Work Text:
Don’t go . . .
A haze figure darted across the horizon. The world shrank and expanded, like the screen of a television alternating with its black margins, and all objects appeared blurred . . . distant . . . every strain of his eyes only brought him further away from clarification. He was light-headed, unsure of himself, and torn between two worlds . . . head thick with fog, mind clouded to the point of collapse . . . caught between falling and fainting, as he struggled to remain present. . .
It was a memory . . . a dream? He saw a familiar shape in a ring. They exuded an ‘energy’, so that he felt them before he recognised them, and their tears – spilling hot and fresh beneath their mask – almost seemed to be on his cheeks, too. He brought a hand to his face. The flesh-like mask he wore was at odds with the metal one in the ring . . . Warsman? Robin? . . . no . . . Kevin . . . somehow the tears were wet on his hand. They rolled down his mask and spilled in time to Kevin Mask, as he wept within the ring. The pain was shared in this strange world.
Don’t go! Please, I’ve waited so long . . .
The voice was so raw and primal, filled with cracks and coughs and tone-changes. It choked on the final syllable, while a hand reached out . . . out and out . . . towards a dark silhouette that walked slowly away through to stadium doors. They did not turn. They did not stop. Kevin wept and screamed, and – torn between them – Mantaro looked from one to another . . . finally with a sense of self . . . finally cognizant . . . his eyes fell down. This was wrong . . . there was blood on his uniform, with the colours diverging from their typical blue-and-green . . .
Mantaro turned to the silhouette. He cried out. Silence. He screamed again . . . again . . . no words escaped despite the effort put forth into every breathless shriek. He yelled out in almost perfect tandem with Kevin . . . ‘Warsman. Warsman!’ . . . ‘Nikolai!’ . . . wait, who was ‘Nikolai’? The name brought him further away, as he scoured his memory . . . this was wrong . . . the haze descended further, even as Kevin screamed louder and louder . . . ‘Warsman’ . . . ‘Warsman’ . . . no, no, no . . . Kevin was in so much pain . . . Warsman . . . Warsman . . .
“Warsman!”
He jolted awake. The rooftop was exactly as when he slept, with the low wall around its perimeter providing a perfect look across the stadium grounds, and a strange air-vent that gurgled and groaned with an eerie rhythm, which seemed to skip a beat after so many bars sung by the infuriating machine. Mantaro brought a hand to his heart. It raced too quickly for comfort, while a sticky sweat soaked itself to his skin. He rubbed at his chest, and – through panted breath – fought back the rush of adrenaline that quickly faded from his system.
At the far side of the rooftop, Warsman stood. It was easy to believe it as part of his dream, with the black skin looking even darker in the shadows against a tall wall, which stood as part of the doorway, and he kept his back to Mantaro, as if he were walking away . . . leaving . . . except there was nowhere to go without a vertical drop of many storeys. Mantaro swallowed. He ran a hand over his face and looked to Warsman, who – without even turning – asked in a soft voice:
“Do you often dream about me?”
Mantaro jumped. The rush of adrenaline burst back, as he spun around on the bench into a sitting position, and – with wide eyes – stared at the living Legend before him. Warsman turned to look over his shoulder, with his facial expressions hidden by the black face-plate. He threw his hands into the air and waved them back rapidly, as he spluttered and stuttered and tripped over various half-formed words. A dark blush spread across his cheeks. Mantaro averted his gaze, while his heart beat on and on in an endless racing rhythm, until he forced out:
“I – I was having a nightmare about the Olympics, and I just –”
“Relax, Mantaro,” said Warsman. “You likely heard me as I entered. It is not uncommon to incorporate sounds and images in ones real world environment into ones dreams. Kevin once woke from a nightmare about a tsunami . . . he had fallen asleep on the balcony when a storm hit, and tossed and turned until a burst of rain splattered across his face.”
Mantaro chuckled. The racing heartbeat slowed, and the cold sweat dissipated. He forced himself onto his feet, where he gave a loud and exaggerated yawn, and – as he stretched and cricked at his joints – walked over to the far wall that overlooked the training grounds. It was a semi-sheltered area, which could have made for an excellent balcony or rooftop terrace in some other lifetime, but – for now – it was just a place that collected junk . . . old equipment, extra furniture . . . it hid away all the things that were not meant to be found. Mantaro said:
“I – er – wasn’t slacking, I swear! I just –”
“Relax. You are not in trouble.”
He frowned. The rooftop was a known place for slackers. Seiuchin once organised a picnic dangerously close to the lowest point of the wall, where a fishcake fell onto the head of Robin Mask, and Gazelleman was caught in an embrace with Fiona, when Ikemen came to the rooftop to find a spare set of dumbbells. Warsman did not seem interested in Mantaro’s reason for being on the rooftop. If anything, he seemed more interested in what was below . . .
Mantaro followed his gaze. There – in the training grounds – several men gathered together to train in one of the rings, with a few others around the perimeter to act as spotters. The match featured Scarface, who fought with his usual brutality, but his opponent moved with such speed that his identity was difficult to discern. It was only when the sunlight caught his blue helmet that Mantaro recognised them as his friend: Kevin Mask. He was still superior in speed and skill, but there was something lacking from the Olympics. That thing was Warsman.
Mantaro dropped his shoulders, as he looked back to Warsman. A sad half-smile passed over his facial features, while he took in a deep breath to form words that would not come, and – all while the strange silence fell between them – Warsman watched with such emotion that his eyes came alive in a way rarely seen. The twinkle could have easily been a sad smile. Mantaro winced to see the pain that came with the happiness, as he whispered sweetly:
“Does he know you still watch over him?”
Warsman flinched. It was a gesture almost lost, due to the speed of his movement, but he spun around and turned his eyes over the general mess of the rooftop. The one door to the stairwell was propped open by a water-bottle that was still filled to the brim, and the wind would catch at its hinges until it knocked a slow beat, which did little to drown out the sounds from below: ‘is that all you’ve got, old chap’? The voice was so much like the one in his dream, almost identical, and soon he remembered the tears on his cheeks. He raised his fingers to his face, only to pull them back at the last second, when Warsman interrupted his thoughts with a mumbled:
“I trust my presence here will be our little secret?”
“Sure, I guess,” said Mantaro. “I’ll not tell Kevin you were here, but only if you don’t tell Ikemen that I was up here during training sessions. I swear I’m not shirking my duties, but it’s just . . . I mean . . . it’s been hard to fight since we came back to our timeline. I get in the ring and I think about how much blood I lost, the friends that I watched die, and I . . . I can’t . . .”
A shuddered breath escaped him. He turned his back to the rings. The sounds of punches and throws echoed about, along with cheers and cries, and suddenly he was there . . . in the ring . . . back with blood flowing down his body and skin ripped to shreds. He panted. He screwed shut his eyes until colours burst about his vision, and forced deep breaths to the count of seven on each inhalation and exhalation, until – finally – he could drag the corners of his lips into a contorted smile. He looked to Warsman and said in a weakened voice:
“Meat says I should speak to a counsellor, but what counsellor is going to understand? I watched Kevin dying before my eyes, and then went back in time only to be rejected by my father, and then – after all the chaos and drama – my best friend dies right in front of me. I can’t stand hearing how everyone is so proud of me, because they don’t get it . . . they don’t get it!”
“Your father has lost friends before.”
“Yeah, but you all came back!” Mantaro shook his head. “I went back to the grave, you know. I went back to pay my respects and fix up his gravestone, but a part of me . . . a part of me really believed that maybe Chaos would still be alive. I could go to the orphanage and reminisce and learn about the man he became, and maybe everything would have all been worth it . . .
“That’s the thing though, isn’t it? Time is fixed. It has a way of coming full circle, and any deviations will somehow lead you back to the same point. He still fought alone against the Evil Chojin in the Time of Peace, and he still overused his exotic matter in the absence of the Justice Chojin, and he still died just like the prophecies foretold. Everyone keeps acting so happy, but how can I be happy when I’ll never see Chaos again? Do I just forget that he’s dead? Do I?”
The tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. They were hot and heavy, where they distorted his vision and obscured the world around him, and the words of his dream came back to him: ‘don’t go; please’. A broken laugh tumbled from his lips, as the tears broke from his eyes and rolled fresh over his cheeks. He wiped them away with his sleeve. The smile failed to reach his eyes, as his trembling lips alternated between grins and grimaces, and – while Chaos lay forever gone – Warsman still remained within reach. The realisation did little to ease his tears.
“My grandfather understood,” said Mantaro. “He says that he still can’t go into some rooms of the palace, lest he be reminded of my grandmother, and he said that one day – not long after she died – he walked into the bedroom while the servants were cleaning the place. They pulled at the bed sheets, so they billowed out in the air, and he smelled it . . . her perfume.”
“That must have hit him hard,” replied Warsman.
“Yeah, he said it was like losing her all over again. He says the worst moments aren’t remembering that she’s dead, but forgetting that she’s not alive . . . he’ll go to whisper ‘good night’, or he’ll save a slice of her favourite cake, or he’ll roll over in the morning to throw his arm around her, but . . . she’s gone. How do you get over that? It’s hard for him in the palace, but it’s hard for me in the ring, too. I fought with Chaos! Our two hearts beat as one . . .”
“I understand. I lost my parents when I was young . . . I still visit their graves.”
“So you know what it’s like, right? I just look at people laughing and smiling, and I feel like screaming at them, because how can they be happy when all the light is gone? Chaos won’t get to laugh or smile, so why should they? I – I feel bitter around them. I don’t want to feel bitter, but it’s all so raw, like someone sliced into my heart, and I just . . . argh!”
Mantaro spun around. He punched the adjacent wall with full force. The plaster crackled on impact, while the skin of his knuckles cut and tore with a dozen small cuts, and – as blood bubbled to the surface – the red that marred the white soon seared an afterimage onto his already obscured vision. The blood was so raw . . . so real. It was the red on white that brought back the memories . . . memories of Chaos after the volcano burned his flesh . . . burned away the last ounce of life. There would be no goodbyes, not even after the Trophy Bulbs gave back his life.
The cries turned into weeping, as Mantaro collapsed. He fell hard onto his knees. A sharp pain ran through his kneecaps, sending a white-hot agony into every nerve along the way, and yet he could do nothing except to collapse back against the low wall beside the doorway . . . the doorway whose paint now bore a sad indent and smear of crimson. The ball inside his chest swelled and toughened until he was stiff and still, and he said nothing as Warsman whispered:
“May I sit beside you, Mantaro?”
He wanted to nod. He needed to nod. The second he attempted to move . . . attempted to communicate . . . the broken sounds exploded out of his mouth in a strangled groan. It was an unholy sound, as so many weeks of grief gargled out like the cry of the possessed, and his mind could only think of three words . . . three words that repeated like a mantra: ‘don’t leave me’. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wept until there was nothing left to weep.
Warsman slid down beside him. The warmth from his half-organic body provided little comfort, but his presence could be felt in every small breath and every movement of his chest. He rested his forearms upon his knees, while he waited in respectful silence, and Mantaro half-laughed through the last of his sniffles and hiccups. It was only when the tears stopped that he turned to look upon Mantaro, where his eyes softened and a nod of acknowledgement followed. The painful lump in Mantaro’s throat loosened, as Warsman said in a calm tone:
“I also like to be alone when I am overwhelmed.”
“You do?”
“I do, but sometimes it is not a good solution.” Warsman sighed. “I was often known for being a lone wolf and running away from emotional conflict, and it was a coping mechanism that served me well among the peers that understood me and accepted my needs. I would always recommend time alone in circumstances like this, as it allows one to gather their thoughts and process their emotions. Sometimes what we need is time . . . time to feel, time to heal . . .
“That being said, if we do not communicate our needs then we alienate others. We also risk harming others when their needs conflict with ours; I imagine Rinko and Kid are very expressive, and require a great deal of talk to process what their grief, but when we take time away from our friends – especially when it is a shared loss – they will only feel ignored and isolated.
“Do not be like me, Mantaro. Talk to your friends . . . tell them how much you care, but explain you need time to tend to your needs before you can tend to theirs, and then arrange to see them in a safe and neutral place, so that you can come together and help each other to heal. You may not be more important than others, but you are certainly not less important than them, either. Do not forget they are also in pain, but do not ignore your pain to tend to theirs.”
“You want me to compromise? To tell them I need space, and not just run away?”
“Precisely,” said Warsman. “A lack of communication can prove fatal . . .”
Warsman angled his head away. It was as if he were chasing the sounds from afar, with the cries and calls of Kevin echoing about the stadium, and each time his voice was clear – easily discerned over those of others – a slight narrowing of the eyes would follow. Mantaro smiled. It was followed by one last tear, which he wiped away with a trembling hand. The two remained quiet among the cacophony, and listened as cheers burst forth when Kevin seemingly won against Scarface, only for Warsman to return his head to a neutral position. The eyes closed, as his chin touched upon his chest, and Mantaro spoke softly to him:
“You came here to watch over him, didn’t you?”
Warsman nodded.
“If you need time alone, why don’t you just tell him that?” Mantaro looked down. “You’re just as annoying as the other Legends. They always give the best advice, but they never follow their own advice, so it’s like . . . seriously? You said yourself that not explaining your side to people only ends up hurting them, and he’s hurting really bad. He thinks you’ve abandoned him.”
“If I had abandoned him, I would not have followed him to the past.”
“Yeah, which only confuses him! You’re messing with his head. You can’t be there and not there, and you can’t care and not care . . . he knows you watch over him, like at the power plant or as Chloe or by going back in time, but every single time you hide your identity or run away from him, and it’s like -? Ugh. I don’t know . . . it’s like you don’t care, but then you come back again, so you must care, and he cares about you, and -! Sheesh, it confuses me, let alone him.”
Mantaro threw back his head. The skies above were filled with clouds, much like those on the day that Chaos passed from the world, and – as he closed his eyes – he pictured the feeling of rain upon his face, along with the cold chill of the night air, before the memories flooded back in a rush . . . endless woods, cries of friends . . . bloodied shoes . . . Mantaro lowered his head. He took in a slow breath, while he fisted his hands at his sides. The tears had dried up, but that stone in his stomach continued to grow, and he turned back to Warsman at last.
He looked so small, despite his immense height. This grown man sitting on the floor of a rooftop, while the person he loved stood close enough to be within his eye line, was almost like a child curled in on himself in an empty space devoid of companionship. Mantaro sniffed. He wiped at his face with his sleeve, before letting out a long exhalation, and flexed the fingers of his hands, as he sought to retrieve feeling in his now numb digits. He said quietly:
“You’re not like how my mother described you.”
Warsman blinked. He turned his head towards Mantaro. The light of his eyes sparkled for a brief second, while his muscles lost their tension and his body softened, and – if this were anyone else – Mantaro may have sensed the beginnings of a smile. The sounds of a new fight took the place of the previous silence, as Jade and Check Mate began a new fight, and both men were left listening to those below, whose lives carried on in the absence of others. Warsman was the first to break the silence, even as he turned his head back to look at nothing and no one.
“Hmm?” Warsman hummed. “How did she describe me?”
“Well, she said you were a good guy,” said Mantaro. “You are a good guy at heart, I guess, but she said . . . well . . . she said that you were a champion of justice, who’d do whatever it takes to protect people who need protecting the most. You’d never hurt or kill anyone that had potential to be a better person. It’s just that it’s hard to reconcile such a just man with . . . ah . . .”
“With what?”
“If I’m honest, it’s hard to reconcile that with you. You hurt Kevin a lot when you left the first time, because he felt rejected and abandoned and betrayed by the one guy he loved more than anything, and then you mess with his head by being there and not there at the same time. I could probably understand that . . . maybe . . . after all, you’re probably confused and need time to process your feelings, just like I need time to work through what I feel, too.”
“I’m sensing a ‘but’ coming, Mantaro.”
“But you also told Kevin to kill me! You were one of my father’s friends, and you were meant to be one the side of justice, and – more than that – you’re my mother’s best friend . . . for a while, you were her only friend, too. What happened to loyalty? What happened to protecting people? What happened to upholding a moral standard? What happened to . . . you?”
Warsman lifted his hands. They remained palms up between his parted legs, and his eyes gazed down upon them as if they belonged to a stranger, with the hands opening and closing in slow and gentle fists in response to some unknown force. The light in his eyes seemed to dwindle out, until all that was left was the cold mask and strange silence. Mantaro looked away. He gazed back at the mess of the rooftop . . . a few items belonged to Kid, some to Jacqueline . . . Ikemen, Harabote, and even Mayumi . . . nothing belonged to Chaos. Mantaro asked:
“Why did you tell Kevin to kill me during the Olympics?”
Nothing. The cheers of the crowds continued, along with various crashes and bangs, but the only sound from Warsman was that of his rhythmic breathing on the empty rooftop, where he continued to stare down onto palms scarred from a lifetime of battle. Mantaro crossed his legs, as he hunched forward and scratched at the dirt. He traced a few familiar letters . . . ‘C’, ‘H’, ‘A’ . . . the letters stopped as he swept a hand across the dirt, erasing all traces of what was written. He turned to Warsman and asked in a cold voice devoid of emotion:
“Do you even know?”
“Mantaro, the Olympics are not like any ordinary competition.” Warsman cricked his neck. “It is a life or death battle between chojin seeking to prove themselves against all others, and death is per the course for many that fail to achieve the standards of greatness. Brocken learned this the hard way when his father lost his life to Ramenman, and –”
“And it deeply traumatised him for life.”
“Ramenman himself was rendered comatose by my –”
“He still has panic attacks when he senses you. Traumatised, too.”
“My point is that –”
“No, listen. You’re basically saying that hurting people to their core is okay, just so long as it aids you in your goals and boosts your career, and I’m saying that’s bull. The Warsman that my mother knew would never have fought at all costs, because he knew some costs were too great to bear, and that’s why he turned on Robin Mask and why he lost to Kinnikuman. It’s why he stopped being a Brutal Chojin, and it’s why people loved and adored him. You changed.”
Warsman leaned back. He stretched out his legs before him, so that the long limbs extended into infinity, and rested his upper back against the low wall, as his head tilted back to look at the cloud above that grew darker with each passing second. The tears may have ceased for Mantaro, but they grew new and fresh in the corners of Warsman’s eyes. They did not spill. They did not grow. They simply lingered between descent and retreat, with a surprising amount of self-control, even as the tears on Mantaro’s mask dried out and vanished without a trace. Warsman asked:
“If I have changed, why are you sitting with me?”
“Because people can change back,” said Mantaro. “Our natures aren’t stuck in stone, you know. I mean, just look how often Neptuneman and Robin Mask flip-flopped back and forth . . . I don’t know why you were so cold and brutal, but I know it’s not you, not really.”
“Oh, and how do you know this? You barely know me, boy.”
“Right now, I know you better than you know yourself. Who are you?”
Mantaro stood.
“You told me that I need to communicate with my friends,” he said. “It’s good advice and I’ll talk to them, but – like you said – I need to work on myself before I can help them. I need to know who I am and what I feel, that way we can work together to be better people . . . happier people . . . we can’t do that if I don’t even understand myself and my own needs.”
A low sigh escaped his lips. He wiped again at his mask, as he removed the very last vestiges of tears, and slowly dragged his feet towards the rooftop door, whose painted wall still bore the marks of blood and violence. He reached towards the door handle. It was cold to the touch, with the metal grounding him briefly in the moment. The wind picked up speed. It brushed at his cheeks and tuft of hair, before dying away somewhere in the distance, and – on the floor – Warsman continued to stare at his hands in an eerie manner. Mantaro said with a wince:
“You need to work through your issues soon, Warsman. It’s not just you hurting; every time you hide yourself away or push others away, the people who love you just feel alienated and rejected, and you said yourself that’s a pretty shitty way to treat those who love you.”
“I did say that, did I not?”
“The best advice I can give you? Be yourself.”
“And if I don’t know who I am? If I cannot recognise what I have become?”
Mantaro winked. Warsman tilted his head in response, as he looked at Mantaro without a word, and – with another sigh – Mantaro pointed out to the arena. He kept pointing, even as no further words were exchanged, and he kept pointing until his arm grew tired and shook, before finally Warsman threw back his head and climbed to his feet with slow and sluggish movements. He turned to follow the hand gesture, where his eyes grazed the arena in search of what was indicated, and he kept looking until he jolted on the spot. He saw it. He saw Kevin.
“You should see yourself through his eyes,” said Mantaro. “He sees the real you.”
A hand rose as if pulled by a string, until it touched upon his heart. Warsman put his palm flat against his chest. He let out a shuddered breath. The bright eyes came alive on sight of the young man so far below, but not once did they leave him, and instead they followed his every step and gesture with an intensity rarely seen upon his stoic features. Mantaro laughed. It felt strange on his lips, a betrayal of all that was lost, and soon the laughter died in his throat, as the tears brimmed and his smile faltered. He forced back the smile to say in a warm tone:
“Well, I better go, but it was good talking with you!”
“I hope you feel better, at least.”
“No, not really, but I will . . . I will.”
He opened wide the door. The empty stairwell descended into darkness, but there – at its base – the noise of laughter and gossip and arguments grew its strongest. He strained to hear the various voices . . . Ikemen, Jacqueline, Mayumi . . . biting into his lip, he turned back to Warsman. He was still looking out to Kevin with eyes so soft and hand still brushing against his chest, and Mantaro found his hand moving to his chest in turn, where his heart beat as a reminder of life. He took his first step into the stairwell, where Warsman never even noticed him leave. He was already halfway down the stairs, when he whispered with a smile:
“You feel better, too, Warsman . . .”