Bakura is poisoned, tainted with the blood of an old god who finds joy only in the unbearable suffering of a human body, a human psyche. Dismantling the mind is not as difficult as one may imagine; it takes only the correct amount of insight, of truth, to drive somebody absolutely mad. This is what the old blood of Zorc wishes for, those who have gone insane to hail the deity, or to die in his presence for libation.
And here the geist is, the priest at the ready, prepared to extract that sacrifice for himself.
Reddened eyes search the captive’s own vacuous, battered hues for an answer, an explanation. Is he this petrified that even a blade against the throat does not rouse a response? This does not frustrated the thief, for it is only the beginning of this lovely encounter.
There is no change in the expression on Bakura’s face, gaze sharp and unbroken like a dagger at the ready. His physical blade remains against the flesh, pressing further, closer to drawing blood.
“It would be much easier to give into me now… Your end will not be nearly as torturous, and I’ll be much, MUCH happier,” he insists with a hiss, arching his back so that he may come closer. “I’m well aware that you know of the money’s location, and if you give that information willingly, the agony will be lessened.”
He glances over at Malik, a slightly bored pout on his face. But then, lips stretch into a devious smirk.
“Do you have any gasoline?”
What a pathetic sight, he thinks to himself, scorning the man with a broken spirit and a head long-since invaded by harrowing mind games. It is natural and inevitable that the leader of the Ghouls subject any traitor to hasty punishment, but it seems his toying might have pushed this mind beyond its capacity. How absolutely pitiful, that feeble will of his... Malik turns his nose up in a show of disgust just before Bakura catches his eye.
He stops mid-thought, having failed to expect such a morbid suggestion. An absolutely fiendish approach; the sinister words of a man capable of alarming cruelties, but perhaps also of a fitting ally-- one without mercy to give where mercy is not due. Thoughtful at first, Malik laughs a moment later, a low sort of chuckle that carries with hearty amusement.
“ Your methods are very interesting, Bakura, ” he mutters, his smirk crooked at the corners. “ I can easily fulfill that request of yours... ”
At his command, the Ghouls whisk themselves from the room in search of the fuel he has stored for his bike, and Malik approaches his despondent subject once they’ve gone, lowering himself to meet the man's evasive eyes. Unsurprisingly, he finds a vacant hollow where the light of vitality might have once glinted... a dull turn of events.
The thought of the Millennium Rod secured at his belt is alluring, tempting him to make use of its power and forcefully drag the man back to proper awareness. Of course, he refrains with the hope that his newest ally might prove himself capable of doing so alone. His smile is lukewarm as he stands to meets Bakura’s eye. “ I trust you’ll extract this information while he can still provide it. ” The message is as sharp as it is clear; do not kill him until he speaks.
The men return with haste, lugging the container of petrol along with them, and Malik firmly instructs them to place it by the door. “ Now, leave us, ” he commands. They are gone from sight just as quickly as they’d come. Restless fingers glide along the smooth, gold surface of the Rod as Malik retreats to his former spot against the wall, watching Bakura intently.
“ So…” Through tireless impatience, the leader of the Ghouls presses on. “ Let me see what you’re capable of. ”
