the plane had been found by somebody else, Ryou wasn't sure, he didn't know anything of those sorts of things.

He then thought of the boy in front of him, how he had stated that he had been far from his cabin. He briefly wondered how far they were from his father's dig site. "So. Is there any way to contact anyone? Like, do you have a radio, a cell phone, or anything like that?"

"Yes. Best way is to go to town. I have a radio, but I don't know how to use it. It's old. Broken, I think."

"OKay. Town. How far is the town?"

"About 160 kilometers."

Ryou blanched. He had never been in an area that was so devoid of...well, of society. "Okay," he said slowly, "Do you drive there? I assume you have a truck or something ..."

"Just the snowmachine. It has bad gas mileage, so I don't go very often."

"Snowmachine?" Ryou thought on this, realizing he was talking about the old snowmobile outside. He began to fret.

"Oh. Oh, no, no. I need to get ahold of my father. Or - or of somebody. My father was expecting me - a few weeks ago, as you've said. What if somebody found the plane crash, he probably thinks I'm dead, I haven't seen him in years and I -"

Suddenly, he felt a warm, soft finger press softly against his lips, "You talk a lot."
He pulled his head back, slightly insulted and disturbed. He felt a frustrated tear fall from his eye, and, embarrassed, wiped it away.

The darkness twitched his lip in apprehension, "You need to rest. We can go to town in a few weeks - then I will have enough furs and things to trade for gas so I can come back. You can radio your father then."

"Why not now? He should know that I'm -" and then, a thought, "- you can't keep me here!"

Disturbed and hurt, the darkness stepped away from the table, leaving his plate behind. He walked backwards to Ryou's bunk, never breaking eye contact with the angered whitenette. He was upset with Ryou's words, at Ryou's actions.

Ryou was frustrated and scared, in a foreign place with a person whom had a horrifying past. This was supposed to be a vacation, he was supposed to see his father after so many years of being alone. It was supposed to be a chance to get away from his past, to temporarily forget the plagues that seemed to follow him around. And here he was, in a remote cabin with one of those plagues. It all had gone so wrong. He suddenly burst into tears, angry, tired and confused.

"I just wanted to see my father," he gurgled.

The tanned boy merely stared awkwardly, clenching his hands against his longjohns. He hadn't meant to upset Ryou, it had all happened so fast and suddenly. He tried to think of something to do - of something the books had told him to do, what they had indicated, but his mind was blank. It wasn't the same when it was in a real life situation.

Lamely, the darkness shuffled over to his own bunk, plush with furs and blankets. He quickly grabbed the guitar from the bunk above it, and crawled into the dark corner against the wall, his back facing the room. He set his forehead against the post of the bunk, eyes wide as he strummed the guitar once, twice, tuned it quickly, and began to dabble with it. He began to play sweet nothings in an attempt to calm his frayed nerves. The honeyed sound of the acoustic rang through his ears, drowning out the soft sobbing of the boy behind him.

Surprised and confused, Ryou curled his body around so he could see past the wood stove, his brows furrowed and mouth still set into a sob. He blinked the tears away as he grimaced, staring at the odd creature in the dark corner of the bunk, playing the guitar that Ryou had found earlier. He shook his head over the awkward situation. It was a strange display of character, something an individual wouldn't normally do. Ryou watched the slight weave and bob of the darkness's back, his shoulders and arms moving as he strummed. The song - or songs, Ryou couldn't really tell - flowed together smoothly, creating beautiful melodies and laments.

After awhile, Ryou dried his tears, feeling stupid and ashamed for his embarrassing display. The string of emotions that had attacked him had been too much for him to handle, and this made him feel abashed. The harmonious sound of the guitar calmed him, and he lowered himself onto the table, resting his head in his arms as he breathed heavily. And so he sat, and he listened, contemplative.

After a long, long time, the strumming stopped, and the room was silent once more. The sudden change was deafening, and Ryou opened his eyes to look over at the other boy. The darkness had twisted his body around, his wide, concerned eyes boring into Ryou's own.

"In a few weeks," Ryou mumbled.

The darkness stared at him a moment, then nodded, "In a few weeks."

"Mariku."

The voice broke the hushed crackle of the fire, and he heard shuffling from across the room, in the other bunk.

"Mmm?" was the tired, confused reply.

"Your name. It could be Mariku. It's kind of like Malik - but different enough, right? It's like the Romanized Japanese version, you know. We could call you that. "

It was silent for a long time, and he wasn't sure if the other had even heard him, as late as it was. Perhaps he had fallen back asleep. The entire cabin was cast in darkness, though small bits of orange surrounded the floor of the stove, cracks showing the burning glow of the stove's insides.

"Okay," finally, a soft reply, then "You talk too much."

Ryou smiled to himself. He had broken the barrier.