Fear Itself by iamzuul

Index

Chapter 1: Section One
Chapter 2: Section Two
Chapter 3: Section Three
Chapter 4: Section Four
Chapter 5: Section Five
Chapter 6: Section Six
Chapter 7: Section Seven
Chapter 8: Section Eight
Chapter 9: Section Nine
Chapter 10: Section Ten
Chapter 11: Section Eleven
Chapter 12: Section Twelve

Chapter 1: Section One

“...the only thing we have to fear is fear itself -- nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.”

Franklin D. Roosevelt, first inaugural address — March 4, 1933

SECTION ONE

It was still technically day, although the light of the setting sun had turned the sky into a painting of fire - gold before them and the black of a void behind them, a mingling of darkness and light filtering through the canopy above. Sometimes, Zenon thought a good way to describe the scene of a setting sun was death - death of a life, flaring briefly in a pathetic struggle to survive, before finally being overcome by oblivion.

Damn, Zenon thought. That was morbidly poetic.

Maybe hanging around Homura so much was starting to have an ill effect.

Nah. An effect, certainly, but not an ill one.

The one-eyed god flicked the ashes from the tip of his cigarette, resting his hand lightly on a nearby tree. No one could ever call Homura normal — completely putting aside the fact that he was a heretic and wanted to destroy the current regime of Heaven, the half-god Zenon traveled with was anything but common. No, to call him that would be like saying the War Prince was sub-par. Homura was...

He tried not to think too much into the reasons behind giving his loyalties to Homura. Thinking too much brought up entirely too painful memories — memories that he would give a piece of himself up to get rid of. Had given a piece of himself up to get rid of, although the results had been somewhat less than gratifying. He followed the prince because he no longer had purpose in life. He followed because he knew the other man could bring an end to Heaven and their hypocritical ways. He followed because Homura was charismatic, powerful, and capable of swaying an army to his side with nothing more than his words. He followed Homura because...

Zenon put the cigarette to his lips and closed his remaining eye.

Because, had my son lived, he would have been shunned by Heaven as a heretic as well.

If his son had lived, he would have been proud — more than proud — if the boy had grown up to be anything like Homura. He wondered, sometimes, if the younger god knew Zenon followed because he saw, in those strangely colored eyes, the ghost of the son he once had. If the War Prince did know, he never showed the signs of that knowledge. Zenon was eternally grateful for that.

“Homura.”

The dark-haired man turned slightly, just enough that Zenon could see the barest sliver of a blue eye. He had been staring down at the village beneath them for the better part of an hour now — he was used to the heretic god’s odd habits, and had learned how to reign in his impatience at doing nothing for hours on end, but right now he was grateful for Shien’s quiet interruption. He was starting to run out of cigarettes.

Shien shifted where he stood to Zenon’s left, the silk of his ribbons hissing against the shoulders of his robe. In the light of the setting sun he looked sickly, the hollows of his cheekbones and eyes cast into shadow. “What business awaits us in the village below, Homura?” the god asked.

No matter how long he had known the other man, Zenon would always be surprised at how observant Shien was. He saw everything in the world around him, even with his eyes closed. Zenon envied that, sometimes. Had he been more observant, he might have been able to change more things in his past.

But the past was just that: past. He couldn’t do anything to change it now.

Homura turned away again, the ends of his cloak billowing in the light breeze that touched the cliff they stood upon. “Do you know what lies west of here?” he asked, the melodious tenor of his voice both curious and bored.

He’s in a thoughtful mood tonight, Zenon thought. What brought it on this time, he wondered?

“West?” Shien echoed with a touch of confusion.

Zenon smirked and took another drag from his self-proclaimed cancer stick (As if gods can die from lung cancer — hah!), exhaling heavily through his nose. “India,” he replied lazily.

The look he received from Homura was gently sardonic. He chose not to notice.

"That would be the obvious answer." The tall god looked back towards the valley they stood over. The village beneath them was silent - much too far away for the hustle and bustle of daily lives to reach them. It was easy for the one-eyed god to imagine what it might look like up close, from the top of a roof, from a street corner... all villages and cities looked the same after a time. Especially after seeing them over and over again for five hundred years. Remarkably little had changed in all that time. "But no. That's not what I meant."

Shien stepped forward into the meager light; the dappled shadows from the trees overhead cast an eerie pattern across the pale face, but the dying sun’s rays could not pierce the shadows where his eyes lay. "Then please elaborate, Homura. What does lie west of here?"

The god did not answer right away. While normally he was tactfully direct and did not beat around the proverbial bush, Homura could also be aggravatingly indirect when he chose to be. He would tease and hint and deliberately herd one towards the answers without actually giving any of those answers himself. That was how he had approached Zenon with the initial idea of overthrowing the Heavens; it had all started with a theoretical question — Can the Earth survive without a Heaven? — and from there he had occasionally thrown out scraps to keep the curiosity raised from that discussion from ever being swept aside.

That was how he dealt with the Sanzo party as well — he stated that he wanted to destroy the Heavens, left the bait, and waited for the others to search for the answer of just how he was going to do that. Made them find the answers themselves. They didn’t understand yet, and that was good; the boy, Son Goku, was no where near strong enough yet to help them create that perfect world. Zenon could admit, to himself at least, that he wasn’t even sure he himself was strong enough for the task that awaited them. Too many doubts and fears plagued his inner soul. He didn’t know just how those doubts might affect the battle to come.

But there was only one reason the one-eyed god could think of that would attract Homura to the town below them.

When the man in question did not reply, Zenon sighed and squashed the remains of his cigarette on the bark of the tree he leaned against. "The Sanzo party's in that village, huh?"

Homura only shrugged indifferently, the motion of one shoulder rising and lowering making the chains around his wrists jangle impatiently. "Yes."

"Shall we... intercept them tonight?" Shien's voice was cool and even, level, never inclined to reveal anything he might be feeling. Was he excited about another fight with the reincarnated gods, Zenon wondered? Or was he bored to death, tired of playing with them the way a cat might play with a mouse?

Truth was he was getting pretty exhausted with this game. He wanted to get the damn scripture and just get it over with. He wanted to finally give his family their revenge. He wanted the burning in his brain, behind his eye, to go away. More than anything, he wanted Heaven — and its pathetic population of hypocritical bastards — gone. Especially the king bastard of them all, the Jade Emperor. What he would give to see that pompous ass begging Zenon for his life. Squealing for mercy.

That was an honor that would likely go to Homura. But he lusted for the sight all the same.

"No."

Zenon sighed. It was no matter. They would get the scripture eventually. They had all the time in the world.

"Then... what shall we do?" Shien asked.

The sun highlighted Homura’s dark hair as he turned toward them, a slight smile twisting his lips. His chains rattled fiercely in the motion. "Have you ever eaten the divine peach of the Merciful Goddess?"

Shien shifted again, a silent shadow at Zenon’s side. "It is said that we gods partake of the divine fruit when our souls have attained nirvana," he said. "However, I am uncertain if that time occurs at the beginning of our lives as gods, or at the end. Regardless, they are fiercely guarded, for merely the nectar of the flowers is said to give long life, and a single bite of fruit, immortality."

Homura's smile widened. "An incredible feat, don't you think? Immortality granted by a mere plant. And yet it only makes sense, considering how many plants can bring death with just the prick of a thorn." He glanced over his shoulder, smile fading, back towards the village so many miles away. "There are many different kinds of death. One lies west of here, in the harmless form of a plant. Death in dreams."

"And this is what awaits the Sanzo party?"

The heretic chuckled slightly, one gold eye sliding towards the blind god who stood before him. "Yes."

Well, that was an interesting way to die. But Homura wouldn’t let a plant kill the boy; Zenon knew that for a fact. This was another one of his tests, putting the party through the hoops before deciding they were ready for the final challenge. If it were to go his way, Zenon would just steal the itan away and toughen him up in a quicker fashion, rather than with this slow, endless teasing. However, the boy would probably resist harder if they did that. This way, while he was still with his friends, he thought he was fighting against Homura and serving a greater purpose. He had no idea that fighting for Homura would serve a greater purpose still... and get rid of that pesky Gyumaoh problem to boot.

“A plant’s going to find it a bit hard to kill these folks,” he said baldly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“I know.” Homura did not turn to face his followers again, keeping his eyes on the dark mass past the village, on the horizon, that indicated a forest. The dying fire of the sun turned the distant treetops a muted gold. “I will be disappointed if they fall victim to this adversary.”

Beside him, Shien tilted his head slightly. "Then... what is the purpose of this plant?"

“What else?” Zenon could hear the smile in the heretical god’s voice, and smiled with him. One way or another, Homura would get what he wanted — what they all wanted. Whether the Heavens wanted it or not. Whether the seiten taisei wanted it or not.

“To make them face their fears,” Homura said quietly. “To make them stronger.”

---

All he wanted was silence. The kind of silence that excluded human voices. The kind of silence that, even if it was filled with bird song or trees rustling - or, god forbid, rain - was vastly preferable to the sound of two retarded demons (well, one-quasi-demon and a half, if he wanted to get technical) squabbling over jerky in the backseat.

Didn't they eat before we left?

"Goddamnit, did you just spit on that?!"

"It's mine, jackass, so I can spit on it if I want to!"

"The hell it is! That's for all of us! Didn't your monk ever teach you to share?"

Hakkai smiled widely beside him, far too happy with the world at large to be perturbed by the scene in the back of the jeep. "They're active rather early, don't you think?"

Sanzo grunted, closing his eyes and thrusting his hands up his sleeves. One palm rested lovingly on the butt of his pistol. "I'm about ready to deactivate them. Permanently."

"Have you even thought about saving some of that for lunch, monkey boy?"

"Why? Didn't you say you lived on cigarettes and beer?"

"Yeah, but that shit'll only last for so long. You need a little variety in your life. You know, red-heads, brunettes, blondes..."

Sanzo's finger twitched on the trigger of said pistol.

"Don't you ever think about anything besides women?"

"Don't you ever think about anything besides food and beating up demons? You could use a little spice in your life, monkey. I swear, I've never seen your libido extend past meat buns and fried noodles. And to think you spent all those years stuck in a building with nothing but men - you should have picked up something. Unless, of course, Sanzo - "

Said pistol was out and clicking between Gojyo's teeth before Hakkai could think to stop the monk.

"Finish that sentence and die," Sanzo hissed.

Goku burst out in laughter, one arm wrapped around his stomach and the other clutching a piece of half-gnawed jerky. He appeared oblivious to the undercurrents of the conversation. "Shit, Gojyo! You look like you just pissed yourself!"

"Try not to get any blood on the upholstery, Sanzo," Hakkai warned cheerfully.

The redhead mumbled something that was understandably slurred due to the gun between his lips. Sanzo sat back and turned around in his seat, wiping the barrel off on his sleeve. "What did you say?"

"I said that gun must be some kind of penis extension for you. Why else would you shoot it off and stick it in people's mouths all the time? When was the last time you got laid, man?"

Hakkai sighed and leaned his head back, resigned to the fact that he was likely to go deaf in his left ear (both from gunshots fired way too close and from Sanzo's preference for raunchy insults) before too much longer. He couldn't help but smile, despite the screaming issuing from the back seat.

"Looks like it's going to be another one of those days, eh, Hakuryuu?"

"Kyuu!"

---

Lunchtime usually brought its own share of problems, but Gojyo was still stinging from the number of close calls he had with Sanzo's gun. Instead of causing more mischief, the redhead had chosen to park himself against a tree by Hakkai, hands linked lazily behind his head as he watched his cigarette smoke dissipate into the sky. Despite Gojyo’s decided lack of interaction with Goku, Hakuryuu kept his master safely between himself and the half-demon. He had probably received a few too many close calls with Sanzo’s gun himself.

"Do you think the innkeeper was lying?" Goku asked around a mouthful of ramen.

Hakkai lowered his chopsticks, glancing over at the younger man. The older gentleman who ran the inn they stayed at had been quite frightened about the rumor of demons prowling the woods around the small village - and indeed, it was a story corroborated by many townsfolk. Tales of people disappearing in the middle of the night, with no sign of a struggle - younger people, in those cases - or vanishing during the journey between this village and the one further west, which was only a day away on foot, never to be seen again. Everyone was certain that demons haunted these woods - and yet Hakkai could not be certain he sensed any demonic presence. All the same... something about these woods felt... off.

"I don't know," he said finally. "These are frightening times. Anything that goes wrong could possibly be blamed on non-existent demons."

Goku set aside his empty bowl and leaned his elbows on his knees, expression both intense and innocently curious. "So you don't sense anything either?"

"These are awfully dense woods." Gojyo removed a hand from behind his head, pulled his cigarette out from between his teeth, and gestured widely around the small group. They had pulled over at the side of the path, where the road had widened enough to allow light through the branches overhead. Trees and underbrush ruled every place except for where the packed dirt of the path ran, casting dark shadows even during the height of day. Kudzu vine thickened the mixture, the impossibly large leaves giving what little sunlight that made it through the trees a sickly green cast. Visibility was compromised only a few feet into the forest. "If anyone was to wander off the main track they'd probably be lost for days. Depending on how large the forest is, they might never find their way back to the path."

Sanzo stubbed out the remains of his cigarette against his bowl, pulling out another from the ever-present pack in his back pocket. He placed the new one between his lips without lighting it. "How does that explain the people vanishing in the dead of night?"

"Trysts." The half-demon tapped away some ashes and leaned back on his free hand. "Just some kids heading out for some midnight nookie and getting lost on their way back. Probably got ate by a bear or something. Besides, the guy said that hasn't happened for a couple of months."

"That would explain the lack of youryoku." Hakkai offered the remainder of his lunch to the small dragon at his side, which was enthusiastically accepted. "And if there really were demons in these woods, they probably would have been seen... and left evidence of their kills."

"Most aren't smart enough to bother hiding the bodies," Gojyo agreed.

Goku didn't look entirely convinced, but he had always been overly eager to engage in fights. Hakkai would have thought the boy would get enough from constantly bickering with Gojyo - but then again, he couldn't actually kill the water demon...

"Regardless." The blonde priest fished out his lighter and touched the flame to the end of his cigarette, inhaling deeply. He snapped closed the Zippo and stashed it back in his robe. "We aren't here to play hero. We're just going through the damn woods. If we happen to run across any demons, we'll take care of them. Otherwise it's not our problem."

“For once I’m in agreement with you.” With a sigh the red head pushed himself to his feet, bracing himself against the tree. “I don’t really feel like going back to that town — the bar had piss-poor beer. The waitresses weren’t exactly hot, either.”

“I dunno... I thought the sukiyaki was pretty good. Wouldn’t mind some of it right now...”

“Damnit, monkey! Don’t you dare start whining about food right after you’ve eaten!”

“But Sanzo, that wasn’t even a real meal!”

Hakkai smiled up at Gojyo as he pushed himself to his feet, the empty bowls of their meal stacked in one hand. “Time to get going,” he said cheerfully over the sounds of Sanzo harassing Goku with his harisen.

“Yup.” The half-demon stuck the cigarette back in his mouth and squinted up at the canopy. “You know, this place may be harmless enough, but it still weirds me out. I’d like to get out of here as quickly as possible.”

“Agreed.” Hakkai sent Hakuryuu back to the road, and dragon obligingly transformed back into his jeep form. “I can’t sense any demons, but I do think I sense something. Either we’re not close enough yet, or it’s disguising its presence.”

Sanzo managed to deliver one more swat before Goku ran for the safety of Hakuryuu’s backseat. He stuffed the fan back up his sleeve and glanced towards the other two. “There is something in here, make no mistake of that. But like I said, we’re not here to play hero. We keep moving unless whatever it is gets in our way. We should reach the edge of the forest in an hour or two.”

“Coupla hours, huh?” Gojyo linked his hands behind his head and made his way towards the awaiting jeep. “The next town we run into better have some damn good beer to make up for the suckiness of this last pit stop. So let’s get going, shall we?”

---

Coupla hours, huh? Fuck. Should have figured something would go wrong.

Gojyo leaned his head back against the rough bark of the tree, struggling to bring his breathing back to a controllable level. His hands were slick with sweat, making it difficult to maintain a good grip on his shakujou.

He still wasn’t entirely sure what was happening — the attack had occurred so quickly that he’d barely had time to whip his weapon out of the dimensional limbo he was just demonic enough to access. Not that he hadn’t had the time to assess the situation: he’d sensed the flash of searing whip, seen Homura’s mocking smile, heard the retort of gunfire that was far too fast to be Sanzo. The strange part was the absolute lack of banter. No “I’m here for the sutra and nice enough to give you another chance to give it up willingly,” or “Are you strong enough yet, Son Goku?” Just a textbook ambush, weapons out and guns firing willy-nilly.

Gojyo had sensed them in just enough time to avoid the initial gun fire. An unnatural rustle of branches, the sudden silence of the insects, his sixth sense raising the hairs on the back of his neck — something, he wasn’t sure what. Goku had probably smelled them coming — monkey boy had been out of the seat even before he managed to tumble onto the road. Sanzo and Hakkai...? He didn’t know. He’d heard Sanzo’s cursing and the distinctive firing of his pistol for quite some time, as well as Hakkai’s chi blasts, but Gojyo had been dodging trees and gunfire and kudzu vines for so long that he had no clue how far away he was from the path.

Fuck.

He held his breath, taking a moment to wipe the palm of one hand on the leg of his jeans, struggling to listen past the rapid-fire beating of his heart in his ears. Nothing — not the sound of approach or bird song, or even branches rustling together in a breeze. Absolute silence.

“Creepy,” he muttered.

Well, first thing was first: he needed to get back to the path. Which, he supposed, was easier said than done; the forest was so dense that sunlight only barely managed to filter through, lowering visibility to something akin to twilight. He also wouldn’t be able to make a move without touching something — if Zenon hadn’t lost track of his target, then he’d be able to find said target quickly enough once it started moving again.

And, to make matters worse, Gojyo wasn’t entirely sure which direction the path lay. Behind him, obviously, but ‘behind’ covered an awfully large area.

Guess I shouldn’t have made those cracks about villagers getting lost and eaten by bears, huh?

He transferred his weapon to the other hand, wiping his free hand off and fishing out his pack of cigarettes and lighter. One deep inhalation of nicotine and he felt at least mildly capable of taking on a god again. Probably wasn’t the best for his lungs, but it was that or his nerves. You only needed one lung to survive anyways, right?

Gojyo pushed himself off the tree and turned around, tensed to begin another cross-country dash if Zenon hopped out from behind a bush and starting firing again.

Something stung his calf, and immediately began to itch something awful.

“Damn bugs —“

Abruptly his sight tilted, and Gojyo lost his cigarette when he flung out one arm to try and regain his balance. The tree he was aiming to lean against seemed very far away... but hadn’t he just stepped away from it? Breathing was suddenly difficult — a band constricting his lungs, squeezing his throat to the width of a straw — and the itching on his calf turned to burning turned to fire turned to fucking agony. Like something was eating his leg.

The world tilted in the other direction, and between one blink and another Gojyo found himself on the forest floor, sprawled out against the coarse tangle of rubbery vines and broad hairy leaves — When did that get there? — and biting his lip to avoid screaming at the fire burning through his veins.

He decided that he didn’t particularly like the idea of breathing with only one lung. But then the light dimmed, and he didn’t have to worry about breathing anymore.

Back to index

Chapter 2: Section Two

Hakkai had lost his dragon, and he wasn’t particularly pleased about that. Especially since he thought Hakuryuu had taken a bullet during the first few seconds of the ambush, and he wasn’t too sure how a wound in jeep form would affect the gentle creature. Either way, he had left the dragon on the path to their destination and hadn’t been able to get back to the road since. That didn’t make him too happy.

Neither was he thrilled at having lost contact with his comrades. He couldn’t hear Sanzo’s pistol anymore, or Gojyo’s cursing, or Goku’s ultimately unnecessary but comforting battle screams. He hadn’t seen any of them for at least ten minutes, immediately after exiting the jeep and entering the underbrush, and hadn’t heard them for well over three minutes. And it was obvious to him that he was being herded away from the path — every time Hakkai made to move back the way he came, zigzagging as it had been, Shien would appear and snap his whips. Said whips were too strong for Hakkai to shield against and run away from at the same time, and so retreating only made sense in that situation. Especially since the god would disappear once he starting moving again. It was an excellent example of divide and conquer, and that wasn’t something Hakkai particularly liked — not when he was the one being divided, anyways.

No, he wasn’t happy that he’d lost his dragon, his friends, and his freedom of movement. But what really ‘cooked his goose’, as Gojyo would say, was that he had just lost his monocle.

Today just hasn’t been my day, has it?

Nothing moved in the jungle of plants around him, not even the wind. The air had quickly become stifling, thick and heavy and humid. Hakkai had been resting long enough to get his breathing under control again, but breathing itself seemed just that tad too difficult — like a suffocating weight was resting on his chest. The right side of his vision was hopelessly blurred, turning the surrounding forest into a mishmash of indistinct greens and browns, and he knew he wouldn’t have the chance to react if Shien attacked from that direction.

He leaned to his left, peering around the tree he was resting against. The bark was dry and rough against his palms, and smelt like clean earth and leaf mold. There was nothing back the way he came except for trees, more trees, the strangling density of underbrush, and the dark green vines of the kudzu. The damn thing was everywhere, he had noticed, woven through the canopy like a strange tapestry; he wondered why it hadn’t smothered more trees and allowed sunlight into the darkness beneath the canopy. His tree was one of the few that hadn’t been buried beneath the thick vines and broad, spade-shaped leaves. But regardless of how innocuously quiet the woods appeared, somewhere back there the god was hiding - seeing everything through closed eyes, apparently content to allow Hakkai to stay where he was but ready to attack the instant the demon tried to rejoin his comrades.

Hakkai shifted slightly and rested his forehead against the bark of the tree, closing his eyes. He could only think of one reason for Homura to try this tactic — to separate Sanzo from the others and capture the monk’s sutra. Sanzo was tough, but his pistol had no direct affect against a god, and Hakkai wasn’t too sure the Maten-kyomen could work against anything other than demons. It probably wouldn’t take much effort for Homura to just reach out and pluck the scripture away.

And there was also Goku. Goku would fight to the death to protect Sanzo, and there were only two other gods besides Homura. Zenon could only hold off one person, and Hakkai highly doubted that god would try squaring off with Goku. No, Zenon was probably keeping Gojyo occupied, leaving Homura with the two people he obviously enjoyed toying with the most. But for what reason? Was he here to goad the golden-eyed boy with more “Become stronger” lines, or would he possibly try to kidnap the youth (again)? Or at the very worst... kill him?

Hakkai frowned and straightened, his bangs catching against the bark. One thing was certain — he needed to get back to the path, to where this damn ambush had started, to where his friends might need his help. The silence unnerved him something awful; he wished he could hear something other than the sound of the branches overhead rubbing against each other, even if it was nothing more than the irritating chirr of a beetle. He didn’t like the idea of Gojyo or Sanzo lying somewhere in this green emptiness, maybe bleeding to death, desperately needing his help —

Well, that decided it. He had to find a way to slip past Shien and get back to the path. If he had to let a few hits get through his barrier in order to keep moving, he would just have to deal with the pain. He would rather die than let any of his friends get hurt because he wasn’t trying hard enough to get past an obstruction.

Hakkai leaned to his left again to peer around the tree, hoping Shien had possibly gotten bored of this game and left.

Instead, he almost put his eye out on a kudzu leaf.

He jerked backward out of reflex, awkwardly focusing on the broad, pale leaf. It stirred slightly in the breeze, larger than both his hands put together. The dark vine it sprouted from clung tightly to the bark of the tree, tiny roots seeping into the crevices and hanging on with an iron-like grip. In fact, the whole tree was suddenly covered with the stuff, except for the side he was on, drowning out the mottled brown of the trunk with a sea of hairy green foliage.

What the hell?!

Hakkai took a slow step backwards, pulling away from the tree without actually removing his hands from the bark. The silence only seemed to wrap closer around him — nothing else was moving except for him and the sudden growth of kudzu, the leaves of which shifted and stirred against each other with the currents of air.

Except there was no breeze — his hair stuck to his neck and forehead with sweat, and never once did a breath of air drift by to cool him. The kudzu was moving by itself.

This is it, he realized suddenly. This is the not-presence I’ve been feeling ever since we entered the forest. It’s not a demon, it’s a plant. They’re alive, but not sentient — they act purely on instinct, the instinct to survive, with no thoughts or emotions...

A thin tendril with pale green leaf buds slithered down the trunk, moving with the gawky quickness of a growing plant on fast-forward. Every few inches it seemed to pause, and the buds would sprout, expanding into new leaves that began to turn and shift as though looking for the sun. One bud lengthened to a spear of tiny buds almost six inches long before it split and revealed the delicate purple petals of dozens of blossoms, which were quickly hidden by the larger leaves. The scent of grapes strongly assaulted his nose.

How fast did he have to move in order to escape this thing? Did it react to sudden movements? How did it sense him? Shit, how the hell could he get away from it? It was everywhere!

Hakkai slowly began to pull his hands away from the tree. The kudzu vine got there first, bursting into vicious growth, wrapping around his right wrist in one lightning fast movement. He immediately jerked back against it, and the thin vine offered no resistance, snapping instantly.

Then the whole plant came alive.

Hakkai turned and ran without another thought. A chi blast would probably be quite effective at this point, but summoning up his waning reserves of energy would slow him down, and slowing down would get him caught by that thing. What the hell was it? Some kind of demented cousin of the ninjingka? Even the ninjingka tree had given off more spiritual sense than this mutated vine, but if the thing that hissed and roared behind him like a miniature waterfall was anything like that cursed plant, he didn’t really want to stick around for lunch. Or dinner, or any other meal, actually. He liked his chi right where it was, thankyouverymuch.

He didn’t have a chance to go very far before he fetched up against a writhing sea of green spade-shaped leaves, a nest of rubbery vines that extended past his vision on either side and surged all the way up into the canopy. He couldn’t get past it, or around it; there was no point in running from something when he was so effectively blocked off. So he reached down into his chi, touched the point of light deep inside that crackled with restrained energy, and let it flow through his veins and nerves and fingers into the palm of his hand.

The effect of a chi blast was actually quite successful. The vines seemed to disintegrate at the slightest touch, leaving a large hole where a green wall had once resided, blackened edges smoking in a decidedly pleasing manner. Hakkai never once paused in his gait, never paused to catch his breath, for that thing was still hot on his heels, hissing like a distressed serpent; he ran, reached the edge of the smoking hole, made to jump through —

Something heavy collided with his back and head and bore him to the ground. Leaves and sticks and writhing vines pillowed his impact, and darkness surrounded him. He was pinned by something large and only barely yielding, allowing him to struggle but not get up. He couldn’t get his hands underneath him to push himself up — he could find no purchase on the vines below. They twisted and slid beneath his hands, curled around his fingers. He could feel one particularly large vine wrap around his thigh and squeeze, cutting off the circulation to his leg.

Jesus Christ — the damn thing fell on me!

He tried to gather his chi again, to blast the darkness in front of him to smithereens, to at least get a chance to sit up, but something stung his shoulder, a sting that rapidly escalated from an itch to a burn that swept through his back like a wave of fire. There was another sting, on his thigh, on his wrist, on his stomach, on his right cheek — and when the fire raced over his skull and into his eye and into his brain and burnt him alive on the inside, Hakkai only had enough time to realize

This was what Homura was planning

before oblivion took him away from the pain.

---

There was blood on his robes.

The stench of something long dead was so far up his nose that Sanzo didn’t think he’d ever be able to smell anything else again. Holding his breath didn’t work; eventually his lungs would start to burn and his vision would fade to black at the edges and a high-pitched whine would echo between his ears — but before he could pass out his lungs squeezed tight and forced him to exhale. He would just have to take another breath at that point, no matter how long he forced himself not to. If he didn’t breath through his nose he wouldn’t smell that... that death — but instead would taste it on his tongue, moldy on the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat, and somehow that was much, much worse.

There was blood on his robes, and on his hands, and even if he had the strength to try Sanzo didn’t think he’d be able to wash it all off.

There are many holy names that I could choose for you, Koryuu, but few would carry as much weight as this one. This has been given to many of the men who bore the scriptures, all of them great in their own ways.

How many men, osho-sama?

Thirty, to be exact.

That’s an awful lot of men. Surely only a handful should have carried the scriptures? If it’s been just a few hundred years since the Maten and Seiten scriptures were given to the same caretaker -

Then perhaps only a hundred monks at most could have been the heirs to the five sutras of Heaven and Earth?

Yes.

The weight of the scriptures is a heavy one, Koryuu. A weight... that can be too heavy for some to bear.

How heavy had it been, he wondered, for such a young man to have so many gray hairs on his head? Osho-sama hadn’t been old — not as old as the abbot, anyway — but the lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth did not evince his inclination for smiling so much as they did his mental age. How heavy had the Maten- and Seiten-kyomen been for him, to turn his silky brown hair into a faded mockery of youth? How was he able to keep smiling?

Osho-sama had smiled at everything, even at death. Sanzo had never understood how a simple smile could comfort a man grieving for a wife lost in childbirth, or a woman mourning for a husband lost in battle. Death was final. Death was eternal. Smiling at death did not make everything better.

There was blood splashed over his master’s face, drying in the seams of age around his mouth. Osho-sama wasn’t smiling at death this time.

Something was broken behind his eyes. Something that burned and tickled at the same time, not quite painful enough to break through this... this... emptiness. Nothingness. There was blood sprayed over the tiles of the bedroom like water from a carelessly dropped glass, black as night against the pale robes that tangled over the once graceful form that was now nothing more than a broken doll. Not even the gold crown was free of that... that... stain.

Osho-sama was dead. Dead because of him.

Why had he frozen? Why had his legs turned to ice at the moment his gaze met the slit-pupil eyes that glared through the broken screen? Even if he didn’t have the sutra memorized he could have... have fought, have done something, even if it was as cowardly as running away. He knew how to fight. He knew how to defend himself. Why hadn’t he been able to move?

Why hadn’t osho-sama chosen to recite the sutra, instead of protecting Sanzo’s body with his own?

There was blood on his hands from when the demon had hacked into osho-sama’s frail frame, slicing open the fragile life like a fish to be gutted and thrown aside. He could still feel where it had sprayed on his face, hot as candle wax before it cooled and dried.

I couldn’t save him.

I couldn’t... couldn’t even save myself.

Something was broken behind his eyes, and it burned like fire in his sinuses and down the back of his throat. How could he have failed like this? The one thing that was most precious to him, more important than his own life... was...

Past the broken screen through which the demons had come and gone raged the storm. It had never really stopped, never given a moment’s respite, flooding the compound and battering down the gardens on which the diet of the monks depended. On the pale and shattered rice-paper screening there were muddy tracks from feet both shod and unshod, defiling the room Sanzo had once thought was so sacred. Here was where osho-sama had prayed and taught and slept. Here was where he had lived, and Sanzo had never thought one life’s actions could be so significant, even in the most mundane of ways.

Here was where osho-sama had lived.

Had lived.

Osho-sama was dead.

Koumyou Sanzo was dead.

Dead.

Someone was screaming. Something was burning. Past the rain and lightning and the heart beating in his ears he could hear the sounds of slaughter in the temple halls, the sound of steel striking wood after it had passed through the brittle bones of a neck or an arm, severing limbs, severing lives. Skilled in martial arts the monks might have been, but they couldn’t stand up against these things. Not even osho-sama could.

And he... he hadn’t even tried to stand up to them. He had just... stood there. Frozen. Weak.

The door to the room rattled fiercely when something was thrown against it with a meaty thud, but it did not give way.

Sanzo clenched his hands, felt the dried blood crack and peel away between his fingers and the folds of his palms. They were such small hands. How could he have ever been so bold, so arrogant, as to think that he could hold a life within these hands and keep it from burning out? How could he get up and try to protect the monks outside the walls of this room from the demons who had come back for the Maten scripture if he couldn’t even protect the one thing that mattered most?

Teardrops discolored the sleeves of his robe, and he closed his eyes tightly to prevent any more from escaping.

I couldn’t save him.

Claws scraped against the wooden door, searching for the latch, seeking to draw it open and enter the room. The screaming still hadn’t stopped, but it was further away now, distant, and fainter. It wouldn’t be long before everyone was dead. Including him. Dead like osho-sama. Soon his blood would stain these floors, and wouldn’t that be justice? He had failed to protect his master, failed to protect the Seiten scripture that would eventually become his own. It was only proper that he be punished and have the Maten scripture taken from him as well.

The weight of the scriptures is a heavy one, Koryuu. A weight... that can be too heavy for some to bear.

This burden was too much for such a weak child. He was too weak. Too weak to —

burning in his veins, cramping his muscles, searing his eyes, eating away at his lungs

Sanzo forced his eyes open, staring at his hands. Was that what death would feel like? Instant and quick, there and gone like a lightning bolt before fading into the night, or lingering, painful, and —

couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t feel anything except that searing fire in his gut and the weight against his

eternal

loam and green foliage his cheek was pressed against

forever

fragrant, heady, like grapes

dead.

No.

This wasn’t right. Something wasn’t right.

The door scraped against its tracks as it was slowly dragged open.

Sanzo unclenched his hands and spread his fingers, exposing the half-moon marks where his nails had bit into the skin of his palms. This wasn’t right — the demons hadn’t come back. They had slaughtered Koumyou Sanzo, laughing as their bloodied fingers plucked the Seiten scripture from off the slender shoulders, disappearing back into the rainy night without a promise to return. The Maten scripture had been in the cupboard — osho-sama had asked him to retrieve it just as the icy trickle of youryoku had touched his spine and the demons had broken through the screening.

They hadn’t returned while he was still here. He had taken the Maten-kyomen from the cupboard and left before Koumyou’s blood had even been lifted from the tiles of the once sacred room.

A footstep whispered across the threshold.

Shuuei — Rikudo — he had used the curse of Araya to defeat the demons when they had returned for the Maten scripture. But Sanzo... he had left long before, descending the steps of the mountain and heading off into the woods in the pursuit of justice and revenge. But all the while those demons had been just a step behind him, and now the Kinzan Temple and everyone who had once resided there was gone.

Except for him. And he still had the Maten scripture, despite the numerous attempts of demons to steal it. If he couldn’t protect the Seiten scripture and life of its caretaker, then he damn well wasn’t going to give up this sutra as well.

The Kinzan Temple was gone. He wasn’t here — here didn’t even exist any more. He was... was...

Where was he?

< ...where are you... >

The hissing ring of a sword being removed from its scabbard.

< ...you promised... >

something brushed against his cheek. it smelled like

Where was he, if not here, if not in this accursed nightmare?

grapes

< ...where are you... >

A kudzu blossom.

< ...come find me... >

It was there — just beyond his senses, like a painting at the bottom of lake. This wasn’t the reality. This was the water through which the painting was seen, distorting the truth and twisting the facts into a nightmare far more horrible than reality. The water was turning the truth into a weapon that could be turned against him.

This was nothing more than a trick.

Sanzo clenched his hands again, and this time he could feel the dirt scraping against his fingertips, even if he couldn’t see it. There were vines writhing against his arms, against his neck, and pain blossomed from his stomach. The hissing of the rain outside the screening became the whispering of hundreds of leaves rubbing against each other. His reading glasses were pressed uncomfortably against his sternum.

This place didn’t exist. This room, this bloody fucking nightmare was nothing more than a memory being turned against him. The smell of dirt was real. The sensation of pain was real. The sense of the Maten-kyomen brushing against his ear was real. The blood was not. The rain was not.

The emptiness in his chest quickly filled with the tightness of anger. Someone was going to pay for this.

I failed once by being weak. I will not fail by being weak again!

Sanzo rolled to his right as the invisible attacker brought down the blade, feeling the air being cut apart as the sword whistled only inches from his shoulder. Blood smeared underneath his hands and bare feet as he scrambled to stand, but he forced the sensation away. The blood wasn’t real. The rain pounding overhead wasn’t real. He had to stay focused on the rasp of phantom vines curling across his arms and the scent of grapes from phantom blossoms. That was where he really was.

But the smell of blood was overpowering.

A brief flash of lightning lit up the demon and its cat-like eyes. There were no features on its face, only a dark black mass where a mouth and nose should have been and yet were not. And then there was only a looming figure in the darkness with pale blue eyes that burned with murderous intent. He could see broad shoulders twitch as the demon wrenched its sword out from where it had embedded in the floor, and light from the demonic eyes gleamed dully on the weapon’s polished surface.

He had to find a way to get out of this dream. But how? Sanzo tried desperately to hold on to the other-world sensations, but they slipped away from between his fingers. Fear was replacing the anger that had bubbled up before — he could no longer smell the scent of the kudzu blossom over the death that filled the room.

The demon lurched forward a step, a low growl issuing from its chest.

< ...I'm cold... >

Sanzo backed up a step, slipped in the puddle of congealing blood, recovered himself. He needed a weapon —

His fingers closed around empty air when he reached for his pistol, and for a moment he could only stare, dumbfounded, at his bare arm. Of course; he had not yet received the banishing gun. It was still stored away in a locked closet, where all the weapons that the monks were forbidden to have in the first place were hidden away. In this dream, it did not exist. In this dream, he was still a child, weak and cowardly from his close encounter with death. This dream was not the truth, but neither was it a lie.

Another step brought the faceless attacker to the hem of osho-sama’s robe, and Sanzo could see the clawed toes stand out in sharp relief against the pale silk.

< ...hungry... >

He had to focus on what was real. But what was real? What could he concentrate on to break the hold this dream had on him? What could he use as a weapon?

< ...promised... >

That was it. Goku, he was real — in this dream, he was still locked away in the mountain, calling plaintively in a voice he didn’t even realize he had. Sanzo had first heard him not long after he had descended the mountain, only days after his master’s death, but it had taken him years before the niggling cry in the back of his mind finally drove him to go shut that voice up. And then the boy had looked up at him with those wide, golden, stupid eyes, and he couldn’t find it in him to smack the child. Goku hadn’t even been aware of what he was doing; it didn’t make sense to punish someone who was involved in an action outside of their control.

< ...come find me... >

That was real. Even if it hadn’t actually happened at this point in his memories — though neither the demon he was currently facing nor the slaughter he heard had happened, either — it was a solid truth he could cling to. In his dream, Goku was still out there, and even if he didn’t realize what he was doing, Sanzo could use that voice as a lifeline to reality. It reminded him that there was a way out of this room and nightmare; outside, there was a mission and a team charged with stopping a demonic revival and retrieving a missing sutra. There was a human-turned-demon, a lecherous water sprite, an ageless child, and a magical dragon/jeep waiting outside this dream.

He just had to wake up.

smelled like grapes

The demon chuckled and hefted its sword. Sanzo could make out the oily swirl of blood — osho-sama’s blood? — congealing on the surface that had, only second before, been polished. He continued to back up until his shoulders hit the handles of the cupboard.

leaves hissing together

< ...hurts... >

Wake up, damn you!

winding across his back, brushing the scripture against his neck

< ...come find me... >

That was it.

The sutra. The sutra existed in his dream.

Sanzo whirled around and wrapped his bloody fingers around the pale-grained handles of the cupboard. He could hear the demon’s roar of triumph as he presented his back, a welcome target; even as he threw open the doors he could sense it lurching forward, raising its sword, the crimson-silver blade cutting a deadly arc through the air, the sharpened edge seeking to embed itself in his back. He wouldn’t have enough time to recite the sutra before the blade reached its mark.

< ...found you... >

Light exploded from the darkness between the doors of the cupboard. For an instant, he thought he saw two small hands reaching out towards him from the blinding brightness.

And then Sanzo woke up.

Back to index

Chapter 3: Section Three

Pain was the first thing that registered to his senses — a fire that spread outward from his abdomen and left ashes in its wake. Sanzo was lying on his stomach, and that only seemed to make the pain worse. He tried to open his eyes, but a great weight had descended upon them, pulling them down. It was nothing more than sheer force of will that got them to open even half way, and he nearly lost the fight when the incoming rays of light threatened to blind him.

That was when he noticed the dry, itching mass against his neck and cheek. He raised one hand — muscles trembling, a motion hard-fought and dearly won — to brush the object away. Something brittle crumbled beneath his fingers.

What the fuck happened?

He could still remember the dream, a nightmare in all its ethereal realness. He almost expected to see blood when he opened his eyes, but was more than relieved to see the leaf-strewn floor of a forest instead. But why did he have that dream? Why was he sprawled on his stomach on a forest floor? And why the hell did he feel so weak and drained?

Sanzo put his hand back on the loam and managed to lever himself into a half-sitting position. Branches and dry debris slid off his back and hit the ground with a hissing crash. The leaves were brown and withered beyond recognition, but still attached to the vines they had grown from. One vine had been caught beneath him when he — fell? tripped? — caught on the weave of his robes and —

No. Not caught. Impaled. There wasn’t much blood, but he could see that the robe had been torn by... thorns or something... the vine passing through the silk and the thin leather of his inner shirt. Taking a moment to make sure he wouldn’t fall over once he took away the brace of his arms, Sanzo pulled aside the robe to assess the damage.

Like the rest of the vine, this one was dead; brown and withered, bits of it crumbling away when his hands or clothing brushed against it. Didn’t look any different, either — except for the important fact that it had somehow injured him. He grasped the stalk and gently pulled — pain tore through his abdomen, causing the muscles to spasm. He just gritted his teeth and pulled harder.

The plant tore away from his flesh with a disgusting ripping noise, part of the vine crumbling in his hand. At the end of the vine was a wide sucker that reminded Sanzo of nothing more than the mouth of a leech. With teeth.

He tossed away the dead foliage and braced himself on one arm. So... this thing was somehow the culprit. Vaguely he could remember an attack on the jeep that had driven him apart from Goku, Gojyo, and Hakkai, sending him deep into the forest. He had paused a moment to rest... and then...? The dream. He had no recollection of an attack, only the eerie silence of the forest and the

smells like grapes

strong odor of kudzu blossoms.

And there was the evidence surrounding him: dozens of limp vines and hundreds of withered leaves now littered the forest floor. The canopy overhead had been stripped bare, and above him the face of a full moon lit the new clearing.

His last clear memory was of lunchtime banter. Now the day had already progressed into the dead of night.

“Fuck,” he said. His voice was hoarse and it took too much effort to breathe.

The kudzu vine was somehow alive... mutated or ensorcelled in a way that caused it to attack anyone who entered the forest — like the villagers who had been so certain that a demon haunted the woods. Sanzo wasn’t entirely sure if it had been planning to suck him dry in the same manner as a leech, but he was sure that it had done something to him. Poison was still an option; the burning on his stomach had not ceased with the removal of the sucker, and everything felt sore to the touch. Even his nails hurt. And his vision refused to stay completely focused, blurring unnecessarily at the edges. He felt incredibly, horribly tired.

But Homura was still out there. Where Shien and Zenon were, the war prince ultimately followed. If he didn’t get up, it would only be a matter of time before he was found by either the gods or more of that plant.

To his left lay his discarded shoureijyuu, and he carefully leaned over to pick it up. It was still fully loaded. However the kudzu had come upon him, it had done so too fast for him to react. Apparently he hadn’t even had the time to shoot. So this time he would have to be more careful, and much more alert. Somehow the Maten scripture had been cast while he was in the depths of that surreal nightmare, but he knew he didn’t have the strength to do so deliberately again. At least it hadn’t been stolen from him while he had been under the kudzu vine’s spell. The only weapon he had left to him now was the speed of his feet and the bullets in his gun.

His vision blurred again as he stared at the weapon in his hands, and he absently dug his knuckle into one eye to help alleviate the stinging. His fingers came away wet.

Tears. From that dream.

“Fuck,” he said again, and scrubbed angrily at his eyes and cheeks until he was reasonably sure that no evidence remained.

This wasn’t going to be very pleasant.

---

Sanzo didn’t know how long it took him to get back to the road; once he reentered the darkness of the forest he had no way of telling how much time had passed. So little light seeped through the branches overhead that for a time he was certain he was going in circles, and it was only the fact that he had lost his lighter that kept him from making a torch to help him on his way. That had pissed him off to no small end. He could have used a cigarette right about then.

The kudzu — or whatever it was — had trailed him the entire way. He had heard it creeping along behind him, cautious, careful, but lurking like Goku drooling over a plate of meat buns that Hakkai wouldn’t let him eat, eagerly waiting for a moment of distraction to take advantage of. A few shots from his gun seemed to discourage it from getting too close — it wasn’t as if he could exactly see what he was shooting at, anyway — but neither did it leave him be.

He wondered if it had gotten to his comrades, and whether or not it had already drained them past the point of no return.

They’re demons, he decided, with no small bit of disgust. If I could survive this long against that thing, they should be fine. Goku would probably eat any plant that attacked him, anyways.

Moonlight streamed down on the rutted path, nearly blinding him when he stumbled out from under the canopy. There was no jeep in sight, and no tracks in the dirt to show signs of passage. He had no point of reference. He had no fucking clue where he was.

Sanzo let his legs collapse out from under him and knelt on the road, panting from exertion. He had barely recovered any energy in all the time that had passed.

If I find Homura any time soon, I’m going to chop him into tiny pieces and force-feed him to that kudzu vine.

Something rustled the bushes across from him. He had the banishing gun up and cocked before he saw the streamlined head of Hakkai’s dragon. It keened weakly at him.

Sanzo exhaled sharply and lowered the pistol, resting it against his thigh. Well, at least he wasn’t exactly alone anymore. If Hakuryuu was here, he mustn’t be too far away from where he started. Or from Hakkai. Unless the dragon was as lost as he was, which would really, really suck.

“You know where he is?” he asked. He had always felt a little stupid at the prospect of talking with something that couldn’t talk back, but the dragon obviously understood when Hakkai spoke to it. Trying wouldn’t hurt anything.

The little beast crawled out from under the bushes, creeping across the dirt path like some kind of demented white bat, and craned its head to look past Sanzo. It keened again, gathering its haunches and launching itself into the air before wafting over to the woods where the priest had just come out from.

Fuck. He must have done something very bad in a past life to deserve this kind of hell.

“Are you sure he’s back there?” he asked skeptically, glaring at the dragon over his shoulder.

Hakuryuu only cooed and disappeared into the forest.

Sanzo sighed and pushed himself back to his feet. He had a feeling this was going to be a very long night.

Following the dragon was like running after a ghost; Hakuryuu stood out in the darkness like a luminescent beacon just out of reach. It became apparent to him that he wasn’t going in exactly the same direction as he had come from, which was good, in a way. If, for any reason, it became known that he had passed right by Hakkai without seeing him being eaten by a fucking plant, he would never be allowed to live it down. Gojyo would find a way to bring it up in every conversation, and then Sanzo would have twice the reason to kill him once they stopped this whole stupid revival-of-Gyumaoh thing. Five times the reason to kill him before they reached India, because he would have been driven insane before they even reached their destination.

He tried not to concentrate on the very real thought that Gojyo or Hakkai might be dead already — if not by the kudzu vine, then by Homura and his flunkies. He knew Goku was fine — Homura, for whatever reason, wanted the monkey alive, if not entirely undamaged. He could also hear the boy watching him, faintly in the back of his skull; he always could, every time any manner of distance separated them. On the one hand, the constant silent staring was annoying and unnerving; on the other hand, it gave him one less person to worry about. Or one more person, depending on the situation.

But he had no way of ascertaining that the other two were alive, and that was bad since he needed Hakkai’s dragon to get to India, and the stupid beast wouldn’t go anywhere without his master. He forced himself not to dwell on either of those facts. Instead, he concentrated on making his way through the underbrush without tripping, listening carefully for the distinctive hiss of the kudzu stalking behind him.

In the end, the kudzu didn’t find him. He found it.

A huge slithering mass of it dominated the darkness before him; it crawled up the trees and snaked along the canopy overhead. Moonlight filtered through the leaves and lit them up from behind, casting the small area in shades of pale green and white. The sense of hunger was palpable, thick and heavy like humidity or youryoku, tickling the edges of his senses, and Sanzo felt more than a little miffed that he hadn’t noticed the air of menace the instant they had entered the forest.

Hakuryuu made no sound as he hovered in place, careful to remain a safe distance from the plant. Even so, it was apparent that the kudzu was already taking notice of them; some of the vines were beginning to slither in their general direction. One patch of it disturbed another item on the ground — the sudden glint of light reflecting off a metal object caught Sanzo’s attention, and he looked harder.

It was Gojyo’s shakujou.

The priest cocked his pistol and glared at Hakuryuu when the dragon fluttered to his shoulder, apparently unnerved by the closeness of the plant. “He was supposed to mean Hakkai,” he said balefully.

The coo he received in response sounded in no way apologetic.

More leaves were turning in his direction now, and several creepers were far too close for comfort. The greater mass remained concentrated in the center of the tiny clearing, and as the vines twisted he could occasionally see the muted crimson of Gojyo’s hair beneath the trembling leaves. So the water sprite had managed to get caught by a plant as well — Sanzo could only envision the comments the idiot would be making after this incident: “I’m so sexy even a plant wants to suck me off,” and so forth.

“Whatever,” he growled, and shot the creeper closest to his right foot.

The effect was pleasing; the sections of the vine that hadn’t been blasted into goopey fibers quickly withered and turned to brown husks, all the way back into the canopy and across the mass that covered Gojyo. The rest of the vines instantly stopped all their motions, before slowly starting to creep back away from his feet. The huge, spade-like leaves were vibrating at an even faster pace, but at least the plant had some survival instinct.

Not that Sanzo had any real sense of mercy. He continued firing into the plant, choosing the stalks that were furthest from the prone half-demon, as he was unable to see just where Gojyo’s limbs were under all that mess. One vine even had the gall to try and approach him from above, dangling from the heights of the canopy, but a warning screech from Hakuryuu and a single shot from the banishing gun quelled that act of rebellion. By the time the pistol clicked on an empty chamber half the clearing was a disarray of dried up leaves and woody stems, with the remainder of the kudzu backed away into the canopy or the edges of the clearing.

The priest reached into his robes for his spare bullets and reloaded the gun before stepping further towards Gojyo. The vines, still a good ten feet away, rustled backward with his every forward movement. That, indeed, was a vast improvement; that act of caution on the part of a nearly mindless enemy pleased him in a way that almost made up for how exhausted he was currently feeling.

“Hey,” Sanzo said, and kicked Gojyo unceremoniously in the arm. There was no response.

Fuck, he thought. If he’s unconscious I am so not dragging him through these woods with a hungry plant breathing down my neck. He kicked the arm again, harder, but Gojyo didn’t so much as twitch. He was lying on his stomach, face turned toward the Sanzo, dead leaves and a thin veil of red hair obscuring his features. He couldn’t even see if the man was breathing.

He quickly squelched the surge of panic that thought brought on.

Hakuryuu abruptly screamed, wings buffeting his head as the creature launched itself into the air. Instinctively he dove in the opposite direction, and felt the cool brush of foliage against his cheek. The damn plant was attacking him again!

His finger pulled the trigger three times before the rattling of the leaves subsided, the vines again withdrawing from where he had been forced to sprawl on the ground. He could no longer see the dragon, but at least from this angle he could see the rise and fall of Gojyo’s chest, and the rapid fluttering of long-lashed eyes. Dead foliage crunched beneath him as he rolled onto his knees and scooted forward to kneel at the other man’s side, warily keeping an eye on the plant that remained just out of sight in the darkness.

Sanzo grasped the back of Gojyo’s vest and heaved him over onto his back. Even unconscious the man was incredibly taut, fighting almost instinctively against the hands on his body. His fingers twitched spasmodically against the ground, rattling the dry branches; every tense muscle highlighted by the moon and even the way his eyes rolled beneath his closed lids screamed nightmare.

“I am not dragging you through his godforsaken forest,” he told the unconscious man, drawing back his free hand. “So you’d better do yourself a favor and wake the fuck up!”

He caught the glimpse of green amidst the brown, realizing too late that the plant was still attached to Gojyo’s calf. But then his hand connected to Gojyo’s cheek in an open-hand slap, and the instant his fingers touched the other man’s skin -

< ...no... >

- there was a door in front of him.

What the hell...?

It had probably seen better days; the white paint was chipped and peeling and dirt was caked in the molding along the edges of the jam, but it was obvious that the door had once been well-cared for. Painted and washed on a regular basis in order to make the house it belonged to all the more appealing and homey. But it had been neglected for some time now — years, no doubt — and now it looked like it had seen too many days of grubby hands and not enough days of soap and water.

Sanzo stared. What-?

For a moment he couldn’t react. What the hell had happened? One moment he was kneeling in a forest, trying to wake a dreaming kappa and fend off a voracious plant hell bent on eating them at the same time. Now he was standing in front of a door admiring the paint flakes? What the hell?

< ...don’t touch me... >

No. He had already gone to the mountain and freed Goku from the prison the gods had carved for him. There was no reason for him to be hearing that voice again. The boy hadn’t called out to him in years, not since he had reached the pinnacle of a holy mountain and broke numerous seals that had remained untouched for centuries. Why would he be hearing that voice now, when only a few minutes ago it had been silent? And what the hell did he mean by “Don’t touch me”?

Something landed with a muffled crash inside the house. It sounded like a vase.

Sanzo frowned and turned to look over his shoulder. It was day time, where ever he was, at direct odds with the moonlit-night he had previously been running through, with a watery sun not far above the horizon in a clear sky. There was a line of laundry drying a few feet away from him, an overturned basket of half-folded clothing lying beneath it. The yard was mostly dirt, with a few patches of half-dead grass desperately attempting to cling to life. But more than twenty feet away everything started to fade, the colors bleeding together until the images lost definition. There was a path leading away to what Sanzo presumed was the north, but the world beyond the weed-encrusted fence it passed was indeterminate. It was like the world outside the house he stood before only barely existed.

< ...just a dream... just a dream... >

That’s right. It was just like a dream.

Gojyo’s dream.

Another thud echoed from inside the house, so heavy that the door rattled in its frame. A thin, wavering voice rose up; the words were too muffled to be made out, but the feverish screaming of another voice — a woman’s voice, from what Sanzo could tell — cut it off in mid-sentence.

The words of the woman were easy to make out from the volume. “-disgusting creature! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch anything! You’ll make it dirty!”

The sound of another fragile thing breaking.

“You think you know?! You don’t know anything, you filthy animal! Get away from me! Get away from me!”

< ...no... >

Another dream. Another nightmare that was so real Sanzo could easily smell the scent of discarded laundry water in the tub by the door. The breeze that ruffled his hair and the warmth of the sun radiating off the filthy wood of the door was so real that any belief that he might be somewhere else, in a death-filled forest in the middle of the night, was difficult to comprehend. He grasped for the lifeline of Goku’s ethereal voice again, trying to find a link back to the real world, but it danced out of reach, jerking away every time he got near.

< ...don’t touch me... >

Perhaps this was what the kudzu vine did — it inflicted a dreamlike state, probably with poison secreted through the mouth-like protrusions Sanzo had found attached to his stomach. The nightmare induced was so vividly real that even if the dreamer did realize it was a dream, there was nothing solid enough that could startle them back into awareness. The physical slap Sanzo had administered evidently did no good at all; if anything, it only made the situation worse, because now he was in the dream as well. Somehow he had been sucked into Gojyo’s nightmares.

And from the screaming inside he had a pretty good inclination of just what nightmare he had stepped into.

The first logical motion he had to take was to find a way to wake Gojyo up. Somehow he needed to get through to the man that this was nothing more than a dream — there was nothing to fear in dreams. They were nothing more than memories, and memories could only haunt, not physically harm.

crimson-silver blade cutting a deadly arc through the air, the sharpened edge seeking to embed itself in his back

Sanzo squeezed his eyes shut and forced the image away, focusing on the reassuring weight of the pistol in his hand. If the Maten scripture hadn’t finally reacted to his plight, could he had truly died in that dream?

No. I can’t focus on that. I risk losing myself to this dream if I don’t stay focused on what’s real.

But what reason did the plant have to induce such horrible dreams?

< ... no, no, no, no... >

The weak thread of Goku’s voice wound through his mind, the monotonous chant an eerie backdrop to the war that suddenly fell silent inside the house. Goku must also be caught in a nightmare, Sanzo decided — but instead of reaching towards the priest, the way he had while still trapped inside the mountain, he was actually pushing Sanzo away. It had been years since Goku had spoken in that tiny voice that only reached the confines of Sanzo’s mind, and he had stopped having nightmares months before the trip to India had even begun. Even those the boy had been unable to describe, only able to convey them as black, faceless monsters that he was incapable of remembering after he had awoken, screaming in blind terror. But he had always reached towards Sanzo for comfort, and Sanzo had always stoically given it, if only because he knew that he’d be unable to return to sleep if he didn’t.

The priest abruptly felt irrationally angry. Not just because he was caught in another person’s dream, or that he was tired and needing a fucking cigarette right now. Not just because he was forced to defend his life — yet again — and the lives of others who should have been perfectly capable of defending themselves. But because this mindless stupid fucking plant was using their own nightmares as weapons. Their own deepest, darkest, unnamable fears had suddenly become the tools of their destruction.

That pissed him off to no small end. And the anger was real and bit deeper than the weariness and uncertainty.

Sanzo was going to wake the stupid water sprite up, and the two of them were going to find Hakkai and Goku. And then Sanzo was going to make the plant and whoever was behind it learn the true meaning of pain.

He wrapped his fingers around the handle and turned the knob.

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Chapter 4: Section Four

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Chapter 5: Section Five

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Chapter 6: Section Six

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Chapter 7: Section Seven

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Chapter 8: Section Eight

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Chapter 9: Section Nine

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Chapter 10: Section Ten

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Chapter 11: Section Eleven

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Chapter 12: Section Twelve

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