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Iori would’ve wrung his hands if it weren’t too painful to do so. He stood in front of the heavy metal door, wrestling with his thoughts. You have no other choice. What good is a tailor who can’t sew?
Even so, he hated the idea of asking for help, of appearing so vulnerable, certainly in front of someone he didn’t know at all. But there was nowhere else to turn. His wounds weren’t healing, and without his arms, he was completely useless. He needed to see a doctor.
He slowly lifted his arm and, with a wince, knocked on the door of the Mankanshoku’s cabin.
Once the Sewing Club had been evacuated from the Kiryuin estate and were safely en route to NBHQ, Soroi had bandaged Iori’s wounds to the best of his ability. Lengths of gauze were neatly wrapped around the angry red gashes, a tender moment between uncle and nephew, the only family either of them had left.
“It will be okay, Shiro. The Young Miss will know what to do now,” Mitsuzou told him, securing the bandages that were already turning red. Shiro wanted so badly to believe him. Unfortunately, the reality was not so kind. Upon arriving at the secret base, they were informed that Satsuki was either captured or dead. Shiro had never felt more hopeless in his life. The pain in his forearms that he’d managed to shut out until that point suddenly flared to life, consuming everything, and he passed out.
Shiro awoke on a cot in a cramped cabin. After a moment of panic he confirmed that his lab coat, his secret weapon, was folded and tucked under his pillow. Thank you, Uncle. He had also been changed, into a different lab coat that presumably was Life Fiber-free… and with nothing on underneath. Shiro didn’t want to think about who had done that.
He looked down at his arms. The bandages had been changed since he’d passed out, but the new ones too were already stained through with blood. He moved to unwrap one of them, and cried out in pain. Gritting his teeth, he carefully unwound the gauze, exposing the wound to the open air. For the first time he got a clear look at his injuries - the Life Fibers had made clean work of it, at least. The gashes were perfectly straight, practically surgical in fact. He was acutely aware of the edges of the cuts throbbing in time with his heartbeat, as though the skin was reaching out, searching for the other edge of the tear the Life Fibers had ripped, longing to knit themselves back together but unable to bridge the gap.
With somewhat more effort he unraveled the other bandage, then rewrapped the wounds with a roll of gauze that had been sitting on Mitsuzou’s cot, all while holding back tears. Afterwards he found himself aching and exhausted - he could barely even tend to his own wounds.
I’m helpless, Shiro thought bitterly, I’m useless .
The week that followed was hell. NBHQ was bustling with activity trying to deal with the aftermath of the COVERS attack, and Shiro could do nothing to make himself useful. Nonon, Sanageyama and Gamagoori were out most of the time running rescue and reconnaissance missions all over the country while Inumuta threw himself into the problem of cracking REVOCS’ security. Shiro had never felt more distant from the Elite Four, from Satsuki’s inner circle, than he did now. It was all he could do just to change his bandages. Not that it even mattered - even if he could use his arms, there were no Life Fibers with which to make new Goku uniforms, and there was no use for ordinary clothing at a place called “Nudist Beach.”
His thoughts dwelled on Satsuki for the most part. After all, this was the first time they’d truly been separated since they first met. She had always been his source of strength, the reason he could go on doing whatever was required of him. She was so strong and brave, it inspired him to be the same way. Without her around, he felt aimless, stripped of his drive. He was sure that if she were here he could’ve found a way to be of use even with his current handicap.
But Satsuki was not here, and his arms weren’t healing. Every day when he rewrapped them, they appeared unchanged. Still pink and swollen, still bleeding through the gauze. He wondered if maybe they were infected, but he had no way of knowing. He wasn’t a doctor.
“Well, there is a doctor here, you know,” Inumuta told him.
“Wait, there is?”
“Yes, but…”
This was how Iori found himself at the Mankanshoku’s door. Even a self-proclaimed back-alley doctor was better than no doctor at all.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice answered from inside the cabin.
“Iori Shiro, former Honnouji Academy Sewing Club President. I am in need of medical assistance,” Iori announced. With several metallic clangs the door opened, revealing a round, bespectacled face. Iori bowed politely.
“A student, eh?” Doctor Mankanshoku asked, looking the boy in the eyes. “Come on in,”
Iori stepped into the cabin. It was just as cramped as his own, if not moreso. Mrs. Mankanshoku sat on the edge of their single cot, her hand resting on a human-sized lump under the covers, hidden from sight. She wore a look of concern, though she still offered a kind smile to Iori.
“You don’t need to act so formal, ya know,” Doctor Mankanshoku told Iori with a smile. “I don’t care what club you were in - you’re just a kid, and you need help. That’s good enough for me. Now, what’s botherin’ ya?”
Iori held out his arms for inspection. He winced as Doctor Mankanshoku unraveled the latest set of dirtied bandages, revealing the gashes. The doctor examined them closely, adjusting his eyeglasses. He bent Iori’s arms to get a look at the other side, and twisted them over, all of which Iori endured. Finally, he spoke.
“The good news is that the cuts are clean - I don’t think I could’ve done a better job myself, actually. For now the best I can do is clean and stitch ‘em up.”
He motioned for Iori to sit down at a stool behind him, beside the cot, while he went to get supplies. As soon as he moved, Iori finally saw who the lump under the blankets was. Matoi. At that moment Iori suddenly felt the suffocating absence of the former Fight Club President and her delinquent little brother. Even the family dog was nowhere to be found.
Doctor Mankanshoku sat down on the edge of the cot, causing it to creak a little under the added weight. The only antiseptics he had on hand were in the form of little wet towelettes, which stung sharply as he slowly but thoroughly swabbed the wounds, causing Iori to clench his jaw as tears pricked his eyes. Then came the sutures.
“You might wanna look away for this part,” Doctor Mankanshoku warned Iori.
“It’s fine, I can handle it,” he replied. It wasn’t as though Iori hadn’t seen procedures like this performed before; he’d done one himself even, on Sanageyama, and he found himself comparing the doctor’s stitches to his own and decided his were neater. He’d always thought he might’ve made a good surgeon, if things had been different. After all, flesh is just fabric by another name. He looked to the girl sleeping on the cot. For some more than others…
Iori stared long and hard at Matoi’s sleeping form. He’d heard stories from the others about what had happened at the Cultural and Sports Grand Festival - Ragyo had ripped the girl’s heart from her chest, showed it to her and to everyone in the stadium. Yet here she was, alive, with hardly a scratch on her. While his Lady Satsuki was injured at best, dead at worst. While Iori’s life and worth continued to bleed away through the gashes in his arms. Matoi was monstrous, alien. She was a miracle, and everyone else was merely human. How is that fair?
Iori may have imagined it, but he thought he saw her Kamui, hung on the wall behind the cot, flick its single eye over to stare at him.
“Are you doing alright, hon? Do you need a hand to squeeze?” Mrs. Mankanshoku offered sweetly. Iori turned pink, snapping out of his daze.
“N-no, thank you, ma’am.” He politely declined, though a part of him regretted it.
“Alright, dear, then how about some croquettes?” she asked, producing a large plate of them from seemingly nowhere. “They’re sure to get your energy up in no time! You need your strength if you’re going to heal quickly, after all!”
Iori hesitated a moment, before finally caving and taking a single croquette. As he slowly ate, taking small bites of the surprisingly delicious fried food, he considered the scene before him. Here were two parents who had no idea where their children were or if they were even alive. Yet instead of succumbing to the hopelessness of the situation, they were taking care of Matoi as though she were their own flesh and blood. More than that, they were taking care of him, healing his wounds and even plying with him with food, despite barely knowing him. The Mankanshokus were doing all they could to stay afloat in the waters of grief, and were clearly trying to help him do the same. Didn’t he owe it to them to accept their help, and help them in return?
This was humanity. This was what Iori, and what all his allies were fighting to save. He only wished his Lady Satsuki was there to see it.
And suddenly Iori had an idea - a way to bring humanity back to the world, literally. An idea that didn’t require his arms, or any tailoring at all, only his knowledge of Life Fibers and the strengths of his friends.
“All done!” Doctor Mankanshoku announced, snipping the last thread on Iori’s sutures. Iori immediately stood and bowed deeply to him.
“I am grateful for your invaluable assistance, doctor. I promise I will find a way to return your kindness,”
“Don’t sweat it,” Doctor Mankanshoku laughed, waving his hand, “It’s not like anyone has any money around here - no one’s got pockets! I’ll just be billing the Kiryuin Conglomerate when this is all over!”
At this, in spite of everything, Iori smiled. He turned to Mrs. Mankanshoku.
“Ma’am, if I can ask one more favor?” he bowed again.
“Anything you need!”
“Can I take some croquettes for the road?”
She handed him the whole platter she had prepared, plus a few extra to replace the ones he had already eaten.
“Enjoy them, dear!” she said, still smiling, her hands covering her heart.
“Come back in a few days so I can check your wounds again, alright?” Doctor Mankanshoku said as Iori headed out the door.
“I will,” he said, then stopped. “Oh, and… I hope Matoi wakes up soon.”
“Thanks,” the doctor replied, his voice softer than its usual booming volume. “Take care.”
Iori nodded and left, closing the door behind him. He then headed straight to the control room where he knew Inumuta to be, with a plate full of croquettes and a plan to save the Fight Club President, and everyone else who had been swallowed by the COVERS. Iori would help rescue the Mankanshokus’ daughter yet; it was the least he could do.
This is humanity.