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At an admittedly slow pace, Megumi has gotten more and more familiar with his shadow.
It’s a big vat, truly, though he likes to imagine it looking more like a storage room on the inside, lined with dark wooden shelves and hooks with various weapons hanging from them – a black sword, a knife wrapped with bandages, until recently a red, three-sectioned staff – the ceiling dripping slightly with immaterial water-like smoke, the walls curving as if they are streams of running liquid, the floor coated with black tiles that could be glass, marble maybe, something clean and smooth with a shine to it. That’s how he’d like to imagine it.
That all doesn’t change the fact that it’s a big vat – not even that, though it would be how he’d describe it if he were being honest with himself, which he usually is. There are no wooden shelves, no leaking ceilings or dripping walls, and if there was a solid floor it would take one step for you to sink right through it. Shadow can be defined as the lack of light; Megumi’s shadow is the lack of so much more. Air, gravity, temperature (though there is a biting, pressing feeling on the skin that might resemble the cold of an ice bath), material (other than the occasional weapon that Megumi can will into shape), direction – it is the lack of a vat, yet somehow the secluded emptiness inside of that vat stuck around, and now grabs at your legs and drags you down further and further until your breath leaves you and immaterial water enters in its place.
The storage room, once again, is a nicer description. Easier to explain as well.
The first time he entered his own shadow was – and he’ll make sure Gojo will never know this – an accident. He’d long since started using it to store cursed weapons for Maki and himself, so he knew that if he dipped his fingers or hands in, they’d feel numb and tingly when he took them out. He didn’t know what actually happened to his body inside his own shadow, and he wasn’t about to stick his face in to find out – that’s something Itadori would do, which is reason enough not to for Megumi.
He’d been recovering from Shibuya. Some Zen’in sorcerers had entered the school grounds looking for him, and he hadn’t been in the mood for more awkward conversations about heritage and bloodlines and whatnot. It had been, until now, a somewhat normal occurrence for the Zen'in – his distant uncles and cousins, yeah, sure – to visit him or make an attempt at forming a connection, especially when Gojo had just “taken him and Tsumiki in”.
Gojo hadn’t been around that much. Enough for the Zen'in to be pissy about, though. Not that it was hard for someone like Gojo to irritate the clan – his mere presence seemed to intimidate the Zen'in enough to try to ensure that Megumi would remember his roots. Ergo; they’d have check-ins, once every two months, maybe, not unlike the one Megumi was avoiding whilst recovering from Shibuya.
He found himself pressed against the wall while he waited for them – Naoya, it seemed, with the rest of the Hei – to pass him by. He held his breath slightly, flattening his hands on the wall.
And, yeah, it was a pretty dark corridor he’d been hiding in, so of course there was plenty of shadow to go around. As he heard Naoya’s footsteps getting closer, though, he did start to panic a little, and before he knew it, he was covered head to toe in icy cold water.
He’d theorized that if he ever did go in headfirst, Itadori-style, that he would start sinking. That’s what would happen to anyone, or anything, else that would fall into his shadow. But that’s the funny thing; Megumi is that shadow. His back, he felt, was still connected to that wall, just like his flattened palms and his tilted head. The wall had become the surface, a white line of shimmering liquid, not quite a mirror, not quite a door. He could see the depth below him, if seeing was even possible in this dark expanse of nothingness, this lack of everything. He’d become a lack of himself; a shadow without a person.
He hadn’t thought it possible to reach the bottom of this vat.
Sukuna shoves him through that wall, when the time comes. Somehow, Megumi can’t hang onto the surface anymore. Is his shadow his soul, or is it his body? The surface, that line of transparent not-water, are those his eyes, or his hands?
He thinks he hears Itadori say something. He thinks he sees Tsumiki. He thinks he can hear Gojo laugh, somewhere above him.
He drifts deeper. The worry strikes him, for a second, that he’ll drown, but he doesn’t have a body to breathe anymore. Through the haze, he wonders if this is what Reggie felt. He feels a bit like a fool.
At some point, his shadow gets darker.
At some point, he reaches the bottom of the well. It’s not marble; it’s black grass. It’s a garden.
It’s white, wherever Megumi is. He knows so, not by opening his eyes, but by comparison to wherever he’d been until now – a dark garden, maybe, but it’s slipping away from him like a dream in the morning. He’s here now, and it’s white, and his eyes are closed.
He sucks in a breath – hastily, almost hungrily – and as he keeps breathing, he becomes aware of some more things; one, that he’s lying on his back; two, that there’s a strange, dull throbbing behind his eyes; and three, that he’s no longer alive.
His eyes shoot open, he sits up and has to catch himself in order not to fall forward, and he realizes that there’s a ringing in his ears as well, his balance weak. He can’t hear himself breathe, but he’s sure he’s breathing, and he vaguely remembers this garden and this spinning wheel but none of the memories are complete, every thought is thrown off by this ache behind his eyes and this high-pitched whine in his ears. He’s surrounded by a white expanse – his body casts no shadow.
He thinks he might cry.
There’s someone standing next to him.
Through the haze, Megumi turns – his face must do something.
The man from Shibuya – what was his name? – looks down at him. “What’s with that expression?”
“Where’s Tsumiki?” Megumi asks in return, and God, he’s tired.
The man huffs, sitting down next to him. “Is that who you expected to see? Hate to break it to you, but you’re stuck with me.” He smiles vaguely, but keeps his head turned from Megumi, instead looking ahead.
It’s coming back to Megumi in pieces – that alley in Shibuya, Playful Cloud broken up and its edges sharpened – what was it that Naobito had said? A ghost? He’d–
–asked for his name. Shit, Megumi’s eyes ache. Where is Tsumiki? What had happened again?
“Who are you?” The words spill from his mouth before he can truly think about them – which is alright, actually, he’s not sure how much more he can think about right now.
The man’s eyes widen. He grins. “Ha, that brat really didn’t tell you then, did he?”
“You’re the one who tried to kill me, in Shibuya,” Megumi realizes. The ache’s slowly fading. “You exorcized that Special Grade.”
“I guess I did,” the man says – solemnly?
They lapse into silence. Megumi stares.
“What happened?”
The man sighs. “As far as I know, Sukuna was fully reincarnated. You were hit by Infinite Void five times before that. It’s a good thing you’ve got such a strong mind, or you would’ve been in that plane by now.”
Infinite Void – Gojo. Oh. Right.
Tsumiki.
Itadori.
“Did I–”
“They’re not here, kid, it doesn’t matter.” The man keeps staring ahead. “You should think about yourself once in a while.”
How could he, though? He–
He killed–
Tears start to worm their way down his cheeks. He feels a bit embarrassed to cry next to this stranger, but the man keeps his head turned away. Megumi wipes his hands under his eyes – God, he hates this. He’s always hated being open like this.
It’s coming back to him. He tastes something dull on his tongue – stale, bitter, chemical. He’d been shoved underwater by some invisible force – had he drowned? He remembers Tsumiki – no, the proportions weren’t right, her voice was too pitched, her grin too stretched–
He remembers hearing Itadori say something – Megumi had pressed down on Sukuna’s cursed energy, hoping to reduce the damage, to take back control in some way–
He needs to – he needs to stop. He needs to stop.
It’s coming back to him. Megumi wants it to stop.
He looks around, this unbearable whiteness – and asks.
“Is this hell?”
The man’s head cocks. “You think you’d end up there?” He huffs, a smile etching its way onto his face. “We aren’t anywhere yet, but I can assure you, you won’t be taking the trip downstairs.”
“Why?” Megumi grits. “Why’re you here? Where are we?” He needs to – he needs to stop. “Sensei said I’d be alone when I died, why are you here?”
The man keeps staring ahead. Megumi thinks this feels familiar, in some way.
“What you need to know now is that you’re not dead yet. I’m here to keep it that way.” The man closes his eyes in frustration. “That brat manages to be a pain even when he isn’t in the room, huh. Don’t worry about him, he hasn’t boarded the plane yet either.”
Who is this man and why does he keep mentioning a plane? But also –
“I need to get back. If I’m not dead, I need to get back,” Megumi thinks of the last things he saw – Itadori, mangled and desperate, Gojo, sliced into two –
And yet – there’s something else. “Where’s Tsumiki, I need to see her. Can I see her?”
The man’s eyelids lower, almost in apathy – yeah, that pisses Megumi off. This man is starting to really piss him off. “Look, if you won’t tell me anything, can I just go? I’m just gonna go.”
As he starts to get up, a hand catches his wrist. The man doesn’t even glance up at him. “Where’re you gonna go, then? To the plane or to the garden?”
Megumi’s mouth opens to ask what the hell he’s talking about, but the man yanks him down before he can do so. “Sit down, kid.”
Another long moment of silence spans over the two of them. Megumi stares ahead, thinks about planes, and shadows, and drowning. However confusing, this white space is beautiful, in the strange way a blank canvas can be considered beautiful. He wonders how light seems to come from every corner and yet cast no shadows. He wonders where his own shadow went; the one inside of him, the one he was born with.
It’s probably stuck in his body, isn’t it?
He looks at his palms, and makes the dog sign. It doesn’t do anything, of course, there is no shadow for his hound to jump out of – but for the sake of repetition, for the sake of familiarity, he keeps his hands interlocked as he sets them onto his lap.
“Is this where Gojo went?”
The man lets out a heavy sigh. “Him again? No, he went straight to the airport. Had some catching up to do.”
Megumi frowns. “Is he going to... board the plane?”
“Probably not,” the man says somewhat indifferently, “but who knows. Guy has a knack for taking you by surprise.”
This man keeps avoiding something – Megumi can see it, in the same way he knows when Itadori is keeping quiet about whatever horrid things Sukuna tells him or when Gojo stands still for a moment and looks at nothing, lost in memory. This all feels familiar, he thinks, but also–
Something’s missing.
This man – knows Gojo. Which – everyone knows of Gojo Satoru, but few people know him. Few people get the chance to with his line of work. But this man – knows him, dislikes him, doesn’t care for his death.
This man – has no cursed energy, yet he’s familiar with domains, with Sukuna, and with Megumi’s technique. He knew he was Zen’in.
This man – will not meet his eyes.
“Why did you ask for my name, in Shibuya?”
The man – the ghost – looks tired. His shoulders sag a bit. “Oh, something just struck my memory, that’s all.” His head finally turns to look at Megumi – and his eyes soften.
“You look like her.”
Fushiguro!
Megumi spins around – there is a black dot on the horizon. A little, dark flower sprouts up from the ground, leaking thick drops of smoke. Itadori’s voice echoes through the white expanse, until it shifts into something more intense, growing louder, bouncing back through Megumi’s eardrums in a low, all-consuming whine, commanding him:
WAKE UP.
“It’s time,” the man’s voice calls from behind him. “You need to make your choice, Megumi.”
Megumi turns, eyes wide. “Choose what? What did you mean, just now, who do I look like?”
The man’s eyes crinkle, a wry smile spreading over his face. “You know, she and Tsumiki told me to meet you here. They thought the sight of me would make the decision easier for you.”
The whine grows ever louder. “What decision? Who are you?!”
“You gotta choose, kid,” the man yells over the noise, “the plane or the garden? Where will you go?”
Megumi turns around – the flower has started to sink into a black puddle. A thin, silver line creeps along the edge of it – almost like a mirror. The black goo shifts, having picked up on Megumi’s still positioned hands, and his dog’s head bursts through the surface before being pulled under again. He hears a howl – and with it, again, Itadori’s voice rings through his ears.
Fushiguro!
On the other side, the man watches him, his hand going for the door that has appeared behind him. Is Tsumiki behind that door? Is Gojo?
“He’ll meet you soon,” the man says, “that arrogant brat. But I’m thankful for that, at least. That he gets to be there.”
Megumi feels tears prickling, and he isn’t sure why. The puddle is growing, quickly becoming a pond, the glittering edges attaching to his feet, his shadow returning like an old friend. He looks back at the man. “How did you know my first name? I never told you my first name!”
That man – there is something familiar about him. “You were a blessing to that world, Megumi. You need to go back.”
Something’s – missing. This feels familiar.
Oh.
Megumi feels like a fool.
The garden reaches for him – he reaches back.
As he sinks, he looks at the ghost, and yells: “How do I know if I’m strong enough for this?”
The ghost chuckles. “You’re plenty strong, kid. Like I said; you take after your mother.”
Shadow clouds Megumi’s senses, his breath taken from him at last.
It’s an unrecognizable space in which he resurfaces. He gasps, feels the lack of breath, the lack of warmth that is part of him, the shadow that is in his body, but part of his soul.
Onyx tiles coat the floor beneath his hands and knees. He clings to dark wooden shelves to hoist himself up – he hears the walls drip, a faint sound of softly running water – he can see his reflection in the black liquid.
It’s a storage room in which he finally realizes the outline of his soul.
There’s a door – Megumi thinks it might have been locked, at some point. The door is his hands, his eyes, his voice. He can take back control; he steps through the threshold.
For Tsumiki; for Gojo; for Itadori and Kugisaki; for his mother and father; he will live.
Against all odds – a one in a million chance, to be exact – Megumi wakes up.