Quack meet Quack

[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVrWlI6rEpA ]

Early morning light graces Kyoto from the east, beams shearing between and over the squat buildings to cast long, intricate shadows. Animal-like tattoos gleam brightly down Ryuji’s bare arms, shimmering dimly each time he crosses a shadowed boundary. One among them shines more dimly than the rest. The curved beak of a corvid, with a sickly flickering white light. The man has kept Shun within his tattoos when he can, hoping that it will reduce the strain on the raven’s body over time.

The Rescue Ray Troubled Youth Center waits for him, a small and humble facility compared to the goliath Shiketsu with which it shares the city. The sign above the gates to the school grounds features a lit outline of a manta ray swimming across it, and each letter shines even in the night. Beneath the sign, a black metal fence encircles the building, looking out of place against the traditional architecture of the school itself with its sloped rooftops, wooden architecture and sliding doors. That architecture, in turn, is mismatched with the lower class neighborhood around it.

The fence had matched the old school design. A more modern, stone thing, uninviting and grim. Ryuji can’t even remember why he built it that way. Just because it seemed like what modern schools were supposed to look like, he supposes. When Rescue Ray rebuilt, he wanted to make it into something more welcoming. It’s been a troubled few years for the school. Shiketsu’s growing charity and community programs overshadow what Ryuji can offer, and since rebuilding from the Night Parade’s attack even more students and staff had failed to return.

It was never about profit. Rescue Ray’s hero agency brings in enough money to keep the small school afloat. Yet, he can’t help but feel a creeping obsolescence. He’d been searching for weeks for a quirk therapist or at least school counselor available to work with the school, and thus far found no one. The center’s previous counselor had left Kyoto when things first started to get bad. Maybe he was right to. But Ryuji isn’t going to abandon his charges.

The doors of the classrooms, and the boys’ and girls’ bunk rooms, open straight out into the courtyard. There wasn’t a courtyard before, just a concrete lot. Since tearing it up and putting in new dirt, the grass has yet to grow in, leaving it a lot of brown dirt instead of concrete. A mild improvement.

Four robotic guards patrol the perimeter of the school building. They have treads on their feet, using them as a primary form of locomotion, but their legs are able to traverse stairs of push comes to shove. Each of them has a pointed straw hat design on their heads, though their visual cameras are hidden on their bodies, the heads acting as a decoy weak spot and replaceable periscope for looking over obstacles. The bots are armed with shock prods on their arms, and net launchers. There are heavier weapons they can only use if an authorized staff member gives them verbal permission, for use in the event of a more dangerous villain attack.

One of Ryuji’s students is already outside. Okumura Hanzo, with a sucker in his mouth. He’s been trying to kick cigarettes, and the feeling of the rolled paper stick on the candy helps fight his cravings. He’s got long, dark hair and a faint ghost of a mustache, wearing the Youth Center school uniform: a gray buttoned shirt and green tie, with a pair of black slacks. Pulling the lemon-yellow candy out of his mouth, the shaggy looking boy nods at Ryuji. “Mornin’ sensei.” He performs a mock salute with his other arm, tipped with a broad, motorized drill.

Hanzo was born right-handed, but he can’t write with the drill bit. It caused him a lot of problems in elementary school, leading to frustration in writing exercises and incidents of property damage. That’s what brought him to the center.

If I can refine my process more, maybe I could adjust his quirk to a transformation type, so that he can access a normal right hand. “Good morning, Okumura-kun,” Ryuji greets the boy, approaching to stand beside one of the school’s wooden pillars. “Did you sleep well?”

“Good as ever,” meaning not well. Withdrawals are hitting him hard. Ryuji can see the sweat on the boy’s forehead. Licking lemon-flavored chemical residue off of his lips, Hanzo chews at a thought before he spits it out. “Hey. Can I show you something?”

“Of course.”

Hanzo leads the way to the school computer lab. It’s a room lined with empty tables, where a portable laptop cart sits awaiting use. The door is already unlocked- the night groundskeeper has a key, so Hanzo must have been let in. One laptop is out and plugged in.

“I found this thread on a, uh, a website,” Hanzo shows Ryuji a quirkchan thread. He’s not unfamiliar with the website. The students don’t seem to understand he can see all of their internet histories on the school computer network. “There’s a guy advertising therapy services.”

So there is. A post with an image of a man in an elevator, the picture terribly grainy. Ryuji has heard of the supposed Mr. Therapist active in Tokyo, but it sounds like he has moved shop to Kyoto. “You were hoping to make use of his services?” Ryuji wonders.

“Well I mean,” Hanzo sniffs. “I could use the help kicking this habit. But I was thinking more about Yamato-kun.” Ah, yes. Shimizu Yamato, another of the boys at the youth center. A childhood incident had left him horribly afraid of dogs, and the phobia has generalized to other canines. He has difficulty around Hino Natsuki, a fox-like mutant who’d been brought to the youth center after reopening.

“You think this therapist could help with his trauma.”

“Yeah. I just,” rubbing the back of the head, Hanzo seems embarrassed to admit he was looking for ways to help. He’s a good kid. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

There are some eerie rumors about Mr. Therapist, but just as many who espouse his efficacy and trustworthiness. While Ryuji is considering the problem, there’s a familiar yelp from outside. The two of them step out to find Yamato ducked behind a pillar covering his face. A young man with extremely early male pattern balding leaving him with a shrinking widow’s peak hairline, a cosmetic element of his quirk.

Description: He can negate gravity for himself and anyone he’s touching.

There’s a dribble of liquid down Yamato’s pant leg onto the wooden step of the school engawa. Ryuji can already tell the boy is going to be mortified and unable to face anyone who’d seen him wet himself like this. Last time this happened on a morning washroom trip, he’d barricaded himself in a supply closet for two hours and threatened to drink bleach.

Standing just down the engawa, looking away with a mixture of pity, guilt and disgust, is Natsuki. The white fur of her head gleams in the early morning light, but the hand she uses to cover part of her face is human.

“Forgot,” with the single word, Natsuki excuses herself. She shuffles away into the girls’ washroom before anyone can make further comment or spectacle of the event. The disjointed and uncanny appearance of her body has left her suffering body dysmorphia, leading to social anxiety and an averse reaction to people looking or staring at her. In grade school it had lead to a lot of pencils and other debris thrown at other students.

Whether she wished to be all fox or all girl in the end, all of her problems could be solved, if Ryuji could just perfect his quirk’s true use.

Hanzo steps forward to try and place a hand on Yamato’s shoulder, but the boy pulls away and starts sprinting for the supply closet. Ryuji is faster on the draw. He reaches out with a hand and touches the boy’s arm. White light envelopes Yamato’s body, sliding up Ryuji’s arm and forming into a glowing tattoo of space dust.

“I think you may be right,” Ryuji admits. “Let’s contact this therapist.”

---

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[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KmryfbnGibw ]

Standing atop the roof of the building ahead is a sign shaped like an overweight tanuki, clutching a suspiciously testicle-shaped microphone in his hands. Tanuki Karaoke, a small, trashy karaoke establishment in south Kyoto. It’s a long trek from the school by foot. Now drawing close to noon, it’s far from peak hour for the karaoke business. Ryuji enters alongside Hanzo, finding an old man with large eyebrow folds drooping over his eyes. He’s slumped in a chair behind the counter, and Ryuji thinks he’s asleep until the man lets out a snorting grumble and says, “Mmhow many?”

“We are meeting another group. They said to find box 11,” Ryuji tells the old man. A nod of the head, and a jerk of the thumb, send the two guests down one of the hallways. Outside of the room in question is a vast lump of a… person, Ryuji thinks. Someone with a bizarre mutation quirk, wrapped up in three separate trench coats and a broad funeral-veiled woman’s hat. “We have a therapy appointment,” Ryuji addresses the strange man? in a business-like tone.

“Da, mister inside,” the squat shape states in extremely rough Japanese, crawling out of the way with the speed and finesse of a slug. Trying not to stare impolitely, Ryuji opens the door for Hanzo.

“Hello! It’s nice to meet you!” a flatly cheerful voice greets from the other side. Ryuji follows Hanzo in and gets his first look at the man that voice belongs to. A pale-haired man sitting on the couch of the karaoke box, a second man’s hand resting on his arm. That man is clad in dark clothes, looking the part of a hired gun, and glares up at Ryuji suspiciously through a pair of sunglasses. “And this must be the other one,” the Therapist says, smiling up at Ryuji. Then he stops, and his face freezes in that smile. “Oh! You’re not Shimizu-san at all. What a happy surprise to see you.” There’s recognition there, sudden alertness in eyes that had otherwise seemed distant.

Folding his arms, Ryuji looks around the room. There’s no one else there. Behind him, the mound in the hallway shuts the door. “You know who I am?” He’s not a complete unknown as heroes go, but his civilian face is not as popular. If it were, surely his dating profiles would have had more success…

“Only my favorite hero of all time,” the man smiles, his voice’s pitch high and a little nasally. At the news of Ryuji being a pro hero, the man in shades flinches and clenches his jaw, grip on his employer’s arm tightening. The therapist doesn’t seem to notice. “You use your wealth to help others. It really is such a nice thing for a hero to do.”

Not sure what to make of his fan, Ryuji scratches at his beard. “There’s plenty of heroes who give back to the community. What makes me so special?” Maybe it’s a little intentional, the compliment-fishing. Ever since the attack by the Night Parade, it felt like Rescue Ray had become old news.

“Not everyone is taking such good care of the youth with nowhere else to go,” the therapist holds up a finger. “So are you…” eyes glazing over a little more, the man’s gaze swings back to Hanzo. “Here as their guardian? Was Shimizu-san too nervous to come?”

Bringing up his arm, Ryuji displays the tattoo containing his troubled student. “Shimizu-kun does not know he is coming here yet.”

Smile never leaving his face, Mr. Therapist shakes his head. “In order to do my work, the patient must provide consent. I am very happy to help Okumura-san though. Or you, if there is anything you would like to leave behind!”

Rubbing his wrist in time with a sympathetic memory, Ryuji explains, “At a past crisis points, Shimizu-kun attempted to self-harm. I had to prevent a similar incident earlier today by storing him with my quirk. Would you allow me the chance to convince him to submit to the treatment?”

“I will leave that to you. I prefer not to deal with the unpleasantness of an unwilling patient,” the therapist says with all the cool cheer of anything else, turning away to watch the idle karaoke station screen swirl with colors and shapes. It’s a strange stance for a healer to take, but Ryuji can tell at just a glance that this one has been using his own medicine for a long time now. It must be easy to ignore the bad in the world, when you have the power to wipe it away from your perception.

Turning away, Ryuji takes a seat on a different sofa. Hanzo rounds the other side, and braces himself for when Yamato reappears, he is at first disoriented, a side-effect of unexpectedly being channeled into the Weisswelt. Hyperventilating, the boy’s first instinct is to leap away in the same direction he’d been fleeing before. One arm each from Ryuji and Hanzo stops his flight. “Stop! Stop! Let me go, it’s- it’s too much! She- sh-she saw me-” clenching his teeth together to hold back from saying what happened and acknowledging it into reality, Yamato struggles and pulls against the grip of his headmaster and classmate.

“Yamato,” Ryuji says softly and sternly, trying to push through the boy’s panicked stammering. There’s still a visible dark trail down Yamato’s pants, and when the boy sees it his grip on Ryuji’s arm tightens painfully. “Yamato, listen. I brought someone who can help.”

“What?” limbs shaking, the young man’s death grip remains firm, but his body stops wrestling to get away. He looks around the room, then sees Mr. Therapist’s face, lit up by the karaoke screen. He isn’t smiling in that moment, but after the shouting and physical altercation calm down a dopey grin worms its way back onto his face. “Who is he?” Yamato asks, uncertainly.

“Someone who can make the incident disappear,” Ryuji shifts his position so he’s kneeling in front of the boy, to look him in the eyes. “The one that started all of this, and the others too. Your phobia can be gone.”

Hyperventilation slowly dies down to a slower, but still shaky breathing. “Does it hurt?”

“It is completely painless,” the therapist answers before anyone else, suddenly looking towards them.

“Hey,” patting his classmate on the arm, Hanzo leans forward. “How about I go first?”

“You’re going too, Hanzo-kun?”

Hanzo smiles and nods his head, his mop of hair bouncing. “Been trying to kick smoking, right? I figured I’ll get the therapist treatment to kick the habit first and that’ll show you it’s safe.”

Looking over Ryuji’s shoulder at the pale-haired man, Yamato waffles uncertainly. “What is he, a hypnotist?”

Twisting to look at them again, Mr. Therapist smiles this time. “Hahaha, I guess you could look at it like that. I can make people forget things, or remember things. See,” he holds up a hand as he explains as if to offer up his words on a restaurant platter, “It works with physical memory too, like pain and addiction. I can make your friend’s brain forget it’s ever had nicotine! Isn’t that amazing?”

“Allow me,” standing up now that Yamato’s hands start to loosen, Hanzo goes over to Mr. Therapist. “I’m ready for my treatment. I’d like help kicking my smoke habit.”

“Absolutely. Take a seat,” cheerily bringing out a notebook, Mr. Therapist clicks a pen. Ryuji takes a seat as well, watching with as much interest as Yamato. The whole process is a strange one, and memory quirks are something Ryuji has had little experience with. At least, as far as he can recall…

Licking his finger and turning a page in the book, Mr. Therapist prompts, “Tell me about the first time you smoked a cigarette. And as many other times as possible that were enjoyable to you. That will help me track down the troublesome little moments. Oh!” brightening up, he adds, “And instead of getting rid of the nice enjoyable memories, I can just replace the smoking with something else. Do you have a hobby you’d like to get started on? It can be a discount special on account of getting to meet my personal hero!”

Kicking back in one of the seats, Hanzo rests his hand behind his head. “A hobby? I dunno, I always kinda wanted to try pool. Like, billiards, the American thing.”

“French.” A flat voice cuts in. Everyone besides Mr. Therapist looks up at the shades-wearing man, who still has the former’s sleeve in a careful clutch with his hand. “Billiards as you understand it is a French game,” he repeats, with a thick accent that suggests he brings it up out of personal pride.

“Well, that’s a fun fact! Let’s get started,” looking down at his notepad, and then up at Hanzo, Mr. Therapist begins to write automatically. “Think clearly now. Hold the images of those moments in your mind…”

---

Truthfully, there hadn’t been much to watch. Prompts and questions, pen scratching on paper. Physically, the therapist was true to his word. Ryuji can’t see any moments of discomfort from Hanzo, only brief moments of confusion about past events he’s asked about in the midst of their being rewritten. To confirm the alteration is taking properly, Ryuji assumes.

All in all, the procedure takes twenty minutes. By the end, the man in shades offers Hanzo a cigarette, and the boy shows zero interest in it, claiming he promised his mom he’d never smoke. Ryuji knows it’s an almost-true statement. He’d promised his mom he’d quit.

“Well, Shimizu-san,” with a strangely satisfied look on his face, not altogether unlike a man who’d finally had his cigarette after waiting for days, Mr. Therapist looks at the second boy. It’s a hungry look, like he wants more on a deeper level than just professional pride. Eerily, the look reminds Ryuji of something he’d seen in his own face, now and then, in the mirror. Talking to himself about what could be, what could be unlocked, if he just mastered a little more of his quirk… “Are you willing to give it a try?”

Rubbing his hands together, Yamato finally nods his head after Hanzo casually hops into the sofa next to him. “Sure. Yeah. You can get rid of the phobia and- and everything it’s made me do?”

“Easy as pie,” the therapist says, smile a little too wide, eyes a little too bright in the karaoke lights.

---

A longer procedure than the last one. Less easy and- well, it’s painless, physically. Mr. Therapist still never lied about that. But it’s clear that reliving some of his frightening or embarrassing memories takes its toll, and Mr. Therapist tolerates no breaks during the procedure. “If we lost track of where we were, I could miss something,” he’d insisted forcefully. “Focus.”

In the end, Yamato did focus. And by the end of the procedure, Ryuji shows the boy photographs of several dogs, and of his classmate Natsuki. There’s no reaction to them. It takes him a few reminders to recall who Natsuki is, and he seems confused by the fact that she has a fox’s face.

“Is that a normal side-effect?” Ryuji asks, only mildly concerned. It would be a small price to pay, reintroducing them, if it meant they could interact this time. Not much of value would have been missed.

“Some negative associations are simply that deep,” Mr. Therapist answers dismissively. “So, it sounds like we’re finished! Since we still have ten minutes of our paid-for karaoke time, how would you like to hit a few songs with us?” The dark-clad man beside him, like the opposite half of a checker pattern, frowns and cringes at being volunteered as part of us.

“Why not,” standing up, Ryuji stretches out his back. “I love karaoke. And after that,” he fixes Mr. Therapist with an intent look of his own. There’s so much they could do for the troubled students together. “Would you consider a partnership?”

“A partnership? With my favorite hero?” jumping to his feet, Mr. Therapist reaches out to shake Ryuji’s hand. “How exciting!”

“I’ll order us some room service and more karaoke time to discuss it,” Ryuji finalizes with a nod. “It’ll need to be under the table given your wanted status, but I don’t believe the system does nearly enough for the people it fails. Together, we can do so much more.”

“Sounds great. But let’s get one song under our belt first,” swinging towards the screen, Mr. Therapist picks up the remote. “Do you mind if I pick?” When Ryuji shakes his head, the man is practically giddy like a schoolgirl. “One of my favorites, then! They must have it on here…”

[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_xXGj-h4nto ]

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[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SvMN89NSFb0 ]

On the west side of Kyoto, in the lower reaches of the mountainside, a series of small trails lead to a hidden alcove. There, against the hillside, is a reinforced mechanical door. “This is the Rescue Ray Agency’s Emergency Bunker,” Ryuji introduces. Behind him are Mr. Therapist and his bodyguard, De Jais. The later uncaps a bottle of water and helps his employer down some after the hike, then takes a sip himself. “This is where I study the secrets of the ancient aliens.” Eyes bugging out behind his glasses, De Jais nearly chokes as he spits up his mouthful of water.

“Excusez-moi?”

The skepticism is nothing new. “I promise to maintain an open mind about your philosophies if you do for mine,” Ryuji says, to the therapist rather than his hired man. He expects the mercenary will follow orders regardless.

“That’s very interesting. I’m happy to listen to more,” Mr. Therapist says sleepily. “Is there somewhere we can lay down for a bit?”

“Of course. I’ll show you around inside.”

They’d settled on a deal. Mr. Therapist would provide treatments for students at the Troubled Youth Center, and the graduate students who are still part of Rescue Ray’s agency and inner circle. In exchange, Mr. Therapist would have safe harbor here in the bunker for his stay in Kyoto. It’s in this place that Rescue Ray carries out his own work, his secret work untouched by the light of the sun. Coming to understand quirks and their origins through the use of his own, and finding means to safely treat those with troublesome quirks. Nothing officially sanctioned by the Association, or the government.

With a mighty metallic grinding sound, the door expands outwards like a moving wall. Ryuji raises a hand and motions his guests back, then guides them around the side of the door. On the other side is a large piston that operates the opening procedures.

Two young adults are on guard inside of the entrance chamber, watching over a secondary airlock and the door controls. One of them, a man, salutes. The other, a woman, simply nods her head when they enter.

Clad in a white and red suit, like a warrior shrine maiden, Ofuda steps forward to greet them. One of Rescue Ray’s successful graduates from the youth center’s hero program. She’d struggled academically in school, and had a bad habit of destroying her work and school materials with her quirk. Now, an adjusted and loyal young woman, helping Ryuji with his most important work. “These are the guests you mentioned?” she asks, doubt clear in her tone, especially when her eyes rest on De Jais and his surly expression. “Are you sure it’s wise to bring… people like them here, Rescue Ray?”

“Mr. Therapist is just misunderstood,” Ryuji insists, “His nature makes him easy for bad folks to exploit. By keeping him safe, we can ensure his work reaches the people who really need it.”

Beside Ofuda is a broad-shouldered young man wearing a rubber tire pauldron and plastic gauntlets alongside other scrappy materials, overtop of a lightly armored gray bodysuit. The road to heroics had been a tough one for Junkyard, whose quirk and grades saw him turned away from most hero academies, leading to frustration and emotional outbursts that nearly led him to an awful ‘reform’ prison for juvenile villains. Instead, Rescue Ray had shown him a new path.

“I’ve heard some troubling things, but,” reaching up, Junkyard rests a hand on his former classmate’s shoulder, “Same can be said of most kids who graduated from the center, yeah? We should give him a chance to prove who he is before we trust what’s put on paper.”

Ofuda sighs and steps aside. “You’re right. I’m sorry if I offended you, Mr. Therapist,” she bows in apology.

“I’m not offended at all,” the man responds brightly.

---

Walking the hallways of the bunker, designed to hold up to one hundred people maximum until relief aid arrives in the event of a mass-casualty event, Ryuji provides his guests with the tour. “This is the section holding the bunk rooms,” he turns and indicates down one of the unattractive, pipe-lined hallways. “I’ve set aside bunk room four for you and your associates to use. Bunk room one and two are in use by my agency members who operate within the bunker. Bunker three is in use housing some of the homeless persons who are staying with me here, in exchange for assistance with my work.”

There’s a quiet snort from De Jais, but when Ryuji looks to him for more, the man just shakes his head and looks away.

“Here,” leading them to the next junction, Ryuji indicates another hall, “Leads to the brig. It’s meant to house those who panic or act out during a disaster, but I also use it to hold villains that I capture.” They provide more material for his experiments. “It’s possible that, with your help, I may be able to reform some of them,” he adds, having just thought of the idea. Raising an arm in the opposite direction, he indicates another hall. “This leads to the bunker’s medical facilities, where I do most of my work here. And further down the main hallway is the stairway to the lower floors. On Floor 2 are some amenities like storage of non-perishable foods, a kitchen and cafeteria, and a lounge stocked with some board games and a karaoke machine. Then, below that, is the utilities floor.”

“It’s so very nice of you to let us stay here,” Mr. Therapist claps his hands together and rubs his fingers against each other, like the legs of a fly cleaning itself. “I will be able to help many more clients this way.” When they arrive in the bunkroom proper, it’s not a very impressive thing. Rows of bunk beds meant to accommodate many, rather than a few. “Do you mind if I bring in some things of my own?”

“Go right ahead. The guards monitoring the entrance will have instructions to allow you in,” Ryuji assures.

“Oh, wonderful. This place will look so much better with some decorations,” taking a seat on one of the bunks, Mr. Therapist kicks one leg over the other. “Rescue Ray, would you be interested in attending an event with us?”

“An event?” folding his arms, Ryuji raises a brow.

“A fellow named Midas invited me to a fancy gala, he calls it is summit,” the man answers with a wide smile, even as Ryuji’s brow knits with deeper wrinkles. Midas? King Midas?

“That’s a very dangerous man,” Ryuji warns, “He causes a great deal of harm in this city. And I’m not so sure he would welcome someone like me at this summit of his.”

There’s a faintly blank look in Mr. Therapist’s eye. “He’s guaranteed the safety of his guests,” the man says dopily. “It wouldn’t be a very good party if anyone got hurt! I can’t remember a single party where anyone got hurt.”

“Maybe you are looking at it wrong,” there’s a vague tinge of amusement in the Frenchman’s voice as he comments, “Think of it as an opportunity to rub elbows with the other side, hm? You can pick their brains for your… research.” In spite of himself, the idea did cross Ryuji’s mind. Many a villainous figure in the city operates in the gray areas of science and learning, much like himself. Some might even have better intentions, like his… or at least hints, clues to the greater puzzle.

“Well. I certainly wouldn’t be attending in my costume,” scowling still even as he considers the idea, Ryuji watches as Mr. Therapist’s expression brightens to attention once more.

“Oh! We can do a makeover!”

---

[Soundtrack https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wZdBWYiVlHM ]

After some set up, the bunk room has been converted with some screen dividers into multiple individual spaces. Seated on a therapy couch are Mr. Therapist, and his assistants De Jais and Suslik. On the other side of a divider, Ryuji looks over a set of outfits laid out for him. Apparently, tailoring is one of the many skills the therapist has downloaded throughout his career, and making outfits for his followers had become something like a pastime. These are some of the spares in Ryuji’s size.

The first one he tries on is a bodysuit very similar to his own. It has a cosmic astronaut theme, silver with a tinted black face window, and there’s a dark cape that hangs behind him, attached to his arms. Not a very practical design, but the glidersuit on his own has left him practiced in compensating and even making use of the extra fabric.

Stepping out, Rescue Ray shows off his selection, turning slowly with his arms out.

Mr. Therapist smiles and claps his hands, while the lumpy dirt-man remains implacably unreadable. There’s a purse in De Jais’ lip as he flicks his eyes up from his phone. “Too similar to your normal costume,” the mercenary points out. “You will, how you say, fall into comfortable mannerisms.” Which would spell disaster for maintaining a triple-identity. Nodding along with the wisdom, Rescue Ray returns to the impromptu changing booth to try another.

This time, simpler. A dark blue suit jacket, with a black masquerade mask poised to conceal his facial features. After a few minutes struggling with his tie, Rescue Ray steps out to display the second option.

With a subtle nod of approval at the professional attire, De Jais rubs his chin. Mr. Therapist looks either quietly content, or completely disinterested. It’s Suslik whose voice echoes out of his tiny mouth slit to object, “Your chin is very distinct,” with an oddly high-pitched voice for his side, the strange villain speaks with a Russian accent. “Will stand out.” Ryuji has been very proud of his jawline on his dating profiles. Back to the drawing board.

The third outfit was initially a little out there for Rescue Ray’s tastes, but maybe that’s for the best. Something that won’t seem like something he would do? Slipping on the many layers of the complicated outfit, he dons the mask at last and steps out into view.

At the very least, no outstanding features will be left visible. A broad-brimmed hat and buckle, with a pale white plague doctor’s mask, like a broad-beaked bird’s face. A cowl conceals the rest of Ryuji’s head, joining a draped fabric around his shoulders that connects to a long, dark cloak. More heavy clothes obscure his physique, a robe and a broad cloth belt. The outfit has even provoked an idea for a pseudonym.

Taking the cloak in hand, Rescue Ray sweeps it to his side. “Behold. Doctor Alchemist!”

“Not bad,” De Jais comments simply, while Mr. Therapist again claps gleefully. Suslik’s mound raises up and nods. It seems this one has reached approval from the entire group.

So it seems that Rescue Ray has been invited to the Villains’ Ball, and Mr. Therapist will appear alongside a new colleague in unlicensed medicine.