[OOC] Totally an excuse to use this icon.
Life wasn't all blood and gore and shadows for Florence Bakura. He had plenty of nominally-normal interests to complement his more problematic impulses, and had indulged them all upon enrolling at college. There was a bloody awful lot of television to watch, for one thing - most of it bloody awful, in turn, but Bakura rather enjoyed bad TV because then he could mock it mercilessly. Video games, too, proved to be a suitable substitute for living out the sort of life his circumstances and the rules imposed on his existence by 4K!ds made otherwise impossible. He even enjoyed the more craft-related aspects of slowly building his tabletop game, though anyone who even tried to comment on this hobby or, worse, attempt a "crafty villains" pun like Marik had would end up with a sewing needle in each eye, perhaps with the string still attached to it. So things could be a whole lot worse. He wasn't miserable, at least not any more than he was usually, given the company he kept.
But all play and no homicide made Bakura a touchy boy, and if he didn't kill something soon, he felt he might start to go mad. Well, he supposed just having such an impulse made him already mad, but rather than argue about semantics he preferred heading off and doing something about it.
So he prowled the campus, one hand in his pocket fiddling with a switchblade, looking for anything that seemed to be volunteering itself for an impromptu murdering.
No takers jumped out at him immediately, which didn't surprise him but still rather disappointed him. In fact, the whole campus looked all but deserted. How was he supposed to sate his bloodlust and maintain his villainous credentials if no one was around to be victimized? Bakura hadn't played a Shadow Game in ages, either. He missed the power kick, the adrenaline, the rush of taking advantage of the gullible.
Irate at his bad luck, Bakura kicked at the ground, scuffing dirt all over his sneakers. He didn't care. "Oh, come on, world," he argued grumpily. "Just one little slice. You won't feel a thing. At least, not at first." He'd had luck in the past by just wandering the city in random directions. Perhaps the same would work for the campus...
A scuffling noise behind him made Bakura halt, ears pricked beneath his mop of hair. Otherwise completely still, he turned his head ever so slightly to peer behind him. A grin slid onto his face, and his tongue licked dry lips in anticipation. Found you.
Who the bugger cared that it was so small, anyway. "You look lost," Bakura said, turning to address the pure-black squirrel sitting on BMC's lawn. "Didn't you hear that Bi-Co spirit is dead? This campus hates yours almost as much as Steve Jobs hates Adobe." He held out his free hand, the hand in his pocket stroking the handle of his switchblade in anticipation. "Come on. Let's get you out of this bad situation...."
The squirrel made a run for it. Bakura was faster. "This is degrading," he complained to the squirrel, sitting flat on the deserted lawn with his empty hand pinning the squirrel's stomach to the ground, pushing down atop the fur on its back. The animal beneath him thrashed and twisted but couldn't quite get a grip on Bakura's hand. He chuckled. "A puppy or a kitten would be more fun," he admitted to it. "But I'm desperate, and you're tiny. That'll do."
Shrieking and chittering, the squirrel ignored him. Bakura shrugged and brought out the knife, flicking it open -
And everything around him went black, snuffed out and leaving Bakura utterly blind. Frowning (though no one could have seen him frown), he closed the knife again. The world returned. The squirrel blinked, every bit as shocked.
Bakura cursed, and then cursed again upon hearing the predictable beeping noise drowning him out. In a way, this served as a good experiment. All the censors were still in place. No naughty language. No pointy objects. You could tell all you want, but you couldn't show.
Which meant, if he was going to make any progress around here, he had to do so with no eyes on him. He couldn't be onscreen. Whatever controlled the narration of this particular world had to be focused elsewhere, and then maybe he'd get to enjoy himself properly.
Bakura pointed the knife upwards threateningly, a dangerous glint in his brown eyes. "Bug off," he ordered the narration.
And the narration obliged.
---
Marik was fixing himself a soda with ice (mostly ice) in their room when Bakura returned, grinning from ear to ear and smelling faintly of iron.
"Good grief, Fluffy, you reek worse than usual," Marik complained, pushing back his chair to look at his roommate. "Leave whatever's putrid in the hall, would you? Preferably outside Ted's door."
"It's invisible squirrel blood," Bakura explained, holding up what looked to be immaculately-clean hands. "Well, the blood's invisible. The squirrel is rammed into Dean Karlov's mailbox."
"What's it doing there?" Marik asked, as if that were the most important piece of information missing from Bakura's explanation.
"I put it there," Bakura replied, baring teeth that in his grin looked more like fangs. "Because I felt like it."
"You have issues, Kitty." Marik stuck a finger into his soda glass and shivered, but it wasn't the same now that Bakura was here. How was he supposed enjoy slathering ice onto his naked torso with an audience? His plans for the afternoon were ruined!
"I'm an anime character. That goes without saying." Personally, Bakura rather liked the pungent scent still lingering around him. The public could only see and hear what went on his his world, not smell it, leaving that free for his entertainment. The small pleasures of life mattered most.
Taking out his knife and opening it, he whipped it at their dartboard. It struck the "d" of "4K!ds". Bakura smirked. D for "dead". Worked for him.
"Well, wash your hands," Marik insisted. "I have to live here too, you know. It's bad enough you eat your bagels with that yeast thing."
"Now that you mention it, I'm hungry," Bakura remarked, taking out his tupperware container of marmite and rooting around for something to spread it on. On second thought, he opened the container and just scooped up a bit on one finger. "Want some?"
"You're gonna get squirrel flu." Marik sipped his soda and rolled an ice cube around in his mouth. "Or something. There's one for every other animal nowadays. Then you will regret your rash and disgusting eating habits! But your demise shall not sadden me at all. Because I told you so."
"As you wish." Bakura made sure to wipe his hands on Marik's clothes in the closet before heading back out the door to wash up. Watch out, world! Florence had come into his own again, and he didn't feel like leaving. The British were coming, and they were here to stay.
But all play and no homicide made Bakura a touchy boy, and if he didn't kill something soon, he felt he might start to go mad. Well, he supposed just having such an impulse made him already mad, but rather than argue about semantics he preferred heading off and doing something about it.
So he prowled the campus, one hand in his pocket fiddling with a switchblade, looking for anything that seemed to be volunteering itself for an impromptu murdering.
No takers jumped out at him immediately, which didn't surprise him but still rather disappointed him. In fact, the whole campus looked all but deserted. How was he supposed to sate his bloodlust and maintain his villainous credentials if no one was around to be victimized? Bakura hadn't played a Shadow Game in ages, either. He missed the power kick, the adrenaline, the rush of taking advantage of the gullible.
Irate at his bad luck, Bakura kicked at the ground, scuffing dirt all over his sneakers. He didn't care. "Oh, come on, world," he argued grumpily. "Just one little slice. You won't feel a thing. At least, not at first." He'd had luck in the past by just wandering the city in random directions. Perhaps the same would work for the campus...
A scuffling noise behind him made Bakura halt, ears pricked beneath his mop of hair. Otherwise completely still, he turned his head ever so slightly to peer behind him. A grin slid onto his face, and his tongue licked dry lips in anticipation. Found you.
Who the bugger cared that it was so small, anyway. "You look lost," Bakura said, turning to address the pure-black squirrel sitting on BMC's lawn. "Didn't you hear that Bi-Co spirit is dead? This campus hates yours almost as much as Steve Jobs hates Adobe." He held out his free hand, the hand in his pocket stroking the handle of his switchblade in anticipation. "Come on. Let's get you out of this bad situation...."
The squirrel made a run for it. Bakura was faster. "This is degrading," he complained to the squirrel, sitting flat on the deserted lawn with his empty hand pinning the squirrel's stomach to the ground, pushing down atop the fur on its back. The animal beneath him thrashed and twisted but couldn't quite get a grip on Bakura's hand. He chuckled. "A puppy or a kitten would be more fun," he admitted to it. "But I'm desperate, and you're tiny. That'll do."
Shrieking and chittering, the squirrel ignored him. Bakura shrugged and brought out the knife, flicking it open -
And everything around him went black, snuffed out and leaving Bakura utterly blind. Frowning (though no one could have seen him frown), he closed the knife again. The world returned. The squirrel blinked, every bit as shocked.
Bakura cursed, and then cursed again upon hearing the predictable beeping noise drowning him out. In a way, this served as a good experiment. All the censors were still in place. No naughty language. No pointy objects. You could tell all you want, but you couldn't show.
Which meant, if he was going to make any progress around here, he had to do so with no eyes on him. He couldn't be onscreen. Whatever controlled the narration of this particular world had to be focused elsewhere, and then maybe he'd get to enjoy himself properly.
Bakura pointed the knife upwards threateningly, a dangerous glint in his brown eyes. "Bug off," he ordered the narration.
And the narration obliged.
---
Marik was fixing himself a soda with ice (mostly ice) in their room when Bakura returned, grinning from ear to ear and smelling faintly of iron.
"Good grief, Fluffy, you reek worse than usual," Marik complained, pushing back his chair to look at his roommate. "Leave whatever's putrid in the hall, would you? Preferably outside Ted's door."
"It's invisible squirrel blood," Bakura explained, holding up what looked to be immaculately-clean hands. "Well, the blood's invisible. The squirrel is rammed into Dean Karlov's mailbox."
"What's it doing there?" Marik asked, as if that were the most important piece of information missing from Bakura's explanation.
"I put it there," Bakura replied, baring teeth that in his grin looked more like fangs. "Because I felt like it."
"You have issues, Kitty." Marik stuck a finger into his soda glass and shivered, but it wasn't the same now that Bakura was here. How was he supposed enjoy slathering ice onto his naked torso with an audience? His plans for the afternoon were ruined!
"I'm an anime character. That goes without saying." Personally, Bakura rather liked the pungent scent still lingering around him. The public could only see and hear what went on his his world, not smell it, leaving that free for his entertainment. The small pleasures of life mattered most.
Taking out his knife and opening it, he whipped it at their dartboard. It struck the "d" of "4K!ds". Bakura smirked. D for "dead". Worked for him.
"Well, wash your hands," Marik insisted. "I have to live here too, you know. It's bad enough you eat your bagels with that yeast thing."
"Now that you mention it, I'm hungry," Bakura remarked, taking out his tupperware container of marmite and rooting around for something to spread it on. On second thought, he opened the container and just scooped up a bit on one finger. "Want some?"
"You're gonna get squirrel flu." Marik sipped his soda and rolled an ice cube around in his mouth. "Or something. There's one for every other animal nowadays. Then you will regret your rash and disgusting eating habits! But your demise shall not sadden me at all. Because I told you so."
"As you wish." Bakura made sure to wipe his hands on Marik's clothes in the closet before heading back out the door to wash up. Watch out, world! Florence had come into his own again, and he didn't feel like leaving. The British were coming, and they were here to stay.