Day 12: "Zone Out"

Nine times—that's how many times Kuwabara ran around the hospital block the night Keiko collapsed. Nines entire times—or was it ten? It's possible he lost count around the time a stitch formed in his side, thighs burning with every slap of frantic foot upon hard pavement. It's also possible he just hadn't been counting at all. But, no, he had been counting. He'd counted because every time he let his thoughts drift, he saw her face in his mind's eye, sallow and sickly and slick with sweat. So, to keep her face at bay, he'd counted as he'd run around the block. Yay, distractions.

But had he run around it nine times? Ten? It hardly mattered, really, and anyway: He'd zoned out and lost track.

He would've run even further if he hadn't also lost his breath, chest heaving as he skidded to a stop beneath the light of a flickering streetlamp, where he pillowed his hands on his trembling knees and breathed deeply of the warm night air. Humid vapor hissed and burned in his lungs, reckless sprint robbing his blood of oxygen, nervous energy blazing a path of fire through his arms and legs. His condition annoyed him, if he were being honest. He'd just won the goshdarn Dark Tournament; what right did he have to feel this tired this fast? All he wanted at that point was to lie down, but going back to sit in the waiting room just wasn't an option. He'd tried that already. Had lasted two minutes, at most, before the memory of her face crowded in, her pitiful whimper and tiny, fragile body shaking in his arms as he raised a hand and summoned—

No. Don't think about her. Don't think about the way she'd cried out when moved as if her bones were breaking. Think about something else. Anything else.

Desperate, Kuwabara cast about the street, eyes raking the fronts of businesses (all closed for the night) and the neon lights of a few odd eateries. Between two of the restaurants under a puddle of streetlamp sat a payphone, metal platform lightly defaced with stickers and graffiti. He moved toward it before he could even think about who to call, flicking sweat off his forehead even as his other hand dug in his pocket for loose change. Kuwabara had just enough money to place a call, so he dutifully fed it into the coin slot before dialing the one number he thought could help him. Rang for a long time before anyone picked up, but that was normal for the person he'd called; old bones move slowly, as she liked to say. He waited for nearly two minutes before the line connected. No one spoke, though, static hissing over the connection like the breath of some slumbering beast.

And perhaps that's exactly what he'd awoken. She went to bed pretty early, after all.

"Sensei?" he said when the silence dragged on. "Sensei, is that you?"

"Kuwabara." Genkai's reedy, sarcastic voice crackled nearly as much as the static-laden line. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected call?"

Kuwabara swallowed.

Said: "It's Keiko."

Piece by piece, he told Genkai what had happened, from the meeting with Koenma about the Makers to the point where Keiko had collapsed in the middle of the living room. His voice broke a few times, he was sorry to admit, but he held it together as he told Genkai about the way Keiko had looked. The things she'd said before she fell. The way she'd seized, body snapping like a flag in a storm, head wrenching back as she screamed—

Hold it together, Kuwabara. Don't go breaking down now.

In steadier tones, he told her about feeling helpless. About standing there with hands outstretched at the others tried to help her. About the all-consuming instinct to protect, to fix that had washed over him as he looked at Keiko's thrashing body. That instinct had proved undeniable, practically forcing him to raise his hand and shout for his spirit weapon. For the first time since the Dark Tournament, he'd felt his spirit energy surge bright in response, Spirit Sword bursting into being like the sun at daybreak—only it wasn't the sword he was used to summoning. No, this sword looked… different. Weird, but not a bad-weird. A good-weird made of bright gold, edges honed to fine blades, heart of the weapon glowing like a star. Nothing like his old sword. Nothing even like the rainbow-refracting sword he'd summoned during his fight with Toguro, weapon changed by the effects of the Beautiful Suzuka's gift.

But that had barely registered to Kuwabara at the time. All he knew was that he needed to act, and fast, if he wanted to save Keiko. On instinct he slashed his sword through the air—action as inevitable as if it had dictated by some infinite, cosmic force—crying out desperately for a doctor, for a hospital, and then—

And then, there it was. Through a gap in time and space, Kuwabara beheld the exact place he always thought of when he pictured a hospital: the one right by his house, which he'd walked past every day ever since he was a child. Like he'd summoned it from the blue somehow, medical institution answering his silent call and appearing before him like a lightning strike. He hadn't thought twice after that. He'd just carried Keiko through the portal (or whatever he'd made) without a trace of hesitation. He knew deep in his gut that the portal belonged to him, and that he could trust it to take him where he most needed to go. His Sword, so golden and bright, surely wouldn't do anything bad to him… right?

Not that he really understood why it had come to him when it did, or why it had behaved as it had. He was just grateful that it had appeared at all.

Genkai remained silent when he finished speaking, eventually clearing phlegm from her throat with a cough. "Your Spirit Sword," she rasped. "It's evolved." A hint of a smile crept into her creaking voice. "As I suspected it might when you reported your powers had gone dormant."

"Wait. WHAT?!" Kuwabara bellowed, receiver nearly cracking under his hard hand. "Why the hell didn't you tell me I'd get a freakin' portal sword someday, Genkai?! And if you knew my powers would come back, why didn't you say something? I was freaking out over here!"

"I'm not an oracle, Kuwabara," Genkai snapped. "I'm as surprised by the nature of your evolution as you are. And I didn't tell you my suspicions about your powers because it would have only added pressure that would hinder their reawakening." Satisfied by his silence and (rightfully) sensing that he'd been somewhat placated by this answer, Genkai lowered her voice back to its usual growl. "I sensed your abilities had gone dormant both to recover from the stress of the Tournament and because, like an egg about to hatch, they needed time and space to develop. Sensing a friend in danger was the catalyst for their resurrection." He could practically hear her smirking, and he could definitely hear when her teeth clamped around the stem of her pipe. "How very in-character for you, to develop a new power to benefit a friend."

"A friend," Kuwabara repeated. "Right."

He said nothing after that, gripping the phone a bit too tightly in uncertain silence. Despite his misgivings about his relationship with Keiko in light of… recent events, he couldn't help but think of her as a friend right then. A friend alone and fighting for her life in some cold and smelly hospital, no less. But he wasn't sure if he liked that he felt that way, and he wasn't sure how to even express that he felt that way, so—

"Kuwabara." Genkai's voice sliced the line like the tines of a sharpened saw. "This might prove an impossible demand, but try your bet not to worry. When it comes to Keiko, all you can do now is wait. If she recovers, she recovers. And if she doesn't…"

Kuwabara sputtered. "You're so heartless sometimes!"

"Oh, don't put words in my mouth," Genkai snarled. "Losing Keiko would be a tremendous loss for you and your former teammates, an incalculable blow to your collective morale—but worrying yourself to death as she fights for her life will accomplish nothing. Neither for you, nor for her." Matter-of-fact as always, Genkai paused to take a puff of pipe. On the exhale she told Kuwabara, "Best save your energy for what comes next—whatever that may be."

"Genkai. I—I've been rude to her." The words came out on a gasp, a desperate admission that made Kuwabara feel better the second that he said it. On its tide he added, "I shouldn't have acted like that. I wouldn't have if I'd known this was coming. I wouldn't—"

"Interesting," Genkai dryly observed. "I wasn't aware that all the ways she hurt you reversed themselves the moment she collapsed. Maybe I should get sick more often. I'd have fewer enemies to worry about if I came down with the flu, judging by your reaction."

"Hey, that's not what I'm saying!" Kuwabara protested.

Genkai growled, a tiger putting a cub in its place. "Your anger is not invalid, Kuwabara," she said, every syllable as hard and unyielding as granite. "And Keiko's brush with death does not absolve her of all the ways she hurt you."

He tried to protest again. Came up short. Hung his head and dragged a hand through his messy hair, muttering: "You really are heartless."

"I'm thinking about you and your wellbeing, dolt," said Genkai. "You're too soft, too forgiving for your own good, and you need to be reminded that your emotions are valid. Your request that she give you space is valid. You aren't obligated to let bygones be bygones simply because she collapsed."

"I hate that you're right." Defeat made his shoulders sag, his head hanging low in surrender. "I hate it."

"And I hate it when people refuse to speak ill of the dead," Genkai retorted. "It's hypocritical."

"She's not dead yet!"

Genkai harrumphed. "You have a good heart, Kuwabara," she said in a timbre much softer than before. She didn't smile often, but Kuwabara heard it in her voice just then—affection and firm admonishment alike, each playing into the other in an endless, warm loop. Genkai told him, "Be kind to Keiko if you must, but do not lose sight of your boundaries in the process. They are worth maintaining, and if Keiko truly cares for you, she will respect them no matter what hardships she's recently endured."

Kuwabara studied the stickers on the payphone. A few were for restaurants. Some were for local bands. Still others were just tags, nonsensical and random. He looked at each in turn before shaking himself awake, telling himself he couldn't lose the thread just yet. Taking a deep breath, Kuwabara forced his shoulders back, raising his head high and proud. Like a man, he thought. Like a real man who doesn't back down from anything, even if it's not very fun.

"You really are the queen of tough love," he said. "Aren't ya, Genkai?"

"Somebody has to knock some sense into you." Genkai huffed, affectionate tone evaporating. "Now tell me. Your Sword, does it—?"

Kuwabara wanted to listen to her. Really, he did. It's just that right then, something flickered in his periphery, and he couldn't help but stop paying attention to Genkai at the sight.

Not that "sight' really covered what he'd perceived, of course.

It felt odd, having his powers back. They'd returned less than an hour prior after vanishing for a full month or so; an adjustment period felt normal, or so it seemed to him. Sensing Yusuke and Kurama's energies had been weird as hell as they all dashed through the portal together, bright spots of pulsing blue and green trailing him through the tunnel he'd sliced in space in time. Even while running around the hospital, he'd sensed them sitting in the waiting room, each of their energy signatures throbbing at the edges with what he assumed was worry. It tasted funny, like the sour tummy you get the night before a big test; what else could it be but worry? Sensing emotions was new to him, though, probably another evolution of his powers rearing its unknown head. He could be wrong about the worry. Suffice it to say, getting used to his abilities again was going to take some work.

But sensing that energy signature a few blocks over? The amber-colored one that popped like a firework on the horizon—a firework he could feel instead of see or hear, brilliantly lit and effervescent?

Sensing that didn't take him any effort or adjustment at all.

Still, though. He held his breath and waited when it died down, trying to figure out if he'd hallucinated that fire-flower of amber light that had bloomed so plainly in his mind's eyes. When it didn't repeat itself right away, he wondered if perhaps his evolved abilities were playing tricks on him. Like when your eyes play tricks on you right after you turn out the lights?

"Kuwabara? Kuwabara!" Genkai was spitting into the phone. "Don't tell me I'm boring you."

"What?" He shook himself. "No, no, that's not it. I just—" Looking over his shoulder at the empty street, he muttered, "I just thought I felt—"

And there it was again, distant but getting closer—another amber flash, another brilliant firework of color and light and energy, this one even brighter than the last. He'd never sensed anything quite like it, and that made its reappearance utterly unmistakable.

And Genkai, quick study that she was, caught on damn fast. "What are you sensing, Kuwabara?" she asked, gravelly tones harsh in the static-strewn connection. "Is it a demon?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted, scanning the sky and street alike with both eyes and his sixth sense. "It's—"

The firework flared again.

This time, something else flared, too.

The second energy signature wasn't anything like the first. If the first was a firework, this was an oil slick set aflame, dark energy boiling with anger and rage and an unmistakable lust for blood. This was black fire, the inverse opposite of the amber plume of power that had lit up his mind's eyes—and to his horror, he realized that he recognized this energy signature. Kuwabara had sensed it before. It had washed over him in a wave of darkness during the Dark Tournament, foul aura accompanied by the roar of a blazing dragon—

It was Hiei, of course.

It was Hiei fighting the amber firework, and by the feel of it, he wasn't pulling any punches.

"Sorry, Genkai, but I gotta go," Kuwabara said. "Something's happening and I don't think it's a good thing."

"Kuwabara, wait—"

But it was no use. Kuwabara had already dropped the phone, not bothering to place it back into its cradle, and started to run. For at least a minute afterward, the phone swayed on the end of its metal cord, connection blaring static into the night's long and unhearing dark.

Then, as it stopped swinging at last, Genkai muttered an emphatic, "Fuck!"

And Kuwabara joins the fray, with some commentary from Genkai! Watch sparks collide with tomorrow's prompt.

A lot of you asked to see Kuwabara, and one person asked for Genkai… and here they are! Genkai remains unflappable as always. I didn't expand on her feelings regarding NQK's collapse because we'll see them in a big way in Lucky Child itself, and I didn't want this to get too repetitive. Let's just say she has some pretty big opinions about it, but you'll see soon enough.

I feel like it'd be way too easy to have Kuwabara just… forgive NQK outright… simply because she got sick? It certainly makes him realize that he shouldn't take her for granted, but at the same time, her sickness doesn't erase his feelings or negate what she did to him. I think Genkai's advice to him was justified and good, or at least that it provides him some much-needed perspective.

Also, Genkai def doesn't hate NQK. Some people think she does because she hasn't always been Keiko's best pal, but really she's just not playing favorites and is harsh in general. So please don't say she hates her, because she doesn't. I'd hope that her deeming Keiko an "incalculable loss" would speak for itself, but…

HUGE THANKS to everyone who commented on the previous chapter. Really glad y'all liked it, and I hope you like this one (and tomorrow's follow up) just as much. These fine folks rock my world: Domitia Ivory, RE Zera, Lalathefox, C S Stars, ladyofchaos, KaiyaAzure, buzzk97, cestlavie, brawltogethernow, Himemiko, xenocanaan, tammwammy9, allyonthewall, RandomR15 and guests.