Chapter Text
It’s 1962.
Hope’s Peak Academy doesn’t exist.
Spontaneous musical numbers are a natural phenomenon.
Rogue vocal-pop trios roam the streets in search of protagonists to follow.
Ibuki Mioda is shaving her head.
It’s for money. The last of her fortune ran out at daybreak, when the bus reached Skid Row, Towa City’s most impoverished area. All she had was an old acoustic guitar, her first instrument in her career as a popular musician. The plan was to busk, but street audiences were as unreceptive to her musical experimentation as past audiences, and she refuses to play the hits anymore. Even the shaky melodies of a local, slick-haired doo-wop trio cracked open more wallets.
Sentimental value can’t buy food, so she pawned the guitar. Bye-bye, Sister Rosetta. Fuyuhiko, the babyfaced thug who owns the shop, said it wasn’t worth much even with her autograph. She had nothing but the clothes on her back. And, she soon realized, her massive hair. People buy hair, don’t they?
She keeps nicking her own scalp, drawing blood. The hair clipper she bought from Fuyuhiko, paid with some of the money he’d just given her, is manually operated and deeply outdated. She persists. This long mane, once her pride and joy, is now a huge target for vengeful ex-fans, armed with bubblegum and lit matches. Its luster is absent in the glamor-free lights of this pawn shop bathroom. And hey, she wanted to try an undercut anyway, like what American soldiers have. This is exactly like that, but all over!
A radio song comes to mind as she hacks away, voice shaking. “Big girls don’t cry …”
Fuyuhiko looked pleased to do business with Ibuki. He’s less pleased now as she returns with an armful of hair, leaving a trail on his carpet. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?!”
“Uh, buy it?”
“Aren’t you supposed to donate hair? To the needy or something?”
“Don’t you need it?”
Turns out, he doesn’t. He’s not bald. He just has a super-low buzzcut. Like Ibuki does now.
–
How do people normally make money? Jobs, right? Ibuki can find a job! This new haircut may even be an asset. Business guys might see its masculine edge as a sign that she’s serious.
Maybe … but not the ones in Skid Row. She asks around in several shops - only the ones with HELP WANTED signs at first, then any place she passes. But all of them pass, too. She doesn’t even know what a “resamay” is. One izakaya, desperate enough to look past her recent controversy, has an opening for a musician who’ll play some crowd favorites. It’s the one time where she’s the one to refuse.
And no, Fuyuhiko’s not interested.
Night is falling, and so’s the temperature. Her scalp, never so exposed since infancy, can feel the chill. She misses her penthouse. She misses taking things like food for granted. She misses the good life.
Ibuki’s ears never miss anything. Blessed with what she calls “perfect hearing,” she can pick up even the smallest noises amid walls of sound. Or the most distant. If looking for opportunity isn’t working, the ex-musician will try listening for it. She closes her eyes, reaches out, and detects …
That horrible doo-wop trio again.
The tenor has teeth like a shark and a voice like a cat in heat. The bass styled his hair like he vaguely remembers a photo of Elvis, and his rough vocals shred every word. The baritone’s a hulking bodybuilder whose booming nearly drowns his conspirators. Ibuki finds them on a stoop, singing a catchy advertising jingle, possibly original: “Little shop, little shop of flowers.” Well, they couldn’t sound worse with Ibuki. Maybe they’re open to splitting their loose change four ways?
As she approaches the toughs, a man stomps out of the building. Dirt-caked overalls protect a beautiful white shirt, which must’ve been tailored to his heavyset body. The guy chucks a few coins at the singers, shouting at them to leave him alone.
The trio flees, leaving just Ibuki on his doorstep.
“Well?” He asks. “Are you part of that racket, or are you coming in?”
–
Togami Garden Supply's gotta be the prettiest place in Skid Row. It's dingy, run-down, and past any heyday it may have had, but flowers and plants can spruce up any space. Ibuki gawks at the greenery and takes in the scents, a sensory delight that, after a deeply demoralizing day, rejuvenates her.
“Hey!” An abrasive, girlish voice calls to her. A tall cashier with a long, blonde ponytail slouches over the counter. Her cheerful tag - Hi! I’m HIYOKO - can’t obscure her obvious boredom. “Are you just another loiterer, or are you looking for something.”
What’s wrong with hanging out? If there’s any place she’d wanna be in this depressing district, it’s right here …
“Ooh! Ibuki’s looking for a job!”
The girl’s sneer could demotivate an elephant. These flowers better be blocking out Ibuki’s BO … especially with the presence right behind her. “Are you now,” sighs the man from before.
She twirls around, all smiles, just like she was trained to do with record executives and industry legends. “Great hearing, boss! And, uh, I even brought my own clippers!”
Behind expensive-looking glasses, his small eyes squint. “... Hair clippers.”
“Great eyesight, too! Ibuki has her own special method. Buuut it’s a trade secret, only for whoever hires me.”
He rolls his eyes. “I don’t suppose you have any references?”
“I can quote a ton of song lyrics.”
“Contacts from previous jobs I can call?”
Well, her ex-bandmates and manager wouldn’t have anything nice to say, all her famous former friends have publicly distanced themselves from her, and seemingly the entire music industry has blackballed her. So, no.
“Any other relevant skills you can share? Or job experience?”
Plants like it when people sing to them, right?
“Then what are you even doing here, Ms. Mioda.”
Ibuki shrinks as her name comes out the man’s mouth. She curses herself for her previous slip into first person. That given name’s not exactly common. The shop owner doesn’t follow popular music, but her recent controversies made headlines - her final mainstream crossover. Hiyoko, younger and more aware, snickers now that she recognizes her.
That’s it, then. Busking for change, selling her guitar, offering her hair, groveling for employment, bluffing her way through this interview - none of it worked. Ibuki Mioda is broke, bald, and friendless. Tonight, she’ll sleep rough.
Finally, she answers, “I’ve got nowhere else I can go.”
The man holds a steely gaze. Then he looks to Hiyoko, who looks anywhere else, frowning.
“I’m understaffed anyway. You can learn on the job.”
For an instant, Ibuki doubts her perfect hearing. “Does that mean …”
“Help Hiyoko close up,” her new boss says, already walking away.
And as every muscle in her body slackens with relief, and as her mind works on how to get room and board as part of her pay, Ibuki pays little attention to the returning voices of the doo-wop trio, looming outside Togami Garden Supply, nor to the revised words of their song.
“Little shop, little shop of horrors / Little shop, little shop of terror / Call a cop, little shop of horrors, no, whoa-whooa nooo!”