2025-09-03: Why Do Birds Fly
- Log: Why Do Birds Fly
- Cast: Myunghon Yeo, Tsumugi Kujaku
- Where: Hirasaka Chuo Hospital
- OOC Date: September 03, 2025
- IC Date: July 05, 2012 before 2025-09-02: Constants
- Summary: Myunghon receives a visitor in the Dark Hour and expects the worst. But who arrives indeed but the mysterious proprietor of the Peacock Silk, Tsumugi Kujaku, ready to transmute them into something greater, something grander, something that... gravity cannot hold. Because why, indeed, do birds fly?
<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.
It is late, at Hirasaka Chuo Hospital.
Visiting hours are over. Indeed, most of the hospital has geared towards the night shift; tired nurses and on-call practitioners are signing off, some headed towards on-site bunk beds in staff rooms in anticipation of being woken up for an emergency in the middle of the night. "Can't believe my shift ended so hard. It's that Yukichi woman again..." grouses one nurse in semi-private space to another.
Tick... tick...
12:00 AM
The complaining nurse and the one on the computer chair half-listening to her and stimming on her ballpoint pen both turn into coffins. The poor, underworked medical grad who makes less than a waiter turns into a coffin. The gurney he's pushing with a patient due for a transfer hours ago turns into a coffin.
The hallways of the hospital gain a green, sickly pallor, even within. A hospital whose equipment ceases to function is no longer a hospital. Indeed, with so many coffins present... this is a house of death.
That is the way Myunghon Yeo often sees hospitals, having been present and trapped for so many days -- weeks -- months -- when they first awakened to their Persona, and spent their first Dark Hour with absolutely no idea of what it means or why; they thought that the stress of awakening had finally made them go spare. Panic and a complete inability to be helped by anyone aggravated and introduced more comorbidities.
Myunghon calls it the White Room, but it is when it gains a sickly green hue that truly shows its fangs.
And for someone whose life schedule revolves so much around the supernatural, try as they might, they aren't able to escape the Dark Hour through something as simple as sleep. No, their anxiety and fear of the coming Dark Hour prevents them from indulging in such simple escape -- they're there, on their hospital bed, drawn up tight into that fetal position that they often so prefer as it relaxes them...
There is nothing relaxing about the way they're tightly wound up now, knees pulled up to their face. Which is, at the very least, bandaged... but only down to their neck. The rest of their body, still only covered in a hospital gown, is exposed for all to see -- a body of scar tissue, debrided flesh, third-degree burns, and more. It isn't hard to imagine why someone would start to question if they are truly alive when their flesh looks the way they are.
Are they, though?
They chose to live, on that day when the rain turned to snow. Cursed, with living.
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
Japanese tradition is a staunch thing. It defines the guardrails of their society, provides rigid structure to rely on.
There is upside to an unbending structure; there's also downsides. A difficulty adapting to new trends is one: twelve years into this new millennium, and Japan as a country still has yet to fully embrace the digital age. Many businesses still use faxes. Or, as another example...
"Please! I'm looking for my sister!
11:59 PM
They still keep fastidiuous paper records. In, say, hospitals.
Quiet and polite exasperation is the nurse's looks at the woman in front of her -- a young woman, perhaps in her twenties, pretty, her black hair shorn short and asymmetrical, her outfit a stylishly white off-the-shoulder sweater lined with red fur to contrast to the deep dark of her fitted pants and black, steel-toed boots. This is probably not the first hysterical - concerned, she shouldn't judge - family member she has encountered today. She is, however, probably the last, in the most technical sense of that word.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," she begins slowly, offering her most professionally compassionate tone to the distraught woman. "But visiting hours are over, and..."
"Please," the woman repeats, looking at the nurse with pained, vividly green eyes. "I heard she was hurt in some kind of -- some kind of altercation, and -- and I don't even know what room she's in. I don't need to see her today -- I just need to know she's okay!"
The nurse's lips purse. She exhales gently, offering a sympathetic smile as she pulls out her on-hand records. "Alright. It's okay. Just tell me her name--"
"Oh, thank you! Thank you thank you--" is the relief that assaults the nurse as the happy woman seizes her in a hug.
It's so sudden and unexpected and alarming, the nurse starts; the records fall to the floor with a clatter.
"Her name, oh, I-- oh, I'm so sorry--!"
The nurse sighs. She bends over to pick up the records as the woman obligingly backs away.
12:00 AM
The nurse bending over to pick up her notepad turns into a coffin seconds before her fingers can brush the surface.
Vivid green eyes watch the process, as concern and relief all bleed away into a calm passivity. Like mud, washed away in the rain.
It's calm, the way they duck down to pluck up that pad. The way they offer a detached, "Thank you," to the coffin that cannot see or hear nor remember what it has done for them. They flip through calmly, until they find a room number and a name.
MYOREI YUKICHI
"..."
They stare at that name for several long seconds. And then, with ample nonchalance to spare, they pluck the pen from the pad, scratch out that name, and write in a new one before tossing it at the coffin's feet once more, exactly where it fell:
MYUNGHON YEO
With that, they turn, pick up a black garment bag draped on the chair they had been occupying some few minutes earlier, and make their way to the stairwell, ignoring the mass grave of green-soaked coffins as they go.
---
Footfalls echo through the lifeless floor Myunghon Yeo's hospital room resides in.
This time is a lifeless time. Electricity no longer works. Hearts no longer beat. Existence ceases its weary function, for one whole hour -- save for those blessed to see the truth of it all.
One bundles themself up in their room, warding the ugliness of it all away as best they can.
The other embraces it.
Thick-soled heels of their stylish but heavy duty boots don't take them to Myunghon's room first. No -- their first stop is a medical supply closet. They take their time looking for what will suit their needs; why not? There's no rush, after all.
After that, it's to the help desk just outside of Myunghon's room. Here, they hunt down the medical chart for Cardboard Dragon's proprietor, calmly thumbing through the leafs of medical scribble, giving a methodical and thorough reading of its contents.
It's only then that they set the chart down, pick up the purloined package from the supply closet, and make their way over...
Are you alive, Myunghon?
The knob of that door turns as Tsumugi Kujaku enters without a word, intent to find the answer to that question.
<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.
There are... footsteps.
Myunghon Yeo can hear with almost supernatural clarity -- they are, whether they enjoy it or not, Navigator. But one doesn't necessarily even need to be gifted, or even awakened, to hear the weight of destiny of those steel-toed boots falling upon the rubberised hospital floor. Someone is... out there. Someone who has the capability to move in the Dark hour. Is it them? Are they here to finish them off, whoever it might be -- not Officer Ishiba, but someone higher up in the conspiracy? Is this it?
By the time the door knob turns, Tsumugi themself can positively feel the rise of Blue coming out of the bed -- without the Cognitive Coat, they have no choice but to substitute for the only other piece of clothing on them, the hospital gown -- and the flecks of tendrils as it struggles to morph into anything even remotely close is... pathetic. Kudlak, however, is still risen over their shoulder, silent and at the ready, their form clipped through the bed.
They're breathing erratically and rapidly, clearly waiting to pounce on whoever is around that corner -- a blind spot for them, given the shape of the room. Eye in tears, slicked with sweat, and despite every ounce of posturing of aggression, clearly terrified out of their wits.
"Don't come here... don't come here...!"
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
Blue surges in defiance.
In terror?
How often those two sentiments are linked.
They can feel it; not a Navigator themself, Tsumugi Kujaku is still experienced enough to know when someone is preparing to aggress -- whether it be in the supernatural, or the mundane. Call it... survival instinct, honed and sharpened through years of necessity.
There's a frantic tension in the air, but that knob turns all the same. Tsumugi doesn't shy away, nor hesitate. Instead, as hinges creak with their opening revolution...
Don't come here... don't come here...!
"Myunghon-ssi."
... they simply make sure that silken voice carries through the sound, and the panic.
It's with an assured step that Tsumugi Kujaku reenters the threatened shambles of Myunghon Yeo's world. Those green eyes seem to shine even more vividly in this hour as they turn to regard Myunghon, like a stark opposition to its more sickly green relative, whose Dark Hour hues saturate every nook and cranny of this space.
Their expression implacably impassive, they look to Kudlak first, looming floriously over-shoulder, ready to strike, half-sunk in the mattress Myunghon is condemned to.
And then they look to Myunghon themself, huffing panicked oxygen, gown curdling in attempts at protective appendages, cold sweat beading at ashen skin.
Bereft of their wrap.
They watch, for three seconds, until they shut the door behind them and lift that garment bag hanging off their right index finger, the black vinyl of it glimmering with the diseased chartreuse of the hour.
"Your coat is ready."
Their expression does not so much as hitch as they offer their simple greeting, their reason for being here, despite the absurdity of the hour.
<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.
Myunghon-ssi.
The smooth confidence of the voice does pierce through the panic and the raised tension in the air. The fluttering of the gown stops; Tsumugi Kujaku, then, reasserts themself and enters. Once more, they're adorned differently -- though the boots remain a constant, with how much they assert themself with their sound. This beautiful person, with their infinite grace and piercing green eyes, their asymmetric hair, stands out as not even feeling threatened to be drowned by the sickly emerald of the Dark Hour.
"Tsumugi...?"
There's a perplexed, confused look as they simply state matter-of-factly that their coat is ready. Here and now? It is true that Myunghon didn't respond to any attempts to contact them about their garment -- even now, they're not certain where their phone is... somewhere in this room. The nurses didn't really make an attempt when they asked them about it. They're not sure how many messages are waiting for them, in the way that when one disconnects from their life even for a day, they'll be buried under a pile of electronic obligations when they come back.
Kudlak seeps back into their back, and Myunghon shudders quietly to draw their blanket up. "... please. Don't look at me. Not at this moment... not in this manner..."
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
Here and now?
Tsumugi looks for all the world as if this is as natural a time as any to bring Myunghon their finished request, which perhaps only serves to underscore the surreality if it all.
Don't look at me.
The purveyor of Peacock Silk's head tilts.
Not at this moment... not in this manner...
"..."
Without a word, they step further inside. The garment bag is hung on the first available rung available for use -- the IV stand serves well enough, the unused side now finding a dangling, shiny black package adorning its sterile edifice. The sound of their footfalls grow closer -- the shadow they cast grows longer and deeper in the sickly green light Myunghon is otherwise illuminated in.
They lean in.
"... Then become as you want to be seen."
Those whispered words are all they offer before they pull away, leaving something on the stand next to Myunghon's bed:
Disinfectant. Sadly, not Dettol.
And spools of cotton gauze bandages.
"It's how I want to see you."
With that, Tsumugi pulls back. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to simply leave at this point; their gifts, after all, are given. And indeed, they turn to do just that...
... only to pause, at the door.
"... Abuse is an addiction to the abuser."
The words come, roundabout; though they're meant for Myunghon, Tsumugi's gaze is turned toward the far wall and the window to the world beyond, gaze hooded and distant as they speak.
"There's no time that's clearer than the first. You can see it in their eyes. There's a shine to their stare. A giddy excitement to it all, like a user experiencing their first high. You can see the neurons firing behind that stare, pumping their pleasure centers with reward after reward for the power they exert over their victim. And after, it leaves a hole in its wake, making them realize how cold they were without that feeling of power in their lives. And the more they return to it, the more deeply they must indulge, to chase after even the barest echo of that first moment."
Still, their eyes don't turn Myunghon's way. But their attention can be felt, if only in those words:
"It won't end with this. You know that, don't you?"
<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.
Myunghon's eye can't help but be drawn to that vinyl garment bag. Even hidden within the protective layers of its transport, there's something truly special that Tsumugi has brought to life for them. It feels tantalising, like a Transformation of the self, even beyond what they've been able to cognitively imagine for themself before.
But Tsumugi commands greater attention, as they lean in. It's enough to bring frisson where their skin still feels, as they imperatively tell them to *become*, as they wish to be seen.
It's how they wish to see them.
Some neuron of emotion fires again at the honeyed words, and they reach for the bandages and haphazardly begin their work. The nurses continued to find excuses to not do so; some are grounded in medical caution, to be certain, but isn't their mental well-being also of importance?
It's difficult. They do this daily, but it's not easy; the range of movement of their shoulder and arm are both strictly limited, and moreso now as they feel the flare of pain from their dislocated shoulder, which hasn't been treated as well as it should have. It's sloppy, and there are gaps. They don't have a mirror -- once a comfort to prevent them from having to look at the terror that is the Creature they are, but now a disadvantage as they do not know how concealing they are being.
... the binder is gone. They still don't know where their clothes are. Somewhere in this room.
Minutes later, they are done; there's something like a shiver and no small amount of laboured breathing as they carefully, slowly, hoist themself up off the bed, making sure to properly pop off the guardrail that they tripped on. As their bare feet touch vinyled hospital flooring, they threaten to tip over--
But Cognition kicks in and the hospital gown stretches out and props them up. How fascinating, the relationship they have with fabric. Those arms and hands of theirs are clearly not as healthy and with as wide a motion as they once did. So some measure of their mind compensates, with this prehensile fabric.
Tsumugi speaks of abuse, and addiction.
"I... you saw everything...?" Myunghon trembles, one of the blue hospital ribbons grappling onto the bedrail that is still up. They do possess a somewhat distant, far-off expression; the way their expression lapses in and out of consciousness. The way Tsumugi's words of excitement and the return-hit of pleasure spurs one on further and further, continually seeking to fulfill what's within that hole.
It won't end with this. You know that, don't you?
"I know," Myunghon lowers their head. "Even now... I leap at shadows, fear what is around the corner... like now. Even thinking of his touch is enough to send me into another panic..."
They're not interpreting 'it won't end with this' very differently. From a position of vulnerability, not power.
"Mother was correct," they utter despondently. The context is perhaps beyond Tsumugi, vague as they're being, but it must have a relation to power and power dynamics. "Even on the eve of success in the supernatural, I find myself powerless to defend myself in the physical... it does not matter how strong the Hope of the revolutionary is. Their flesh and blood contains them."
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
Bandages unfurl. Even a healthy person would have difficulty with what Myunghon is trying to do -- does every day of their life, now. Some things simply work more fluidly, more efficiently, with a partner. And now, injured as they are, Myunghon clearly struggles with the endeavor.
Yet Tsumugi does not intercede. They do not so much as offer a hand of help.
This is Myunghon's work to become what they want to be, be as they wish to see.
To change, into the form more acceptable to their mind's eye.
Why would they wish to lessen it with an outsider's touch?
The pitch of the Dark Hour fades in and out between those pale, sickly greens and the darker hues cast by drenching shadows of medical equipment and the shielding blinds of the window.
I... you saw everything...?
Drenched in the deep dark green of the Dark Hour's shadows, Tsumugi provides no answer to this question save their rumination on abuse.
And the ultimate end point it leads to.
No -- it's only when Myunghon is done and speaks further that the tailor's sharp-yet-placid stare tilts the rumormonger's way. They watch with muted curiosity as Myunghon shivers out of bed. How the fabric of that gown curls in vain, attempting and managing, in a crude, struggling way, to guide them out of their bed and onto uncertain feet. How curious, how the fabric reacts to her. More alike than they know. And yet...
It's like watching a hermit crab, seeking protection in a shell that is an ill fit.
"Mm."
Mother was correct, Myunghon says. Tsumugi can't know the exact content of the conversation - conversations? - that led to such a statement.
But they know, on a deeper, intrinsic level, what it must be about.
"You're limiting yourself."
They could provide solace. Instead they provide this: a critique, laced in tones smooth as velvet.
The shadows shift. The long cast of Tsumugi's draws across the flickers of unimpeded green light until it intersects Myunghon's own. They're close again -- but not near as close as before, standing at the IV stand where they hung that coat, shards of lifeless light illuminating their fair features as they take hold of the top of that stand with a calm certainty.
"He tries to make you his victim because he thinks he has power over you. He does not." They turn that stand slowly, until its saline pouch disappears from Myunghon's sight.
Hidden behind the tempting sway of shining vinyl, containing a gift within with little more than a zipper hiding its power from them.
"You think you're powerless. You are not."
One hand extends, red lacquered nails faced down.
"It could be him - it should be him - trembling at the corners, hoping he doesn't fall into your gaze today. Your power is there, waiting for you to seize it."
In offering.
"Don't you want to know how?"
<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.
It is done. It is not perfect. It must do.
There is beauty in imperfection, after all. It is only through one's footsteps through the mud, the balance of positive and negative space, that one can leave their imprint on the world.
This, too, is a facet worth considering.
You're limiting yourself.
Myunghon rattles at that comment. Tsumugi's landed their comment well. They know what mother said -- the very same thing. In what context? It's unclear. But it's clear what it ultimately is about. Tsumugi's shadow moves until it intersects their own. Within light, shadows intertwine, as if they were beings unrestrained by the boundaries of identity and individuality.
He does not have power over them. The IV stand turns; the iridescent reflections of sickly green light upon the liquids suspended in that saline pouch, upon which they can see their own grotesque, imperfect reflection, disappear behind Tsumugi.
In its place is the vinyled protection and the power that calls to them inside.
It could be him - it should be him - trembling at the corners, hoping he doesn't fall into your gaze today.
Myunghon's eye quavers and unfocuses again; it's so hard to keep standing. The only reason they're able to stand without someone being alerted is because the electricity on the bed's falls alarm is off. That's another way in which the White Room is robbing agency from them.
"... do you speak of..." Myunghon's thoughts are swimming again. The fully cognisant, conscious Myunghon could rattle a hundred different ways. "The Joker Curse... the Revenge Request website... or..." They tremble.
"Tsumugi..."
They quietly lull forward, though some part of them begs them not to -- they feel so faint and weak as they reach towards that extended, red-lacquered hand. Grasping gently onto Tsumugi's palm-- then faltering, as the hospital gown becomes incapable of propping them up.
"Are you... suggesting I--" There is a hesitation, a kind of gravity and sickness that enters them that has them falling freely forward now.
Kill him?
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
There's a sterile beauty in perfection. Like these scoured and sanitized halls, meticulously kept free of the imperfections that could threaten those already susceptible to them.
Static. Unreachable. Pure.
...
No; Tsumugi Kujaku much prefers the mud tracked through Myunghon's defiant donning of their ceremonial wrap.
To them, they are much more beautiful for it.
Myunghon's gaze unfocuses. Their footing threatens to falter. But Tsumugi does not pull back, neither from what they are suggesting, nor what they are offering. Behind the veil of vinyl that separates them, only Tsumugi's left eye is visible, the intensity of their deceptively hooded stare thrown into all the more stark relief with the absence of one to divide attention.
Like that eye was looking straight through what Myunghon is now, and looking instead at what they could be.
The Joker Curse?
The Revenge Request site?
Are they suggesting...
Myunghon falters. A compulsion, a draw, beyond physical force sends them falling forth.
That perfectly, meticulously manicured hand curls in theirs.
And the space behind the garment bag's black barrier is suddenly empty, as Tsumugi all but glides across those empty spaces to catch their injured, kindred spirit.
It's like a slow ballroom dance, the way they use the steadying grip on Myunghon's hand to circle around them until they are situated behind the shopkeep, one hand in theirs, the other helping to keep them aloft.
"The Joker Killer," they echo, their voice pitched lower like it was a secret for the two of them alone in this deadened space. "The Revenge Request. The long, winding paths of the Mementos... even this lost hour, that the blind can never see."
And so many other possibilities. Are they suggesting Myunghon--
Kill him?
"He thinks you're weak. He doesn't know all the ways you can see him. Know him. Reach him. But you do. Don't you? It must have occurred to you."
Their fingers thread between Myunghon's.
"'After being hurt by the world so much, they began to see the demons within humans. So without hiding it through trickery, they worked to express it.'"
And, hand in hand, they lift up and reach out to the garment bag's zipper to take hold of it. Together.
"You are the one with true power here, Myunghon."
*zzzp*
Vinyl peels away to reveal it. Darker than night. Like gazing past the event horizon of a black hole, where all light goes to die to feed its ravenous hunger. But inside?
Inside, the black pitch glow bleeds away slowly towards a bright scarlet.
"You should make him realize that."
Like a defiant spark of life in an abyss' guttered pit.
The hermit crab's new shell.
"You are no longer human, Myunghon. Why be beholden to their rules?"
<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.
Myunghon's world is a blur, but for a moment; their gravity unmoored, they expect the cold, hard reality of slamming against the floor as they did earlier today. A reminder of what one cannot be, when they are not a bird, and can only ponder why birds fly.
But that is what Tsumugi is positing, are they not? The infinite potential of what it is they could achieve, if they only stop limiting themself. Why, flight is but a paltry fantasy, when one comes to it: why not float free in space, while one's at it?
They are caught, but they feel something firm, centering, anchoring; they swan around, beautiful blacks and whites with only that splash of red from the fur of Tsumugi's sweater, contrasting against the resplendent greens of Tsumugi's eyes.
When they find up from down once more, the protective vinyl is peeled away to reveal a coat otherworldly and magnificent, the kind of work that only a master tailor touched by what is possible beyond the mere trivialities of the physical can possibly achieve. A garment darker than night, an imperishable black, bleeding away to hungry, desirous crimson.
In another effortless spin, they move again, their one hand finding strength in their intimate little dance. There is transmutation, there is alchemy-- as Myunghon seems to will the coat to drape around their body, and it cocoons them, so tight it seems that they might disappear into it entirely. But when the slither of fabric unrolls around them, it is draped around their shoulder ever so effortlessly, as if it always should have been there. The hospital gown is gone, replaced with their clothes -- the bloodstained white shirt, the dark tie, the dark dress pants...
"... have I no chance?"
Myunghon doesn't want to draw away, at this point. The ease in which Tsumugi manipulates them in their dance, the closeness in which they have to gaze up to their emerald-greens, all speaks to something Myunghon resolved that someone who is No Longer Human no longer deserves.
Perhaps they were still correct.
Because to truly discard the contradiction, disqualification is not some state so trivial it can be undone. Shinjiro would know that. Lives taken, forever; why, then, should they believe they deserve any better?
Yanagi's words wash over them.
Don't you love their cool manner, like they're so disaffected, but then they come in close all of a sudden and touch you?
This isn't personal. But this is not... NOT personal, either.
"The weak fear happiness," Myunghon quotes, no doubt, the most important book in their life. No Longer Human. "The weak fear happiness itself."
Myunghon peels away -- Tsumugi notices, even effortless and beautiful as their glide is, it's only perhaps twenty percent their legs and feet doing it. That Coat is already manouevreing on its own, an extension of their will, towards... the window.
They gently open it. The July air is stifling, warm and humid. But there is a breeze.
With the sick, pale moon hung low silhouetting them, Myunghon's messy wolf-cut flutters onto their face.
"Sometimes, they are wounded by happiness itself."
Their head tucks low, as they lean backwards and sits precariously on the edge of the window. The implication of their actions is undeniable. They seek to leap, throw themself back and fly down three stories into the hospital grounds before. Perhaps this is what the weak would think.
Perhaps this is still what the weak will think.
Can the weak think as birds will, for themselves?
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
Have I no chance?
The coat abandons its prison and finds freedom in the only place it belongs.
Myunghon Yeo frees themself from the prison of their hospital garment, once more varnished in the blood-stained armor they choose to face the world with.
Free, from the things that might take their agency. Free, from the things that this place have bound them down into.
Free.
"Beautiful."
Like they should be.
The alchemy of the moment is almost like a dream. With every movement, shadows converge and pull away. With every movement, Tsumugi shows Myunghon the steps of the dance and watches as they - through will and feet and fabric - take those very steps upon themself.
A dance in a forgotten hour, so light they could very well fly. Maybe it is a dream.
But maybe the difference between a dream and reality is simply the fact that only some are privy to the knowledge that there is no difference.
Myunghon is drawn in with grace and confidence, a hand in theirs, the other at the small of their back, pressed in to the eloquent, imperishable black of their new coat like one prepared for a dip. Within Tsumugi's strikingly green eyes Cardboard Dragon's shopkeep can all but see the endless possibility that is waiting for them to just reach out and take.
The weak fear happiness.
They pull away, the coat providing fluidity to their grace. Tsumugi watches, rapt, as they stop at that window, the last barrier between Myunghon and freedom.
Humid heat carries on the breeze, buffeting their cheeks.
Sometimes...
The familiar excerpts move to their ear, as if carried by the humid, summer breeze. Apart now, Tsumugi's hands fight their pockets, their slender, stylish figure a green illumination against the pale moonlight. They look at Myunghon, backlit to a shadowed silhouette against that sickly light, a flash of bloody red within the depths of their coat like a splash of color in the dark.
"... they are wounded by happiness itself."
They say that last passage in perfect sync. Their head tilts. The implication is clear. A three story drop for anyone bound by the rules of man, the laws of the world.
"Tell me his name. Without fear."
But why listen to gravity?
"And then show me how you fly, Myunghon."
Why not just fly, for the sake of flight?
That oh-so-rare smile that Peacock Silk's tailor offers says that they would like nothing more than for Myunghon to do just that.
<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.
At this moment, it all feels so lucid. This is electrifying, neurons bursting into activity, the mind expanding to infinite possibility. But later, when they stop at that merciful rest stop, finding Mementos still harrowing for a sole traveler, this encounter perchance will feel like a dream.
But what a wonderful dream it is.
They won't soon forget the moment, where they are held at the small of their back, pressed in as if in a dip within a dance. Yua has taught them well about such movements; what they require from each dancer, leading and led; what it signifies, and what evocations exist within such a motion.
They could simply just... take.
That they shy away, towards freedom, is that the actions of the weak?
Perhaps. But what is beautiful about weakness is how layered it is, is it not? Steel and velvet, threaded through, supple and flexible. Tsumugi speaks that line for them, and another burst of emotion erupts within them. It's a powerful moment of being seen, being kindred, in more than one way.
Tell me his name. Without fear.
They are ghostly; perhaps, vampiric, at this point. Their shoulders drawn, no matter what signals their body are screaming to them -- it doesn't touch the lucidity of their mind at present. Their long, slender finger is drawn up to their lip.
"Koichi Ishiba..."
It's like there's a phantom phone in their hand. A phone connected to the Joker Killer.
It's like there's a site in their eye. A form with only a name to fill, at the Revenge Request.
It's like there's a magic wand, in their hand. A single wave... and a man will cease to be.
They were not so different. A stroke of keys. 'Enter'. A life soon ceases to be. Oh, they will still breathe and walk and talk, of course; but what is the difference between killing a sixteen-year old in desperate need of surgery with a gun, and denying them their claim?
Many things! people would immediately jump to argue.
It is not so, for Myunghon.
Perhaps they were mistaken in ever thinking they could be anything more... that they could be human. So empowered by the Coat that drapes around them, their mind is thrown back to the past. It was a mistake to ever think they could escape violence. Their hands are so thoroughly bloodstained that they'll never find any amount of disinfectant to cleanse it.
So what's one more?
One that's so... deserving.
They are the one with true power.
They should make them realise it.
There is a final glance, at Tsumugi's beautiful eyes.
Myorei Yukichi, corporate slasher, smiles her wicked smile in reflection.
Then... they fall.
Oh, they fall; the dramatic flutter of the new Cognitive Coat as they're thrust upon air and resistance is remarkable, against the green of the night. For the first full second, gravity takes hold, inflicting 9.798 meters per second squared upon them.
Then they reject that, and the coat lashes out--
12:01 AM
And the visceral green of the night shatters; instantly there is the noise of police sirens, of cars honking in the distance of night. The Cognitive Coat spreads and guides them, as a bird would, because a bird... simply would fly. They descend, with grace, and then a lash of ribbon grapples upon a nearby tree, sending them to a gentle stop as they are propped upon the many tendrils of their coat.
They look up, to the open window of that third story floor, once. Their smile is beautiful and ethereal.
Then they glide, in the night, in imitation of the legend of their Persona. A legend that would spread through Sumaru, yes, but they know not of that right now. That is not important.