: Perfect World :

Gensomaden Saiyuki

Disclaimer: I don't own Gensomaden Saiyuki, which rightfully belongs to Minekura Kazuya.

Rating: R

Pairings: slight Homura/Goku, mentioned Zenon/Mirei

Warnings: AU-ish, angst, strong language, violence, gore, morbidity, character death

Notes: Thank you for the reviews thus far. I apologize for the late update.

Constructive criticism and feedback is appreciated.


Chapter Thirty-Three

All was exactly as it should have been. Never mind that chaos currently ruled both the earth and the heavens; never mind that gods were panicking and a battle between live and death was being waged down below. Everything was finally coming together.

Besides, Kanzeon Bosatsu actually found the entire mess entertaining.

Three years ago, the war prince Homura had grown impatient to begin his plans for the new world. The heretic Son Goku had been set free from his bondage-- and while it was far from cooperative with her initial plans, the bodhisattva had intervened on his behalf when the gods had contemplated serious punishment. Or rather, she had remained on neutral ground but had pointed out facts that just happened to work in Homura's favor.

Yes, she had wanted Konzen's new incarnation to get to the child first. But one had to make sure there was room for improvising in one's scripts. At least Homura got points for being unpredictable... especially since he gave off the impression he was blatantly easy to read.

She snorted inappropriately. No wonder she (and her "assistant," of course) had been the only one to foresee this.

"Kanzeon Bosatsu," a man at her side hissed. She didn't have to look to picture his expression; struggling to remain impassive, yet pale and slightly twitchy at the prospect of her attitude getting them in trouble.

"Yes, yes, Jiroushin. Perhaps I should say something," she returned in a low, bored voice. A few pairs of eyes flickered their way, but for the most part the gods were too preoccupied arguing about what to do with the situation to pay attention to her.

From the strangled noise emitted, it seemed Jiroushin regretted opening his mouth. A smirk curved the bodhisattva's lips, and she waited for a brief pause for the opportunity to speak up.

It came sooner than she expected.

"There's more to it than treason," one man protested loudly. "What do you expect we do about his apprentice?"

"Make him the next war god," another said immediately.

There was a break for a murmur of agreement, and Kanzeon arched an eyebrow. "That certainly is optimistic thinking, isn't it?" she said, putting forth as much casuality as necessary. Which, in the other gods' eyes, was most likely too much.

Another silence followed; this time it was tense. "What's that supposed to mean?" one finally had the nerve to demand.

"Exactly what it sounds like," she replied, resting her jaw against her knuckles. "Think logically-- that brat's almost as powerful as Homura himself now. He's still young, and that power still has room to be fostered."

"But--"

"Oh, shut up," she cut in, mildly irritated. Honestly, couldn't she ever finish explaining herself before some idiot had to speak his inane thoughts? "Let me give you this to think about, then: if you appoint the brat to his position, and use him overthrow Homura as you so desire, do you really think you can get the boy to murder his own lover?"

And oh, she did so love it when simple words could render an entire group speechless. It was particularly amusing when the party thought highly of themselves, and believed they were so eloquent. Not to mention, their stunned expressions told most of them had not known of that interesting little tidbit.

The victory brought a smug smile to Kanzeon's face, and she continued speaking. "Our job as gods is to observe. I would suggest we do just that."

"Kanzeon Bosatsu," began one man, his bearded face drawn tightly in annoyance. "You really cannot expect us to sit by and let this abomination--"

"Who's letting him do anything?" she interrupted. "The entourage traveling west has also been caught up in Homura's plans. Their patience with gods is finite."

"And yet--"

"And yet," she went on, as though he hadn't spoken. "You insist on trying to fix something out of our hands." She lifted her head, flashing the god a lazy smile. He couldn't hold the stare, and coughed in attempt to break the discomfort he likely felt. Her second victory, though not quite as satisfying as the first.

"Sit back and enjoy the show," Kanzeon suggested. "I doubt we'll see anything this interesting for quite some time, anyway."

------

An onslaught of bullets accompanied the rough rattling of the gun. Cursing inwardly, Gojyo threw himself to the floor. Sharp clangs sounded throughout the vast room as the bullets ricocheted off the hard floors, crackling as they embedded into the pillars and walls. A sudden sharp bad intuition caused Gojyo to quickly push himself to his knees, bringing his arm up just enough to twirl the shakujyo into a metallic blur.

The bullets bounced off his weapon, and the rattling stopped. Breathing hard more from frayed nerves than exhaustion, the half-breed didn't miss the surprised approval on his opponent's face.

But that didn't mean he had any right to let his guard down. Now, more than ever, these gods were dangerous.

"Shit," he muttered beneath his breath, climbing back to his feet. "The things we go through because of Master Sanzo's damn whims."

A foreign yet familiar hand gripped his arm, aiding him until he was standing up straight. Without looking, he knew who had touched him-- and he wasn't sure if he should have been grateful or annoyed.

He was saved from having to respond thanks to a feminine voice. "If I may propose an idea..."

"Please do, Yaone-san," a slightly breathless Hakkai said from the side. Gojyo didn't have to look to know why he was winded; he had heard enough grunts to know his companion had been largely relying on his energy shields.

Even as he briefly considered asking Hakkai if he was all right, Yaone strode to the front. Gojyo only caught a flicker of fear and determination-- and that was smart. She knew very well who -- and what -- they were up against.

He didn't even notice the manner in which she reached beneath her coat until a slim hand withdrew. Just as he opened his mouth to ask what in the hell she thought she was doing, her arm swung out almost too fast for him to comprehend, and a silent explosion followed.

Tear gas.

Normally Shien would have been driven to attack instantly. As it was, the vapor did little to disrupt his senses. Fighting sightlessly had always been hos forte-- and he had done so for good reason. If ever his vision was to be impaired, he wanted to know he had equally sharp -- perhaps even sharper -- senses to fall back on.

Still, it was a clever trick, and it was a strategy to be admired. If one could not fight one's opponent head on, it was best to use a veil, to hide and strategize... or to impair vital tools.

He heard Zenon hiss angrily, and knew he had been affected. No matter. Shien was trained to handle this.

Their opponents had scattered, but he still knew where to attack. In a similar movement the demon girl had lashed her arm, so did he-- with the company of a single whip. The light hit the ground with a sharp crack that was too loud for it to merely indicate sound. He had missed, but from the sudden intake of breath he had caught, he knew it had been a narrow miss. With his other arm, he swung out in a wide arc.

This time, the crack was akin to solidified energy hitting flesh. The resulting cry said that had been exactly what he had accomplished.

Shien had no reason to worry.

No reason until the crescent blade whistled past him, missing him barely an inch. No reason until a short, agonized cry of pain reached his ears-- the sensitive scream of someone he could only consider a friend. No reason to lose his temper, until warm liquid splattered his face and wrist, and the coppery stench of blood was right under his nose.

"Son of a bitch!"

Zenon.

Shien at last opened his eyes.

Zenon's gun was on the floor, and what was left of his hand looked about ready to join it.

------

Agony, like nothing he had ever felt before, surpassing even the pain he had suffered when stumbling upon the gruesome scene of his slaughtered family. He had believed nothing could equal it, but this... it was physical, and it couldn't be denied.

And it fucking hurt.

Zenon no longer had a weapon, and his hand was dangling off his wrist by bare bits of muscle and flesh. Blood spewed from the wound, and his limb had been rendered useless...

Just as he had been useless to Mirei.

The memory was enough to shake him out of the crimson haze of Death's grip. Fury tore through him. He was here for a reason; he was going to see the new world no matter what. Like hell he would let some damned half-breed's luck keep him from that.

With a roar, he ripped the offending hand from his arm. And suddenly, as he whirled to face the woman behind him, he realized that although one limb was useless, the other was not.

Worry and terror flickered in the woman's eyes. Despicable eyes. Demon eyes. Determined eyes.

Though his wound could possibly kill him if not tended to, Zenon had no time to worry about it. A demon was here, a sickening member of a species which thought of nobody but themselves. And she was still breathing.

This had to be rectified.

It was impossible to ignore the pain completely, but Zenon did manage to shove it to the side as he dove for his fallen weapon. His remaining hand fumbled clumsily at first, but he was able to hold it upright. He was not left-handed, was not even ambidextrous, but he could steady the machine gun. The weight was terrible on one arm, but manageable.

At least, it was manageable until he pulled the trigger. The weapon jumped horrible, jarring him. He was not used to holding it in this manner.

And he missed his intended target. But it was not without results.

He had aimed for the demon woman, but had hit her companion instead. Red exploded against the crisp whiteness of the large companion's chest. He staggered, stunned, before collapsing. Several bullets had hit the mark, and if Zenon was counting correctly, it was at least five, though it was hard to count when his handless arm was throbbing again...

"Dokugakuji!"

The gas was dissipating to the point he could see again. But then it came back, seeping in from the corners of his vision, and it was brilliantly red, terribly crimson, and made him think giddily of precious life. His wife. His son.

A crack followed by the demon woman's cry followed. Shien, he vaguely remembered. Shien was still there; was still fighting.

But strangely, though she looked nothing like her, sounded nothing like her, and wasn't anything at all like his late wife, Zenon somehow heard her scream and watched her stumble to the convulsing, bullet-riddled body of the larger demon. And even though he knew better, he still imagined, still thought, still saw...

Mirei.

He never felt the pain of sharp, cruel crescent points digging into his back, through his spine and into his ribs. There was nothing but a void, and then a world of both blinding light and everlasting darkness.

------

Though his chest ached, and his shoulder stung, Homura was having a hard time focusing on any of his present problems. In attempt to keep his attention on something, he had tried to watch the fight between Seiten Taisei and Kougaiji, but that hadn't worked for long. At best, the battle was one-sided anyway.

His mind was wandering; a dangerous thing for a man in his position. Even the briefest sidetrack could cost him his life at this point, especially with Konzen in the room. He had yet to find a way to kill the god, but Homura was well aware he was more resourceful in this life than he had been in the heavens. Where Konzen would never have been able to take him on, Genjo Sanzo could.

But that still didn't matter to him.

Blankly, Homura stared at the entryway to the new world. Already someone had died; he didn't know what to make of the new situation. Death amongst worthy adversaries was always a pity, but to happen to one he truly considered a good friend and companion...

Rinrei, he thought, his lungs constricting further. He inhaled slowly, deeply, but couldn't shake the dizzy feeling coming down upon him. I am coming, Rinrei.

He tried desperately to picture his face, but was instead rocked by another memory. The expression he saw in his mind was heartbreaking, though at the time he had only felt mild sympathy, even almost uncharacteristic patronizing. Against his better judgement, Homura closed his eyes.

At the time, he hadn't realized the full extent of their situation. Here they were, sidled with a child barely breaking into his teenage years, and he had entrusted him to Zenon's care. Perhaps not the wisest of decisions, but his search for Rinrei's descendents was important as well.

That was why, upon finding the boy lost and confused in the crowded streets, Homura had barely blinked. He made no noise, standing still and cocking his head as he waited to see what the child would do.

Golden eyes swiveled in his direction, wet with tears threatening to fall. They widened in surprise, and the boy froze as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Then, with a loud cry, he ran forward. Miraculously, he managed to avoid the mass of legs around him and tackle the back, wrapping his small arms around his midsection. Homura stumbled back a step, but did not fall.

Looking down, he saw the boy's shoulders shake as he struggled not to cry. Already he was trying to be brave, even in the face of a frightening prospect. Smirking, Homura smoothed the boy's hair back the best he could, assuring him that he was in good hands now. Only the promise of a good, hot meal soon calmed the child down.

Not once did Goku truly cry.

And perhaps that had been his downfall. Perhaps he had been too kind to the boy, giving him more leeway than he should have. Perhaps...

Perhaps he should have simply left him in the cave.

Without a word, Homura started for the entrance to the new world. His time was running out, and he had little left to lose.

My apologies, Shien, he thought, with a hint of ruefulness. But I am going ahead of you.

------

Entertaining, certainly, yet undeniably tragic. Wisely, Kanzeon kept this to herself; she doubted anyone else present would have understood. Jiroushin, perhaps, but the other stuffy gods were too eager to see those who had revolted face a fitting punishment.

"You see," she said, her voice quiet yet flippant at the same time. Inwardly, she was disgusted and sick, but played it down with skill borne from centuries of patience and practice. "The situation is resolving without our help. This is why the gods observe." She received scattered, reluctant murmurs of agreement-- and it did nothing to settle the bile in her stomach.

There was no such situation as one in which everybody won. It was unfortunate and tragic that Homura and his comrades were faced with the rough end of the deal-- and even more tragic, because the eventual outcome was inevitable. She watched the events unfold, observed the trials and battles, was all but omnipotent, and yet she lived by a code of conduct which forbade her from interfering directly. One could breach that code only so many times before drawing attention to oneself.

She pitied Homura as she pitied Nataku. But, as with Nataku, all she could do was watch.

As she turned her attention to the second and far more fascinating battle, she thought in what was almost an uncharacteristic prayer, Kid, at the very least, give him the kind of ending he wants.