2025-09-24: The Best of All Possible Worlds
- Log: The Best of all Possible Worlds
- Cast: Myunghon Yeo, Tsumugi Kujaku
- Where: The Cardboard Dragon, Hirasaka Ward
- OOC Date: September 24, 2025
- IC Date: Night of July 15, 2012
- Summary: Tsumugi pays a visit at the end of Myunghon's long, long and difficult day. Things go... do they really ever go according to plan?
- Content Warning: Suicidal allusions
<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.
Myunghon Yeo has a had a long day -- they took the first train out to Tatsumi Port Island today, commiserated and watched dog movies with Shinjiro, found out that their interviewee for the Kirijo Corporation got cold feet and backed out which made them very paranoid, ended up going to Shibuya for an outing with Mio and So-young which led them to meet with an old friend which was pleasant but also opened a lot of old wounds, and now they're finally back home, having literally been through two cities in one go.
It's past store hours, and the clatter of the bell is the only noise as Myunghon steps in during the twilight hours, glancing over gently towards the setting sun which seems to blaze bright and burnished gold, picturing the aging Smile Hirasaka mall perfectly with its sense of ennui and what-could've-been.
Inside, they place their cute messenger bag on the couch and sigh to themself, draping the white coat around them a little tighter. They could never say it's painful to speak to Kanata, but the way they reacted when they entered with this coat brought back a little too much of the past to the fore. Shouldn't it be better for the past to simply be buried in the past? Their present was already trying very hard to bury them.
Regardless, when Tsumugi enters, they'll see that Myunghon isn't in their usual funerary -- in their words -- suits. They're instead dressed in a rather cute and well-made, if not new, pale gold sweaterdress, with a nice white ruffled collared blouse underneath with a black ribbon tie, black leggings, white Mary Janes, and a white coat draped over their shoulders in the style they enjoy -- and Tsumugi's keen eye can spot that it's all incredibly custom-made and tailored for their size... but not new.
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
Hirasaka. When was the first time they were here?
... Honestly, they can't remember, nor do they particularly care. The past no longer exists; why be bound by its phantoms?
But even if they don't indulge in the memories of yesterday, the Hirasaka of today still holds significance to them. It's where they first discovered for themself the power of rumors in Sumaru; it's where Yanagi has her important, semi-regular appointments at Tominaga Chiropractic. And most recently...
*ding da-ding ding*
... it's where one of their interests has set up shop.
It's unobtrusive, the sound of that bell heralding a new customer at a time well-past the welcome of any in the Cardboard Dragon's twilight hours. 'Unobtrusive,' largely because it comes with no voice to announce a new arrival. No familiar greetings, no formal hellos. Not even passing sounds of curiosity. Just the bell, the quiet sound of hinges rolling the door open and closed.
And the soft sound of footfalls.
By the time Myunghon looks, they'll find Tsumugi Kujaku there in the labyrinth of bookshelves that dominate that half of the shopfloor, pulling out a single tome by the spine to consider it with the lidded, vibrant green of their gaze. Their outfit is new, if not an iteration on ones they've worn before, like a contrast to the older ensemble Myunghon wears: the white button-up is sleek and tailored - of course - presenting a professional front when combined with the black slacks and matching, polished oxfords. It's in the small ways that they defy professional convention today: the way their sleeves have been stylishly rolled up to the elbows; the fingerless, black leather gloves they wear; the way four of those buttons on the button up are undone to reveal the black leather choker bound at their throat by a beautiful gold and gem-encrusted peacock pinion, its stylistic 'eye' seeming like it can see all there is to see. The little ways to make that look their own.
Their asymmetric hair swept back today, a handful of black bangs ruin that otherwise perfectly crisp presentation, spilling over the left side of their face as they crack open that book and peruse, the light of the shop glinting off their glasses. The cover reads simply:
CANDIDE,
OU
L'OPTIMISME
They don't look up from the passage they read. But that silken, impassive voice is for Myunghon alone as they wonder,
"Indulging in the past?"
<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.
Myunghon nearly startles themself to death when the bell rings again, because they're not *expecting* someone to come in mere moments after they themself did. The startled expression only doubles when they realise *who* it is, because they're still accustomed to Tsumugi being someone that they have to go visit, like that's their power dynamic, despite the fact that they went out of their way to deliver the beautiful black coat that they so carefully crafted for them.
They're breathtaking, as always. They make monochrome look so chic, so extravagant; not at all like they're ready for the grave, cutting far forward from the kinds of styles Myunghon is used to. They never liked leather on their skin, for instance, so items like leather gloves, pants or as Yanagi once suggested, a leather eyepatch is just out for them. And the way they always have personalised jewelry to bring it all out -- the Koala Pin will bring them closer, but that's just one item; it feels like the Peacock Silk inhabitants have a range, perhaps cultivated over years.
Indulging in the past?
Myunghon realises they haven't breathed in a few seconds, and gasps again as they step closer, looking at the Voltaire book they've chosen. "T-the books are quite old, yes, but I do appreciate the authors around the Fin de siècle..." They stop and catch themself, and glance away to partially hide their expression. "Ah... You don't mean the books, do you."
They softly clear their throat to hide their embarrassment further. "Ah, I'm lacking in manners. Welcome to the Cardboard Dragon, Tsumugi." They suddenly feel so self-conscious that they haven't tidied up. Remi and Gumiho have done a great job of leaving the store in a presentable state for the next business day, but suddenly, somehow, it's as if nothing will ever be enough to make it presentable to Tsumugi.
The Cardboard Dragon's atmosphere, of course, is always homey and cozy, opposing the rather chic and extravagant cleanliness and splendour of the Peacock Silk. At this hour, the warmth of the waning sun shining through the old windows bathes them in an amber glow. It's the most beautiful time of day, in Myunghon's eye.
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
T-the books are quite old, yes, but I do appreciate the authors around the Fin de siècle...
The crisp sound of turning paper is the first response to Myunghon's observation, cutting through the ephemeral moment of silence that lingers between those words and the realization that chases shortly thereafter. They don't mean the books, do they?
"No," they say simply, once the page has turned. They read through Pangloss' exultation of this the best of all possible worlds, their head tilting. "I've read this many times already." It's only then that green gaze drifts Myunghon's way.
"You're what interests me."
They say this so casually, as they snap the book shut -- as Myunghon offers them up a formal welcome to the Cardboard Dragon. If they think less of the cozy clutter of Cardboard Dragon, of the smoke-stained walls or the fading glories of this once-great building, it doesn't show in that ever-nonchalant expression of theirs. Not even as they turn to walk Myunghon's way, their bespectacled gaze sweeping from one end of the shopfloor to the next as if prompted by Myunghon's words of welcome; no. They look more... piqued?
"I was curious about this place," they answer that welcome, and for however indifferent their tone is, it also doesn't sound insincere, either. "Sa-ya was very enthusiastic about it. So I thought I'd see it for myself."
Why now, and not before? Well. There's been a lot of intervening events between then and now, hasn't there?
"You have an fascinating business, Myunghon," they say, and leave just what is interesting about it open ended, as if to allow Myunghon themself the room to fill in the blanks as they perceive them. Silence intervenes for a moment, before Tsumugi's head cocks rightward, black bangs spilling like a veil over one eye.
"The clothes," they suddenly observe, circling back to their first question the second it might seem to have gone forgotten. "They're older, aren't they?"
<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.
That silence and the way the page turns quietly and leaves Myunghon stewing in the moment reminds them that this is the same tactic their mother so thoroughly likes to enjoy -- never respond immediately on another person's time, always take your time and quietly, but assertively tell others that you exist on your own time and you'll respond at your own pace. Is that the mark of confident people?
The affirmation that Tsumugi has read the book many times hits home, as they wonder what lovely conversations they could share regarding old books they have a common interest in. That thought is abruptly axed at the executioners block when--
You're what interests me.
How easily they're shaken, by four words! Pernelle's words come to light again. Tsumugi is undoubtedly extremely charming, but Tsumugi is Tsumugi, and only they can occupy the space that they do. Each step that they take -- not quite as ringingly hard on hardwood floor with the undoubtedly excellent acoustics of the Peacock Silk -- further hits the heart as their presence becomes larger, grander.
Their arm is in a sling -- likely a natural consequence of further aggravating themself since the last time they met at the hospital ward, but they pull their left hand up to their neckline, a tic Tsumugi's observed everytime they're nervous. They are piqued...?
It's business, then -- at least, they believe so for a moment. Yanagi was quite enthusiastic, and they can't help but flush slightly about it; it feels good to know they've left an impression. "Whether it's old, rare books, collectible card games, Skill Cards or Rumours... the Cardboard Dragon can provide," they discover a modicum of respect for their purveyor side, as Rumourmonger Merry fights to gain control of the situation for a moment.
Tsumugi calls their business fascinating, and there's a soft little smile as they do, in fact, wonder what it is that has caught their eye -- perhaps just as intended. The way they spill their fringes from one side to the other, bathed in the radiant setting sun, isn't something they're going to forget for a while.
But then--
The clothes.
It's like they realise they've been circled.
They're older, aren't they?
"Ah-- yes," Myunghon meekly answers. Rumourmonger Merry is screaming as they're cast back to the abyss, inside of them. "A few years ago, I was part of a group of friends who aspired to create our own fashion boutique in LaForet," in Harajuku, where many of the old-school and legendary elegant gothic lolita and street scene places got their start. "This was the proud work of a dear friend who enjoyed clothing design and fashion, but..."
They glance aside.
"Well, she's no longer with us. Apathy Syndrome. And our store closed earlier this year, even after moving to Daikanyama after we were priced out of Harajuku."
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
The little things about a person paint a portrait. Pointillist pinpricks, slivers of moments that make the whole, beautiful impression.
The way Myunghon's arm still lingers in a sling, injuries still nursed from that nick at the hospital.
The way their fingers draw towards the ruffled edge of their neckline.
The smile and flush as they so briefly find themself in their element...
... only for that timidity to find its way back to them as the conversation tilts anew towards the personal.
Little pinpricks of paint slowly reveal the portrait of 'Myunghon Yeo' to Tsumugi, and leave them fascinated to find the next dot in the mosaic.
So for now, Tsumugi leaves aside the matter of business - not for lack of interest, but for the simple fact that they've found something that supersedes it - in favor of focusing on that little window into Myunghon's past, glimpsed through a sweaterdress colored with more life than perhaps anything Tsumugi has seen them in. The tale they tell isn't an unfamiliar one -- of an up and coming boutique that was eventually washed away in the rising tide of the main stream raising the cost of business to untenable levels.
But...
Well, she's no longer with us. Apathy Syndrome.
"... Mm."
It's quiet, the way Tsumugi considers this for a moment. Without a word they shift until they can lay claim a nearby table; it's uncanny, the way they can settle on top it with the same lounging confidence they do on their own shop counters, as if they simply belonged, and always had, despite this being their first time in the Cardboard Dragon at all.
"People who can't free themselves from society's chains are always at its whims," they say suddenly, their voice distant, gaze cast towards some far off place. "And if society wants it, it may well just drag them down to the depths to drown."
Do they mean Apathy Syndrome? There's really nothing else it -could- be, in this moment. Especially as they add, off-handed, "It's unfortunate."
It's only then that their gaze turns back to Myunghon, watching them - and their outfit - with that measured, considerate stare. "So the outfit you wore when we first met came from there," they surmise.
"Do you miss it?" they ask. A second passes, before they add, an echo of the question made more significant in the shift of a single word:
"Do you miss her?"
<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.
Rumourmonger Merry, the de-facto leader of the Cardboard Dragon group of Persona-Users who've now spelunked into the depths of at least one Palace and, together with the Phantom Thieves of Hearts, come out victorious. A gentle, reassuring strategist who espouses Hope in the cognitive world, with a thousand plans to assure victory to their allies. A creature of hope and stars, moving at superluminal speeds towards a tachyonic future.
Myunghon Yeo, the owner of the Cardboard Dragon store, both cursed and blessed with inextricable intimate ties that they can't -- or won't -- sever. A gentle, reassuring person who nonetheless drowns in their own belief of being No Longer Human, who is experiencing the hard limits of how to assert themself in reality. Whether with Officer Ishiba, their mother as a criminal element, or even now. A creature of flesh and blood, stuck in the present, trapped by the past.
And many more, are there not? It's what makes a person undoubtedly so fascinating, unspooling every little individual masks they wear.
They bear witness to how Tsumugi just seemingly effortlessly sits on that table with ease, despite Myunghon worrying for a moment how precarious and cheap those tables are because they should largely sit cardboard, not people. And yet, reality seems to reassert differently around Tsumugi. Or is that their brain making that up?
"Pernelle said that. You said that as well. It seems all in the Peacock Silk are gifted with the unshakeable conviction of freedom," Myunghon whispers gently, moving towards them, glancing down towards their beautiful green eyes with their singular gray eye. "Despite your advice, I appear to still be chained down by society. It was not by my hand that that man experienced true power. I was not able to make him realise it."
Didn't Tsumugi say to say his name, without fear? That fear has subconsciously crept back into them.
They point out the Angura outfit they wore when they first met, and that prompts another flush and a reaction as their hand draws up closer. In a way, they've answered the question too.
"... yes. Her name was Mei Arisugawa, and Lapin Angelique was her brainchild. A new-wave of old and new, incorporating traditional elegant gothic looks, the bondage subculture, and the emotions of the Angura one generation back..." A longer pause.
"You made me realise how much the suits were an easy way to cope. Neutral, neverchanging... they made choices for the day easier, but you were right when you said they reminded you of funerary dress. But now I find myself conflicted with the looks Mei gifted me. They were looks given not to me, but to Myorei Yukichi. She loved Myorei Yukichi. But we parted on bitter terms, and I never worked the courage to apologise, and now it's far too late."
Their lips are trembling by the end as they confess the story, but then look towards Tsumugi. "But... this isn't about her or the past. This is also about you and why you've come here. ... because I'm also interested in knowing more about you, Tsumugi Kujaku. I still don't know a thing about you..." They step closer still, as if magnetised and drawn to their gravity.
"...and I want to change that."
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
The unshakable conviction of freedom.
The smallest smile touches the corners of Tsumugi Kujaku's lips.
"There's no greater virtue to strive for."
And yet... Myunghon claims they still have yet to find their own freedom. That smile dissipates from their lips slowly, like beads of moisture slowly but inevitable evaporating in the light of dawn. From their perched position, they look up into that lone gray eye and its lost partner. Myunghon tells them an abridged version of what transpired that night, and that piercing stare never once strays or even blinks throughout. When Cardboard Dragon's purveyor is done, Tsumugi's answer is singular and definitive:
"You're wrong."
Can that table sustain their slender weight? Is the quality of that shoddy craftsmanship enough to keep those legs from splintering underneath them?
Tsumugi never even acknowledges the possibility as they shift upon their cheaper throne made for cardboard worlds of grand fantasies to lean up...
"You've attained the truest mark of freedom a person can achieve in this life."
... and reach forward with one of those leather-wrapped hands, resting at the exact spot Myunghon's hand so often rests in those nervous moments of theirs.
"You know the spaces of the world that society is blind to. You have embodied your mask. You can plant the seeds that twist reality. You can take the secrets and sins of others without consequence, without knowledge. Or you can do nothing at all. What is Myunghon Yeo's power? Is it in a gun? In violence they can wreak? In the physical power at their disposal?" Their head tilts, neck craned as they watch Myunghon with green eyes that have ever-so-slightly widened within the berth of their interest.
"... Or is it in the knowledge they possess, and the ways they can use it, or not? What is Koichi Ishiba in the face of that? Just another man with a gun, beholden to the same rules that bind them all. But not you."
There's nothing but absolute certainty in that tone in that stare, as they say:
"Society can't chain you unless you want to be, Myunghon. So who is binding you?"
It's a question they only let linger for a few precious seconds before their hand falls away -- before they sink once more into their languid luxury on that slightly shoddy table with only the faintest groan of table legs beneath them to indicate the shift. And just like that:
"There's no intent behind a gift that can last any longer than the moment the gift's given," they smoothly pivot onto the matter of Myunghon's dress. It's unsentimental, yet unapologetically so, accompanied with the way their gaze hoods once more as an arm drapes across their upraised knee. "You can't apologize to her now. But the gifts she gave you are yours to embody, or discard. No one else's." They look up at Myunghon, and offer simply:
"You should make them yours. The look suits you."
'Myorei Yukichi'; the 'Great Surrender'. These names, these events, draw a clear dividing line between the person Myunghon was, and the person they are now.
It's...
Familiar.
And yet, for all they've gleaned about Myunghon's life, Tsumugi's offered almost nothing about themself. It's almost as if by design -- as if giving pieces of themself away was simply not something they were interested in. And yet, as Myunghon addresses this very fact -- expresses their own interest, in Tsumugi...
I still don't know a thing about you... and I want to change that.
"..."
Tsumugi lapses into silence, looking up at Myunghon, drawn in ever closer towards that implacable spark. The quiet lingers for a moment. And then:
"I'd like to become a client of yours, Myunghon," they suddenly announce, ever-casual, as if they hadn't even listened to Myunghon's request. They lift that volume of Candide. "We can consider this the first transaction. I don't own a copy yet." Yet, they don't hand it over to be rung up.
"And in payment..."
Instead... they lift up their free hand, a single finger extended.
"... I'll answer one question."
<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.
The fierce attention that they inevitably give Tsumugi, like any time when that hypersensitive personality of theirs is truly online, is seemingly one-sided, a fragile flaw in the flesh-and-blood person that has to exist in material reality. The way the smile dissipates worries them, the way that people pleasers inevitably trip on themselves when they worry that they've said the one horrible, wrong thing that's suddenly going to smash and flip the table and turn the room ice cold.
The weak fear happiness itself. They can harm themselves on cotton wool. Sometimes, they are wounded, even by happiness.
Such were the words of a forty-something, seventy years ago, with such a way with words and the inability to keep jumping into rivers that a twenty-something in the 21st century that also can't stop jumping into rivers bumbled their way into their books and found comfort and reality in them. Because there's nothing more powerful to Myunghon than the ability to find sincerity in someone's words who passed away so long ago there's no possibility they could've influenced, and in turn, made those words false and crafted for them.
That was their belief.
And yet, nothing rings false nor crafted about Tsumugi's words here. It's compelling and strange; why do they trust the sincerity of their words?
You're wrong.
Myunghon can already imagine and formulate the argument Tsumugi's going to make. Their belief of freedom is rooted in the supernatural, much like how they suggested so effortlessly that to gain power over someone like Koichi Ishiba is to destroy them in spaces society is blind to.
Then they touch them, at that neckline, in an intimate place that--
--that does startle and rattle them, heavily, in ways that they didn't even expect themself capable of, and there's a timid squeak once more as they start to pull away--
But then they place their hand to gently hold onto that leather-gloved hand instead, on their neckline. It's cold, but warm, at the same time. A true paradox. Are they so desperate for touch and intimacy that they've lost sight of reality? Reality, as Tsumugi posits, is the power to be able to plant seeds that twist reality, to take the secrets and sins of others without consequence...
It is undeniably true that they've been stricken into inaction. But they also didn't desire to cause a Mental Shutdown on Ishiba. But it didn't have to be a Mental Shutdown, now that they think about it, did it? They're no stranger to blackmail nor uncomfortable with it. They don't possess more direct means to leech information from Palace Rulers, but they've found evidence within their mental spaces before.
"... I lament how anchored to reality I am. That no matter what success I find in the supernatural, it only takes one horrid encounter in physical reality to pluck my wings and send me faltering back to earth. Perhaps I have been too distracted by setback."
Even as they lament, they're gripped by how absolute that certainty is. Where is the source of this confidence coming from? How does one become a confident person, instead of just pretending to be, at their best moments? Who is binding them? That is a question they have the answer to, and yet...
Their hand falls away, and so does that strange warmth -- like it was never there in the first place. Their assessment of the gift is almost cold, clinical -- and yet, somehow, Tsumugi. They wouldn't stand for such sentimentality in a gift, Myunghon reasons -- no, knows. For a gift to bind someone in sentimentality and past would be a transgression of freedom. They'd never allow it in themself, Myunghon knows.
You should make them yours.
They cling onto their white coat, which so contrasts the black coat that Tsumugi fashioned and adorned them in. It clings just as intimately, even draped around the shoulders, like someone who thoroughly understands them in the same way Tsumugi did when they crafted that coat. There's something like a flush, once more, as Tsumugi compliments that it suits them --
But, much like how Myunghon plied Pernelle with tater tots before, Tsumugi plies them with a trade in turn. They'd like to become a client of theirs... and that Candide can be their first transaction.
It's not lost on Myunghon how much Tsumugi's dictating the terms. There's virtually no difference between Suzie Park and Tsumugi -- two people who on no uncertain terms control the flow of information in a conversation, sweeping others up in the power of their current. They lift their free hand, one finger extended...
... and Myunghon drapes closer, placing both their hands -- ignoring the flaring pain from their sling, they've slipped out of -- onto either side of Tsumugi on that precarious table, leaning forward, that white coat draping further as they gently spill forward. Close, but not close enough for contact. Ordinarily so timid, their eye rarely able to make contact, theirs is now still, lightless, No Longer Human as they exert themself in the way Tsumugi so points out -- the power of knowledge they possess and don't possess, and the ways they can use it... or search for it.
But in Myunghon's fragil internality, they believe it's Rumourmonger Merry that speaks now, honeyed and wisp-like:
"What is it in freedom that you seek?"
<Pose Tracker> Tsumugi Kujaku has posed.
Words from the past echo out into the future. No Longer Human finds its treatise on hopelessness and alienation igniting the spirit of someone generations removed with its resonant appeal. Perhaps, too, the scathing and cynical rebukes of Candide can find kindred spirits, centuries into the far flung future -- ghosts that proclaim the human inability to find contentment in perfection - or even in contentment itself - lingering and influencing lives far beyond their lifespan.
Tsumugi is familiar with both texts. And, indeed, they could have perhaps endless discussion with Myunghon on many of the old texts written by dead scribes lining the walls here.
But are there any that really resonate with them?
A question for another time, perhaps. For now, Tsumugi imparts their views on Myunghon -- the vision they see in the rumormonger's own power, not found at the end of the barrel, but in secrets and data -- in exerting power from a distance, in the strangling and absolute influence of information, real or fabricated. Because, after all...
... in a city where a lie becomes truth if you spin it believably enough, what does fabrication even truly mean?
Myunghon's hand finds theirs. The rumormonger voices regret for how bound to the physical they are. Stifled by setback. Pale lips - for once, unpainted - part out an exhale.
"You can fly again, Myunghon. He can't stop you. He's just a speedbump in your path."
Perhaps he might have. Perhaps he could have. But he didn't manage. And now, Myunghon still stands.
"Small men like him come and go. Just one man angry at his own insignificance among millions."
And Tsumugi's words brook no uncertainty.
"But you're one of a kind."
As if all Myunghon had to do was reach out and embrace is as truth.
That coat - such a stark opposite to the imperishable black, ignited with an ember of scarlet that they wove - draws Tsumugi's eye. Even in white, it fits Myunghon. Someone like that, and the reaction Tsumugi's words provoke... Another moment of the past, echoing out into the present.
Another point on the mosaic of Myunghon that dapples gently into place.
It's a flush of life from the one that seemed half-wrapped in the raiments of the dead that Tsumugi appreciates. But what they appreciate even more is the way a certain spark of confidence finds Myunghon once more as things tilt towards business - of a kind. The way the pale-haired shopkeep pushes past their limits, past their pain, to poise themself over Tsumugi, hands planted at either side of them. The way that eye stares lightlessly, certainly forward.
The way they come into themself, just like Tsumugi suggested they could.
Is it just a mask? A fabrication? Really... what is the difference? What, after all, is a Persona?
What is it in the freedom that you seek?
Does it make the approval in Tsumugi Kujaku's smile any less real?
Myunghon's hands slide into place on either side of them, framing them. And it's as they lean closer, offering up that molasses-sweet question, that Tsumugi answers, their voice casting lower like someone offering a conspiratorial sentiment in the hushed quiet of the night, pitched low to draw Myunghon ever-closer as they speak:
"... Freedom is something we're not given. We're born into this world utterly dependent on others to survive into the next day, and day by day, that subservience becomes ingrained. As children, we're beholden to the adults in our lives. Parents. Guardians. Teachers. ... The people who claim our life, one way or the other, because it is made clear in no uncertain terms: this life is not your own. Every decision you make is informed by those expectations, expectations that only expand. From family to peers. To authority. To society. And then we pass that servitude to the next generation, like an inescapable disease. 'Society' -- 'expectation' -- 'tradition'; the collective would sooner devour you in those sentiments then let you drift from them. How many people have lost the life they could have led to the life they were expected to lead?"
In moments like these, Tsumugi - so often someone of few words - offers up plenty, weaving a tale just as evocatively as the cell bars they posit society weaves for all of them. There's an intensity in that lidded gaze of theirs that can be glimpsed in moments like these, like a spark behind those brilliant greens, providing a heat all their own for the simple, matter-of-fact conviction of what they say.
"How long were you caught in the gilded cage called 'Myorei Yukichi'? When was the moment you felt your freest, your truest, Myunghon? Unburdened by expectation, unshackled by tradition. Why settle for less?"
Especially as they turn that answer upon Myunghon themself.
"I refuse to let my wings be clipped. And you shouldn't either."
Their gaze never leaves Myunghon's singular one. Yet at some point, the hands framing them have found themselves captured by the certain grip of another pair layered over them, cradled in leather.
"What do I seek out of freedom?"
And here, that hushed voice reaches its apex as Tsumugi crosses the sliver of a rubicon that separates them, to whisper directly into Myunghon's ear,
"'The best of all possible worlds.'"
... An answer in a quote. One meant - in Candide - to mock the necessary optimism of its days, but one now repurposed. After all, the repudiation begs the question: if this -isn't- the best of all possible worlds, it it is just a sick joke --
Then what could actually be the best?
<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.
There's absolutely no doubt that, now that they understand the text to be precious to Tsumugi in some manner currently they can barely fathom that they'll develop a hyperfixation and pore every individual sentence so as to be knowledgeable about the things that those close to them enjoy. Rock concerts, cooking, idols, music, videogames... Myunghon is quick to believe that this is just another way in which they try to uncipher the social code they don't understand, through appeasement. They can't believe it's just because it's kind and warm to understand the things other people close to you likes.
They could fly again. It would be so easy. He can't stop you. He's just a speedbump in their path.
Small men like him come and go.
They wonder if they can apply this logic to their mother, but they haven't confessed their mother tried to kill them, and she's a much more powerful figure. But they suspect that they would consider it much the same way -- they doubt there's truly anyone that they don't view as, ultimately, an obstacle on their path to freedom. Because to admit otherwise is to shackle oneself.
The coat is resplendently white, and so meticulously kept -- white is a colour that's so fragile, so easily tainted by all the errant unnaturals of their developed world. Soot, dirt, grease, anything and everything threatens to find their way and muddy it. That it's so fastidiously clean after all this time speaks a lot to Myunghon's skill to maintain clothing, but also the precious shackle that it represents to them.
This phantom drapes over them, an invisible person Tsumugi's never seen before, much like how their imperishably black coat carries their hands upon them.
But you are one of a kind.
They momentarily miss Tsumugi saying those words, because the words themselves have come from the phantom of the white coat in the past, too, like they've become one and the same.
How intoxicating those words are, to be reassured that they are unique, special, irreplacable. Most anyone would love at some point in their lives to hear those words, to find a little berth away from the storm of society where they can be cherished, precious, and momentarily forget about how little they are valued elsewhere.
How little an ambition, isn't it.
The way pale lips form into a smile. Their eye fixated on that entirety, so close to them now, the light of the swiftly receding sunset failing to glint off off the gray of their eye, pupil small. And Tsumugi recites their belief in freedom, of how it isn't given. How from the day they are born -- something that they aren't even given choice to, they're ingrained to dependence, to subservience. So many people, under so many titles, lay claim to their lives, make it not their own.
It's an achingly familiar thought, of course.
Don't take the easy way out, admonishes one doctor, his face forgotten. Don't forget -- your life's not just your own, Miss Yukichi.
Society as a disease. Osamu Dazai often described 'seken' -- society -- and 'ie' -- family -- in his works, which have more profound cultural meanings in the culture that they've been ingrained into, and how much that rankled him, leading him to believe in the futility of life and the monotony and tragedy of society. For him -- and for so much of Myunghon's life -- the way in which they'd express the way out would be to traverse the Sanzu River. It's much easier to clown the way Yozo often does and call failures Magic River Teleportation.
Tsumugi pierces through this veil of death, asking them how long they were caught in that gilded cage.
When was the moment when they felt their freest, their truest?
"Inarguably, I traded a cage for another. Because even when I opened my eyes to the truth of the world reality is blind to, someone was already waiting there, in the supernatural, to place me in another cage of command of theirs."
Ah, what a juicy tidbit of information. So there is another Persona-User that Myunghon feels caged by? 'A cage of command'. A hierarchy, that they're nonetheless bound to.
But Tsumugi refuses to let their wings be clipped. And they shouldn't either.
"Even soaring through the night air of Hirasaka, the taste of freedom was fleeting. Perhaps I can still fly. Perhaps I still will. But freedom perpetually has a price for me, it would seem..."
And at that point, their hands are ensnared by theirs, cradled in leather -- and the confidence melts for a moment, as they let out an instinctual gasp, and already leaning on the table, gravity becomes their master as they fall forward and threaten to topple onto Tsumugi and the precarious table all.
The best of all possible worlds.