He had known it was suicide. In truth, he had counted on the priest, or one of Sanzo's demon disciples to finally end his existence. The bastards had put up a good fight, but it was the priest who had borne the brunt of his blows, who had sapped enough of his strength to give him pause and whom he'd thought for a moment would beat him. He had known it would be that almighty monk who would take him on—the sutra, after all, was Sanzo's responsibility. Homura had anticipated the risk, prepared for the difficulty, steeled himself for combat, savored the possibility of death…and in the end it was he who had won. Quite a disappointment, really, considering that he remembered the guy from a long time ago, when they'd all been in Heaven, when the future monk had been no less than the nephew of the highest Being. A cool customer then, with all that glittery blond hair and those cold jewel eyes—confound it, the guy may have looked like a fruitcake, but he matched the strength of battle gods. You've gotta admire the audacity of someone who would baby-sit a menace like that monkey and still show himself in court, calm as you please, insisting that the thing be treated well because it was his pet, never mind that the creature had tarnished Heaven's best weapon, that battle prodigy. What an Achilles heel that monkey could become, and by accident too. Befriended by a star general, protected by a god with clout—sweet deal. The two general hangers-on had had their own roles, their own duties in that world-above, and they'd been worth watching as well—one never knows where one's enemies might spawn. They had banded then as now, misfits-in-harmony. Typical.
* You could have it all / my empire of dirt / I will let you down / I will make you hurt*
Look at all the demons who crawled to my side as soon as they'd gotten wind that I had possession of the sutra. Weaklings would always keep in close company, attaching themselves to the strong. It was really too godamned easy to get rid of the parasites. I worked alone—didn't anyone get the memo? I have always been alone.
It puzzled Homura that someone as strong as Sanzo, or even those two suckers—to give them credit, they can stand on their own feet—would opt to be united again on earth: demoted, but still latched on to one another's destiny, like a bracelet (functional and decorative, eh?) on Kanzeon's arm. Why the compulsion to stand together? Really, if they insisted on being so dense and easily manipulated, they were welcome to it. Friendships made one vulnerable. Homura would reap the benefits of being alone. If it meant taking on the consequences, taking on a group and not just an individual, then so be it. He'd gone ahead and killed one of their number, so he might as well just count on the other three coming for him, whether separately, or as a whole berserker trio, minus-one-but-the-fellowship-goes-on, ha-ha-ha. Maybe they'd do the bloody job right this time. They could attack him, and he wouldn't even care if he survived the bloody inconvenient fight. It's all the same anyway. A fighting god has to fight, ha-ha-ha, get tagged with that privilege and even if you got sick of the monotony of it all, you play the game. The sutra was really just another toy: call it a spade, a weapon, bait or prize. It is no substitute for the loss of a friend, and admittedly Homura can, if he tried really, really, hard, regret killing someone who had so many uses. Battle practice. Entertainment. Free insults. Occasional driving away of pesky demoniacs—hey, time-savers are essential in every battle plan. The fiendish monk could even have eventually answered his present need. Perhaps Sanzo had been having an off day and by offing him, the potential for suicide attempts that could go all the way had slid to zero percentile. Fucking A.
* What have I become? / my sweetest friend / everyone I know / goes away in the end *Why does it always have to be a girl? Really, what a frigging cliché one can turn into, and despite one's intelligence, oh fuck it, one's instinct. It is so much easier to fight when one has nothing to live for—victim number-I've-lost-count thought I'd go all weepy on that one. Love makes one fragile—this gem from another shithead, but to his credit, he followed it up with a sentiment I actually agree with: What use is a piece of china if it's not broken? True, true, it is easier to kill with jagged edges. Right-O, the guy could've been a court jester—he believed he was dispensing wisdom hidden in his ridiculousness, that's the joke—for some demon-king I dethroned and decapitated.
Homura-the-loner had the advantage, because he had no one to live for, they'd killed her ages ago (and note that for gods, an age is much longer than a godamned eon), and he'd had a bitch of a time getting over it too. Sure, sure, a little revenge thought bubble would blow up, some dementia would blast the damned rage-stopper, but all in all, life was one numb nothing. Well, fine, first he'd been a walking abscess, a silent zombie, but then he gotten used to it. It became an old pain, and he'd learned to live with it, even ignore it. Eventually he started to talk and function "normally" around other people, i.e. finally noticing they were there. Which gave him the occupation of standing stiffly in one corner, looking antisocial and talking to the dead girl. She never did answer, but those one-sided conversations sustained him, and he could maintain the wall of indifference against everybody else. Of course, he hadn't known that the damned thing had an expiration date, or that he would fail to recognize a chink when he actually started acknowledging the existence of other beings (ignorant S.O.B.), which would eventually make him notice one particular girl, and from that tiny spark of interest in her, he would start feeling again. The fucking wall crumbled once she started chipping away at it. Emotions are such an inconvenience; he was better off insulated and talking to himself. Quite preferable to the insane ideas regularly popping up like drug pellets in the brain, getting one into trouble. This is Homura-after-Hinata, now look at the lovesick tribute: taking beatings here and there, just to check if the out-of-control body still worked, and hoping that sometime during the process of killing, the damned body would just quit. So far, it isn't happening, and one tries so bloody hard.
* I wear my crown of shit / on my liar's chair / full of broken thoughts / I cannot repair / beneath the stain of time / the feeling disappears / you are someone else / I am still right here*Goddess of Death (yes, I got that memo, I have my own clout up in other-land) you will only come when I kill. Wherever you are, no matter how you try to avoid the sight of me, every time I cleave into some worthless piece of shit, you will be there and you will witness my hate, which is really just a product of my you-know-what-for-you—but you won't need to know any of that. So I will keep mashing and slashing, slicing and dicing, and I'll whistle a happy tune while I'm at it, because I'm sure you won't appreciate any of those sappy songs the humans create out of boredom.
For some odd reason, I've become invincible, I have all this power, and all this channeled hatred, and I'm doing my thing more successfully than ever before. I can take on anyone. I'm a junkie really, just the knowledge that you're trapped by me, with me, in those few tenuous seconds when a soul crosses over, gets me on such a high that I consider all the small things. Even a gnat would conjure your presence, but that would be an insult to you and to me, and so I've been choosing the more powerful of the lot, the more dangerous, the badass motherfuckers who need no prodding to bludgeon my unsound head, and I prod, prod, prod away, anyway, all the way, because just think: if I can trap you by and with me, then why don't I imprison you in me?
You will most certainly come when I am dying, you won't be able to stop yourself, no matter how you may feel for me, no matter that you've decided to leave me be. You will hear my last breath, feel that mortal blow (although really, when was the last time you checked my godamned heart? Destructible, yes, human, no, humanized, maybe), and I live for that moment, see the pathetic drudge I've become because of you. To be united in death, to brand my pain on you, to make you feel what I feel, to make you become what I've become—that won't give me pleasure, but a sick satisfaction. Who'd have thought a one-night-stand on an ice cube would be such trouble for you, oh my goddess, but I intend to be.
Will I be transmigrated for all this, and do I care? It does not matter a damn to me, either way. Do I hope for absolution, do I count on mercy? I have no right to. But if I were given a choice…
* If I could start again / a million miles away / I would keep myself / I would find a way*
I would remember you. I would be shaped by this memory of you. I would find you. I would keep you. I would lose myself again in you. If you would let me, if you would only let me…
And look who's here, monkey boy himself, come to take on his master's slayer. My, my, the stripling looks pissed, like he means business. I never credited him with such ferociousness. Have I wrongly estimated his strength? What could have drawn the strong ones to this child? I'm only beginning to discern signs of the extraordinary in him.
Are the unlikely couple not far behind? Should I wait? No. The least I can do is honor Goku's grief, it oddly resembles my own.
Another dance of death I dedicate to you, itoshii.
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* Hurt by Nine Inch Nails *
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Rui's voice had taken on a maddened edge sometime ago, through which portrayal the frenzied Homura had come into view for Rui's listeners. His appearance had somehow split into two, one shadowy superimposition becoming Homura, and the Rui Sana knew in the background.
Sakuragi was enchanted, all but slavering with elation. He sat stone still but his eyes flickered, and one can almost see the data being processed, filed, and inscribed in his brain. For Sana, it was frightening how easily Rui could slip into and impersonate his father, and it was troublesome that she would not allow herself to equate ruthlessness with her cousin; though she knew him perfectly capable of it, she still created that split-effect of denial. Didn't Rui just imagine all this? How could he know? Where has he been? Who did he speak to, how did he acquire this information? How could he have known what Homura had so desperately wanted to say to obasan?
"At the unlikeliest hands, Homura did receive his death wish…" Rui smiles crookedly, and it can be debated whether it was the result of his love of irony, or an indication of his feelings (which can only be guessed at—disdain? embarrassment? empathy?), "and of course, my mother came. Hinata was delivered to him by fate, driven by his will to be destroyed."
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I needed a break from writing something else, so I ended up with this installment. I'm sure some of you will detest it, and I confess had not planned to go this direction so soon (am referring to development of story and not writing time). It got speeded up to this plot-point because I'm playing it safe—yes, yes, I still have not seen the series and am crapping it up, but I do so with caution and I'm hoping the ones who had asked me to continue will not be terribly let down.
