Summary: the other four members of the BH6 the night before Tadashi's funeral.
In an enormous room in an equally enormous mansion, a teenage boy with shoulder-length hair sits slumped in a beanbag chair. One side of the room holds bookshelves full of colourful comics, and the other has an impressive display of comic-book figurines.
It's a cheerful room. Today, though, Fred is anything but.
Fred's usually fine with his parents being busy and absent, and having the estate to himself. He usually doesn't mind the quiet and relishes the freedom of reading in peace or inviting friends over for a movie party. But tonight he thinks of the long, dark halls, the countless rooms under lock and key, the wind whistling through the Greek statues in the garden, and the place feels unbearably empty.
He hasn't felt so clean in weeks. Heathcliff, his butler, forced him to take a shower and try on a suit, the one that he tries to avoid wearing as much as possible.
The shirt itches, the tight collar rubs uncomfortably against his neck, and the tie makes him feel like he's slowly suffocating.
Wearing this is just unnatural.
He rips the black tie off and dashes it to the floor, gasping for air. Of course it's unnatural. All of this is. It's not natural that Tadashi Hamada is dead. It's not natural that he's gone when he was supposed to grow up, marry, have kids, and change the world with that wonderful brain of his. It's not natural that he should die this way instead of as an elderly man who lived a happy and full life.
Fred reads comic books. He can list dozens of horrific ways to die. But death has never seemed so close and real and awful before.
If this were a comic book, maybe he'd know what to do. They never found a body for either Tadashi or Callaghan. In a comic book, that would mean they were still alive, somewhere, maybe in the clutches of a supervillain, or struck by amnesia and living an anonymous life in a big city. They would come back at a dramatic moment in the most dramatic way possible. Like Captain America, or the Winter Soldier, or a lot of other characters.
But this isn't a comic book, and the lack of a body only means that Tadashi Hamada--his friend--is just a cloud of ashes.
Sometimes looking around at his comic-book collection gives him a bit of comfort, but this time, as Fred gazes around the room of brightly coloured collectibles, he only thinks how useless they are and how he would trade every last one to bring Tadashi back if he could.
Heathcliff's polite knock sounds at the door, but Fred doesn't hear it, his eyes angry and dry. This isn't supposed to happen, and he wants to hit or throw or knock something over, but all of a sudden he's paralyzed in his chair, clutching the sides.
He's so tired. So incredibly, incredibly tired.
In a sparse college dorm room, a tiny Asian girl drags a box out from under her bed as the wind beats against the window. Go Go can't remember the last time she wore a dress, but she brought an old one to college on the off chance that she might have to attend a formal event. So far she's managed to dodge any events of the kind, but there's no avoiding this one.
It seems awful to think about clothes now, but she'd much rather do what she has to than to open the way for her feelings to take over.
Go Go doesn't know if the dress will even still fit, but of course it does, because she has grown exactly zero inches in the past few years. In trying it on, however, she discovers an unsightly hole along the hem.
With a little sigh, she searches for a needle and thread, which takes her five minutes, and sits down on the side of the bed to mend the rent.
Her eyes don't seem to work properly, and she only manages to thread the needle on her fourth try. The slow, laborious work of pushing the needle in and out of the thick black fabric frustrates her, and she can't keep herself from going back to that night, when they got the phone call and rushed to the spot, only to see the hall going down in flames and Hiro staring at a baseball cap on the floor.
She should have been there. She should have stopped him. If they had just gotten there faster--
Go Go jabs the needle harder into the cloth.
Suddenly the thin metal snaps, and she snaps with it, hurling it across the room with a strangled cry.
"I wouldn't be doing this if you hadn't gone running into fires, imbecile!" she screams to an empty room, slamming her fist against the wall, but then she instantly regrets it, and slides to the floor, clenching the bedclothes in one hand.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Go Go feels an unfamiliar prickling behind her eyes.
It is alright to cry, she remembers Tadashi saying when she was in pain after crashing her bike. Let it out. Normally, though, she'd ignore him, and tell herself to woman up.
But nothing about this is normal, and no one is here to see her, so she lets the tears come, and they fall hard and fast and hot against her cheeks.
In a small apartment, a burly African American man locks the door behind him and hangs his bag on a wall hook. Wasabi stands for a minute to survey the room. Most of the time the spartan orderliness--the sweaters arranged by colour and the stationery lined up neatly on his desk--soothes him, especially after the chaos of streetcars and crowds, but he's afraid he's beyond that today.
Like he does every time he comes back home, Wasabi tosses his two-ring binder onto the desk. For some reason, he miscalculates, and the folder slides three inches too far, knocking the carefully placed pens and pencils onto the carpet.
On any other day, the mess would drive him crazy, and he would immediately pick up the stationery and put them back in their proper places. He just can't bring himself to do it today, though, because what is the point?
His friend is dead, and nothing is going to fix that.
Nothing.
Wasabi is filled with a sudden and inexplicable rage, and he takes it out on his desk, sweeping the stationery and papers and little plant pot to the floor where they land in a jumbled, messy heap.
His friend is dead and his world is falling apart into tiny pieces of chaos. Absolute, terrible, irreversible chaos.
He pounds his fists onto the table with a fearsome crash, choking on tears.
Then the anger seeps out of him as quickly as it came, and he curls up into a tight ball at the corner of his bed, burying his head in his hands and running his fingers through his dreadlocks. Next to him the pile of things shifts a little, a piece of notebook paper flapping in the air-conditioning.
Wasabi wants to believe that everything will come out all right in the end, but right now nothing seems farther from the truth.
In the wake of Tadashi's death, she's tried to be as positive as possible, offering words like "Tadashi will always be with us" and "He's not really gone if we remember him." She's suggested things like penning down thoughts and good memories of Tadashi, things like comfort food and long baths.
Maybe she should take her own advice. But all Honey wants to do is hide under the covers and sleep the pain away.
People say the sun always comes out after the storm, but how can it when he's never coming back? Her feet ache, and her heart aches, and she feels like she'll never smile again.
Then Honey remembers the funeral tomorrow, and drags herself off the bed to her modest walk-in wardrobe.
Honey isn't even sure when she last wore anything black. She doesn't like the colour, and she's been fortunate enough to not lose anyone close to her...until now.
The first layer of the wardrobe only holds her favourite pieces in cheery hues of yellow, pink, and orange, but Honey knows that a stash of old clothing lies in the back of the shelves. She finds a pair of black tights that she thinks might work, but when she finally digs out a black dress that must be two or three years old, it's a size too small--she's grown like a weed.
Finally Honey sits back on the edge of her bed.
The last thing she wants to do now is to shop.
But she refuses to show up to Tadashi's funeral in anything remotely disrespectful, because he is--was--her friend and now he's gone and the least she can do is honour his memory.
As Honey walks out of the door, her purse swinging in the strong wind, she can hardly believe that Tadashi won't text her in the next ten minutes telling her about a pizza party in his garage or asking for help on his project.
Surely he's out there somewhere under the glowing city lights, washing dishes in the cafe or teasing Hiro or cramming late in the lab.
How can he be dead?
Death is a part of life, her textbooks tell her. Animals, plants, people, they all die, they all return to the soil and decompose nourish the next generation.
But Tadashi isn't even underground. They didn't find a body. He's floating on the air, just dust and ash and atoms--
Where is he?
Honey just barely manages to keep from screaming there and then. The tears start, but she forces herself to keep walking, to turn the corner, to enter the small, brightly lit clothes shop.
"Can I help you, miss?" the sales assistant asks with some concern, but Honey shakes her head, goes straight to the nearest rack, and picks up the first black dress that catches her eye, a nondescript affair with a white collar. She shuts herself in a cubicle, holding the dress up, and is quickly and brutally reminded how much she hates black.
She's never liked it even on the best of days, but now she looks at herself in the mirror, her eyes red and watery, her hair dishevelled, and sees herself absolutely swallowed by the blackness, and thinks of Tadashi, cold and dead and somewhere on the wind.
Then her legs give way, and she crumples to the ground, tears stinging her eyes.
They find her there, slumped in a dressing room, sobbing her heart out over a little black dress.
His friend is dead, and nothing is going to fix that.
Nothing.
Wasabi is filled with a sudden and inexplicable rage, and he takes it out on his desk, sweeping the stationery and papers and little plant pot to the floor where they land in a jumbled, messy heap.
His friend is dead and his world is falling apart into tiny pieces of chaos. Absolute, terrible, irreversible chaos.
He pounds his fists onto the table with a fearsome crash, choking on tears.
Then the anger seeps out of him as quickly as it came, and he curls up into a tight ball at the corner of his bed, burying his head in his hands and running his fingers through his dreadlocks. Next to him the pile of things shifts a little, a piece of notebook paper flapping in the air-conditioning.
Wasabi wants to believe that everything will come out all right in the end, but right now nothing seems farther from the truth.
In a cozy bedroom in a Victorian painted lady on Sakura Street, a tall, slender girl takes off her high heels and flops onto the bed. Honey feels exhausted.
In the wake of Tadashi's death, she's tried to be as positive as possible, offering words like "Tadashi will always be with us" and "He's not really gone if we remember him." She's suggested things like penning down thoughts and good memories of Tadashi, things like comfort food and long baths.
Maybe she should take her own advice. But all Honey wants to do is hide under the covers and sleep the pain away.
People say the sun always comes out after the storm, but how can it when he's never coming back? Her feet ache, and her heart aches, and she feels like she'll never smile again.
Then Honey remembers the funeral tomorrow, and drags herself off the bed to her modest walk-in wardrobe.
Honey isn't even sure when she last wore anything black. She doesn't like the colour, and she's been fortunate enough to not lose anyone close to her...until now.
The first layer of the wardrobe only holds her favourite pieces in cheery hues of yellow, pink, and orange, but Honey knows that a stash of old clothing lies in the back of the shelves. She finds a pair of black tights that she thinks might work, but when she finally digs out a black dress that must be two or three years old, it's a size too small--she's grown like a weed.
Finally Honey sits back on the edge of her bed.
The last thing she wants to do now is to shop.
But she refuses to show up to Tadashi's funeral in anything remotely disrespectful, because he is--was--her friend and now he's gone and the least she can do is honour his memory.
As Honey walks out of the door, her purse swinging in the strong wind, she can hardly believe that Tadashi won't text her in the next ten minutes telling her about a pizza party in his garage or asking for help on his project.
Surely he's out there somewhere under the glowing city lights, washing dishes in the cafe or teasing Hiro or cramming late in the lab.
How can he be dead?
Death is a part of life, her textbooks tell her. Animals, plants, people, they all die, they all return to the soil and decompose nourish the next generation.
But Tadashi isn't even underground. They didn't find a body. He's floating on the air, just dust and ash and atoms--
Where is he?
Honey just barely manages to keep from screaming there and then. The tears start, but she forces herself to keep walking, to turn the corner, to enter the small, brightly lit clothes shop.
"Can I help you, miss?" the sales assistant asks with some concern, but Honey shakes her head, goes straight to the nearest rack, and picks up the first black dress that catches her eye, a nondescript affair with a white collar. She shuts herself in a cubicle, holding the dress up, and is quickly and brutally reminded how much she hates black.
She's never liked it even on the best of days, but now she looks at herself in the mirror, her eyes red and watery, her hair dishevelled, and sees herself absolutely swallowed by the blackness, and thinks of Tadashi, cold and dead and somewhere on the wind.
Then her legs give way, and she crumples to the ground, tears stinging her eyes.
They find her there, slumped in a dressing room, sobbing her heart out over a little black dress.
~~~
(The wind howls its way through San Fransokyo, and none of them sleep that night.)
Art by Jin Kim (Fred, Wasabi, and Go Go) and Shiyoon Kim (Honey)
Art by Jin Kim (Fred, Wasabi, and Go Go) and Shiyoon Kim (Honey)
