On the Edge
By: KowaretaTsubasa
This fic takes place some time after the end of the series.
Quite possibly, this is the most depressing thing I've ever written.
Disclaimer: I do not own Yu Yu Hakusho.
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The plague had come unrepentantly, spreading across the demon world with the sickly crawl of molasses. Revolution had broken out because of it, because of the fear, and now Enki lay dead, a frantic sword plunged through his heart. The sky was always gray, it was always raining, and with it the plague ran thick through rivers. The sickness was everywhere. Blood was everywhere. The dead and the dying lay untouched and rotting in the streets everywhere.
Backwash villages killed travelers and newcomers. Those vermin were probably riddled with plague--should stick to their own kind, the town folk would mutter. Riot and revolution and chaos was the daily bread. No one knew anything different. No one could taste anything different. There was no hope, there was no hope.
But Koenma told them they mustn't think this way. Koenma said that he had people working on a cure. The ferry girls were ordered to interview the souls, desperate to find the way the disease spread from victim to victim. Perhaps filing reports on every case would help them find the cause. The ferry girls were unaffected by the sickness, of course. They were made of no living flesh. To see a flock of them fly over was like some type of horrible phenomenon. Each one would carry as many souls as she could and fly, quickly, back to spirit world, eager to further their investigation.
The demons were unsure. They accused Koenma of lying, saying he wasn't doing anything at all. That he didn't see the blood red marks or the pale skin. That he didn't see the hollow, yellow, listless eyes or hear the raspy, shallow breath. The last and final whispers of the living. He didn't know; he didn't care.
Yusuke was King now. Keiko had died in a car accident when she was in her early thirties. With the loss of Keiko came the loss of Yusuke's desire to stay in the human world. The Mazaku descendent had then sat several years on his ancestor's throne, empty and alone. There were many other women in demon world--those with a taste of power--and though Yusuke couldn't help but look, he refused each and every one.
Until the death of Enki, he'd done nothing but read the musty books in his ancestor's library, which worried those around him. He'd never been interested in reading before. There had been a funeral that Yomi, Shura, Mukuro, and Hiei attended along with Yusuke and his subordinates. At the funeral, Yusuke declared himself King and that anyone who didn't agree should say it with his fist. The demon world tournament had been held every three years since it had first been proposed, and Enki had won every time. Facing the angry descendent of Raizen, the demon lords, and with them the world, consented that the crushing mantle of kingship be placed upon him.
Yusuke's borders were open to anyone. The sick were herded into quarantine to be cared for and tested. They died by the hundreds, and the crimson glow of the funeral pyres marked the night like an array of permanent stars. Bodies that could not be turned to ash were lain in mass graves, nameless faces, never to be recognized or remembered.
With Kurama's help, Yusuke managed to steer the world from complete catastrophe. The redhead had survived more than plagues in his time, and the Mazaku descendant was grateful for his advice--perhaps even his company. Rarely was Yusuke seen without the green-eyed man. Rumors spread as fast as the plague.
Back in the human world, Kurama had taken over his stepfather's company. Botan had brought word that Yusuke requested help, and Kurama departed without another thought, only leaving a scribbled note to his secretary that he was taking a prolonged vacation. He made a mental note to tell the Human Resources department to write up a new psychiatric insurance plan.
Botan made it a point to check up on Yusuke, Hiei, Kurama and Kuwabara every time she was off work. The spirit detective saga was perhaps the first time she'd ever gotten to have friends besides her coworkers, and Kuwabara could tell that she didn't want to lose them anytime soon. Kuwabara always offered her tea and a place to spend the night with him and Yukina. They were the ones taking care of Genkai's temple after she'd finally passed away. The flood of demons staying there often kept the two busy: Yukina attending to their needs, and Kuwabara making sure they followed the age-old law Enki had set forth the first day he'd attained Kingship. And breaking bones when they didn't.
Kuwabara also had a job that required the use of a laptop. Where Kuwabara had learned to use a laptop was also something that Botan could never figure out. Then again, she knew he'd done well in his studies Freshman year and assumed the pattern continued well into college. So when he was not cleaning the temple, arguing with demons, spending time with Yukina, or raising kittens, he cooped himself up in his room typing away in face of the monitor.
The plague couldn't pass itself to humans; they were immune. Shizuru came to the temple often. She'd been dating a demon who'd gotten sick and who she'd dragged by the ear up the monstrous steps. She'd called ahead to tell her brother that she was coming and to take precautions. When she'd gotten there the entire temple and its freeloading demons had been covered in plastic. Yukina had taken the demon, plastic gloves on her hands and a mask over her mouth, and brought him to a separate room where she examined him.
He'd been taken to Yusuke's and soon died there. Shizuru had cried only once when no one was looking. She managed life and her new business with a blank face and a blank heart. She had become nothing--a woman of ash.
And the ash in demon world continued to grow. Each day it drifted from Yusuke's stronghold and followed Yomi and Shura on their perpetual quest for truth. They'd passed through poverty-stricken villages, where the citizens would hide in their houses and moldy shadows and watch them with wide, frightened eyes. Yomi couldn't see the poor state of suffering the people and the land were in, but it was became glaring obvious when he'd one day asked Shura to describe it. In a small, trembling voice the young demon described, "The ground is black, charred by flame. Nothing grows here. We're walking into a blizzard, but it is the cinders of the dead, not snow. People follow us, straggling behind. I'm sure you hear their footsteps. They're all filthy, covered in mud, and look like skeletons. And the sky is gray. Always gray."
Yomi would nod and continue walking. He remembered plagues. He remembered the fear of knowing that people who you lived with would die, maybe even people you cared for. He knew that he would sleep one night and the next morning a friend would not wake, no matter how much he was shook. Like Kurama, he'd lived through the fear and the flames. He could no longer see them, but that fear and those flames would live on in memory only. He did not need to see to know they were there.
Shura would walk beside his father. He was confident that if his father did not show fear then there was no reason to be afraid. His father was wise and strong. And he'd beaten Yusuke. The young demon--who was now much older and taller--did not fear the plague. He'd follow his father, getting stronger, and some day beat him in a battle where neither of them could hold back. Shura could almost taste the future.
Until then, the only path he'd take was the path to the truth. The truth that lay before them in a world that devoured itself.
Above it all, on the rim of the world, overlooking everything far below, stood two figures. The first is a woman with hair the color of distant funeral pyres and is dressed in loose-fitting garments. Her face is covered by half a mask which conceals the scars underneath. A grim frown sat on her lips, as she continued to survey all below her.
"It seems the world is consumed by fire."
Her companion shifted his weight from one foot to the other; his black boots crunching the gravel of the mountain path. He is shorter than the woman and wears dark clothes, but he bears the same grim expression. He sneers.
"It always has been."
The woman nods and watches the smaller demon with a soft, knowing gaze. The man notices, scowls to himself, folds his arms over his chest, and looks away, pretending to be distracted. The woman laughs lightly, earning a red-eyed glare from her companion, which she returned with a look of calm. Again, the smaller demon looks away, this time unable to scowl.
They were warriors who lived on the edge of all things. They'd been born on the edge, had been raised there, had been damaged there. They would probably even die there. The edge was where they belonged and where they would stay, together.
The edge was filled with fear and flame. With death and sickness, with loss and power. It was filled with pain and hate and blood and war.
But sometimes so was the world, and an edge could hold nothing. The edge was not the world, it didn't take any more than you were willing to give. And sometimes what people were willing to give could create a thousand edges. The world wasn't like that. The world was a ravenous beast existing only to consume. The world would relentlessly take everything and anything, returning nothing, a black hole. You became nothing.
The edge was what you had when everything else had been taken.
If the world was made of fire, where people tore out others' hearts in fear and in shame, then they preferred to live on the edge where not even the changing, hateful world could take from them what only they have gained through the blood they've shed.
This world, their world, on the edge of all things.
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