Goin' To The Chapel

[01.15.01] » by Mess

The Star Reversed: No hope, no future, no motivation - a goal which can never be reached, or does not exist at all.

"Do you think I'm just stupid, Maya?  That for some reason I can't think at the same level as you four?  I don't know..."

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The day that Ulala Serizawa met Maya Amano, a local dance college closed its doors for the last time in the face of fierce competition from a nearby chain.  The steel mill downsized, and tech stock rose with their usual inflationary glee.  Three members of the Seven Sister's High School baseball team were hospitalized for a disappointingly common strain of food-poisoning, and a full half of the economics class that they had been enrolled in failed an exam that would later be audited by the school board after complaints by several disappointed (to put it mildly) parents.

Ulala was of the less academically blessed half, while Maya passed with a mark on the more successful side of decent.

In later years Ulala - who at the time was not a persona wielder, nor a redhead - could be forgiven for considering the first day of an incidental acquaintance a portent.  One not delineated in the harbingers of cards and numbers and stars and dragons which would later lose their place among the heavens, but a more disturbingly concrete reality.

The day that Ulala Serizawa met Maya Amano at a tai-chi course, she made the best friend that she'd ever have. Ulala quit the class soon after.  Maya kept on for another three moths.

Maya's stake in it was rather irrelevant - to Ulala, anyways.  She was nice, happy, kind, smart.. the kind of person a girl relied on.  The kind of person a guy could fall for.  She wasn't perfect - oh, far from it - but she was the New-Style Successful Working Girl before even leaving home.  Determined.  Intelligent.  Ready for anything.  And the kind of person that took stock so completely in their dreams that they could not help but become reality.

It was naturally the reason that they could afford a half-decent apartment a the Lunar Palace apartment complex - third floor, north wing - that had not only a balcony but separate rooms in an eminently convenient part of town.  Maya's income from Kismet was scant but steady, and kept them going between Ulala's sporadic spurts of cash flow.  Seasonal work was like that.  Maya understood - it all evened out.  Ulala did he cleaning on sunday afternoons when the sun made the entrance-way wondrously warm while fighting the hangover-of-the-week. Amano paid a little bit extra into the rent when Ulala took her latest class.  A license to drive cabs.  Bartending school.  Flamenco dancing. Typing courses.

After the audit, Ulala had on the fateful day eight years earlier still not passed her economics class and decided right then and there that she would get out of school as soon as possible.  That wasn't her dream.

And the moral of this story is not that Ulala should have studied for her mid-term test instead of attending the screening of a badly-subtitled version of Pretty Woman.  Nor that she should have been more like her friend - for indeed, then they would not have been friends in the first place.  Not that she should have more of a goal than going to the chapel with a prince charming who was running disturbingly late, or even that the woman mustn't continue a well-supported but intrinsically temporary lifestyle that she might chase the vague dream of having a dream at all.

The moral is that at the moment, in a largely empty room full or punching bags and treadmills at the too-big-to-be-upscale GOLD's gym, Maya Amano had absolutely nothing to do with the white hockey tape she'd put about her knuckles.  Or the polaroid of a photogenic telemarketer likewise pinned to the stuffed, hanging object being consensually abused.  Or how she did on one insignificant exam and a pointless class at a local community college paid for by middle-aged parents indulging their only daughter.

Jealousy does not, as a general rule, take on human form - especially a victim's.

The Joker was no exception.

Maya Amano had nothing to do with it.  Because if a padlock and the one who set it had their way, Maya Amano was not going to die.

***

If Maya Amano had been one to believe in people, then Ulala Serizawa likewise believed in things.  That was no different three months before Ulala's impromptu breakdown than it was in a quickly evacuating building. That saturday the auburn-haired woman had decided to order a tequila at Therapy instead of a nighty-night.

Tonight she was going to meet someone.  Much like she was going to meet someone last night, and the night before that, and the nit before that.  The power of blind optimism is not to be underestimated.

Tequila - worm and all - was the order of the day because of a flamenco lesson given by the slightly top-heavy Senorita Alba in a small studio at the corner of Ninth and Takashi.  A nice place in the Konan district.  Well, for Konan district. The proprietor (who made a mean martini, by the way), sporting large hoop earrings and a shawl on the sleazier side of cheap, said that Serizawa was a natural.  That Serizawa had passion.

Maya, who was sitting beside her, did not have passion.  But she had money and prospects and men to make up for it. Passion was for people like Ulala - who lived for today and the green latin liquid to match black eyes.

It was not for another five minutes of sipping and laughing and talking that she noticed Maya shift a bit. Nothing noticeable, but enough to tip her off.  You didn't hang out with someone for the majority of your adult life without picking these things up like a bad cold. A bit weary, her friend was - a bit uncomfortable. And paying no attention to the umbrella-clad confection at her side.

"You okay, Ma-ya?" Ulala smiled, nodding with a quick black-painted grin to some people waving at her from the corner through a primal electronic beat.  Therapy wasn't quite Club Zodiac. This particular hole in the wall was a bit more retro, a bit more stylish, and a bit more cutting-edge than what had devolved into the latest teeny-bopper craze.  The fox had a nose for that kind of thing, and it was well-known that if Ulala Serizawa bothered to show up somewhere it must be worth visiting (or at least, in her less lucid moments, she of the same name liked to think so).  The boxer was one one of the more experienced creatures on the club circuit.  People used to know her name.  Now they knew her face, and the semi-comfortable chromium stool she took instead of dancing.  Just another part of the furniture.

Maya looked.. uncomfortable.  Tired and bloodshot.  Like she wanted to leave - it was as if something she couldn't quite bring herself to look at was crawling down the back of her perch.  So Ulala waved her off, because there was no reason to be here if you weren't going to have a good time.  And that, make no mistake, was almost as great a craving as the blood-curdling drive for nicotine or alcohol or any far more alluring substance that might crop up in this place.

Serizawa was not the talented Ms. Amano, no matter how much they might have grown together over ten years of acquaintance.  Her parents hated that particular development.  Clad in hand-made cobwebs, she was the sort of person a guy had fun with.  The life of the party, the soul of the crowd - the beating, bleeding heart of a good time.

But not tonight.

The old crowd didn't come in often anymore, and after Maya left Ulala could see why.  She caught onto these things.  Eventually. Sixth sense?  Hah.

All around her they were painted and sequined, legal and illegal, dancing and laughing and having the time that she used to make for them back in the days of Inferno or the Emerald City.  But who was she kidding?  Flamenco wasn't in - the latin dance craze had passed without a fuss (rest in peace, Ricky dearest) a good year back, and there was no reason for her to have kept going with the project.  Ulala couldn't name the latest computer-generated verve that set them all to jumping around the room in their little orgy of sound.  And, if the dancer admitted it, even the regular cardio of her boxing couldn't quite take the edge off of a hard night surrounded by extasy-shrouded youth.

Youth.

The operative word.

You're getting old, girl. Woman.  Whatever.

Twenty-five.

Thought was beginning to blur in the stage lights - retro seventies house funk night.  Whatever the hell that was. There'd been a time when she'd thought it was something more than an excuse to wear facial glitter and run up a bar tab. Guy tried to hit on her on the way to the bathroom, as she pushed herself past half-wasted brats making out on the staircase.  Bastards.  Couldn't they just let a girl go to the bathroom in peace?

Why do I come back?

Heh.

Where else would I go?

It was dark and empty there - the smell of lysol not yet vanquished by the intoxicating tang of blood and sweat and alcohol. Empty stalls lined up all in a row like gallows - who needed them?  Who needed rest?  Who needed the contents of a plain room quaintly dedicated to the 'ladies' in the hottest nightclub in town the evening after the end of exams?  Who needed that?

Goin' on twenty-five

Out with the old. In with the new.  And as far as Ulala was concerned, she was on the edge of the abyss.

Goin' to the chapel and I'm gonna get, ma-ha-ri-ed..

A slight patch of window widow cast both the moon and stars - sole inhabitants of the night sky - onto a mirror interrupted by long-unfilled hand pumps.  They'd used to have cherry soap, when this place was very young.  And the Ulala that looked at them gazed back upon herself with a wry smile.  Unsettled.  Unbalanced.  Tequila-drenched and waiting for it's owner to notice that her eyes weren't that bright and schoolgirl-innocent anymore.  Legs tired from a day at the office couldn't pull off the latest platforms, and the men who bought her drinks at the bar were only doing so in the later, leaner parts of the evening.

Makimura.  Bastard.

Maya has a boyfriend, doesn't she?  No, no.. but she's still stuck on him.  That deja-vu kid she saw on the subway.   I've heard young guys go for older women - though I'd never have thought it'd be sensible Maya that would pull a stunt like that.  But she can afford that shit, can't she?  To date useless pretty boys.

Boy. Hah.  Men are scum.  Except for ol' Prince charming, but he's sure taking his fucking time.  And you need one, don't you? Not like Maya.  What else do you have going for you?

Way to be, Serizawa.

She doesn't even care.

How had she turned into this - some washed-up club kid with hair four years its owner's junior and a goth look that was that one pathetic second behind the minute?  When had the reflection staring back started looking strait past her into nowhere, eyes shifting with apprehension instead of glee.  This wasn't supposed to happen.  She wasn't supposed to be old at going-on-twenty-five.  She was supposed to be married.  A fluffy white dress, perfect house, perfect husband, perfect life - Ulala Aaaaaall Grown Up.

Just like Ma-ya...

It smelled like pot in here.  Uck.

It was all supposed to happen for me.  Sometime.  If I just stayed put and tried my hardest, it was supposed to happen.  I'd have a dream to come true just like Maya..

A fist smashed into the mirror, cracking it to shards while a woman just stared at the mask that wouldn't stop looking back. Seemingly at random, that - but Ulala Serizawa was no paragon of premeditation.  It seemed appropriate - like instinct or fate or something out of a Wang Long fortune. And breathing heavily she stood transfixed, not minding the pain of tiny ground-up shards as she was caught in her own spiderwebs.

The cracks had not touched the moon.

Maya left.  Maya doesn't need me.

No one does.

It had been impulsive, that urge to blot out her own image.  Would probably cost her a good chunk of money to have it replaced - she'd have to borrow from someone.  No savings left since Makimura.  Yeah - he was going to marry her.  Right.  Of course.  Why would he go and do something like that?  Prince Charming don't sleep with the village idiot unless the castle's gone into receivership, baby.

"...fuck."

Worthless.

Where the fuck had she come up with that half-assed metaphor?  The glass was staying in place.  It made her giggle.

Maya - who was moving past her into another phase - had warned her about Makimura.  While Ulala...

Was too stupid to listen.

Worthless.

Ulala was only passion to her wisdom. Oh.  Big talent there.  A pale second that no one needed in the newborn world of careers and silicon webs which seemed to have passed the dancer by.

The mirror flashed and light dripped down the countertop. And then the girl closed the door.  Smart of her.

Maya....

Why wasn't she allowed to be like her best friend? Didn't she deserve to have a way to leave the desperate hopes provided by equally desperate men in this shithole of a place?

She was smart...

just not smart enough

..and sexy..

but not so classy, hmmm?

..and charming..

for a stupid bitch

..and a much better housekeeper..

relic of a girl, hunh?

And....

Ulala pulled her cellphone out of a felt-lined pocket and dialed the only number she could think of.  Laughing.  Drunk.  Was she drunk?  Maybe.  The world kept smudging together, and the whole situation neemed a bit too hilarious for laughter. There was no pain from the cuts forming a network in her hands to match black velour.

I can't even hate her.  My best friend... she's so.. I can't do without her... we've been together for a decade, she's the only thing I've got...I can't hate her...

Can't I?

"Curse you, Ma-ya."

All the kids were doing it.

***

Like she'd said. Maya Amano had nothing to do with it.

"Die.. you fucking bastad, die."

Nothing.  Nothing at all.

"I'm going to fucking KILL you."

Her fists told her that, dancing at a flemenco-paced stacatto around his cracked face.  She'd get copies made.  Again.  Fucking Makimura...

And if she focused on him she could almost taste it - pulse burning in her ears.  Yousiuchi Makimura'd promised her a wedding dress - a cake and flowers and picket-fucking-fences like in all the decent marriage fantasies (or, if not, then at least a room with a view in Hirasaka near the fish market).  Oh, but would she mind giving him a few yen to buy a car?  He needed it for his new job.

Fuck. Ma-Ya told me...

No!  I'm can't think about her.. or...

"Do you here me, Makimura?  I'm going to kick your candy ass."

Her voice was strangled - staggered by the sharp action of lungs which could now easily handle this, and after a host of demonic targets just craved more.  And even that was horrifying, for the boxer wanted only to drown in the sound of fans and violence beyond her body. Sink into the patches of flourescent light buzzing its way down to the varnished hardwood floor.

"Makimura.. I hate you... I don't hate.. "

It had been a joke, right?  She hadn't meant it. It was just a stupid trick, right?  She didn't have the power to actually...  It wasn't fair.

Didn't you?  Mean it, that is?

The Joker sat by her side in what, had she cared, the woman would have known was the base of her cerebellum.  And so the boxer was in effect arguing with herself.

"Makirmura.. I..."

Buh-bye Ulala.  Thanks for the credit card.  It was fun was it lasted, hun.  You were a great ride. You old chicks know how to get it on, y'know what I'm saying?  But I've gotta go outta town, hey?  And you won't mind if I sell the engagment ring...

That's right.  Kegare.   You hate him.  And you hate...

"NO!"

Faster, faster, faster than the SWAT team surrounded the exacuating building by orders of the police department - an influux of demons tended to prompt that. Three brave souls (and a sickly specimin of kind) had taken a chance on the interior.  Joker had told her.

"Ms.Serizawa.. are you alright?"

No.  No.  It's their fault for coming here... I warned them.

Mr. Strait-and-Narrow.  He was breaking her concentration on one dyed-blonde male head.  How dare he humiliate her like this.. no one was supposed to see her...

No one has to see you like this.  You're not what they think you are.

They had already stolen her future.

Yes - that's right.

"Serizawa!  We're coming in," the deeper voice was fate, unlocking the door.  They shouldn't have done that.  She couldn't be here.  Her very best friend and all she'd ever had that didn't...

I'm your best friend.  I'm you.  Didn't you know that?

Yes.  He'd said that in the Velvet room where operatics met the edge of time...

She has everything I'll never have.

"Get out," she was not shrieking, at that was out of character in and of itself.  Instead it was a bullet of a whisper, full and true, to the shades of couls that crept up behind when she sank to her knees.

"Ms.Serizawa, we have Makimura here.  He shall be punished by the proper authorities.  There is no need for you to become the..."

When Serizawa paled, it became irrelevant that her hands were shaking.

I don't want to...

You/I already made up your/my mind. Of course you/I want to.

Even Maya gone.  No, please God. No one...

No one.

Only she would do this to her best friend.  Worthless.

Worthless.

"Ma-ya, don't you get it?"

Don't you know me after all this time?

"What is it, Ulala?  You know you can tell me anything... "

You don't know, do you.  You never even noticed.

And this time, Ulala Serizawa did not mince or tease or even bluster her intention in a profanity-filled jibe.  The question was answered in a ring of blue light and the human-shaped shadow of a doubt.

"JOKER!"

Because she was the persona called Joka, and Joka was she.  And in some way, somehow, she'd always wanted the blood of Maya Amano.  That Serizawa felt like crying made no difference at all.

In Sumaru City, the rumors are always true. Demons do live in the sewers while - as the gossips claim - faux-British yuppie pubs suddenly become home to flamethrowers of the very highest quality.

In Sumaru City they talk of a serial killer known only as sin.

In Sumaru City they say that if you cast the curse of the Joker, you become one.  Because the Joker waits for those who do not deserve to survive the death of impurity on the arc of the heavens. The useless.  The tainted.  The weak. The dead to society.

The people of Sumaru City rarely lie.

And those among them who consider the physical excision of Joker a cure hold the priveledge of being as blind as wisdom herself.

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Author's note:  I'm not Atlus.  I don't own Persona II.  Ulala's not mine either, thought I'd be happy to take her on loan, poor girl.  This has been part of a lerger vignette series - In the Cards. All by Mess, who is Generic and Deluded to be certain.