Salvation
By Shelli-Jo Pelletier
(ussfantasy@hotmail.com)
***************
Author's Notes: I'm thoroughly disgusted by my inability to come up with anything original. Every story is inspired by (read: stolen from) somewhere. Such is the life of a fanfic author? Ah well. Anyway, the point of this mini-rant is to admit I thought this up while watching What Dreams May Come. Yeah. . . . Well, not that I have that off my chest, enjoy my strange notion that I actually found the time to write out.
Disclaimer: The bishis aren't mine, I'm just borrowing them. Hey, I'm nicer to them than the damn series is!
***************
"Where am I?"
He looked around, not recognizing his surroundings. The fog was so thick it looked as if he walked through clouds. Somewhere water dripped, and the noise included a hollow-sounding echo. Was he in a cave? Underground? In all directions the scene was unchanging, though turning to look caused a strange sensation. After a balatant heartbeat it came to him: there was no more pain.
This was confusing. Especially because he couldn't remember how he got here. Deciding he would feel better with some direction at least, he started walking toward the sound of dripping water. It was the only direction in this place. As he walked his footsteps echoed as well, and the ground felt like some vast hardwood floor. Not a cave then, but a ballroom? A foggy ballroom. Nothing made sense here. But it was nice to move without pain again.
He strolled unhurriedly for a time but never reached the water's source. Before he reached it he became aware that there was yet another echo of his footsteps. He paused, but this new set of steps continued. He was relieved that there was someone else in all this. Maybe even someone with answers. But why did these footsteps not echo themselves?
He turned, as they were approaching him from behind. And he waited, stared into the fog, refused to let his gaze waver. The steps continued, unhurried. They grew louder. Now there was a discoloration in the clouds. A pink shade was slowly forming, directly in front of him. It darkened with each moment. Darker and darker red. It would become blood, he knew suddenly. A figure covered in blood. Coming for him. The prospect didn't scare him as much as it might've someone else.
The fog parted. A woman stepped up to him. Her crisp suit was the same shade as her hair, like candy apples. She smiled at him with deep red lips.
"Manx! What are you doing here?! Where are we?"
She looked calm and slight amused, as she always did. "You never did like to face facts, did you Omi?"
He gasped as he remembered. "Manx! You're . . . you're dead!" The pain returned, fire blazing down his spine and through his limbs. He would have fallen to his knees if Manx hadn't offered her shoulder for support. He heard himself gasping for air like a stranded fish.
"Stop that," ordered the woman gently. "You don't need that here." Her words were a balm that cut through his fledgling panic and chased away the fierce agony. With a clear mind he was able to think. Manx asked, "Do you remember now?"
He nodded. "It was my bodyguard," he whispered, voice dead of emotion. "I never saw it coming. He was walking me to my car . . . a dart to my neck." He touched the spot gently. "The poison worked fast, though it felt like forever. Painful. . . ." A little smile crossed his face. "I suppose someone out there would find my death ironic."
He wasn't watching Manx as he spoke, but their surroundings. The fog was slowly dispersing. He studied the view as the world came into focus. Not a cave or a ballroom, the place was a long, imposing hallway. The sound of dripping water had ceased some time ago, and now he couldn't guess where it had come from. Straight ahead of them the hall continued until it was lost in darkness. The walls on either side were like black mirrors, or polished ebony perhaps. Dim reflections of two people standing together were repeated over and over as they bounced off the reflective surfaces. He didn't turn to see what was behind him.
"So this is Hell," he murmured.
Manx's smile widened. "You think you're in Hell, Omi?"
His blue eyes finally turned to her face. "I haven't been Omi for . . . at least three decades. I'm Mamoru."
"You're Omi to me."
He shrugged and let it go. A name was only a name, after all. He'd been called worse in his life. Answering her question instead, his lips twisted into a sordid grin. "If this isn't Hell then there's no justice in the grand design."
She was silent for a while, gazing off down the corridor. Finally she met his eyes with her bright blue orbs. "What have you been doing since we last met?"
In his mind he saw her, blood dripping from her slim body. She had used her last strength to bring Weiss information. She had died in their arms, regretting nothing. She remained even now one of the most amazing women he had ever known.
"I know what you would say," he told her. "I have no doubt you've watched over us. Sometimes I felt your presense. Shuichi's as well." Her eyes encouraged him to continue, so he did. "After my time with Weiss I wanted to wash the darkness from my family's name. With my leadership Takatori became a name you could say with pride. I started over, built an empire without abusing power. . . . It was the least I could do, with the blood on our hands. My hands."
"You have made us proud, Omi."
He shook his head. "You don't understand. I didn't do it for myself, to keep myself out of Hell. I did it to repay the innocent hurt by my actions." His eyes slid to the ground. Ouka . . . she wouldn't be here. There was no way he belonged in the same place as her.
Manx was speaking, and he was so caught up in memories no less vivid for their age that he almost missed her words. "Perhaps they're one and the same?"
His eyes leapt back up to her face. He had no words to say that this was his most secret desire, that he would be forgiven.
She stepped closer and touched his shoulder. "Forgiveness can always be found, you know," she promised, reading his mind or his face. "What many don't understand is that to be forgiven, you must first forgive yourself. You did that, Omi. You left Weiss. You chose a path of atonement and followed it to its end." She gave him a smile that a satisfied mother would give.
He allowed himself to hope. "Then . . . c-could I see Ouka again? And Shuichi? And A. . . ." He wanted to add the names of the three men he considered as close as brothers, but the words died in his throat. He couldn't speak their names, though he tried. His eyes reflected bewilderment as the redhead walked away. "Manx?"
She didn't acknowledge him. She was facing one of the black-mirrored walls, staring into her own dark reflection. He was suddenly afraid of moving from his position to approach her. He feared getting close enough to see his own image, sensing it would not be what he expected.
"Omi." Manx's voice was easy to hear in the stillness of their surroundings, despite her soft whisper. "The words Heaven and Hell have little meaning here. Existance is so much more vaired than simple good and evil. But . . . it is true that this place has different . . . levels of—"
"Manx!" he cut her off, disbeliving. "You can't mean—are you telling me that I am here and they are in Hell?" Rage kindled in him and with it came a ghost of the poison's pain, his body's last sensation in life. The thought that someone might be using his pain to punish him for his rightous emotion only made him more furious. He fought the pain, struggling against it and unwilling to give in.
Manx whirled and came straight at him, heels clicking and echoless on the ground. "Stop that," she commanded crossly.
"No," he growled through clenched teeth. "I won't forget them. Dammit, Manx, how could you just accept this? The Manx I know wouldn't abandon us. Maybe death has changed you, but I won't let it change me!" He was shouting now, his angry words bouncing off the smooth walls. "I will find them. I don't care who I have to go through, who I have to fight—"
"Even if the ones you must fight are them?"
She didn't raise her voice, but she cut through his tirade effectively. He realized how foolish he was acting with some chagrin. But he was too confused to be embarrassed. "What do you mean?"
"I told you. To be forgiven you must first forgive yourself. Weiss members seem to have some problem with that." Her level gaze prevented him from saying anything in response. "I want you to know that we have tried, Omi. I've tried to go to them. So has Shuichi, Burman, their families. To recover from where they are . . . it's not easily done. I don't know if it can be done. I don't know if it's ever been done before. But that didn't stop us from trying." Her small smile turned whistful. "Little good that it did. No, Omi, it's you we've been waiting for. That's why I've come to meet you. I don't think anything but the bond you four shared can reach them now."
The pain was gone, as was his anger. Instead strength infused him. And hope. "What must I do?"
"You must make a choice."
"I already have."
She nodded. "Then all that's left is to go."
"Manx?" But she was walking away, and he sensed he wasn't supposed to follow. She wouldn't be leading him anywhere; it was up to him to make his way. Momentarily at a loss, he watched her stride down the hall. Something had changed as they spoke. There seemed to be a small circle of light far ahead, blocked partly by hazy silhouettes. One was moving, waving perhaps. He couldn't make them out for sure, but he found he had to hold himself back as Manx's tiny form joined them and they all vanished into the light. That wasn't his choice.
Finally he turned to look behind him, searching for options. He was disappointed. Nothing but solid blackness at his back, the total darkness of a moonless night. In the same way as before he sensed that this was not the way. He could not go backwards from this point.
Where to go then? He closed his eyes and saw them in his mind. Ken. Yoji. Aya. They had saved his life a thousand times over, and he had done the same for them. And despite their current situation, that still meant something.
His eyes snapped open. He had it now. Anxiety returned, but he ignored it and stepped up to one of the ebony mirrors. Shock froze him in place.
There, staring back at him, was not a fifty-three year old man in a neat business suit on his way home to his family. No, he looked into the wide eyes of an eighteen year old youth, wearing a cap and sneakers and dark clothing, including shorts and dangling suspenders. "I guess I am Omi," he said to the stillness of the hall.
Then Omi stepped into the mirror.