#mp100 joseph

[cattliv3]

Mob Psycho 100 doodles

[almondpiglet]

(wips) who here likes serijose or joserei!!! *exactly three ppl in the crowd cheer*

[spaceistheplaceart]

i promise i am EXTREMELY normal about the new official art. very normal.

Please Reblog!

BONUS:

OFFICIAL ART BELOW CUT:

[hongherbac]

[Joseph-Centric] Adrift

AO3

cw: violence, murder, death, vomiting

The character portrayal was inspired largely by @shittishittibangbang’s creations. This humble piece is offered in tribute to their years of dedication.

Adrift

　　Joseph hated flying.

　　The seat was small and stiff, wedged right in the middle, requiring him to climb over two passengers just to reach either aisle. The man on his right slept with his head thrown back, snoring, arms sprawled across both armrests, knees wide apart. Joseph kicked him a few times—the man didn't even stir. Probably taken sleeping pills before boarding. Hell, Joseph wished he could pass out like that too.

　　The engine was right there beside him, roaring, deafening. The cheap foam earplugs were no match for it. The cramped seat left his whole body rigid and aching. A few hours earlier, they had served pasta that chewed like plastic tubing smeared in sauce. His stomach was still churning. And the turbulence after the dessert certainly hadn't helped. Now motion sickness was creeping in. His head felt heavy, bobbing up and down like a message in a bottle drifting at sea.

　　When he was finally on the verge of dozing off, a baby suddenly burst into wailing cries, screaming with raw, relentless vigor. God—such vitality of new life. Nothing like Joseph, whose eyes already looked half-dead. The guy on his right finally woke up, flicked on the reading light, and began reading what appeared to be a book in Thai. Squinting, Joseph turned his gaze to escape the glare. Through the distant airplane window, he saw the bottom edge of the clouds faintly lit with the pale belly-white of dawn.

　　They say a life is built from countless choices stacked one upon another. Joseph cursed every stupid decision he'd ever made that had landed him on this damned, godforsaken, son-of-a-bitch airplane.

　　After what felt like an entire lifetime, a muffled announcement echoed through the cabin, informing them they would soon be landing in Japan. Outside, the sky had fully brightened into a clear blue morning. The view was probably beautiful, but Joseph, trapped in the middle seat, felt only gravity shifting up and down, pressing and releasing, his stomach twisting with waves of nausea. Finally the plane touched down, rolled along the runway, and came to a stop. The seatbelt sign went off. Overhead bins popped open. Joseph stood and pulled down his battered suitcase. He hadn't checked any luggage—too much trouble, and anyway he didn't have much. This suitcase was everything he had.

　　"Excuse me," the man on his right said. "You dropped something."

　　Joseph looked down. The man was grinning, holding out a worn black leather wallet.

　　"Uh… Thanks."

　　He took the wallet and slipped it into his jacket pocket. After the premium passengers, the rest of them shuffled out like sardines, dragging their luggage through the jet bridge into the clean, spacious airport corridor. Since Joseph had no checked luggage, he joined the line at immigration. Through the glass partition, he handed over a South African passport with a tourist visa sticker inside. The officer checked the system, confirmed his story matched the records—ten-day stay in Japan—stamped it, and waved him through.

　　Upon entering Japan, the first thing Joseph did was look for a smoking room.

　　He collapsed into a sofa and dug cigarettes and a lighter out of his suitcase. He lit one, and took several deep, greedy drags, letting nicotine and tar flood his lungs and seep into his bloodstream. He exhaled a long plume of smoke, almost like a huge sigh, and felt the headache ease just a little. Lack of sleep had left his eyes red and stinging.

　　Still, he forced himself to sit up. He pulled the black wallet from his jacket pocket. It was utterly unremarkable, the kind of cheap wallet you could buy in any store. When he opened it, he found a thick stack of Japanese bills—100,000 yen in total. He let out a low whistle. Tucked inside one of the compartments was a small slip of paper, crammed with dense handwritten notes. It was a copy of someone's itinerary. Joseph stared at it for a while, then held the paper to the glowing tip of his cigarette. The flame caught, licking the edges black and curling them inward as the paper shriveled and vanished.

　　Only when the fire was about to reach his fingers did he drop the burning scrap into the ashtray.

　　This wasn't normal procedure. Clients weren't supposed to make direct contact. They were only meant to send target information, just enough to avoid the disastrous mix-up (yeah, it had happened before), and leave the rest to the mercenary. Payment came after the job was done. Yet here the client was, knowing his identity, tracking his movements, and personally delivering intel straight into his hands. Several possibilities came to mind. Either the client didn't understand how the business worked, or they distrusted him deeply… or perhaps the target was so universally hated that the client was willing to risk anything to see them gone. None of it was a good sign. 

　　Normally, Joseph should walk away right now. His remaining savings, plus this 100,000 yen, would buy him a ticket back to Mexico. Or South Africa. Or some random Caribbean island. Anywhere.

　　But there was a problem with that. He was almost out of cigarette money. More precisely, he was broke as hell. Otherwise he never would've accepted this godawful long-haul job and endured sixteen hours of airborne torture in the first place.

　　Eh. As long as he didn't get caught, it would be fine.

　　Joseph smoked half a pack before finally dragging himself up off the sofa, sighing again for his aching bones. He slipped the wallet back into his pocket, dragged his suitcase behind him, and prepared to walk what felt like another lifetime through the airport, searching for the train station that would take him toward the mountains.

* * * * *

　　He checked into a traditional onsen ryokan.

　　The place was perched halfway up the mountain. The road wound in gentle curves, lined with wooden houses steeped in old-world charm. Tourists flowed through the streets, including a scattering of foreign faces. Even among the popular tourist spots, Joseph's ryokan stood out as upscale. It was run by an older couple. The landlady was no longer young, though her hair was dyed jet-black and glossy, pulled into a large, neat bun atop her head. She wore an elegant yet understated dark blue patterned kimono. When she saw Joseph, she offered a gentle smile and bowed.

　　"Hello, how may I help you?"

　　She led him to his room with small, shuffling steps. Stopping before a sliding paper door, she knelt gracefully, opened it with smooth precision, then rose again to bow and ask whether he would like an explanation of the room's facilities. Joseph said no, thank you. She bowed once more, knelt again to close the door, and withdrew.

　　Japanese etiquette, he thought, must be hell on the lower back.

　　The room was a classic washitsu. Shoes were to be removed at the genkan before stepping onto the tatami. Pillows, futons, and mattresses were neatly stacked in the closet; guests laid them out themselves at bedtime. On the south side stood a large paper door that opened onto a small private garden and, as an exclusive perk, the guest's own private open-air onsen pool.

　　The pool was built of stone, scrubbed spotlessly. The faucet knobs shone with polish. Plug the drain at the bottom, turn the knob, and hot spring water would pour into the pool. A wooden basin and ladle rested at the edge. Clean towels waited in the cabinet. Hidden inside another wooden cupboard was a small refrigerator stocked with chilled beer and milk, with a note saying that more could be delivered at any time upon request. The bath faced the area's most famous mountain view. It was late spring. The forest was dotted with soft pink blossoms mingling among layers of deep and pale green, forming a picturesque rural scene.

　　For the first two days, Joseph barely left the room except to buy cigarettes. He tried the onsen once. Skeptically. Mystified. He failed to see how it differed from ordinary hot water. The spring was colorless and odorless, faintly slick to the touch, like cheap body wash that never quite rinses clean. It was scalding enough to strip a layer of skin. Damp mist drifted through the garden. And the mountain view was… well. A mountain.

　　He had nothing to say about it.

　　Yet clearly something drew people here like moths to flame. Because on the third day, the target finally appeared. At dinner, Joseph spotted him in the ryokan's dining room. A middle-aged man with thinning hair, round cheeks swollen with indulgence, and a body that spoke of many good meals enjoyed. And he was certainly enjoying this one—judging by the way he relished every course set before him.

　　That night's menu featured a sashimi platter accompanied by chilled yam salad, shredded dried tofu, miso soup, and red-bean mochi (the soft, sticky Japanese confection that felt, to Joseph, suspiciously like extraterrestrial secretions). The target, however, clearly knew how to live. He ordered an extra tokkuri of warm sake. The waitress brought a tray holding a small cup, while the plump ceramic flask sat in warm water to keep the perfect temperature. He took a bite of sashimi, followed by a sip of sake. Before finishing the main dish, he called for a second flask. Before the soup was gone, his cheeks had turned flushed red, and his eyes had begun to glaze.

　　Afterward, the target would almost certainly return to his room.

　　He would shed his shirt and pants, change into the loose yukata provided by the ryokan, then step out to the garden, turn on the hot spring inlet, letting the bath slowly fill. He took a cold beer from the fridge and settled on the veranda. The tatami gave off a clean, grassy scent. Beyond the garden, the sinking sun gilded the mountains in gold.

　　Once the pool was full, he rose, stumbling slightly, pleasantly tipsy, and pad barefoot down the smooth stone steps into the garden. Steam drifted in hazy veils, tinted amber by the sinking sun. He tested the water with his hand: just right. So he untied the yukata, and stepped naked into the steaming onsen.

　　Ah…

　　He sighed in satisfaction, surrendering to the heat.

　　As a Japanese, he fully believed in the miraculous powers of onsen. Since ancient times, court nobles, warlords, generals, melancholic writers… all had sought healing in these waters. Now the spring soaked into his skin like a mother's—no, like a woman's embrace. Stiffened muscles thawed. Knotted nerves loosened. All the stress, all the accumulated frustrations melted into the heated water… boiled away, evaporated, turned to dust, to mist, carried off by the evening breeze and gone forever…

　　He wanted more. To be fully cleansed. So, even though he knew he shouldn't, he bent his knees and submerged his upper body too. The water pressure weighed against his chest. His head swam. His whole body floated gently with the ripples. His already flushed face beaded with sweat. And that reminded him—the beer was still on the veranda. Yes. Exactly the moment for a cold, refreshing swallow.

　　He tried to stand up. However, he felt a sudden pressure bore down on his head, as though a large hand were forcing him under.

　　Water flooded over his face, rushed into his nostrils, and burned down his windpipe.

　　He screamed, but only a stream of white bubbles escaped. His foot slipped on the slick stones. He plunged fully into the scalding bath, thrashing, desperate to find footing and break the surface. But something strange blocked the way—something white. Something misty. As though the steam had congealed into a solid lid over the water. He couldn't rise. He flailed at it—nothing. He rammed it with his head and shoulders—nothing. The water felt viscous, turning every movement weak and futile.

　　His chest convulsed with suffocation. He held his breath desperately, eyes bulging, lungs screaming for air. The surface was less than a hair's breadth away, yet he was trapped beneath. At last he could no longer resist and inhaled—

　　The hot spring water sliced into his throat and lungs like blades. Agony. Dizziness intensified. He thrashed harder, pounding and striking, silent screams swallowed by the bath. Through stinging eyes he saw the surface ripple from his struggle, while beyond it, steam curling upward, the garden bathed in flawless golden dusk. He had no air left to release. His ears rang. His mouth, his nose, his lungs filled with the miraculous hot spring waters—soaking, cleansing, purifying him utterly within and without, freeing him forever from worldly burdens.

　　How wonderful.

　　At the same time, Joseph was soaking in his own bath, smoking one cigarette after another, staring indifferently at the dull mountain view.

　　Really, he had nothing to say about it, he thought.

* * * * *

　　Joseph stayed a while longer. Then one afternoon, a commotion broke out in the corridor outside his room. First came the heavy tread of several pairs of leather shoes, followed by voices—low male voices—speaking at full volume, boldly shattering the deliberately cultivated quiet of the ryokan.

　　A few hours later, a knock sounded at his door.

　　He answered in his yukata. Two Japanese police officers stood outside, wearing light blue uniform shirts, peaked caps, batons and holsters at their waists. At the sight of his white face, they visibly started, exchanging a quick, flustered glance. Then the one in front cleared his throat, tugged at his sleeve, and held up his badge.

　　"こんにちは。お休みのところ失礼いたします。警察の者です。少しお話を伺ってもよろしいでしょうか。(Good afternoon. Sorry to bother you. We're from the police. Could we ask you a few questions?)"

　　Joseph looked utterly bewildered.

　　"Um… excuse me?"

　　He checked out that very day. Judging from the crowd filling the lobby, he wasn't the only one trying to get away from the accident scene. The landlady looked so stricken, bowing repeatedly to every departing guest—90 degrees each time, as though she might as well press her forehead to the floor. Joseph had to stop himself from telling her there was really no need to apologize to him.

　　Maybe he'd mail her a back brace someday, he thought.

　　Dragging his suitcase, he jumped on the first bus he saw, without even checking where it was going.

　　…

　　And then? How the hell did he end up here?

　　Ugh. Right. He hopped on the bus. The driver seemed to think he was Vin Diesel. Every curve sent passengers flying into the windows. Unfortunately, the mountains were nothing but turns. Joseph had always assumed he didn't get motion sick—now he had a whole new understanding of himself. So when the bus pulled into the stop, he bolted off, barely keeping his lunch inside.

　　The place was godforsaken desolate. By sheer luck, a young man happened to drive past, staring at him with open curiosity. Joseph seized the opportunity and struck up a casual conversation. Before long, he was in the passenger seat, hitching a ride. The problem was, the guy could talk. Joseph sat there while the driver bounced from the weather to prices to politics to Japanese idol gossip. He spent the whole time fighting back yawns.

　　"Mind if I smoke?" Joseph asked.

　　"Go ahead. Crack the window," the young man said, gesturing at the handle. As Joseph rolled it down, the driver added, "By the way, where'd you learn Japanese? I can barely hear any accent."

　　"Really?"

　　Joseph pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, offered one. The young man waved it off. Joseph put it between his lips, lit it, and took a deep drag. The nicotine-laced smoke flooded his lungs, easing the throbbing in his head and settling his churning stomach. Wind rushed through the open window. He exhaled. A thin white stream of smoke slipped neatly out into the air, never touching the car's interior.

　　"My grandparents were Japanese. My mom's second-generation. My dad wasn't around much, so she mostly spoke Japanese to me. I still use it at home, but Grandpa always said my accent sucked."

　　"Seriously? You're part Japanese?"

　　"Of course." Joseph grinned. "My grandmother's a great cook. Thing is, we lived inland—hundreds of miles from the coast. I didn't realize sushi was Japanese until I was thirteen. I thought it was Chinese."

　　"What did your grandma cook?"

　　"Uh… Nothing fancy. Just home cooking. Omurice, things like that."

　　The young man's eyes lit up. "Omurice! Man, my grandma passed away two years ago, but hers was legendary. These days I go to this place in Seasoning Tower—they're all about omurice. Super famous spot. Four eggs in one plate. Great price, too. And you can head up to the observation deck after. The view's fantastic."

　　"Huh."

　　"It's really close to my place. Tell you what—I'll drive you straight there."

　　"Uh, maybe not. I've got my bags with me. But thanks."

　　"Don't worry about that. I'll drop you off at a hotel first, then we'll head to the tower. This town doesn't have much going on anyway. You're bound to end up there sooner or later. That's what people come here for, right?"

　　"Uh."

　　And so, a few hours later, Joseph found himself standing here.

　　The souvenir shop at the top of Seasoning Tower.

　　Behind him, not far away, was the famous observation deck. He'd just been there, gazing through spotless 360-degree windows at this oddly named mid-sized city. Dusk was settling. The sun hovered on the verge of disappearing, while the streetlights had yet to come on. Roads between buildings lay submerged in a murky twilight, darker than midnight. The Japanese call this hour "逢魔時刻"—the time when demons meet—and perhaps not without reason. From up here, cars streamed endlessly. Pedestrians moved in hurried lines.

　　It was a tired cliché, but from this height people really did look like ants. Tiny, sesame-sized shapes creeping along. Heading somewhere. Or leaving somewhere. They all had their reasons, Joseph supposed. Just like ants always have theirs.

　　Inside the tower, however, the atmosphere was entirely different. It was bright and spotless, just like an ordinary department store. Tourists crowded the windows, chattering excitedly, pointing at the view. Especially the Japanese ones, cameras and selfie sticks in hand, striking poses against the sunset. When the sun happened to catch the tip of a lightning rod on some building, a flurry of photo-taking broke out. Joseph gave a small shrug and stepped away from the battlefield, withdrawing to the souvenir shop.

　　So, while everyone else admired the sunset, he stood staring at a wall of hideously ugly magnetic souvenirs, wrestling with himself.

　　Should he buy one?

　　He usually did, wherever he went, and mail it back. But this… what the hell was this thing? The mascot of Seasoning City appeared to be inspired by… uh, slime? After a long moment he realized it was meant to be a seasoning shaker. Just a blob with eyes, a nose, a mouth, a dopey grin, and one hand giving a big thumbs-up.

　　The Japanese could be very strange. One moment they created a breathtaking view, and the next they designed something like this. Spending his mission payment on this felt almost like an insult to humanity. Still… he wanted to send something…

　　Send something? To whom?

　　You might ask.

　　Was any of that story true? A second-generation immigrant mother living alone somewhere inland? Maybe a violent, alcoholic father who beat his wife at the drop of a hat? Had Joseph pushed him down the stairs to protect her, becoming a fugitive son who now sent magnets as proof of life to a lonely old woman?

　　False.

　　Well. Joseph did have a mother. And a father. That much biology guaranteed. Beyond that, the truth was about as real as the nationality and name printed in his passport. What was certain was this: whenever the FBI traced those packages, he was never where they thought he would be.

　　In the end, he bought a magnet.

　　The clerk bowed, thanked him, and handed over the small paper bag with both hands. Joseph stuffed it into his jacket pocket and left the shop. Seeing the elevator line was endless, he headed for the escalator.

　　A few steps behind, maybe three or four people back, a woman in a primrose yellow blouse stepped onto the descending escalator as well. Joseph remembered her. She'd been sitting behind him while he forced down that four-egg omurice (he could practically feel his cholesterol spiking). Up on the observation deck she'd been among the crowd watching the sunset—nothing unusual. The tower wasn't that large. Most people went up for the view after eating. And some, like him, lacked the patience to wait for the elevator.

　　On the ground floor, he exited the tower. His hotel lay to the right. So, he turned left; the woman in yellow turned left as well. At the corner he pulled out his cigarette pack, lit one. He took his time; the woman suddenly developed a deep interest in a display of designer handbags.

　　He smoked more slowly than usual, then dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his heel, and kicked the butt into a drain. Hands in his pockets, he headed north toward the train station. The further he went, the thicker the crowd became: office workers fresh from dinner, students rushing to cram school, aimless drifters of the evening… Joseph melted into the flow, never looking back.

　　He counted slowly to 50, then veered sharply to the side, shrugging off his jacket. A thin black tank underneath. He pulled on a beanie and a mask (nothing that would draw attention here), covering his face, and stepped into the shadow of a wall, head down, pretending to check his phone. As the woman in yellow passed in front of him, he didn't look up. From the corner of his eye, he caught only a pair of elegant navy leather shoes.

　　Once she had gone by, he turned and doubled back. The air was cold. He sneezed, drawing a few glances. He put the jacket back on, but kept the beanie and mask. Head down, he followed the crowd into the station. He pulled out the Suica card and tapped through the gate—beep-beep warning, screen flashing big red characters:

　　Insufficient Balance.

　　Shit.

　　Impatient tsks rose from the queue behind him. He stepped aside, scanning for a ticket machine. Just then, a flash of primrose yellow entered the station. Joseph stared intently on the recharge machine, feigning concentration. The woman in yellow rummaged through her handbag for her card.

　　Top-up complete. The receipt slid out with a mechanical whirr. Joseph tore it off and shoved it into his pocket. This time the gate gave a soft chime and opened.

　　On the platform, a train was pulling in, slowing on the tracks. Doors slid open. Passengers spilled out; Joseph moved in with the line. The woman in yellow boarded the same train, one car over. There was an empty seat in front of him, but he waved it off for a elderly lady. He grabbed a strap and glanced at the advertisements lining the wall.

　　Soon the platform whistle blew. A recorded electronic voice announced, "Doors closing. Please stand clear."

　　With a double-beep, the doors began sliding together. Joseph released the strap, strode toward the exit and, at the last possible second, slipped through the narrowing gap. He was a hair's breadth from being caught in the doors… or rather, a hair's breadth from not being caught. He heard the old lady gasp. Heard a staff member shout. He ducked his head, trying to ignore them and keep walking, but something tugged at him.

　　He looked down. The hem of his jacket was trapped between the closing doors.

　　Panic hit. He yanked hard at it, but the fabric wouldn't budge. Through the train window, the old lady gestured frantically, pointing at the door (very helpfully). The train began to move. Joseph twisted out of his jacket and freed himself. He watched helplessly as the train carried it away. The old lady soon disappeared from view, as the next carriage slid past—and there she was, standing inside. The woman in primrose yellow.

　　Their eyes met for the first time. She looked at him, half surprised, half amused. A faint, barely suppressed smile at the corner of her mouth.

　　Joseph rolled his eyes and gave her the finger.

　　The train gathered speed. His jacket dragged like a rag across the filthy platform. Then it cleared the station, taking the woman in yellow and his jacket into the dark tunnel.

　　Oh well. At least he'd shaken her. Luckily there was nothing in the jacket that could be used to trace his identity. Just two packs of cigarettes (damn), a lighter (damn!), that hideous magnet (uh, whatever), and… oh. And his wallet. All his cash inside.

　　Fuck.

　　God fucking damn it.

* * * * *

　　It was deep into the night. A full moon hung bright and silver over the city.

　　An izakaya was closing up. Customers filtered out the door, long slanted shadows stretching beneath the yellow light. They exchanged goodbyes and drifted off in small groups. Among them was a middle-aged man, who had no companions. He staggered out into the street and made it only as far as the opposite wall before sliding down, sitting there. He had clearly had too much to drink. His eyes were dull and unfocused. In his shirt and slacks, tie hanging loose around his neck, he looked like a textbook Japanese salaryman.

　　Someone approached him. The figure wore a beanie and a mask, but only a black athletic tank on top. He bent down and shook the drunk man's shoulder, speaking in perfect standard Kanto accent.

　　"Hey," he said. "Hey, come on. Time to go home."

　　The man reeked of alcohol, his gaze drifting as he mumbled incoherently.

　　"Come on. Get up."

　　The masked man—or Joseph—braced a hand under the man's arm and hauled. The drunk resisted, slumping stubbornly to the ground, eyes squeezed shut, shaking his head.

　　"What? Who the hell are you?"

　　"That's cold, Yamada. Didn't you call me?" Joseph noticed the ID badge hanging from the man's chest and lifted it to check the name. "You asked me to come get you. Don't you remember?"

　　"Oh… right…"

　　Perhaps hearing his own name did the trick. Yamada finally yielded to the pull and struggled to his wobbly feet. Joseph ducked under his arm and hoisted it over his own shoulder, holding him upright. For a fleeting second, Joseph wondered what had driven him to drink like this. Something terrible? Or just another drunk buying a little oblivion to survive the week? Whatever. Didn't matter.

　　He steered Yamada into a narrow alley.

　　It was little more than a service passage, concrete walls rising high on either side, blocking out the sky. No streetlights. Not even moonlight reached inside. Only vague shapes could be made out in the dark, accompanied by the low mechanical hum of air-conditioning units.

　　"I gotta go to the station," Yamada mumbled. "The station. My wife's waiting at home."

　　"I know. This is a shortcut."

　　Yamada sagged against him, dead weight. Joseph dragged him along, soon breathing hard despite the cold.

　　"Hey, Yamada. You got a cigarette?"

　　"Yeah… in my pocket…"

　　Yamada fumbled uselessly at his pants. His hand couldn't seem to find the pocket. Joseph reached in himself, groping around until he found a crushed pack. It was too dark to see the brand. He pulled one out by feel, tugged his mask down, and slipped it between his lips. He caught the faint, familiar smell—one of those dirt-cheap convenience store brands, cheap in taste as in price. He reached into Yamada's breast pocket and felt around until he found a lighter.

　　Click.

　　The flame flared, briefly lighting the alley and their faces. Joseph saw Yamada's slack expression, his features drooping. The sudden brightness seemed to rouse him. Yamada blinked at the light, then at Joseph, and muttered in confusion:

　　"Who… are you?"

　　"You don't even recognize me? That's really cold." Joseph took a long drag, filling his lungs with that dirty, guilty comfort. With the cigarette between his lips, he slipped a hand back into Yamada's pocket. "Hey, where's your wallet? I'll get your card."

　　As Joseph leaned in, Yamada suddenly shoved him.

　　"Don't touch me! Fucking pervert!"

　　"Hey, hey, Yamada. What's wrong? I'm just helping."

　　He stepped closer. Yamada lurched backward until his back hit the concrete wall.

　　Joseph softened his voice. "Come on. I'm just trying to help, okay?"

　　He reached once more for the pocket, remembering the hard bulge he'd felt earlier. Well, that did it. A sloppy punch came at his face. Joseph ducked. Another wild right hook followed, but Joseph blocked it easily, seized Yamada's arm, and wrenched him around against the wall, pinning him there like a vise.

　　Yamada struggled, slurring curses. Irritation flared in Joseph. He grabbed Yamada's shoulders, forced him downward, and drove a knee hard into his stomach.

　　The effect was immediate. Yamada groaned. Then he vomited all over Joseph's shirt.

　　…

　　500 yen. Three cigarettes. Gone in minutes.

　　That was his compensation.

　　He wore a sour expression, but the rest of him was worse, stinking of cheap alcohol, stomach acid, and vomit soaking through his only shirt. The night had grown colder. Wind cut through the streets. Even with nicotine in his bloodstream, Joseph sneezed again and again. He couldn't take off any more layers—not just because of the cold, but because wandering the streets half-naked at midnight was… well. Even he had standards.

　　Ha. Standards. Surprising, right?

　　He returned to the hotel in a foul mood, reeking even worse. Fortunately, he had checked in early, left his luggage in the room, and paid for three nights in advance. Even flat broke, he still had somewhere to sleep. Tomorrow could deal with itself.

　　The lobby was empty. He slipped down the corridor to his door. Above the handle, the keypad glowed faintly. He raised his hand to enter the code he had set earlier, then noticed a thin line of light beneath the door. He was certain he'd turned the lights off when he left.

　　He paused. Sighed, Rolled his eyes.

　　Whatever. He pushed the door open.

　　A bed stood in the center of the room. The woman in yellow sat at its edge, wearing the same primrose yellow blouse, her makeup impeccable, legs crossed neatly. She offered Joseph a small, composed smile.

　　His jacket—the one taken by the train—lay folded at the foot of the bed, crisp as if fresh from a store display. On top were his cigarettes, lighter, the hideous souvenir magnet, and his thin, worn wallet. His suitcase lay open on the floor like a boiled clam, clothes spilling out in wrinkled heaps. And his South African passport? It was in her hand.

　　"Good evening, Mr. Joseph." Her voice was pleasant, as composed as her smile. "I believe you misplaced a few things. I thought I'd return them myself. In exchange, you can buy me a drink. We'll talk. How does that sound?"

　　Joseph stared at her.

　　"Fine," he said flatly. "Just let me take a shower first, okay?"

* * * * *

　　"…Anyway, that's how I got recruited by the Japanese government," Joseph said.

　　Hatori looked at him over his square glasses.

　　"Dude," Hatori said, "that story sucks."

[marbleboa]

Cringefail government agent and his freaky boytoy. To me.

[ID: Two digital paintings of Joseph and Toichiro Suzuki from Mob Psycho 100. Both are portraits involving their respective powers streaming from their mouths and illuminating their faces, Joseph's being his smoke and Toichiro's his aura. Joseph holds his cigarette near his face with an unpleasant smirk looking down at the viewer, blood is splattered across his face and jacket. He's cast in a purple-blue tint. Toichiro appears as he does when he begins to exert his power in the series: veins bulging in his face, eyes glowing, and teeth bared with a furious expression. He is cast in a red-orange tint. End ID]

[do-you-ship-it-polls]

Do you ship it?

Joseph/Toichiro Suzuki (MP100)

I ship it!

Neutral

I don't ship it

I don't know the characters

Voting ended onAug 15, 2024

[mechanical-magician]

(click for better quality)

Former super villains struggle to reintegrate into society (they're doing their best except for Hatori)

Dialogue under cut

Joseph: Can you pilot this like a normal person for once? Hatori: Why? It's more fun this way

Random employee behind Sakurai: Mr. Sakurai sir, why is there a sword under the counter?

Shimazaki's boss (not visable): Shimazaki! What did I say about teleporting? Shimazaki: Whaaat? It's so much faster!

Minegishi's boss: This is not what I meant by a "Lively arrangement" Minegishi: Oh. Minegishi (in smaller text): I thought it looked nice...

[endykelopaedia]

my favourite fandom niche on tumblr is the artist who keep drawing the mp100 claw members as butches with titties owt.