2.
3.12.16
"I'm sorry. " He said it, though he didn't feel particularly sorry; he didn't really care, all things considered. "It's against Junes' policy."
"Rethink your policies." And the cop only paused long enough to shove several papers into his hands before stalking away through the vast parking lot, undoubtedly off to harass some other innocent employee at some other store.
Yosuke Hanamura, Scion of the Most Noble House of Junes (or so Teddie had called him the other night), grimaced and glanced at the papers. Wanted posters. All things considered, he probably had enough influence to obey the cop and plaster several of these across this Junes' glass doors. There was a strong likelihood that his father, far away in Inaba, wouldn't hear about it. And Yosuke couldn't see how it would do any harm, company policy or not. Might make things a little more interesting. But he remembered the way his father had stressed responsibility to him this year at Winter Break, a long lecture of half-praise, half-chastisement. Yosuke had taken it relatively well, though he'd gone upstairs at the first opportunity, called Souji, and demanded, "Why the hell do I have to work at Junes wherever I go?"
"Yosuke, man -"
"I mean - Argh! When we first moved into The Dorm, the closest Junes was an hour away, and Dad still said I had to work there or he wouldn't pay my tuition."
"Yeah, but he is paying your tuition -"
"And I swear he opened up this new branch by the campus just so I wouldn't have any free time this semester."
"You're making more money than I am."
"And Hawaii! When we went to go see Rise's concert, Dad just happened to mention he wanted me to help open that new Junes branch!"
"How else did you buy your motorcycle? We should call it the Junes Bike, because Junes is the only reason you were able to -"
"Two weeks in Hawaii and I spent fourteen hours out of every day teaching people how to zone shelves!"
"...Frog ninja, Yosuke. Frog. Ninja."
And Yosuke had winced, remembering his Shadow from all those years ago, that personification of his many resentments. Souji had beaten the crap out of it, but it still liked to metaphysically drop by and visit Yosuke. Especially after talks with his dad.
And so, remembering both his father's and Souji's lectures, he'd been polite that cold spring afternoon. He was already five minutes late for this afternoon's class, he'd been heading towards the front door, untying his Junes apron no less, and the cop had arrived. With these precious posters. Sighing, Yosuke crammed his apron into his bag, then shoved the posters in after it. His cell rang, and he automatically pulled it out and glanced to see who else wanted a piece of him. The tension in his face relaxed as he put the cell to his ear. "Teacher's not in yet?"
"Nah," came Souji's voice. In the background, he could hear the chatter of other students talking, waiting for the history lecture to start. "If you hurry, you might make it. Did the Junes Bike break down?"
"The Junes Bike did not break down." Yosuke shrugged his bag on, grabbed his helmet under one arm, and walked out the front doors, letting them swoosh closed behind him. "I got held up by a cop. That is, uh, a cop asked me to put up wanted posters in the store. You know, Be on the lookout for this convicted murderer/rapist/arsonist! Buy some Junes coffee mugs while you're at it!"
There was short silence. Souji was thinking. Yosuke wondered if he should drop the levity; when Souji took the time to consider, it usually meant something was up. Or he'd zoned out, that could happen too.
"That's kind of odd, isn't it? I mean, wanted posters? How often do you see those?"
"Outside of post offices, train stations and plot devices...not much." The Junes Bike waited, orange metal gleaming. Yeah. The orange Junes Bike. Baby.
"Who's on the poster? Don't tell me it's Teddie..."
"Hey, that wasn't my fault. I don't get people drunk. Teddie gets drunk on his own steam."
"I shouldn't have let him wade in the fountain."
"Dude, you shouldn't have let him go streaking in the first place."
"You're the one who told him about streaking to start with. Anyway, just tell me it's not Teddie."
Yosuke laughed. "If it was Teddie, we could turn him in and get the reward money. Nah, it's..." He slung the bag around, resting it against the motorcycle, using his free hand to rummage out a poster. "Some guy last seen in the Bay Area. Name of...Akihiko Sanada, age twenty five, wanted for murder and resisting arrest. Dude, that's a bad picture." He shoved the poster back in. "Anyway, I'll see you in -"
"Teacher just walked in. You're screwed." That was the best goodbye Yosuke got, because Souji's connection immediately ended.
"Damn." First cops, now this. It was enough to make him kick something. But not the Junes Bike.
3.13.16
Beanbag hadn't learned much in fourteen weeks of life, but he knew he liked mail. Any loose paper was good, but the mail had the advantage of being stacked in the same place every day. Beanbag had learned that once he had managed to scramble onto the old sofa and avoid being swallowed by the gap between the first two cushions, chances were prime he'd meet a neat column of correspondence.
Today was no disappointment. Beanbag cautiously batted at a postcard from Hollywood, California (I want all of you to come out here and visit me! We can play the King's Game again!) but found it was too stiff for his taste. He chewed experimentally on the edge of a thick clothes magazine, then struck gold: a sort of stiff, sort of bendy paper that made the most fascinating swish when he pounced and sent it flying off the sofa. Beanbag leapt after it, front paws landing squarely on his owner's address. With a flick, he sent the paper flopping into the air, landing on its other side. He clawed ineffectually at the cheap photocopy, but the girl in the picture didn't stop smiling. Panting, Beanbag gnawed the paper, coming close to chewing away her name: Fuuka Yamagishi.
Beanbag was a purebred lilac point Siamese kitten who didn't realize he was several generations removed from his saber-toothed ancestors. His mother had been bought by an impulsive tourist visiting a friend in the Inaba area. Disoriented, his mother had escaped in time to give birth to Beanbag and his brother beneath the dumpster of a local gas station. Beanbag didn't remember her, his brother, or the first few months of his life spent in freedom. He didn't even remember the day an overly-concerned human found him crouching under the awning of a textile shop, trying to keep out of the rain. He didn't remember being hurriedly stuffed into said human's leather jacket and being rushed home in a pounding downpour. But he did remember that as long as he'd been here, in this place where there was food and very soft blankets and a warm human who didn't mind sharing his pillow, there'd always been mail to play with. And he loved mail.
He settled down under the sofa, chewing the paper, gnawing a ragged line above the words Have you seen me?
3.14.16
She had once, several years ago, been thoroughly creeped out by the sight of a room papered with photos, each photo a portrait of one woman, each portrait with its face savagely ripped out. She hadn't wanted to comprehend such hatred, hadn't wanted to look at it or remember she'd ever seen it to begin with.
Now she understood it completely.
Using a permanent marker, Chie Satonaka drew a precise handlebar mustache across Yosuke Hanamura's face. She blew on it, letting the ink dry on the glossy photo, then drew a stitched scar down his nose. He was smiling in the picture - he'd been pleased, because he'd finally gotten his dream motorcycle and had invited everyone over to celebrate - so she took a moment to black out his front teeth. That picture had been taken two years ago, the last time all of them had managed to get together. After a moment, she selected a red marker and drew blush circles on both of his cheeks.
Her laptop sat on her desk, still open to Rise's latest email. She glanced over, and though she didn't intend to reread it, random phrases caught her eye. According to Senpai, things seem to be going good....haven't heard much from Yosuke-senpai....Have you seen his girlfriend's myplace profile? She's into ballet.
Chie told herself she was being stupid. She wasn't like this. She didn't even admire people who were like this. You had to go with the flow, dodge the jabs. Roll with the punches, and when you couldn't roll with them, take them on the chin.
Red marker squeaking, Chie started on an elaborate tutu around Yosuke's hips. It wasn't easy. He was sitting down in the photo, on the coffee table, and Nanako had been sitting on the floor near him, a plate of cake in her lap. Chie was careful not to let the tutu's frills overlap with Nanako's smiling face.
Pain smarted in her chest, the lonely ache that always accompanied thoughts of her friends. When she thought of them singly, Yukiko busy at the inn, Kanji at his shop, Rise and Naoto traveling in their different jobs, Souji, Yosuke and Teddie away at college in the city - it wasn't so bad. But when she remembered the days they'd all been in Inaba together, sweating through exams, laughing in their Headquarters, working extra hours at Junes, arguing over beauty pageants - she realized those days were never coming back. It didn't mean she loved her friends any less, it didn't mean that what they had now was somehow inferior. But she still regretted it.
Despite that, she used the black marker to draw a line of drool running from the corner of Yosuke's mouth.
She'd promised to meet Yukiko that evening, when her horrible shift as a desk jockey at the police station would be over. Yukiko would notice that something was wrong. Yukiko would find a way to work it out of her, learn of Rise's email and its offhand reference to Yosuke's girlfriend.
Fortunately, chances were slim Yukiko would realize why it should bother anyone.
Chie glanced at her open cell phone. 5:48. Less than a quarter hour to go. When she'd started down this career path (Her Great Quest to Kick Ass on the Police Force), she hadn't expected all this sitting. Sure, she wasn't yet a policeman. But she'd helped take down Izanami, goddess of death. Didn't she deserve a bit more excitement?
The phone rang. Her hand twitched towards the cell, then to the landline on her desk. Clearing her throat, she cradled it against her face. "Hello, Inaba Police Station, how may I help you?"
There was a sudden intake of breath, then a woman's voice. "I need to report a homicide."
3.16.16
Souji had classes all the way up to 8:30 that night, so he was starving by the time he got back to The Dorm. The Dorm wasn't really a dorm, it was the lower part of a house Souji and Yosuke had pooled their money together to rent. Teddie called it a dorm anyway, and the name had stuck. (Teddie's alternate name had been the Château d'Amour in hopes that the upper half would be rented out by hot college girls; but it was a middle-aged gentleman with tropical fish and fondness for playing Russian rap at odd hours of the day and night.)
It was quiet when he came in, Yosuke probably out with his girlfriend, Kaori. Teddie...who knew? Teddie didn't attend class. As far as Souji knew, neither the Japanese government nor its education system was officially aware of Teddie's existence. When Yosuke and Souji had decided to room together at college, Teddie had wailed at the idea of being left behind in Inaba. Mr. and Mrs. Hanamura, still somewhat befuddled at Teddie's sporadic presence in their home to begin with, hadn't balked at his leaving. So on the day of their departure, Teddie had simply stepped onto the train alongside them and waved goodbye. People who visited The Dorm or saw Teddie in Souji and Yosuke's company tended to assume he was a student, even if they never actually saw him in class. He spent his days in any number of ways, pulling in shifts as Junes' mascot, trawling the campus, or, worst of all, osmosing popular culture from the TV. But he seemed carefree. If things were going well enough for Teddie to be carefree, Souji was content.
Souji threw his bookbag onto the floor and stretched. He might as well make some dinner, even if it was late. Was there anything in the fridge? He thought yearningly back to the days when Nanako had handled all his food shopping. Nobody could pick out good plums like she could...
Their kitchenette was lame, just a small corner off their main room. Souji reached over to flick on the light. It didn't come on. Frowning, he stepped back and turned on the floor lamp in the main room. It didn't come on. After a moment, he found the cord and replugged it, casting the room and kitchenette into light.
Teddie, slumped on the sofa, lifted his head and blinked. For a second, he seemed to stare through Souji, his eyes sharpening with intensity. Then he smiled broadly. "Hey, Sensei. Back early from your wild night of carousing?"
"Carousing, yeah." Souji walked to the fridge and opened it. "Carousing with my textbooks, maybe. I've got a big exam tomorrow morning."
"No problem, you'll defeat it. Why even study?" Teddie rolled onto his back, crossed his arms behind his head and crossed his ankles. "You don't need all that. I'd call you a...Rock Solid Sage, I would."
Despairing of the fridge's contents, Souji opened the pantry. Ramen. No matter what happened or how long they delayed before hitting the store for more supplies, they always had ramen. If a volcano erupted and covered Japan in thirty miles of ash so that it couldn't be excavated for two thousand years, archaeologists would find The Dorm's ruins, find the petrified skeletons of three college boys, unearth the blasted remains of the kitchenette, and find an unopened box of ramen. There was something comforting in that.
"So, d'you know when Yosuke's going to be back? He still hasn't let me meet his girlfriend."
"No clue." Souji set the water on to boil and sauntered into the main room. "I think he's still upset about the whole fountain thing."
"Fountain thing? That was days ago. I'd forgotten. Don't psychologists say it's not healthy to dwell on the past?"
Souji was doubtful Teddie had a solid idea of what a psychologist was. But he didn't take the time to answer, because his eyes had been drawn to the floor. Not exactly the floor, the section of wall by the floor, following the line of the floor lamp's cord.
It connected to an electrical outlet, naturally. The outlet had two slots. The lamp was plugged into them, of course.
The slots were dripping with a steady flow of blood.