2025-08-20: Day's End
- Cutscene: Day's End
- Cast: Myunghon Yeo
- Where: Hirasaka Ward, Cardboard Dragon
- OOC Date: 2025-08-20
- IC Date: Thursday, June 28 2012
- Summary: What does the end of a day for Myunghon Yeo look like?
- Content warning: Misgendering, trauma, disaster life
You can often hear crows as the sun sets in Hirasaka. Not that that's unique, given how ubiquitious they are in the Greater Tokyo Metropolitan Area, Sumaru not excepted. The crinkled ringing of a bicycle bell as old man Yukabe indicates to a passing light truck strapped down with some truly past-their-prime whitewares. Two Kasugayama High girls chatter on the side of the street, standing atop broken drainage tiles. "Geez, Akemi's running late again," Myunghon overhears as they turn the flimsy little sign on the Cardboard Dragon to 'CLOSED'.
Yukari's gone home. So-young's no doubt back on a train to Tokyo, somehow still enamoured with public transit after two years of living here. Shinjiro must be back at the safehouse at this point. They hope. They could still be prowling for info. Shinobu... they aren't sure which gig she's doing tonight, but there was something lined up. Today was payday for Remi, so she should be doing all right... Gumiho's Gumiho. And last they checked, Mio's off to drive some high-paying client out of town. The last time, it was Myunghon themself, off to Tatsumi Port Island. ... they also hope Tsubasa and Lance are comfortable tonight, that Thorn Boss is providing for them.
The fire escape door closes with finality behind them. The rusted iron lock goes on, and the Rumourmonger immediately slides against the door and collapses to the floor. They can feel every iota of exhaustion in their bones. After their conversation with Yukari, they only had more questions. If they don't find some answers to prune off some of the webs growing in their mind, they're going to lose it. They like the girl, honest, but she's also a bit scary to talk to -- because the mercurial nature in which Yukari looks skeptical or questioning makes Myunghon nervous about when they're going to step on eggshells, all while trying to paper poise and confidence over their face. What sort of lame adult is scared to talk to a teen? This adult, it turns out.
Myunghon's far too tired to go to the public baths to wash. They'll have to use their sink again. Getting up off the floor feels impossible right now. Their body is aching. The scar tissue is aching. The phantom eye pain is back. They're 23 and the chronic pain is unmanageable at times. They're sure Officer Ishiba wounded their shoulder joint when they pulled on their arm, it's inflamed and feels like it's on fire. Just thinking about him has them shivering and twitching gain already, though. Deep breaths. Square breaths. Stay frosty. Hee. ho. Hee. ho.
The day's ended, and Rumourmonger Merry doesn't need to exist for a few more hours. Instinctively, they draw their knees up to their face, turning round and safe--
-ring ring ring! ring ring ring! phone call, phone call!-
"Yes, hello," Myunghon makes the mistake of answering without checking the caller, and is instantly blasted by:
"Ah, hello, Ms. Yukichi." A wave of dysphoria prompts the residents of their mind to shout, 'Run for higher ground!!' "This is the Rengedai Health and Rehabilitation Clinic. We just wanted to follow up with you again about your missed appointment, it's been six months since we last saw you..."
"I'm sorry, I'm busy right now," Myunghon autopilots.
"I understand. But you've said that the last four times we've called, and..."
"I really can't take this call right now," Myunghon hangs up. They said they'd never get full range of motion back. Why bother? The black pain rectangle clatters on the ground. There's a whole pile of messages from the same clinic. A message from their opthalmologist concerned that Ms. Yukichi is seven months overdue for a visit and that he still recommends an ocularist. Some spam from Dr. Tomi. That guy's way too creepy... they don't trust his fingers of gold, no matter how much love, anger, and all of his sorrow he puts into his work.
Ms. Yukichi! Ms. Yukichi. Ms. Yukichi. It's always Ms. Yukichi. It's for their own safety, because existing in the system as Myorei Yukichi is far safer than having to identify as Myunghon Yeo. People don't notice a Japanese name amongst hundreds. That's what their father would say, who didn't resist Soshikaimei at all. They hate that they haven't discarded it, but it's terrifying. Some of their current providers would discriminate, they're sure. It's not safer for their soul at all, though, gender and all. Oh, how much Myunghon loathes Myorei Yukichi, the Perfect Student. So-young Park is so much braver than they are, on this front.
A hollow pang of hunger echoes in their stomach, but it barely registers to them. People would be upset if they knew. Or are they just used to it? 'I'm not hungry,' the excuse sounds lame even to them after the twentieth time. They ate yesterday. Real food, not just Koalas. People should be proud of that, right? Beansprouts were bland enough they don't massively trigger the ash-taste, and they're crunchy...
Forget it. All they'd like to do right now is cry. Getting up really was a colossal effort, but they had somewhere they needed to be much later tonight. Rumourmonger Merry is Hope, and they weren't going to get anywhere close to making that convincing like this right now. A few clicks and the storefront lights go out. They haven't packed anything up yet, but Gumiho or Remi will take care of it by tomorrow morning if they don't get to it.
Upstairs is a disaster. It's also not technically a living space. The second floor is prisitne enough and was licensed for commercial use, so it was the natural choice to be the Cardboard Dragon. The third floor... as the highest one up, it's the one that has to take the brunt of the weather up top. There's a plastic bucket in the corner that's bravely tanking leaks. The soggy ceiling tile above had thoroughly rotted, and was covered in black mold. Similarly, the walls were grotesquely mottled, even though they made the effort to spring clean back in March. There's no shower or bath facilities, of course, but Myunghon has an excess of toilets and even a urinal because what was once the men's bathroom was up here. Having your own novelty urinal counts for something, right?
A few months ago, one of the Kasu students threw a rock all the way up here. They had to get Shinobu to board the window up for them. Gumiho drew a fun little picture to "give the room the cool it deserves." Or would it be kool? You never know with her. There's a kitchenette here, the kind for office workers with a sink and cupboards with a mini-fridge that they promised Yua they'd stock. They lied. There's nothing inside but medicine that needed to be refrigerated. The only thing in the pantry is Imo-kun, who's been there for so long they have their own family tree now.
They don't feel like washing up after all. The jacket and belt are both slacked off in short order, and they kick their shoes off, the dress leather pieces clatter into a corner somewhere. There's a pause as their mind decides that's enough, but they remember the advice they gave Tsubasa and wasn't feeling like a hypocrite. Off comes the shirt, and the chest binder.
There's a full-length mirror propped up against one of the many cardboard boxes, and they accidentally catch a glimpse of it. Displeasure floods their heart and they stumble over to flip it to one side -- and it starts sliding down and stumps them on their toe on its way to the floor. Coarse language. The cardboard boxes are stacked high and prodiguous -- some of them are stock for the store. The older, soggier ones are their clothes, their personal effects, and other things that normal people would've placed in wardrobes, cabinets, dressers. The only thing close enough to a wardrobe in here is a plastic garment rack on wheels, the kind that cost 1,000 yen and your brainpower to assemble it.
Myunghon fishes their way into one of the boxes and drags out an enormous shirt. It's some free promo shirt from some shady loan company they know doesn't exist: I BRING YOU MEGIDOLOANS. A free shirt is a free shirt. They disappear into it, the neck hole threatening to just pass right through, and kick off their pants aand finally collapses onto the lumpy, but thankfully dry futon. The last thing they do is unscrew a nearby bottle and tip it over, letting it spill onto the floor. The air floods with the acrid scent of disinfectant. The only smell that still registers. It's like being back at the hospital, all over again.
That's long enough. The ugly cry comes as a single sob at first, and then two, and then dissolves into a blubbering mess as they start ripping away at the bandages on their face. They're still not sure how the tear gland on the right side of their face works now, but the nerves are still telling them they're working, even if they might not be. They grab their pillow and bury their face into it and drowns a scream into it.
Rumourmonger Merry can wait a few more hours.