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2.
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Kimiko is pretty sure she freaked everyone out with her little display, but she can't say she much cares. She wasn't exactly thinking clearly. How could she, when her mind had been turned into an open wound? Or rather, an old wound had been reopened as soon as she unsqueezed her eyes in the middle of that broken table and saw familiar faces bending over her. Her head and her heart had instantly become a suppurating mass of scrambled brain matter, obstructed blood-flow, exploded neurons and short-circuited electrical impulses.
In this universe, Raimundo is still alive.
Everyone is still alive, but it was suddenly being faced with a Rai who acts like himself that did it. He was the first one she lost. His presence here typifies the differences between this universe and her own. She feels like something important has suddenly been returned to its rightful place. A wrongness in her soul has been righted, and she doesn't even need to think about her feelings on the matter. She can't go back to having it be missing. It'd kill her to lose her friends a second time.
After this universe's Master Fung was brought in by Dojo, there was a little parley and then a bigger one that included her and Clay. Clay kept his hand on her shoulder the whole time, as if worried she might fly off the handle and grapple Raimundo and Omi to the ground in a euphoric embrace. There was a lot of discussion, some emotional outbursts (admittedly, mostly from her), all of which culminated in the knowledge that touch would not accidentally implode reality, as the other Kimiko had threatened it would.
Still, she noticed how Raimundo offered to go with their Clay to fetch some replacement clothes rather than stay in the same room as her. She weirds him out; but that's okay, because at least he's still alive. He can be weirded out all he likes, as long as it means he stays alive.
It still hasn't really sunk in yet.
Omi brought her down here to one of the workrooms while their Kimiko gets some clean threads. Being so close to another version of herself is pretty freaky, too, thanks for asking. She does what they've all fallen to doing in order to deal with bad feelings – her team, her friends, her family and herself. She tries to run through some training exercises to clear her head, but halfway through ends up just kicking stuff around and hurting herself. Her shoulder was dislocated in that last fight. Clay popped it back in while Dashi shielded them, but it's stiff and sore, and her belly has several deep scratches from the Shade's claws. Her knuckles are the usual mass of cuts and contusions. She rubs them absently, poking at scabs so that prickles of pain run down her arm and ascertain that, yes, she's awake, and no, this isn't a dream.
Eventually she sits down, propping her back against a wall.
She must dose off, because the next thing she knows, the other Kimiko's face is three inches from her own. The other girl jumps back guiltily, holding up an armload of clothing like it's a shield. Her hair is a startling shade of hot pink. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."
"Yeah, well, you did. I'm a light sleeper." Kimiko nods at the clothes. "Are those for me?"
"Uh, yeah. I wasn't sure what you'd like – I mean, what the fashions are in your world, so I brought a selection and figured you could mix and match."
Kimiko reaches for a pair of stonewash jeans, rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger. "Something clean that doesn't smell like old herbs and smoke would be a step up. Oh, and no bloodstains. That'd be nice. Other than that, I'm easy."
The other Kimiko has gone very still. She plays with the corner of a string top that's not too far removed from her hair colour. "We're … you're really not much like me, are you?"
"I honestly hope not. Hey, is that a taffeta ball gown?" Kimiko pulls herself to her feet, pointing.
"Huh? Oh, yeah."
"Did you wear that to the dance with Hikaru Mako?"
"Yeah. We couldn't get dates, so we - "
"Went with each other. Yeah, I know." There's a loaded pause. "I guess our universes do have some things in common."
"I guess," the other Kimiko says uncomfortably.
"I'll take the black Capri paints and red halter-neck."
"Sure. You … you want me to turn around while you change? Or I can get a screen. If you'd like."
An astringent smirk, sour as vinegar, curls up the corners of Kimiko's mouth. "I think the phrase 'you don't have anything I haven't seen before' has never been more relevant, has it?"
The other her smiles, too. It's softer. Everything about her is softer, like a fat little puppy. Even her eyes seem more liquid. "I suppose not."
Without further ado, Kimiko starts to strip. Her clothes crackle a little as they come away, made tough with old sweat and dirt. Brownish flakes come off when she peels her top over her head. She refuses to think whose blood that could be.
She can feel the other girl's eyes on her as her ribs are exposed, all clearly articulated and distinct, protruding like half a dozen slim book spines. She hears the gasp when she reveals her shoulder, which is a horrible purple-black, the skin bloated. To her credit, the other Kimiko's gasp is just a small one, and she doesn't ask where the injuries came from. Kimiko knows she's quite scarred in places from all their fights with the Shade, but a resolute silence hangs over proceedings.
When she's down to her underwear she stops, regarding the neatly folded pants and halter-neck. "I think … I'd like to get clean."
"Oh, a bath? I can run that - "
"No, not a full bath. Just a bowl of water and a cloth. Please."
The other Kimiko bites her lip, but does as she's bid – sort of. She returns fifteen minutes later with a washing up bowl full of hot water, three luxuriant towels, several flannels and a toiletry bag of shampoos, conditioners and other lotions and potions Kimiko herself used to use before she stopped caring how she looked. She regards these things with distaste. All she wants is to get clean, not smell like a beauty shop reject.
The gulf between who she is and who she used to be has never seemed wider than when confronted with a Kimiko who does still care.
"Kneel down," the other Kimiko says, setting the stuff on the floor and tossing one of the towels over the doorframe so that no prying eyes can look in.
"I can wash mysel-"
"Just kneel down, okay? It's … you look pretty banged up. I brought a medikit. I didn't think you wanted any of the monks from the Infirmary over here, but your injuries need attention. It'll be easier this way."
Kimiko realises she's still massaging her knuckles and stops. "I don't need you to take care of me," she bites out, less a fat little puppy than a snarling stray dog. "I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself."
"Yeah, and you look like you've been doing a great job, too." There's tentative humour there, a sort of gentle mocking Kimiko remembers she used to use a lot. When did she stop that? When did her voice get so hard it snaps uncomfortably against her palette when she talks? She shrugs the thought away and refocuses on the skinny little girl across from her.
The other Kimiko has her hands on her hips; legs akimbo, a real 'don't argue with me or I'll slap the tartar off your teeth' pose that's completely at odds with her nervous tone. The pose is disturbingly familiar. Kimiko is almost certain she used to stand just like that when one of the boys was being dumb.
She heaves a great sigh and sinks down, folding her knees underneath her.
They work in silence for a while. Sometimes Kimiko hisses when an open cut is dabbed, or a bruise is poked, or old breaks Dashi couldn't completely magick away protest at the attention. The other Kimiko's touch is feather-light. There is a nimble, nervous proficiency to her movements. She's no dawdler. Idleness breeds thoughts, and neither of them really wants to dwell too long on how completely surreal – even by their standards – this whole situation is.
Somewhere in this temple, Clay is probably getting the same kind of treatment. Kimiko thinks of him stripping off his shirt, wonders if he'll explain the big splurge mark where Jack's body hit that bog and washed bloody sludge over them. Even if they offer him a new hat, he won't accept it. His hat is special. It's the one he popped over Omi's head as a joke whenever he got too serious – which was most of the time by the end.
She dreams, sometimes, when she isn't really asleep, of curling the unbroken fingers of her left hand around Omi's and hanging onto him with superhuman strength, so he can't run in front of Master Dashi and throw himself at the oncoming Shade. Omi never saw the end of the Big Battle – the one that was supposed to finish things but did nothing more than demolish the temple. His sacrifice was rather pointless, and something Kimiko will never be able to forgive Dashi for, even though the rational part of her brain knows he didn't order Omi to do that. The little guy always did have an over-inflated sense of duty.
The Omi in this universe is still alive, too. She hugs this thought to her like an old teddy bear, warm and comforting. He's alive, he's safe, and he isn't living each day in preparation for one last battle with the creature that stole his best friend from him -
Kimiko jolts abruptly, knocking the sponge from her doppelganger's hand. "The Shade!"
"Hey!"
But she's not listening. A thought has occurred to her, something she could kick herself for not realising earlier. This world's Omi and Raimundo and Master Fung are still alive. This world hasn't been ravaged by the Shade's singular quest to wipe them out. The Shen Gong Wu of this world are still in perfect working order. Time has passed, just as in her world, but things are different here.
But how different?
She clambers jerkily to her feet.
"Hey, sit down – you … what? What is it?"
"I need to find Master Fung."
"What? Why?"
"You're all in very great danger."
"Who, us? Tell me something I don't know. Every bad guy on the planet wants a piece of us since we - "
"Not from them. From something worse. I have to talk to Master Fung. I have to warn him – he can do research. He can stop it from happening here."
"Hey, what? Wait! You can't go running off like that! You're not decent!"
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