Everything that happened in Shibuya is running together, one long night of desperation and blood and mayhem. There were fights. His energy had just about run dry, once he'd gotten caught up in that domain clash with Dagon. Then that stranger had put a weapon through him. He'd managed to deflect it enough, he's pretty sure, so it hadn't hit anything vital. But then the swordsman who'd been killing the assistant managers had taken a stab, and that one he's almost certain did hit something —
— and then he'd called Mahoraga. That's right.
Death seems an awful lot slower than he'd always figured it was going to be, doesn't it?
Megumi's not sure what else there is left to do, but wait for whatever nonsense his hazy mind has dreamed up to stop, slow down, and let him go. So he wanders the orchard, pausing here and there to look up, holding up a hand to feel the nonexistent breeze that somehow still has the leaves astir. His fingers graze a fruit.
Well, why the hell not. He's dead either way, but maybe he can at least go with the taste of something other than his own blood on his tongue. ]
ii. daylight recedes [ Most of the objects scattered through the field don't capture Megumi's attention. He looks past bouquets, candles. Faded photographs. Things that ought to be meaningful to someone, though maybe not to him — or are they? He shakes his head, as if to try and jolt the intrusive thoughts out of it.
The thing that finally catches his notice is a crumpled piece of paper. He kneels to scoop it up, unfolds it and smooths the creases so he can read it.
A receipt from a bet made on a horserace.
Why should that matter? ]
...stupid. [ Megumi lets the scrap of paper flutter to the ground, and turns to move on. ] I don't care.
[ Something in him still feels like he should. ]
iii. we run with death [ Even without a name for the creatures that are stalking the surroundings, moaning and chanting and reaching to grasp at him, this is still the most sense anything has made since this dream (nightmare?) began. These things aren't curses, or at least not curses as Megumi's familiar with them, but the similarities are undeniable. The sense of corruption, of wrongness. The body horror. The dogged attempts to drag anyone in reach down with them.
Whatever is going on, however he got here, he's still a jujutsu sorcerer.
He knows what to do with curses.
Megumi puts his hands together, intending to make the hand seals for his shikigami, but the shadows don't coalesce into the familiar forms he's used to. Instead, the shadows themselves surge forward, snaking around the nearest creature like a network of vines, pulling it back from him and holding it to the ground, restricting its movements.
That's not how he meant to do it, but okay, sure? ]
iv. something else? ( If you've got another idea, I'm probably down for that too! PM or atkascha if you want to hit me up. )
megumi fushiguro | jujutsu kaisen
[ He was dying, wasn't he?
Everything that happened in Shibuya is running together, one long night of desperation and blood and mayhem. There were fights. His energy had just about run dry, once he'd gotten caught up in that domain clash with Dagon. Then that stranger had put a weapon through him. He'd managed to deflect it enough, he's pretty sure, so it hadn't hit anything vital. But then the swordsman who'd been killing the assistant managers had taken a stab, and that one he's almost certain did hit something —
— and then he'd called Mahoraga. That's right.
Death seems an awful lot slower than he'd always figured it was going to be, doesn't it?
Megumi's not sure what else there is left to do, but wait for whatever nonsense his hazy mind has dreamed up to stop, slow down, and let him go. So he wanders the orchard, pausing here and there to look up, holding up a hand to feel the nonexistent breeze that somehow still has the leaves astir. His fingers graze a fruit.
Well, why the hell not. He's dead either way, but maybe he can at least go with the taste of something other than his own blood on his tongue. ]
ii. daylight recedes
[ Most of the objects scattered through the field don't capture Megumi's attention. He looks past bouquets, candles. Faded photographs. Things that ought to be meaningful to someone, though maybe not to him — or are they? He shakes his head, as if to try and jolt the intrusive thoughts out of it.
The thing that finally catches his notice is a crumpled piece of paper. He kneels to scoop it up, unfolds it and smooths the creases so he can read it.
A receipt from a bet made on a horserace.
Why should that matter? ]
...stupid. [ Megumi lets the scrap of paper flutter to the ground, and turns to move on. ] I don't care.
[ Something in him still feels like he should. ]
iii. we run with death
[ Even without a name for the creatures that are stalking the surroundings, moaning and chanting and reaching to grasp at him, this is still the most sense anything has made since this dream (nightmare?) began. These things aren't curses, or at least not curses as Megumi's familiar with them, but the similarities are undeniable. The sense of corruption, of wrongness. The body horror. The dogged attempts to drag anyone in reach down with them.
Whatever is going on, however he got here, he's still a jujutsu sorcerer.
He knows what to do with curses.
Megumi puts his hands together, intending to make the hand seals for his shikigami, but the shadows don't coalesce into the familiar forms he's used to. Instead, the shadows themselves surge forward, snaking around the nearest creature like a network of vines, pulling it back from him and holding it to the ground, restricting its movements.
That's not how he meant to do it, but okay, sure? ]
iv. something else?
( If you've got another idea, I'm probably down for that too! PM or