2025-07-15: Pathetic
- Cutscene: Pathetic
- Cast: Tsubasa Seki, Hanzou Seki
- Where: Tsubasa's Apartment, Hirasaka Ward
- OOC Date: 2025-07-16
- IC Date: Sunday, June 10 2012
- Summary: Tsubasa's father isn't happy to get a call from them, and as soon as he's asked to provide anything at all, he takes it out on them.
- Content warning: Child abuse (emotional/physical), misgendering/deadnaming
Tsubasa was supposed to go out, today. They were supposed to be having fun with their friends at Shizuko's party. Instead, they sent Lance off with the crew for the evening -- at least their dog can attend -- emptying her kibble back into the bag and stowing the bowls in the cupboard on top of it. Not much to be done about the dog hair, but at least Lance's coat is an unobtrusive brown. Easier to miss.
Their apartment is tiny, a desk with a mirror in the corner, kitchenette and bathroom stowed under a sleeping loft. If only their microwave wasn't on the fritz, they wouldn't be sitting here, in their one chair, waiting for the guillotine to fall.
They haven't seen him in months. He hasn't called. It's as if they have no family at all. ... not that that doesn't suit them just fine. Could do without this knot, in their stomach. Could do without --
That knock on their door.
Slam! Slam! Tsubasa thinks of a battering ram at the castle gates, as they bolt up to let him in. There Hanzou Seki stands, fist pulled back for a third 'knock,' and Tsubasa is briefly terrified he might really hit them. He wouldn't, would he? What if someone saw? He at least cares if someone sees.
But he reaches forward, instead, to grab roughly at their wig. "What have I told you about looking like a clown?" He berates them, as he tosses it onto the walkway outside and shoulders his way in. He has to duck, under the stairs leading to the loft. ... he doesn't take his shoes off in the little square of floorspace put aside for them.
"H--" Tsubasa chokes down their protest, stepping aside. "Come in, Father," they invite, lamely, given he already barged in. They don't want to close the door behind him, but they have to. ... not like anyone in this apartment building would run to their aid, even if they heard something. "Thanks... thanks for coming."
"I'm an executive, now," Hanzou scowls, though he's clearly bragging. "I have precious little time for frivolous things. And now I hear you can't even appreciate being given your own space," with its leaky taps and inconsistent hot water and mould and bars over their window, so they have to air their futon on the railing outside, "and you've gone and broken something?!"
"I'm sorry," Tsubasa says, knowing it's pointless to say it was dodgy when they moved in.
"Having a daughter was a mistake," he sighs, massaging his temple. No one's willing to point out how his hair's receding. "You only need a son for an heir... all you've brought me is embarrassment. So what did you foul up this time, Tsubaki? Out with it!"
That's not their name -- not any more -- but the more Tsubasa cares about it, the more he insists he knows them better than they do. So they just gesture, behind him, to the microwave, even though they told him what they needed over the phone already. "Microwave's sparkin' real bad... uh... I'm scared to use it. Like, it might blow up..."
"Let me see," Hanzou demands, as he turns and takes a step or two towards it. (He doesn't need to move far.) He sets it to cook for a minute, and just as they said, sparks soon start appearing inside. Tsubasa's face tightens in fear, but Hanzou just lets it keep running as he whirls on Tsubasa.
"And how did you break that?" He asks, face reddening as he claps a hand on their shoulder. Scrutinising them.
"I didn't!" Tsubasa whines, but Hanzou's found what he's looking for -- one of the bruises Kyoko left on them, in their last scuffle, exposed with their bare midriff.
So he curls his hand to a fist, and drives it into the bruise.
"Ow, fuck!" Tsubasa yelps, shoving him away from them as they stumble back into the edge of the bathroom's sliding door. Objectively, their father doesn't punch like a girl -- his fist is far less effective -- but pain, and their shock, are subjective. "You hit me!"
"Swear at me again, see what happens," Hanzou says, but though his tone is hot, his actions are calculated.
"But -- but you hit me!" Tsubasa says, again, wide-eyed. It's not the first time he's hurt them -- far from it -- but he'd always been more subtle. They flinch and startle, as the microwave crackles menacingly behind their father, their bravery almost shattered. With effort, they bite out: "I... I'll tell Officer Shimizu!"
"And when she investigates, she'll find you sustained the wound roughhousing with those rotten girls you call friends," he points out, lip curling. "Which your school will corroborate. You had that bruise before I came to visit. It's your own fault for dragging our name through the mud, don't you think?"
Tsubasa realises, their stomach knotting, that Hanzou might have had a reason to insist he'd come here and see the damage for himself. It would have been easier for him to just send them a new microwave without so much as looking at them. Was he always intending to teach them a lesson...? (To take it out on them.)
"I'm sorry," they say, looking down, because if he's made up his mind, it doesn't matter if it doesn't make sense. Maybe it's plausible, to say, "I must have been careless, or somethin', I... I don't know how I broke it, but I can't fix it. I'm sorry I keep causing problems for you. Just, please... just help me out."
"Pathetic," Hanzou spits out. "You really can't do anything without me. Think of the stress you're causing your poor mother, being so stubborn and failing to even maintain your own space when we gave it to you. And an ugly, patchwork girl like you -- you're not even trying to make yourself a husband's problem instead of mine, are you?"
All those redefinitions, all those threats, leave Tsubasa dizzy. They sink a little heavier, against the wall. "I'm sorry," they say, again, their throat dry.
"If you don't shape up, one of these days, you'll really be sorry." Contempt rolls from him, and Tsubasa is sure they'll drown in the undertow. "If you were really sorry, you'd crawl back to us, begging to be a useful and law-abiding daughter."
"Like it's that easy...?" Tsubasa mutters, looking anywhere but at him. "I can't -- do that."
Their eyes squeeze shut as they flinch, ready for another blow, but it never comes. Instead, Hanzou shoves past them, to the door.
"You're nothing but a disappointment, but unfortunately, even an unworthy girl like you will drain support from me for a few more years. Go ahead and die before you turn twenty, if you'd like to do something to make my life easier... you're bound to end up that way anyway, with the lifestyle you lead."
Hanzou ducks under the staircase, as he grasps the knob of their front door. "I'll have a new unit delivered," he informs them, curtly. "Don't break this one." He steps through, and slams the door shut. Tsubasa sinks to the floor, hugging their face to their knees.
"Shit," they choke out. They cry about it, but they hate that they do, that the only response they can muster to him is trying to appease him when they know there's no repairing that bridge.
This time... he really hit them. It wasn't just pressing down on a wound, or grabbing them too roughly, or pinching them, or dragging them around... he really just hit them, just like any of those street brawls. How... can they justify that? It wasn't just carelessness, or an accident.
"No one would believe me, anyway," they mutter, with a deadened gaze, unable to squash the feeling that perhaps he went this far today for a good reason.
When they go outside to find their wig, they realise it's been stepped on, ground under a heel.
His.