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For a timeless moment, the world is gray and still, and he sinks peacefully beneath its surface as a nameless, faceless, formless thing. There is no thought, no emotion, no judgment here, only the sense of a drop of dark ink dissolving slowly in water, or a high, clear note fading out.
Megumi wakes, on the floor, in the dark.
For another moment he remembers nothing but the drop of ink, and he stares at the air and asks no questions.
Then memory crashes back—
The boy has made his way to the River. You know, my Conductor, what he seeks.
—and he blinks to his feet with a thought and tears down the hall to the Room of Reckoning, not giving a damn about the dignity of it. He's failed in his sacred duty to his Lord. He's failed. But he lives, so there may yet be time to make things right.
He bursts through the entryway just in time to see a blast of light fill the throne room, and a small, lithe figure caught at the center of it several feet off the floor, arms spread wide and head thrown back in a silent scream as he's immolated in the holy fire of the Composer's wrath. Megumi slumps back against the wall and lets out a breath of relief, and if a tired chuckle escapes along with that breath—well. He's not a cruel man, but this particular Player's had it coming since he arrived in the Underground, and it's good to see justice done. It was foolish of him to doubt, even for a second, that his Lord would prevail in this fight, and when next he's granted audience he'll beg His forgiveness and welcome his Lord's presence in his mind, sweeping all remnants of that doubt away.
Then the light goes out, and the boy floats gently back to ground, whole and unscathed.
The chuckle dies on Megumi's tongue.
And the boy throws his head back and laughs in giddy, triumphant exultation, unknowing or uncaring of his audience.
Megumi stares in bewilderment around the vast room. Only when he has scanned every shadowed corner, and found not the faintest trace of anyone else's presence, does the truth hit him in the gut.
He half-hears his own scream. Loss and grief rip through him and tear out everything but rage, and he lunges forward, summoning Noise about him as he advances, scales and wings and fangs wrapping themselves around his skin and making him something greater, something fearsome. He's failed his Lord, he's failed the district, and he'll pay for that with his own life as soon as he may, but first this boy—this damned brat is going to suffer for the sacrilege he has committed here—
And then the room goes blinding white once more, and when it clears Megumi is human again, on his knees and too weak to move, shaking with fear and guilt.
A hand, burning white-hot, grips his chin and tilts his head upward, and he finds himself staring up at the face of the Divine.
For a long moment Megumi can only stare, breath swept away by the great wave of holy presence crashing over him—and then he understands. And then the tears come. A part of him feels shame at them, but the greater part wants only to drown himself in the flood.
The hand lets him go, and he collapses, shuddering and cold and broken.
Rest for now, the Composer's voice says, calm and clear in his mind. We'll sort this out later.
And Megumi feels, for an instant, a great sense of relief as he sees himself about to sink back beneath the surface.
And then, once more, he feels nothing.
When he next wakes, there is no blissful period of forgetfulness. He stands before the throne, and the Composer—the new Composer—gazes down at him from behind a radiant veil of light.
"Welcome back, Megumi," He says, and His voice is musical, full of gentle laughter and sweet harmonies. "Feeling any better? You had the look of a man desperately in need of a good night's sleep, when I saw you last."
"I—" Megumi blinks at this utter lack of formality, and bows deeply as he searches for an appropriate response. There isn't one. Feeling better? He's not supposed to be alive now, he should have been erased with his Lord, he failed in his duty and there's an order to things, but to speak any of that aloud would be to question the Composer's divine will, and he'd sooner tear out his own tongue.
Even if the Composer is now an insolent child who— He silences that thought, appalled at himself for thinking it, and swallows thickly, bracing himself. There are no secrets from the Lord of Shibuya, no such thing as a private thought in His presence, but Megumi long ago came to welcome this. Better that the most shameful creations of his mind be seen and swiftly purged, like weeds from a garden, than that they be allowed to grow and take root.
In the presence of his old Lord, Megumi believed that and trusted in it, trusted that there would be no more pain in the uprooting than he could bear. Trusted that it would be for his own good, to better serve his Lord. But the memory of the light in the throne room going out, the horrible finality of it, twists through him snakelike, striking and driving its fangs into his chest and his throat—and beyond the sharp pain of grief at the loss of the old, he doesn't know what to expect from this new one. He likes that not at all. He doesn't know why he's here.
And the treacherous thing he thought—stopped himself from thinking, but still thought—has received no response at all. He hauls himself back from a terrible impulse to try it again, as if he's a foolish child poking at a loose tooth, intent on making it hurt.
He realizes that he still hasn't answered the Composer's question, asked in such innocent tones. Feeling any better, Megumi?
He swallows again, and manages a murmur as he straightens up: "My Lord is kinder than I deserve. Thank You."
"You look better, at least," the Composer says, in the tones of one being dubiously charitable. "Which will have to do, because we don't have a lot of recovery time, I'm afraid. While we were all busy playing, it was a—well, I don't know if I should call it a good week for deaths or a bad week for deaths in the Realground, but there were an uncommonly large number of them." He pauses thoughtfully. "Is there any accepted lingo for that situation? The 'good week' versus 'bad week,' I mean—it's good for us, obviously, but—no? Never mind. The point is, we're running another Game in five days' time, and—"
Megumi blinks, swaying on his feet.
"—I'll need to get you up to speed before then, because I've been making some changes. A few changes. Well." The Composer raises His hand to His head, and twists His radiant fingers through His hair distractedly and tugs on it, seeming entirely unconcerned by the humanity of the gesture. "A lot of changes, actually—honestly, my predecessor didn't keep with the times very well, did he? He was worse than my father—" He pauses. "Is there a problem, Megumi?"
There are problems, Megumi thinks, there are so many problems he doesn't know where to begin, and he shoves that thought down as sharply as he shoved down the last one, but again there's no response to it, no swift correction. He bows his head, and draws a deep breath. "My Lord—"
"Mm." There's a grimace in the Composer's voice. "You know, that was charmingly novel the first time you said it, but I really think it's going to get old quickly. Sir will do."
Another deep breath, and Megumi keeps his eyes fixed carefully, carefully on the floor. "Sir," he says, "I fear I don't understand. What is my role to be, in this upcoming Game?"
"Oh," the Composer says. "You're staying on as Conductor, of course."
Megumi blinks.
"I thought that would be best. You're good at it, and the Reapers respect you." Another pause. "You look like you've swallowed a frog, Megumi. Out with it."
"Sir." Megumi's voice does not shake. It will not shake. "I attempted to erase You."
"Yes." The Composer's voice is amused. "I recall. Did you want to try again?"
"No." The word startles out of his throat like a bird out of rushes, squawking in undignified protest. "My L—Sir, no. Never."
"Oh." Is there disappointment in the tone? This new god is—
—is mad, Megumi thinks, utterly mad, as if he hadn't proven that already. A third treasonous thought, there, and still nothing done about it, and he hates this emptiness, the sense he's alone in his own head. He shuts his eyes and tries to ignore the hot resentment burning in his chest and boiling up into his throat, effects of the grief-snake's venom. None of this, none of this should be his problem to deal with.
"What about it, then?" the terrible mad brat of a god-child asks. "No hard feelings, if that's what you were worried about. You were doing your duty, and it was a very good fight. I had fun."
Megumi grits his teeth, and manages, "You do me honor, Sir, but I failed in that duty, and I raised my hand against You. I have no right to serve You in any capacity."
"No one has a right to serve me," the Composer says sharply, and that quickly, the friendly playfulness is gone from His demeanor. "A right suggests something one's entitled to, and something one can do with as one likes. What you have, Megumi, is a duty. Don't confuse the two." He pauses, then adds, more softly: "And don't confuse an order for a request, either. I'm not asking you. That's not how this works."
Yes, Sir. Megumi knows that's the correct response, knows it's the only response, but his throat closes off on the words. He can't speak, can't move. He should have been erased. He should be gone.
But the Composer's word is final. Inexorable and inarguable.
"Hm," the Composer says, and abruptly there's a Presence in Megumi's head, and the sensation is such a welcome relief that he would sob if he could. A shudder racks his body. Yes. This. This is what he needs: for his Lord to see the wound that loss has torn in him, and the infection of doubt growing there, and to heal the one and purge the other. He waits, expectant, for cleansing fire to wash through his mind.
It doesn't. Instead he has the sensation of someone going through his thoughts as if they're an unfamiliar filing cabinet, pulling out drawers and riffling curiously through the folders—not unkindly, but none too gently, either—and then putting everything back, with fastidious care, precisely where they found it.
And then the Presence withdraws, and Megumi slumps to the floor, treacherous thoughts and all.
"Oh, I see," the Composer says, and there's laughter in His voice. "You want me to make this easier for you, don't you? Scour all your fear and doubt and grief and anger away and make you clean again. Make you think the right thoughts."
"Yes." Megumi's voice is rough, scraping out of his throat. "Please, my L—Sir."
"Mm," the Composer says, sounding as if He's tasted something sour. The silence stretches out, and Megumi stares down at his hands, and steadies his breath, and prays.
And then the Composer says: "No."
Megumi reels as if struck. "Sir—"
"No," the Composer repeats. The glow bathing Megumi in holy warmth fades, and there's the faint thump of feet hitting the ground. "Look, just—sit up, will you? We've got a Game to get ready for."
Cautiously, Megumi sits back on his heels, and finds himself kneeling not before the radiant immortal, but at the feet of the boy he tried and failed to erase, now standing in front of him in jeans and sneakers and a plain brown coat. The sight is unsettling enough that Megumi gapes up at Him for a moment, and nearly meets His eyes before he catches himself and casts his gaze back to the floor.
"Tell you what," the Composer says. "Let's talk this through. What are you afraid of?"
How can he answer that? How can he possibly answer that? "Sir, I cannot serve a—a god if—" But he doesn't have any way to finish that sentence that isn't utter sacrilege, and the silence stretches out.
A put-upon sigh. "All right. You know what? Just this once, I'm going to speed this up. Speak."
And the words pour out of Megumi's mouth, unstoppable: "—If I cannot even stop myself thinking of Him as an insolent brat."
It rings through the throne room, and Megumi presses the back of his hand over his mouth and bites down on his knuckle in horror.
And the Composer throws His head back and laughs in unabashed delight. "But you can," He says. "You really can. I believe in you."
"Sir," Megumi tries, anguished. "I—"
"No—look at me, and listen."
Reluctantly, struggling against the urge to cover his eyes, Megumi looks up at Him.
"Your last Composer gave you a gift of faith." The Composer's smile gleams, the wicked sharpness of it at odds with His boyish appearance, and He shrugs. "What can I say? I'm not as nice as he was. But doubt is its own kind of gift. I think you may come to understand that, Megumi, in time. I'm not saying it's going to be easy for you—of course not. But when has anyone ever deserved easy? Now, come on. Up."
And He holds His hand out. Megumi, in a daze, reaches up and takes it, and as the Composer pulls him back to his feet—far too easily, for one so slight—He leans in and plants a kiss, feather-light, on Megumi's brow.
The kiss burns like life and sunlight and redemption, and Megumi shuts his eyes, swallowing desperate longing.
Megumi, just a quick favor, if you can bring yourself to obey an insolent brat—
Megumi, there's a would-be assassin on his way, but he's much too dull and honestly I can't be bothered. Take care of him, would you?
Megumi, I'm bored and we don't have enough dead people for a decent Game. Are you sure you don't want that rematch?
The reminders—of his failure, of his weakness, of his doubt—don't end, and they're all of them delivered with a sweetly devilish smile and a knowing wink. Megumi thought himself humble in the presence of the old Composer, thought himself without ego, but this one pokes and prods, forever seeking faults and flaws and new ways to provoke.
It's no more than Megumi deserves. Ease and comfort are unworthy desires, he knows that, but it makes it no easier (hah!) to bear.
And always, He declines to fix the flaws he finds. That's the worst of it, the shake of His head at any suggestion that He might smooth away the rough edges. Once, when He's in a foul mood and Megumi's all but tearing his hair out trying to understand precisely what He wants done and dearly, if silently, wishing He would just step in and set His servant's mind to rights—because He could, it's no secret He could—He tilts His head and narrows His eyes at Megumi and says, softly, "Beg me."
And Megumi does, without hesitation: falls to his knees, bows his head to the floor in dogeza. Make me worthy of the honor You have bestowed upon me. Free me from my doubts. I beg You. He's in too much of a rush to hear the actual words he speaks, pouring all of his need into them.
"Oh, you actually did." The soft laugh manages to hold a hint of astonishment, as if this could have been at all in question. "Answer's still no, sorry. A little dissonance makes the harmony all the sweeter when you find it. Still—that's not a terrible look on you, you know, and I can hardly even hear you grinding your teeth right now. Well done."
It would have been easier, it would have been so much easier to be erased as he should have been. But the district thrives, with a strange, vibrant beauty, and Megumi can't be completely sorry he survived to see it.
Some nights He comes to Megumi's chambers in a fearsome temper, childishly petulant airs set aside for fits of furious passion. The melody is wrong and the counterpoint is all wrong and the Players refuse to hear their cues and none of it's ever going to be anything half worth listening to, and the air sparks with lightning and wrath, so fierce He might tear Himself apart if He were anything lesser.
Those nights, Megumi… serves his Lord, as best he can, shuddering and gasping and dangerously alive in a way he never was when he was merely human, merely living. The lightest touches sear maps of the city into his skin, and he welcomes them, losing himself in ecstasy and agony and music that melt and run together, inseparable. If he cannot set his mind truly right, washing it temporarily blank with sensation is a second best, perhaps.
And for a time, his devotions seem enough to quell the raging fires. The Composer leaves restored to outward peace, once more serene as moonlight on water and inscrutable as the depths beneath.
But the years go by, and it's not enough anymore, the Composer slipping into darker moods more and more often, sullen and fickle and quick to anger. And the Game slips along with Him, into harsher and more brutal places, and Megumi sees that, Megumi can't help seeing that, but it's not for him to question. The Composer's will is final.
One day, a duo makes it through the full week for the first time in months, and Megumi brings them flushed and giddy with triumph to stand before the Composer.
His gaze flicks across them with disinterest for barely a second before He says, calmly: No.
And the two are gone in a hiss of static by the time He closes His mouth. No chance at all, not even time for them to understand that they'd been fed false promises—but under the circumstances, the latter is probably a kindness.
Megumi isn't surprised. It's been over a year since they've even picked up any new Reapers.
He waits awake late that night, watching over a cup of sake as the fish swirl beneath the glass floor, but in the morning all he has to show for it are dark circles under his eyes and a headache.
A week after that, the Composer says: "Megumi, I've made a decision."
Megumi glances up at Him with cautious, uncertain hope.
Megumi's not squeamish. And the Composer's decisions are final and infallible and not to be questioned, of course, and Megumi wouldn't dream of questioning them. But the same intrusive, unwelcome, treacherous bit of his mind that says: He's been more of an absolute nightmare to work for lately than usual, and you know it—a bit of his mind he still loathes, but has reluctantly resigned himself to keeping and just ignoring as best he can—that bit of his mind… has questions.
He's not asking them, he wouldn't ask them if someone ordered him to at gunpoint, but he has them.
"Sir?" he says, guardedly.
"I'm ending it," the Composer says.
There's the sense of a serene smile through His veil of light. This decision, whatever it's about, has brought Him relief, and Megumi feels an echo of that relief sweep across him at this knowledge. "Ending what, Sir?"
"Shibuya," the Composer says, and laughs. "I'm ending Shibuya."
Megumi goes still.
The Composer is watching him intently. Megumi opens his mouth, closes it again, swallows.
The Composer's word is final. Infallible. Not to be questioned.
But He can't actually mean—
Megumi has questions, and he stares up at the Lord he's served for decades, and remembers: Doubt is its own kind of gift. I think you may come to understand that, Megumi, in time.
And as Megumi opens his mouth to give voice to words that might well be sacrilege, he thinks that he does understand.