Chapter Text
Round and round the carousel goes, when will it stop? Nobody knows!
“Good morning.”
The boy’s head jerks up when she greets him, and Mei gets a glimpse of his eyes for the first time. A pale, milky hue, like her grandfather’s - the color of blindness, but he can clearly see her.
Every day she passes by Pigsy’s on her commute to university, this boy has been there. He has a posture like the pill bugs Mei used to find under rocks in her family’s garden, his entire body folding in on itself, limbs creased together in origami-adjacent pleats, and just as skittish. She may have never noticed his presence much before, but sitting next to him now, it’s impossible to ignore the twitching of his fingers and incessant foot-tapping.
She used to do those things, too, but she’s learned to quell them. Her back is straight as a reed, and she keeps her gaze focused on the bus-stop across the street.
“Waiting for the bus?” the boy asks. His voice had a grating quality to it, as though he’s never used it before. She can’t imagine he talks very much. His hesitation makes her want to seize him by the shoulders and cajole the words from him, but that desire is very small and very extinguishable.
“Something like that.” Her mouth quirks up. “And you?”
“Oh, well...” He scratches the back of his neck. His nails are abnormally long – they remind her of claws, but he looks as human as anyone else. His dark hair is greasy, brushing against his lower shoulders. “Just...admiring the view.”
Mei arches an eyebrow. “I see.”
He looks disconcerted with her response, but she can’t think of anything more polite to say. A part of her wants to ask what view he’s talking about – the city skyline is only appealing at night, or, in her modest opinion, in a blur out her helmet visor – but it isn’t necessary for the conversation. He’s said his piece and she has nothing to add.
Still, her mind leads into a wayward trail of thoughts: his coat looks worn, I want to style his hair, the color of his eyes is pretty. Her mother had always told her she was unnaturally curious about everything and everyone – when she was younger, she treated new people like she did stones in the flowerbeds, trying to get a glimpse at what lay underneath. Her parents had managed to stamp out that behavior by the time she reached adulthood, but the urge to pick and prod still writhes like a stubborn serpent in her head.
You don’t know him, she reminds herself. And he will likely never know you.
She sighs and turns her attention to the bus stop again, eying the cracked asphalt with distaste.
“What happened to your hair?”
Mei blinks. She pats around the edges of her scalp, feeling for any irregularities. “Don’t tell me a bird pooped on my head.”
The boy laughs, and her face blooms red. I can’t believe I just said that out loud. Geez. Way to go, Mei.
“No, no,” he manages, breathing around his laughter. His smile is wide, revealing a row of shiny teeth. It’s nearly infectious, and she bites her tongue to hold back a grin. “I, uh...I meant...your hair dye.”
She stares at him. “Hair dye? I’ve never dyed my hair before.”
She’d considered it, maybe even dreamt of it. She’d seen her favorite rock artists make their hair a million different colors, and she’d seen teenagers in the city with their highlighted streaks and fading ombre locks. But it wasn’t a good look for the face of the company, so she’d packed the dream away to be stored with the others. She can hide piercings, but dye would simply be too noticeable, and it’s been a long time since she’s been willing to push her family’s limits.
“Oh,” the boy says. That awkward expression is back on his face, and she wishes she hadn’t said anything.
“Yeah,” she mumbles. “I-I’ve wanted to try, sometimes. But I’m supposed to inherit my family’s company someday, so I have to look the part.”
It’s why she’s stuck here studying business and praying for the swift end of each academic term, why she shadows her father in tedious meetings and tries not to fall asleep. She remembers the clothes she’d wear before annual family reunions, the shoes her mother would slip onto her feet, tight and aching. Don’t move your toes, she would instruct. If you don’t try to move them, the shoes won’t hurt.
How do I walk then?
Just stand still.
“Inherit your parents’ company?” The boy looks stunned. “But you hated-” He pauses, shaking his head. “Sorry, I just...do you really want to do that for the rest of your life?”
It’s a question she’s been asked before, and she relies on her default response. “I’ve been working towards it all my life.”
“But is it something you want to dedicate your whole life towards? Don’t you have other things you want to do? Things you want to create?”
Mei looks away, at the curb. Of course she does. She’s spent so long in the garage prying things apart and putting them back together because it gave her a semblance of control, an outlet for her passion. But the freedom she feels on her bike is no equivalent to how she navigates the real world. You can’t pretend to fly while strapped in an office chair.
She’s been through the arguments. She’s spent her younger teen years rebelling, but they’ve straightened her out. The result is a cool slab of metal, once burning hot, now quenched of any steam. She’s tired and waiting to be bent into the shape they require.
It feels wrong, somehow, that her spirit should be subjugated so easily. Fifteen year old Mei would have rather torn off her nails than agree to do any of the things she was doing now. But she was also constantly surrounded by family members – famous aunts and uncles and cousins whose names she ought to know – who told her that there would be no reward for being an outlier. She was a Dragon and sooner or later would need to act like one.
“Look,” she says, irritation crawling up her spine. “Don’t you have some place to be? Why do you lurk around here anyway?”
He looks startled. His gaze shifts to the flickering sign hanging over their heads, then to the machine in the alley corner. “Just visiting.” He juts a finger at the old machine. “Do you play?”
She squints in the dark. It’s an old arcade game – Monkey Mech. A wave of nostalgia rolls over her. She used to play this game when she was younger, with her dad. He always preferred his pinball machine (bo-ring) but sometimes she’d get him to play with her. “I haven’t played in a long while,” she admits.
“How come?”
Mei bites her lip. “I got busy. Never had the time.”
He looks hurt when she says that, and she doesn’t know how to react. Thankfully, her ride shows up, and she’s able to push the awkward encounter to the back of her mind as she steps into the familiar vehicle interior.
“You’re late,” she declares.
“Oh?” her driver chimes mockingly. “And since when did Mei Dragon care about punctuality?”
“Sure I do.” She searches the car compartments for her tube of lip stain. “Wouldn’t wanna be late for my oh-so-important media presentation.”
The driver snorts. He’s hardly making an effort to be inconspicuous, his long, fiery red hair loose over his shoulders, bright as a semaphore flag. “Should’ve taken the bus, then. I saw it pass by on my way here.”
“I was talking to someone.”
His eyebrows narrow in concern. “Was it your mother?”
She shakes her head. “Nah, it was...well, I never got his name. Some guy. He’s always sitting by that shop, like he wants to go in, but never does. We talked a little.”
“What about?”
A sliver of wind buffets out of the broken car window – Red Son says he’ll fix it, but he’s always busy with the family food stall to give it much attention. “That’s weird,” she mumbles, noting the dull pain in her head. “I don’t remember. I...I don’t even remember what he looked like.”
Red Son shrugs, one nonchalant hand gesturing towards her from the wheel. In the review mirror, Pigsy’s grows farther and farther away, until it becomes a miniscule dot in the distance. “It must not be very important, then.”
Mei tries to recall what she talked about with the boy, but his image slips from her mind as though stolen. She relaxes into the seat, leaning against the battered headrest, and lowers the window. Smoky city air blows in, mussing up her carefully arranged hair. She smiles drowsily, enjoying the pleasant wind against her skin, as all her memories of the morning are plucked from her, like dandelion seeds, never to be found again.
Pigsy tries not to care – he swears to Tang that he doesn’t give a damn, and he shouldn’t , but it’s bothering him.
He supposes there’s nothing wrong with just sitting in his shop, and the place is mostly empty since people order from home, but continuously eying the stranger is distracting him from cooking. Sooner or later, there’ll be an accident on the culinary side that’s bound to screw things up.
“Sometimes people just want to sit down and rest,” Tang tells him, blowing steam off his noodles. He sits at the bar, balancing a book and his food, eying Pigsy with amusement. “No big deal.”
“Ya think this place is scenic, Tang?” Pigsy retorts. “What’s there ta look at? A coupla tables and a plant? There’s got to be some sorta ulterior motive.”
“Mhm,” Tang hums, flipping a page in his novel. “And what would that be?”
“He could be a competitor from one of the other shops ‘round here.” Pigsy’s voice lowers to a conspiratorial whisper. “A spy.”
Tang grins. “Noodle shop espionage?”
“It ain’t funny. These are recipes passed down for generations! I can’t have them getting their hands on ‘em.”
“If he wanted to steal them, don’t you think he would’ve done that by now?”
“It’s ‘cause he doesn’t know where I hid ‘em.” His eyes are, once again, drawn to the figure in the corner of the shop. The stranger’s yellow jacket is stark against the worn chairs, and a pair of sunglasses cover his face, but Pigsy’s certain he’s watching them attentively.
“I’m going to ask if he wants anything to eat,” Tang says, setting his book down.
Pigsy wants to object, but Tang is already making his way to the man. The smooth way he talks makes him envious – Tang's always been good at that, dressing plain words with enough charisma to sound like a story. “Good afternoon, sir. Would you be interested in our evening special? The chow mein is half price today.”
The man doesn’t respond. Tang’s head cocks to the side, confused. “Sir?”
Pigsy leaves the counter, approaching the stranger until there’s only a thin wooden table separating them. Tang taps the man on the shoulder, and only then does Pigsy notice how limp the boy’s arms are, shriveled up like fruit left under the sun too long. “Hello?”
The stranger’s glasses slide downwards, revealing his closed eyes. “Oh,” Tang murmurs. “He’s asleep.”
The situation pivots on its head. As the boy’s glasses slide down, Pigsy gets a closer look at him. He’s young, but the dark grooves under his eyes suggest otherwise, and his hair is matted and unruly, reaching past his shoulders, the color of crushed cacao. His jacket is large, engulfing him in pockmarked fabric, and his shoes, though caked with dirt, leave no visible stains on the floors. Even in sleep, the boy doesn’t seem to be at rest. His expression is placid, flat, like a motionless lake surface before the stone hits.
“He looks so tired,” Tang observes, fiddling with the ends of his scarf. “Do you-”
“I’ll get it,” Pigsy says, already making his way upstairs. There are only two rooms up there, on either side of a narrow hallway. The first belongs to him and Tang, and the second is storage – it smells like pickling vegetables and dried fish, a scent Tang has complained about on numerous occasions. When they first bought the shop, he hadn’t known what to do with the empty space. It’s too big to be used for a pickling shack, no matter how many jars he fills it with.
He shakes his head, retrieving a blanket from his and Tang’s room. Downstairs, Tang has gently laid the stranger on his side, and is watching him with an almost fond look in his eyes. A bowl of steaming noodles sits on the table, a spoon at the ready. “I thought he might be hungry when he wakes up,” Tang whispers.
Pigsy wraps him in the blanket, tucking the sides in around him so that no warmth escapes. “There,” he says, stepping back. “He’ll be more comfortable this way.”
They stand there for a moment, watching him as he shifts uneasily in his sleep. He’s shivering, somehow cold despite the blanket, his oversized jacket, and the simmering warmth from the stovetop. Pigsy doesn’t know if he should get another blanket or bring the portable heater, but then the boy tugs the blanket closer and falls still. His breathing evens out. He becomes so quiet that it’s almost worrying, but in the very least, he seems comfortable.
Pigsy leaves the boy there and returns to the kitchen, where he finds chopped scallions burning in his wok. He can’t even be mad about it – he feels oddly serene, like he’s just glimpsed something scenic.
In the morning he won’t be able to remember a thing, and the empty bowl on the table will start a fight with Tang about midnight snacking, but that feeling of contentment hangs over the shop for a full week like a sweet, pleasant fragrance.
“You know, that’s vandalism.”
The boy in moth-bitten clothes startles, dropping his paint brush. He’s surprised, but not terrified, like Red Son’s seen from most of the city’s citizens. The element of shock fails to fade as Red Son leaps from the rooftop and lands a few feet away.
“Relax,” he drawls. Smoke curls from his heels. “I’m only joking.”
The minor, petty crimes of so-called criminals don’t interest him, if he can even categorize the painting in front of him as a crime. It’s clearly abstract, with splotches of pink, yellow, and blue splattered on the wall in no discernable pattern. The painter himself seems frantic, like he’s trying less to create art and more trying to get something to stick to the bricks – something that will last in this shapeshifting city. Red Son can understand that, appreciate it, even.
He’s chosen a shoddy spot to paint, though. The outskirts of the city, in an alleyway shrouded in shadows? Who else is there to see this but Red Son himself? And on top of that... “Move.”
The painter blinks owlishly. His silly expression is reminiscent of Mei. “Uh...huh?”
“You’re in front of a door,” Red Son says pointedly. He presses a hand against the bricks, warm to the touch, and an insignia blazes to life. A mechanical whirring sounds, and the bricks, once inanimate, move apart like metal panels. Beyond the wall is a dimly lit garage. From this vantage point, he can see the remains of the motorcycle he’s meant to fix on the table, stacked tires, and spilt oil.
There’s really no need to hide his base to this degree – he could prop up a sign titled RED SON’S BASE and no one would come near, even the most reckless, given the reputation his family has garnered following their attempt at world (city) domination. But he enjoys the secrecy, even though he’s walked in several times to Mei digging through his stash of spare snacks.
Shoulda made your location more secret, she said, shamelessly chowing down on haw flakes.
This is about as discreet as it gets, you moron. Can’t you buy your own?
It’s more fun stealing yours, she said. Whatcha building?
At the thought of Mei, he remembers what he’s come here to do. The painter behind him gawks at Red Son like he’s never seen him before, which can’t be possible. His father’s takeover of the city has been well documented by every news channel and media source in the region, and by now the Demon Bull Family is a household name - either for their killer yugan pepper pork or their actual killer deeds.
A foreigner, then, he concedes. “Well, then. Off you go. I’m sure there’s a bounty of blank walls awaiting your work.”
The painter makes no move to leave. He asks, voice tentative, “What’re you gonna do in there?” His face glows with boyish wonderment.
Red Son stares at him. He’s never been faced with awe like this, except from one other person. “I have work I need to finish,” he says, before he can stop himself. It’s loose thoughts like these that expose him to others, but it worked fine with Mei, albeit embarrassingly. “I promised a friend I would help her with something.”
He enters the base, approaching the bike. Its pristine white edges are dented in a way that makes him wince. He can feel the painter’s presence behind him.
“I - I just want to watch,” he stammers.
Red Son shakes his head. A crazy foreigner, no less. His attention returns to the bike. Mei’s prized possession and her favorite thing in the world. He promised he’d fix it, and it’s a fairly simple task, but the stress clings to him like a parasitic creature. He doesn’t want to erase her mechanical touch with his own.
“It’s a pretty bike,” the painter comments softly.
“Well, it used to be,” Red Son grumbles. “And it soon will be. I just need to replace a few parts.”
“Is it yours?”
“No,” he says carefully. “It belongs to someone I know.”
“It’s nice of you to fix it.”
Red Son scoffs, but his incredulity wears off. His and Mei’s relationship had started off as a chain of favors. She’d thank him for some free food (that she had coerced from him) and say she would repay him – and she would, eventually, and then he would feel obligated to repay her, even though he swore he didn’t have to and was doing it out of propriety.
She’d laughed at him when he admitted his earlier internal rationalizations for wanting to see her – propriety? You? Mr. I’m gonna electrocute the city with the weather tower lightning button? He’d never had someone laugh at him in a way that didn’t feel utterly demeaning. But then again, Mei was a lot of his firsts.
“I suppose,” he says at last. “I have quite a lot to repay her for.”
The rest of the evening is silence. He finishes the bike, reassembling it on the table, his hands smeared with sweat and grease. The odd painter watches him, and at times Red Son needs to turn around and remind himself that he isn’t alone. The sun dips below the ocean, turning the water shiny like a sheet of warm bronze. When he’s finished, he goes upstairs to search for the motorcycle keys, deep beneath layers of useless metal trinkets in his drawers.
From the balcony, he witnesses the painter approach the bike and draw something on its pristine white side. Red Son sighs, adding another task to his mental list. When he goes downstairs, however, the bike’s metal plates are clean, as though nothing was ever written on them.
And, after a moment, he can’t remember why he rushed downstairs in the first place, or why the door of his base is ajar.
He doesn’t get crowds. He knows this – people these days seem more interested in flashy movies than the subtle artistry of shadow puppetry, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. And without fail, the weird kid shows up at every performance, watching him attentively from the top row of seats, flanked by empty chairs.
“Kid,” he crows from the stage, adjusting his cloak. He almost drops his glamour, forgetting that he has a meager audience. “The show’s over. Theater’s about to close. What are you still doing here?”
He stares listlessly at the popcorn trails on the floor, his fingers tapping his knees. “I wanted...I wanted to ask if you knew a story.”
Macaque arches an eyebrow. “Not very specific there.”
“Um...it’s called the Warrior and the Hero. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
The title sounds familiar, sending a jolt of realization through him. He knows that story – it's one that he’s told in his head, over and over, throughout the years. It isn’t a story anyone else would be privy to. “Maybe I have,” he says vaguely. “What of it?”
“I just wanted to know how it ends.” His voice reminds Macaque of the crash of cymbals – loud in the beginning, fading into wavering tremors at its end. “What happens to them? The Hero and the Warrior, I mean.”
A twitch of his claws. “You’re awfully curious.”
“I’ve waited a long time to know the ending.”
Macaque laughs. He feels a little more cynical now, at the rush of memories this conversation has forcibly brought to the forefront. “The ending, huh?” He bares his teeth in an uncomfortable grin. “Tell you what. It’s whatever you want to be. Whatever you wanted, whatever you hoped for most? That’s how it ends.”
The boy frowns. “That’s not an answer.”
“What? Don’t have a single idea on how it could end?” Macaque steps forward, spreading his arms. “Maybe the Hero and the Warrior meet again. Maybe they become friends .” His grin splits wider, like his cheeks were cut open. “Now, isn’t that an ending that makes everyone happy?”
“I don’t need to be happy,” the boy says. “I just want to know the truth.”
“Then the truth is this – there is none. The Hero abandoning his friends is the end of the story.”
The stranger goes silent. After a moment, he asks, “Is there nothing else after that?”
Macaque turns around, letting the curtain fall. He’ll feel better under the cover of darkness, without the unavoidable stare of this kid on him. It's unnerving and, as much as he doesn't want to admit it, familiar. “How many years of hate do you think they have for each other? How many decades?” He lowers his arms. “Too many to count. You don’t get to just let go of that. It’s never that easy.” He pauses. “At least, for the Warrior. Who knows. Maybe the Hero doesn’t even think of him.”
The waterfall is as clear and luminous as ever. Rushing through the riverbed like an ampul of finely crushed glass, refracting the light so that everything is iridescent. He can’t enter the cave behind it anymore, but there is some comfort to be had in sitting outside, his feet in the river, letting the little fish nibble at his ghostly feet. There’s familiarity, and it settles in his bones like warmth in winter. This is the closest to comfort he may ever get.
The monkeys don’t see him – he wonders if they see something else in his place. A rock? A flowerbed? He would like to be a flowerbed, he thinks. Another beautiful thing by the river, guarded by the fruitful peach trees and the crawling foliage. He wouldn’t mind that at all, but he doesn’t get the option of rebirth. There is nothing else for him to do in a future life. He was not made to accumulate karma. He’s a tool whose usefulness – as the Lady Bone Demon might have once put it – has reached its end.
But he has this – the river, and the cool sensation of water sliding over his feet. Emotions are dull in this state. He aches, but it’s a faraway feeling, like a memory of pain rather than the real thing. Everything is distant.
He recalls, faintly, trying to get his friends and family to remember him. That was before, when he’d had hope, but hope is for the living, and he – can he even call himself dead? He still doesn’t properly know what he is, even after departure. He can only watch as his friends prosper in a world where his presence is erased.
It had been so easy to make a world where he hadn’t existed. It was peaceful without him.
“Kid?”
MK startles, nearly falling into the river. His head jerks towards the sound.
“Monkey King?”
“The one and only,” Wukong says, grinning. He appears out of nowhere, monkeys following his footfalls. “What’re you doing here?”
“I-I-”
“It’s dangerous, you know, for a kid to be up here,” he continues. MK wishes he had fallen into the river. “It’s hard for any normal mortal to get here. Freak helicopter accident?”
MK turns back to the river. “No. No, it wasn’t an accident.”
“Ah, well,” Wukong makes a flippant gesture. “I can get you home safely, if you need it.”
“No,” MK whispers. “I’m here.”
“Mm?” The Monkey King tilts his head. His eyes are cheerfully vacant. “What’s that?”
MK doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to, because Wukong’s head shifts like a slow top, turning to the peach trees, and he forgets MK was ever there.
This is how it will be, he was told. Now he just has to get used to it.