The morning sun, barely a few wisps of light over the horizon, glows faintly through the one window facing the east. One of the plastic creatures, a dragon, stares through the patio glass. Its snout presses tight against the barrier and, if it had warmth in its body, its deep breaths would have long fogged up the window. Against its three inches of height, the lightening sky stretches vast and wide before it.

The creature's wings twitch once as the high winds push long wispy clouds over the city. The dragon is so enraptured by the sight that it fails to notice the light footsteps coming closer and the eventual shift in the air as a presence looms over it.

Bakura sighs, leaning down to tap a finger on top of the dragon's head. A snarl escapes through jagged, bared canines as the small creature turns, only to descend into a whimper at its master's frown. The dragon bows its head and scampers off, its tail thrashing in agitation behind it.

As the dragon swerves around a corner, disappearing off into one of the rooms, Bakura straightens and the golden pendant that had swung free through the gap in his bathrobes lies back against his chest. He ignores the way that the rope, damp from dangling by the hook on the bathroom door, pulls at his skin in favor of eyeing the purple eyeball that passes past his shoulder.

The monsters have certainly become more agile over the past few hours. The stiffness at being locked away for so many days has evaporated the more time they spend loping or, in the case of the purple eyeball, floating through their new home.

Even Bakura's own soreness at having to haul all of his possessions to the top floor through the predawn hours has faded with his morning shower. The corners of his eyes still sting though, but he is confident that he'll last through the day with little effort.

Even with the unbearably pleasant mask that he'll be forced to wear today.

Within the confines of the white-walled hallway, Bakura huffs and combs his fingers through his still damp hair as he walks, ignoring the few droplets that hit the carpet in his wake.

"Roku. We're leaving soon"

The eyeball stops and turns. Silently, it watches the sun rise behind its master until the magician's shadow stretches forward and swallows it in darkness.

____________

Silent and still, that is what these streets should be when awash with the blue-gray shadow of morning. They should be empty as well, especially when the sun has barely peered past the tops of the tallest buildings and hasn't yet graced the lower streets with its pure light.

Instead, Bakura has to tolerate the stumblers-those bleary-eyed fools who trek past him towards their pointless little jobs in the inner city. With hunched shoulders encased in gray and brown suits, not a single one of them notice Bakura as he watches them. Unlike the dull, human sludge that dares to exist before him and regardless of his all-night ventures, Bakura's eyes are clear of fatigue. He stands straight in his tan overcoat that nearly brushes the tops of his shoes.

His demeanor is a testament, really, as to who has more purpose living within this city.

Fortunately, it isn't long before his taxi drives up, hugging the curb as it slows to a stop in front of him. The window is opaque with the reflection that looks back at Bakura. He hesitates, noting the flatness of the white bangs of his hair, before opening the door. The tint of the window isn't quite right to show the true color of his eyes.

"So, where to?" The driver, a weary-looking man who smells faintly of alcohol, glances at Bakura once via the rearview mirror before staring back at the road with the same fatigue as everyone else. Bakura himself looks to the mirror. His own pale green eyes stare back at him before he speaks.

"Domino Museum. My class is meeting there this morning." There is a chance that the driver will realize that his passenger appears a little too young to be anywhere but on a bus to school, so it doesn't hurt to start his cover story now.

The driver murmurs an acknowledgement before the car starts forward. For someone who stinks like he's had a few drinks that morning, his driving is smooth and his responses to the lights and other vehicles fast enough that Bakura slowly loosens some of the tension in his body. Instead of constantly eyeing the road ahead, the boy (for that is what he appears to the world to be) looks out the window to his side.

The skyscrapers are as dull as the pedestrians who walk in their shadows. With each building being indistinguishable from its grey neighbor, Bakura only stares out at them to avoid having to look at the scruffy thing sitting in the front seat.

Thankfully, even when the car pauses at a red light, the driver stays silent, showing as little desire as Bakura has at starting a conversation. At least the building that they've stopped alongside has a little color to break up the monotony of the ride. A blue "K" and yellow "C" look down at the taxi, catching Bakura's interest only as long as a fly crawling across the window would have before he dismisses it as meaningless waste of time.

A limousine drags itself alongside the taxi and tucks itself underneath the meaningless logo. Its driver hurries out onto the sidewalk and along its side. With a small bow to his head and downcast eyes, he opens the passenger seat as if this one person is more important than the rest of the useless humans within this city.

A man wearing a blood red business suit emerges from the interior of the vehicle. Even with hair streaked with grey, his shoulders are broad and strong as he dismisses the driver with a wave. As the servant rushes back to his seat, the man in the blood red suit does not step towards the building. Instead, as if sensing Bakura's stare, he turns towards the idling taxi.

Hidden underneath his shirt, the golden pendant flares with heat as the man's dark eyes meet his. The man shouldn't be able to see him, not with the glare of the morning light upon the taxi's window. Regardless, Bakura does not break his stare nor the neutral emptiness he wears on his features.

Time does not stop as the taxi starts forward, the light finally glowing green. With the stare broken and the man vanished from view, Bakura breathes in slowly. The Ring's unnatural heat fades with the expanding distance between himself and the person who had triggered its response.

He refuses to allow even a twitch across his face as any outward reaction is wrestled away from the surface. It doesn't matter that the Ring never reacts to ordinary mortals, for his appointment today has far too much importance for him to be sidetracked by such an oddity. Perhaps later, when his current undertaking bores him, Bakura will investigate the peculiarity of that man.

Until then, it's best to tuck this curiosity away in one of the darker corners of his mind.

____________

When Bakura stands on the plaza in front of the museum, everything is too still. Along the plaza's edges, the green leaves of the trees are frozen in the morning light. The tan paving stones glint like ice, and the air itself weighs down upon him.

Even during this stillness, Bakura does not glance back at the idling taxi, where the driver chuckles to himself as he counts the eight twenties in his hands.

There is an option to turn back, to ride back to the apartment and to leave this city behind. He could quit this game before it even starts and leave all the other players frozen in this eternal struggle.

He doesn't have to step forward, but he does.

One foot in front of the other. The click of his shoes the only sound in this cold place. The museum looms up ahead; the Roman columns that support its front arch stand high as a symbol of the depth of history it contains.

Bakura barely spares it another thought as he crosses the threshold inside.

The inside appears...far more colorful than what's its exterior suggests. A bright yellow and purple banner takes up a good part of the upper space of the building. Bakura glances at the purple lettering announcing the opening day of "The World Creation Myths Tour!" before turning his attention to the numerous glass displays crowding along the walls. With a few wider exhibits controlling the middle of the room, the corridors between the exhibits barely allow for more than two people to walk side by side.

Despite the early hour, there are people scattered throughout the walkways. Regardless of the fact that many of them are nursing steaming coffees, there's a certain brightness to their eyes that the half-dead pedestrians back at the apartment lacked.

While slipping his hands into his coat pocket, Bakura follows a group of three that had entered the museum moments before he did. He stops one exhibit away from them and eyes a painting of a Native-American woman standing beside the torn roots of an apple tree. The woman stares down into the bottomless hole left by the uprooted tree. While he leans closer to study the hole that the woman looks into, he pulls his right hand out of his pocket as if to touch the glass's surface.

He drops nothing with the motion, but from the pocket opening, small purple tentacles slip over the side. They pull at the edging until the rest of the eyeball creature peers out at the partially full walkway.

Bakura merely lets his hand hover close to the glass as the Gorgon Eye rolls out and falls to the floor. Before impact, its tentacles tightly wrap around it. If anyone were to glance its way, they would see nothing but a purple ball bounce once off the ground before conveniently rolling over to the wall and leisurely passing the shoes of the unaware group of three.

As Bakura eyes the star-filled sky within the hole, the ball takes a sharp turn around a corner. Once his creation has exited his peripheral, Bakura sighs and steps away from the exhibit before moving to the next one.

It will probably be another hour or so before that move bears any fruit, so might as well settle in.

Bakura looks almost hungrily at the lapis lazuli tablet in one of the center displays.

At least it won't be a boring wait.