2025-08-03: Two Thousand and Ten
- Cutscene: Two Thousand and Ten
- Cast: Tsubasa Seki, Ichika Kawase, Dr. Denji Inoue
- Where: Hirasaka General Hospital
- OOC Date: 2025-08-03
- IC Date: Tuesday, June 19 2012
- Summary: Tsubasa is taken to hospital to address the minor injuries they sustained during the Joker Killer's assault on Kasugayama... and gets a visit from their psychiatrist, who explains that there's no proof the serial killer was ever involved.
- Content warning: Gaslighting from medical professionals
When the ambulances came, they didn't just take that bloody boy off Tsubasa's hands -- they took Tsubasa, seeing the burns across their back and the horror in their eyes. Going back to hospital certainly doesn't improve their expression, though -- particularly when they insist they can't wear their bloody uniform any more, and they insist their chest wraps have to go after they get their inappropriately-worn shirt off and realise their ace bandages are just as bloody. (The nurses naturally enquired what injury they were caring for, to which Tsubasa replied, dourly, "My fuckin' gender, what's it look like?")
Once their wounds are dressed -- these burns aren't too bad, the nurses say, as if that's supposed to make them feel better -- another of those people in uniform come in, smiling to them. (One of them found them a disposable hair net to cover their head, seeing their distress, but they haven't seen that woman since they were moved to a bed.) "We found your records," she informs them, "they were just under a different name... we're having a little trouble contacting your next of kin, though. Does your dad have another phone, or...?"
"My father?!" Tsubasa yelps, zeroing in on what she's saying now it isn't just more medical microaggressions. "Look, just 'cause I named them for you doesn't -- don't fuckin' call him!"
"Seki-san," the nurse says, sternly, "don't yell at me, I'm trying to help you. How are you going to get home without your family?"
"Argh, I mean, I'll figure something out, I -- h-hang on, Officer Shimizu!" Desperately, Tsubasa throws out the name of the most respectable person they know. "Yeah, Officer Reiko Shimizu! If you're handing me to a cop, that's fine, right?!"
The nurse frowns, taking a step closer. "Seki-san... is there some reason you don't want your father picking you up?"
"He'll--!!" Tsubasa starts, and thinks better of it, looking down. "He'll be mad," they say, instead, which isn't a lie. "And he's busy with his job, or whatever..."
"Well... we do still have to notify him you're here," the nurse sighs, with more concern. "But if he's so busy, I'm sure he wouldn't mind this Officer Shimizu stepping in... I'll speak to my boss about it, okay?" Tsubasa doesn't know the alarm bells she'll raise, when she does, though she can tell Tsubasa's a tough nut to crack. Luckily, they have their long-term psychiatrist noted on their file...
Before the wheels of the internal referral system can move, though, Ichika Kawase finds their room to visit them. Tsubasa's nigh beside themself with relief to see that she's okay, though they did at least call her to let her know where they were. She makes things a little more okay for them, too, because she bought them a new wig to replace the one which burned. (Tsubasa can't remember mentioning to her in their phone call, but they're forgetting a lot of things, right now, so they must have just missed saying so.) Ichika assures them she'll keep an eye on Lance, and it's exactly what they need to hear to not just get up and walk out.
But Ichika's the Boss, which means a thought rattling through their head goes to her, first. That homicide cop gave them his number... and while they're hesitant to talk to the cops, it wasn't hard to think of him after invoking Reiko, like that. Luckily, Ichika agrees that the Joker Killer is above their pay grade. And so, once she's ushered out...
"Hey, Officer Suou--" Tsubasa starts, before the message bank of Katsuya Suou's voice mail answers, instead. Helpfully, the recording catches the tail end of, "...damn phone! Fuck, anyway... it's Tsubasa Seki. Uh... listen, it's... it's not the murder you was askin' after, but... fuck, man, the Joker Killer just hit our school! Him and--" But the voice message beeps, because they can record only a short message. Not to be deterred, Tsubasa dials again, snapping: "--ut me off, fuck! Okay, so like, him and his posse, this fuckin' gothic lolita from hell, she -- she straight gutted a kid, man! And they wanted to fuck up the Death Boss, throwin', fuckin', I don't know, Molotovs or some shit -- they blew some shit up outside, too -- fuc," beep, the voicemail cuts them off and cuts the call, again. "Fuck," Tsubasa repeats, and doesn't bother to call a third time.
They've been moved to a single room, lights dim and door closed. Another one of them -- a doctor, maybe, guy had one of those stethoscopes -- came in and told them their head was a bit fucked after their fall, since they couldn't catch themself with their hands or whatever. Said they had to 'rest their brain,' though how they're supposed to do that when people keep coming in to shine light in their eyes or ask them where they are for the fiftieth fucking time is beyond them.
It feels like the fifty-first time when their psychiatrist, Dr. Denji Inoue, opens the door and steps in -- though objectively, it's not long after their abortive attempt at a phone call. Tsubasa glares, from where they're lying on their side... though they sit up in the bed when they realise who's here. "Inoue-san," they greet him, their fingers tightening against the bedsheets. (It might be warm out there, but it feels like an icebox in here.)
"Tsubasa-san," Denji greets them, and uses their actual name to do so. It's something they've always appreciated about him, even if he won't sign off on gender identity disorder treatment until they turn twenty. Even if... "Do you mind if I sit?"
"Knock yourself out," Tsubasa mutters, looking down.
He takes the empty chair beside their bed, pulling out his usual clipboard. "I understand you've been through a terrible event," he says, gravely. "How are you feeling?"
"Shit, how you think?! Chick straight gutted that kid, right in front of us!" Tears well in their eyes, recounting it again. "A-and I couldn't move, fuckin', Kashihara-kun was the guy on top of it, I just, I picked him up like he said and my arms locked down, right? Like you drop a guy like that and his guts all come out probably and FUCK!"
Give Dr. Inoue some credit: he doesn't tell them to stop swearing. "You must have felt an enormous responsibility to him," he points out, instead.
"Shit, yeah, like -- I threw a chair at her and she cut right through it, with this axe, fuck," Tsubasa takes a ragged breath, clutching their arms to themself. "I couldn't do anything. Even when I kicked one of them -- not a damn thing. Like, worse than nothin', I fell on my ass and scrambled my goddamn brain!"
"Why did you fall that badly? Did they push you?" Denji asks, with curiosity.
"No, man, I was still holdin' the poor kid! Like... fuck... when the Joker Killer was throwin' Molotovs, I couldn't fuckin' drop him, had to just... turn my back and cop it, fuck."
Dr. Inoue leans forward, in his seat. "Hold on," he cautions them. "Are you saying that the Joker Killer assaulted you, today?"
"That's what happened!" Tsubasa snaps back.
But Dr. Inoue's gaze is steady. "Are you sure?"
"I --" Tsubasa starts, only to falter, the volume dropping from their gravelly voice. "I heard him say he was," they say, a touch more defensive.
"Sometimes, when we're in situations of extreme stress, our minds can... reach for explanations," Dr. Inoue explains, his gaze not leaving theirs. "I spoke to many people about this before coming here, Tsubasa-san... this was an attack on your school by an outside gang. I've seen no credible evidence the Joker Killer was involved."
"He said he was!" Tsubasa snaps, though they're clearly unnerved. "He said all kinds of crap!"
"I believe that's your sincere belief," Denji says, in the tone he reserves for discussing their delusions. "But isn't it possible that on witnessing attempted murder, your brain reached for the most obvious explanation from the media? Had anyone discussed the Joker Killer with you, recently?"
"No! Tsubasa snaps, immediately, though they keep thinking about it -- and a moment later, manage to pull the truth from their confused memory. "Uh... I mean... yeah, I guess..."
"Doesn't it stand to reason," Denji concludes, "that you remembered your anxiety about the Joker Killer, and only thought you heard him say such a thing?"
"... you think... I'm hearin' shit?" Tsubasa asks, looking anywhere but that constant, steady stare.
"It's entirely reasonable your condition may have flared up during such a traumatic event," Dr. Inoue says, and his voice, at least, is kind. "Particularly given... the confusion your injuries have given you. You've needed a lot of reminders about what year it is, haven't you?"
"I know what year it is!" Tsubasa frowns, angry again. "It's two thousand and ten!"
"It's two thousand and twelve," Denji corrects them.
"But... I'm in hospital," they protest, their voice growing small.
"You are," their psychiatrist confirms, "but you're not in the burn ward, Tsubasa-san. You're in short stay."
"... I... I guess my brain's pretty messed up," Tsubasa has to cede the point, shoulders sinking. "Sorry, I... I thought..."
"It's all right," Dr. Inoue absolves them, with that same kind tone. "You've witnessed a terrible thing. You're confused." And the fact that they are makes his words all the more credible. "I'll leave you be, for now... but I'll visit you tomorrow before you leave. All right?"
"Sure," Tsubasa nods, their mouth dry. "... thanks."
When Dr. Inoue closes the door, behind him, Tsubasa pulls their phone out again. They said not to use it, too much, but it feels important that they redial their last number.
"Hey," their voice reaches Katsuya's voicemail, a third time, far more subdued. (Overshadowed.) "Seki here again. Left you some stupid messages, uh... don't even worry 'bout 'em. I hit my head, I don't know shit about fuck... I was just imaginin' who musta did it. Don't... don't bother callin' back, I... I'm just crazy, ma--"
Those message banks are never generous enough to let them say what they'd like to say.
... there's no point calling a fourth time, now they're crying.