Chapter Text
Something was very wrong.
Akira had woken to the new year in an unfamiliar Tokyo, perfect like a sickly-sweet aftertaste clinging to the back of his throat. Here, the dead walked, cats had human faces, and there was never a need to fight for anything. It felt like he was losing his mind, like his whole life as he knew it had been a nightmare he was now stubbornly refusing to wake from.
Sitting at Leblanc’s counter, huddled in his coat over an untouched cup of coffee, the distance to the booths was like a canyon. Happy voices drifted across, Futaba, Sojiro, and the thing that might be Morgana blissfully unaware of the uncanny wrongness of which they themselves were a part. He’d never felt so alone in his life, and that was saying something.
Thus far he’d taken no action, allowing himself to be pulled along in the current of wrongness, but it was only getting worse. He had to do something. He had to think of a plan. This was too heavy, too much to comprehend and was therefor, naturally, his responsibility. He’d learned that well enough from the strange beings who’d dubbed him Trickster. If he didn’t fix this then no one would. For all their knowledge, the denizens of The Velvet Room had been disposed of easily enough by Yaldabaoth, Lavenza’s last desperate cry choosing him as their champion. As it was meant to be. Akira didn’t feel like anything special, but he wasn’t one to deny reality, and at this point he’d been given enough evidence to the contrary.
The only problem was, all he had to go on this time was a half-remembered dream, and with Morgana now a clueless human he’d gone from having an amnesiac guide to none at all. There was no one to talk to, no one to ask. And Akira realized, with mounting anxiety, that he had no idea where to start. He was frozen by indecision, a statue capable of nothing but grunting vague affirmations as the people in the booth failed to draw him into their conversation.
The bell above the door chimed and the winter air rushed in, hitting him like a bucket of ice water to the face. Akira woke from his stupor with a start. Akechi strode into the café, his sharp eyes cataloging its contents and lingering for just a moment too long on Wakaba. As always, his presence was magnetic. Not a hair out of place, he looked like he could have walked off the cover of a magazine, if it wasn’t for the cruel twist of his lips, which Akira was quickly realizing he preferred to the old mask.
There was no logical way to explain the relief he felt. It was like he knew, before the other boy had even said a word, that he’d found an ally. Perhaps it was because Akechi could no more exist here than Akira, in this soft reality with the edges sanded off. Yes, Goro Akechi had tried to kill him, would have killed him—Akira was sure of that—but trapped in a world so suffocatingly fake, even that, somehow, was a relief.
“…You know, don’t you?” Akechi asked, and Akira clung onto it like a lifeline. “We have to discuss this.”
“You… remember?” He tried to keep his voice flat, guarded, but could not help the sliver of desperation that wormed its way in.
“That’s right… Just like you seem to.” Akechi’s eyes flickered nervously towards the booths. “…Come on.”
That was how he found himself alone with his would-be murderer, taking some refuge from the cold in the laundromat, out of earshot of Akechi’s first victim and the cat in a human body. It smelled of soap, the warmth of the vibrating wall of driers fighting back against the air streaming in through the empty frame.
They talked of what they remembered, as if trying to confirm their own sanity.
“But… how are you alive?” Akira finally asked.
In front of Sae, overwhelmed by a relief he could neither justify nor explain, Akira had been unable to ask, so he did so now. Akechi brushed it aside like it was nothing, like Akira hadn’t bruised his knuckles pounding against the shutter, like the gunshots hadn’t echoed through the engine room like knives between his ribs. Maybe it had been unfair of Akira to assume he could be taken down so easily, that someone with Akechi’s skill and experience had been killed by a mere cognition.
Piecing together the puzzle in that laundry room, laying out their clues like partners in a police drama, it was easy to see Akechi the detective, instead of Akechi the assassin. But most of all, it was just a relief to have someone to talk to, someone who remembered the world as he did. So, it seemed only natural that, when Kasumi called, they went together.
~
Of course he took Akechi’s deal. They’d almost died in Maruki’s palace, surviving only through teamwork and stubbornness. What chance would either of them stand alone? Akechi tore at the walls of Maruki’s perfect world with rabid anger, refusing the doctor’s soft words with venomous insults. It helped. When Akira’s resolve began to waver, when he made the mistake of thinking too hard, Akechi’s certainty pulled him back to the path.
Of course, despite all Akechi had done, Akira had to work with him. It was his only chance of saving Sumire Yoshizawa. After a fruitless, frustrating week of trying to get through to The Phantom Thieves, he’d been left with no other option. He’d told them he’d be waiting for them to realize the truth, and he meant that, but Sumire couldn’t wait.
Akira had always been the type to be confident in his justice. He forged onwards regardless of his odds of success, fighting for his beliefs, and standing strong against a society that would see him beaten down. It was this certainty of conviction that drew people to him. But on the night before Maruki’s deadline, when Akechi finally made contact, Akira began to doubt himself.
Always the detective, Akechi had conducted his own investigation, but had found nothing more than what Akira had been able to piece together himself.
“Ah… I almost forgot. There’s one more thing I wanted to tell you, about the reality Maruki’s put us in.” Akechi’s voice was calm, matter-of-fact, nothing like his bloodthirsty growl in the metaverse. “It seems that Okumura and Wakaba are both considered alive by all accounts.”
“They’re not dead anymore?” The subtext was clear. Akira didn’t need to say it aloud. Here, in this world, you never killed them.
“They aren’t mere illusions, or cognitive beings—they truly are alive and existing in this world. In fact, their deaths seem to have never taken place at all in this reality. I wonder if even they, themselves, are aware.” There was an edge in Akechi’s voice, an uncharacteristic break in form.
Akira understood why. Not only had neither of them committed any crimes here, but if he were to follow Akechi down the path of unmaking this reality, he would be collaborating with a murderer to send his victims back into their graves. What kind of monster did that make him? Was this truly about saving his friends from Maruki? Or was it simply a selfish desire to pull them back to his side?
He remembered the sharp jealousy in his gut as he approached the Shujin gates, hearing Ryuji’s familiar laugh as he bumped shoulders with the track team. In Ryuji’s perfect reality, Akira was an afterthought. He was still happy to see him, of course, had been quick to invite him along, but this Ryuji didn’t need him. This was not the Ryuji who’d said his place was at Akira’s side. He was happier, more hopeful, with none of the simmering anger that had pulled him into life as a Phantom Thief. How did he justify it to himself? In this reality had they become The Phantom Thieves just for the hell of it?
This world did not need Akira. It did not need the Trickster. Would he unmake it in his self-righteousness? Burry the truth of his own desires beneath idealism?
Akechi was still speaking. “Remaining in this Maruki-revised reality means living under this thumb forever… And I refuse to live like that. I’ll be the one to choose my path. That’s how I’ve lived up to now, and it’s going to continue from here ‘til the end.”
There was force behind those words, like Akechi welcomed that end if it meant standing against the next twisted adult trying to remake the world in their image. His words were like a slap in the face. It was embarrassing, that Akechi saw things more clearly than he did. He couldn’t let Akechi be the hero to save him and The Phantom Thieves. Akira was letting Maruki get to him. This world was nothing but a beautiful lie. It was not earned, and he had not gone to all the trouble of killing a god just to allow another to step in and take its place.
Akira affirmed his resolve and was unsurprised when Akechi responded with distrust and belittlement.
“I hope you can keep to that when we speak to him tomorrow.” There was a pause. “No matter what he says.”
“Of course. Who do you think I am?”
Akira hung up before he could hear the retort. If this mission was truly going to require prolonged interaction with Akechi, it was best he save up some banter for later.
~
As Akira got ready the next morning he couldn’t help the slight discomfort that came from Morgana’s presence in his room. Logically, he knew nothing had changed. Morgana had always been an entirely sapient male. Maruki’s power had just revealed the truth of the situation. It wasn’t that bad. Even like this, he was more comfortable around Morgana than anyone else. He’d have to be, with the amount of time they’d spent together.
Though Akira had decided to allow the others to come to the truth gradually, he couldn’t help but ask, “so, this isn’t weird for you at all, huh?”
“What do you mean?” Morgana asked, stifling a yawn. He sat curled on the couch. He was still catlike in many of his mannerisms, cute in a way that did not suit his broad, new form.
Pulling his shirt over his head, Akira only raised an eyebrow in response.
“We’re roommates,” Morgana retorted, almost offended. “We’ve always been roommates.”
“Roommates who used to sleep together?”
“I know what you mean but you don’t have to say it like that! You know my heart belongs to Lady Ann.”
It was a joke, Morgana’s response more a play at being flustered than anything else. There was truly no tension of that sort between them, something Akira was eternally grateful for.
Akira shrugged, heading for the stairs. “Sorry. I’m just getting a bit bored of waiting. It’s fine… don’t worry about it.”
There had been no need for Akira to make his own breakfast since the new year. It used to be a treat to find Sojiro in a good enough mood to have something waiting for him, but now Sojiro’s mood was never anything but good. Akira stepped off the stairs into the touching family scene perpetually occurring in Leblanc.
“Look who finally rolled out of bed!” Futaba tackled him, arm threading through his and dragging him towards one of the booths.
She was going on about some anime she’d watched last night, Wakaba looking on with exasperated love in her eyes. Sitting across from her as he picked at his food, it was hard to believe she wasn’t real. If Akira hadn’t known better, he would have truly believed she’d never been dead to begin with, that she was a real, conscious person with cognition of her own. Akechi had said as much, but if Akira thought to long about the truth of that he wouldn’t be able to do what needed to be done.
Somehow, the smell of coffee and curry Akira had grown accustom to, living above the café, was even stronger that morning. It wrapped around him like a soft blanket. Everything was perfect and warm, but something about it was suffocating. It was too much. This Futaba was not his Futaba. How could she be, without the experience that had shaped her, without the trauma that had made her who she was? This Futaba didn’t need him. Here, he wasn’t her key item. He was a consumable at best. He needed to get out of here, to talk to Akechi before he lost his nerve.
After stocking up on some first aid supplies, Akira went to the stadium. The detective was already waiting for him, bundled in a scarf and sleek, brown jacket. It suited him. Like this, he was somewhere between the façade of the prince and the madness of the murderer. Akira’s steps were silent and Akechi did not immediately notice him, so he took a moment to study him without whatever mask he would don for Akira’s benefit. Akechi stared off into space, pensive if not a bit forlorn. Much like Akira himself, it was rare to see a glimpse of what lurked beneath Akechi’s many masks. Akira was sure he’d seen pieces of it, as they’d built their lie of a friendship, and it was that true Akechi that had pulled Akira to spend time with him, despite how infuriating the Detective Prince had been. He’d wanted so desperately to know that true Akechi he’d found himself sitting with the other boy in a dim jazz club fully aware he was days from putting a bullet through his head. Or maybe Akira was just a little crazy.
“Hey,” Akira greeted, not meaning for his voice to come out so gruff.
When Akechi looked at him, there was a dangerous glint in his eyes. Yes, Akechi had been a tool, but he loved the fight, loved the thrill of it. When Akira had finally gotten to see that Akechi, it had been breaking apart, crumbling under the weight of madness and grief. It seemed too good to be true that he would get this second chance now. Maybe there had been more to the relief he’d felt when Akechi walked into Leblanc than just desire for an ally.
“So, you came?” Akechi challenged. “This is almost certainly going to end in a fight… and it appears your friends aren’t going to be of any use to us.”
It was a taunt, and Akira was unsure if his response came from true belief in his friends or a need to prove Akechi wrong. “I’m sure they’ll come around.”
“Oh yes, because I’m sure you’re all just as close as you were before reality was changed.”
That stung more than he’d liked to admit. It was like Akechi could see right to the heart of his insecurities. Not deigning to respond, Akira turned away, activating the nav.
It was hard to deny, they were a good team. He and Crow moved in sync, crawling through the shadows of the gleaming, white lab without need for words. It was easier, in a way, to go undetected when their group was two instead of nine. And Crow was very good at what he did. It was obvious how he’d survived alone for years in the palaces of the metaverse, long before any of them had awakened their persona. But there was also something terrifying about a nearly empty safe room, the normal chatter replaced with a chill silence, Crow leaning against the wall as far from him as possible as they licked their wounds. There was nothing to discuss.
Of course, Maruki was waiting for them. They were less thieves and more guests accepting an invitation. Joker had thought himself prepared, but when Sumire broke down in tears, begging him not to force the truth upon her, it was almost too much to bear.
“This is a waste of time. I could take care of her for you,” Crow sneered, as the girl broke down at their feet. Joker had always thought her beautiful, but now he could see nothing but how young she was, how scared. “Though I know you’d prefer for her to leave here alive. Hurry up and do this.”
Joker wasn’t fooled. He’d heard the concern in his voice as he demanded Maruki hand her over.
Joker took no pleasure in victory against Sumire. In her, he recognized a desperation, a refusal to lose that reminded him of himself, but as Crow so aptly put it, practically giddy from combat, laughter and anger in his voice in equal measure, “…looks like you lost… The stronger truth will consume the weaker. I refuse to be controlled! Never again!”
“I don’t want to go back!” Sumire begged, like a prayer. “I can’t go back to my life in cinders!”
Like an attentive fairy godmother, the blue tentacles of Maruki’s persona lifted Sumire’s limp body into the air. Joker saw himself reflected in Maruki’s glasses. He would do anything to protect the girl in front of him. There was no limit to how far he’d go for his justice. He had respect for that, but Joker had never been the good guy. He was the rebel, an agent of chaos and change, destabilizing the structures of organized society at their foundation.
So they had traded a cruel, bored god who played chess with their lives for a benevolent parent, who would swaddle them so tightly they could not breathe. It made no difference. They were still pets to an owner. In the way Crow moved, in the way he smiled between the jagged teeth of his black mask, Joker saw traces of the starving dog who’d been thrown in the ring against him, as the last being who had tried to be their master waited for them to tear each other apart. But Crow had survived. They both had. It did not matter that their new enclosure was spacious, with ample food and a wheel on which to run, Joker refused to live in captivity, no matter how kind the master.
“Sumire…” he attempted, as her persona took shape before them. Even in anger, Cendrillon was mesmerizing to watch, dainty and fluid in her motions, though she was tinted dark with hatred. She would have her fairy-tale ending, even if she needed to destroy reality to get it. “I’m sorry… but you know this is wrong. I know you do. You’re not a doll. You don’t have to be what they make you into. You’re too strong to give in like this.”
His words rung hollow, as hanging from the tendrils that held her, Sumire did resemble a marionette. If she could hear him, she did not respond.
“I refuse to go back!” Cendrillon shouted. “I’m happy here… this is where I belong!”
There was no getting through.
“You ready?” Crow asked, Loki hovering behind him. The god of trickery and lies looked nothing but overjoyed to be here.
Joker nodded, and as their eyes met he felt their bond, their shared understanding like electricity between them.
“Let’s tear this place apart.” Joker grinned, and Crow laughed, an insane cackle that shook his whole body.
It was a competition, as it always was with them. Next to Crow, Joker was hyperaware of every movement, falling to the compulsion to show off. He smirked with extra intention, spun out of a dodge with added flare. With Satanael at his back, he was almost as he’d been when he’d killed a god. Crow had not been there to witness that, and Joker intended to make up for that now. And maybe it was just in his head, but he felt Crow was doing the same.
“Loki! To me!”
Preoccupied with Joker, Cendrillon had lost sight of the other, and Loki brought his massive sword down upon her. In the same moment, Crow lunged at Sumire, the jagged blade of his sabre already red like a premonition of the blood that would soon be upon it.
“Crow!” Joker yelled. It was an order, and a warning.
Crow snarled in frustration, but his blade collided not with the girl, but with the blue tendrils of Maruki’s persona. He cut through with some difficulty, landing in a crouch as viscus, blue fluid rained down around him. With one arm free, Sumire slumped sideways, like a broken puppet.
Letting out a strangled scream, Cendrillon drained one of the shadows dry, clutching at her head, nails digging into her face like she was trying to tear off a mask that wasn’t there. The tentacles reacted as well, though they had been still thus far, allowing Sumire’s persona to fight their battles. Her body was pulled further within them, closer to where Maruki hid, and they lashed out at Crow, too fast for him to dodge.
Joker yelled a useless warning as the tentacles sent Crow flying across the room, sprinting to where his body now lay ragdoll limp on the floor. Without thinking, Joker threw out a healing spell. He didn’t even remember switching masks. Facing down a near-legion of shadows—it seemed Maruki was summoning more, not fewer—Joker placed himself between them and Crow, as his partner got slowly to his feet.
Protected by a forest of his persona’s tentacles, Maruki snapped his fingers, and another line of shadows took form. He looked utterly unbothered, and Joker didn’t know how many healing spells he had left in him. Despite his ordinary optimism, Joker could not deny that things felt hopeless. He found his eyes drawn towards their escape route. Something flickered in his periphery and for a moment he thought he’d seen Skull; thought, for a moment, that The Phantom Thieves had woken after all, but it was nothing but a fleeting fantasy. He was alone here, aside from Crow, who didn’t look like he could take many more hits.
“You alright?” Still, he could not stop himself from asking. Then, as if just realizing it himself. “…I can’t leave her.”
Crow’s only response was a snarl. Joker wondered if he was even aware how bad he looked; if there was anything in his head save bloodlust and hatred for Maruki. The good thing about having a darker costume is that it concealed the blood well.
“Come on,” he hissed, grabbing Crow by the wrist.
Throwing a smoke bomb, he dove for the mote of greenery that surrounded the auditorium. The wall of cognitions in the stands seemed not to notice them, rictus grins facing only towards Maruki. The shadows fanned out, but there were enough dips and corners that he hoped he’d bought them at least a moment. Wedged beside a set of stairs, Joker finally let Crow go. There had been some silent resistance to their retreat, but at least he hadn’t outright fought him.
“I thought you said you weren’t running away?” Crow demanded. His talons digging into the dirt. Coiled and ready, he looked excited for the shadows to find them.
“I’m not,” Joker hissed. “Getting ourselves killed would be the same thing.”
Reaching into his tailcoat, he removed two cylinders. It was one of Takemi’s nastier concoctions. Some sort of accelerated healing stimulant. He’d resolved, early on, never Google it. Handing one to Crow, he ripped off the plastic tab, stabbing it down into his upper thigh. The needle went right through the fabric.
“Use that pretty detective head for something and think of a plan. Didn’t you volunteer as strategist?”
Some of Crow’s adrenaline seemed to have ebbed, as he slunk deeper into the shadows across from Joker. It was a relief; the glint in his eyes shifting from animal bloodlust to something colder and more calculating.
“They’re not coming,” Joker admitted, like a confession. “We—I need to figure something out. I have to.”
Crow pulled the needle out of his leg with unneeded force, peering out into the room. Maruki still stood in his spotlight, like the ringmaster of the world’s most sterile circus.
“You were really expecting them to show up? You’re more naive than I thought,” Crow finally spoke. “Your reliance on teammates has always been your biggest handicap.”
Joker chose not to respond to the provocation. This was not the time for bickering.
“It’s those tendrils,” Crow said. “Fighting her persona is a meaningless waste of energy. We need to separate them.”
Joker nodded silently.
“Are you with me? Because we don’t have time for you to mourn your deteriorating relationships.”
Another nod.
He did not need to be so cruel in his wording, but that didn’t make what he said any less correct. Joker still had to do this, if not for himself and Crow, then for the versions of his friends left behind in the other world.
“Great. I’m going to distract Maruki and the shadows. You employ some stealth and free the girl. Can you manage that? Your movement options are more versatile than my own, and if I can be quite… loud, if I wish to be.”
Crow was staring, and Joker liked the feeling of his eyes in him, sharp and nearly as red as blood, but there was no time to enjoy it.
“Let’s go,” Joker ordered, gesturing to a quickly approaching pair of shadows.
Not needing to be told twice, Crow revealed himself, tearing through the bug-like creatures in seconds. He didn’t even need to summon Loki.
“Maruki!” Crow demanded attention with a skill Joker had never possessed. “If you want to play dolls with this world, you’re going to have to fight for it, you understand me? If you wish to be God you will have to get your hands dirty.” He spat the words with such disdain and contempt that despite how Joker enjoyed their rivalry, he did not envy Maruki his position.
Using his grappling hook, Joker pulled himself into the rafters, perching on the catwalks amongst the lights and caballing, some of which looked far too alive. Something between an eye and a camera blinked and twitched, more flesh than mechanism, but even it was focused on Crow.
“Akechi-kun,” Maruki placated, and despite the distance, Joker could imagine he heard Crow’s teeth grinding. “I truly believe that everyone deserves a second chance… even you. I’ve given that to you. Do you truly intend to throw it away? What about—”
“Shut up! I’m done listening to your bullshit. As long as I am alive, I will kill you, no matter what Kurusu or any of his friends want. I will never be controlled again!”
He lunged forward with lethal intent, but was blocked by Cendrillon, flanked by shadows on all sides.
Joker’s grappling hook found purchase on the railing. Directly below, Sumire’s body hung, momentarily forgotten as Maruki undertook the impossible task of combatting Crow’s anger. With his complex web of issues, Joker could see him being psychologist catnip. As Crow broke into a tirade condemning Maruki’s claim that “violence is not my thing,” Joker stepped off the edge.
“Yoshitsune!”
He tore off his mask as he fell, and the persona surged ahead of him, slicing through the tentacles in less time than it took gravity to pull Joker’s tether taught. He caught Sumire as she fell, momentum carrying them across the auditorium. With Cendrillon gone, Crow made short work of the shadows surrounding him. A great blast of Almighty light flattened the hoard, and he took off running. Joker landed in a crouch, Sumire in his arms, and Crow slid to a stop beside them.
For a frozen moment, they faced Maruki, waiting for some form of retaliation. He made no move to conjure more shadows.
“Taking care of Yoshizawa-san is more important than settling this issue right now,” he finally said, voice dripping with that infuriating kindness that sometimes sounded far too much like pity.
“Planning to run again?” Crow spat.
“We can go back to fighting if that’s what you really want… but I think you’re rather exhausted.”
It was true. Joker had nothing left. It was only through pure determination that he held Sumire’s weight. And as soon as Maruki vanished into nothing once more, Crow swayed on his feet. Staggering, he would have fallen if Joker had not grabbed him by the upper arm.
“Get off of me!” As expected, Crow pulled away, taking exactly one step before he fell to his knees.
Joker mourned the faceplant that almost was. Crow was lucky he was both too kind and too tired to laugh.
Shifting Sumire into a piggy-back position, he said, “I don’t have enough energy left to heal you, and we don’t have time for you to rest. Come here and lean on me.” Joker chose to ignore the scowl. “Sorry… but I don’t have enough hands left to carry you either, so stop being stubborn and come here.”
Somehow, miraculously, Crow complied. They made their way laboriously from the palace, an unconscious Sumire on his back, Crow’s arm heavy across his shoulders. Joker decided he had earned a very long rest.
~
Unfortunately, such things were reserved for people who had not been chosen to bear the responsibility of saving humanity… or at the very least their friends.
They’d gotten incredibly lucky Takemi hadn’t closed early tonight. She took one look at the unconscious girl slumped over his back and sighed so hard Akira had been worried she’d pass out. Another stroke of luck was that Maruki appeared to work his actualization on a case by case basis, leaving Takemi no different than how he remembered her. A few nonchalant mentions of Miwa-chan revealed that her personal hardships remained intact.
Akira took her “you’ll owe me for this” in stride, biting back a reminder that it was she who owed him, and that this was more her settling that debt than the beginning of a new one. He did not have the energy to bicker. He did not have the energy to remember what he was supposed to be to her. His masks lay in a disorganized mess on the floor, and he had no hope of sifting through them.
“Useful connection…” Akechi said, waking Akira from where he’d been dozing on the ratty, waiting room couch. “Back when I was investigating you, I remember being impressed by the web of contacts you’ve managed to accrue. A trained doctor, even one this sketchy, beats learning to stitch your own wounds closed.”
Akira grunted in response, trying to beat the sleep back into the box where it belonged. Akechi looked much better, or at least he’d had success sifting through the masks. White bandages peeked over the collar of his shirt, the only mark of their ordeal. Akechi must have noticed him staring, for he snatched his scarf off the back of the couch, quickly hiding them from view.
“She’s awake, by the way.” Akechi shot a weary look at the exam room door. “She’s done nothing but cry. I fear to think what your doctor friend believes we did to her. Though that’s your problem, not mine.”
“Of course.” Akira got stiffly to his feet. “I’ll see if I can calm her down. If she can manage to call her father I know he’ll come get her.”
“Then I better leave. I’d prefer not to sit through whatever excruciating explanation you plan to give him.”
“Wait!” Akira wasn’t sure where that had come from. He hadn’t meant to grab Akechi’s arm. “Stay. It’s uh… The trains are stopped, is what I mean. You can stay over at Leblanc if you want.”
Akechi rolled his eyes. “I am more than capable of calling a cab, and I do not relish the idea of a sleepover with you and your human cat.”
Letting his hand fall awkwardly back to his side, Akira admitted, “you’re right. I forgot Morgana started taking the couch.” He shook himself. “If he’s not going to remember, should I try to get him to pay rent?”
Though Akechi left quickly, Akira heard him snort, and the sound sent a spark of warmth through his chest.
~
In the familiar darkness of Leblanc, Akira listened at the bottom of the attic stairs. Faint, rhythmic breathing indicated that Morgana was here, and probably already asleep. That was too bad. Akira had been hoping he’d be out somewhere so that he wouldn’t have to fumble around in the dark. Though he supposed he should have expected this. The cat really valued his beauty rest.
Going to the metaverse was always tiring, but today his exhaustion was so bone-deep he doubted even Kawakami’s trained hands could purge it. It was far too late for that, anyways. Still, he had to remember how lucky he was: lucky he had Takemi, lucky that Sumire’s father had viewed him as the hero instead of the perpetrator of his daughter’s deteriorating mental state, lucky that he wasn’t facing Maruki alone, that he had Akechi watching his back. He was just so lucky.
He was just so tired.
Akira knew the position of every creaky floorboard in Leblanc. As a master thief, he was more than capable of going to bed without waking Morgana. But that would take longer, and this was his room, and Takemi had been so busy with the other two he hadn’t ask but he was starting to worry that one of his bruised ribs might be broken… and maybe if Morgana had helped he wouldn’t be back so late in the first place. Akira stepped heavily on one of the louder stairs and grabbed the cord for the lightbulb without casting a look towards the couch.
“Hey…” Came a bleary voice. “…you’re back…?”
Morgana blinked up at him, not from the couch but from under the blanket of Akira’s futon. He was wearing one of his favourite sleep shirts.
“Why are you in my bed?” Akira wasn’t angry. He was just tired, and frustrated.
“I didn’t know if you were coming back.” Morgana yawned, sitting up. “You shouldn’t stay up so late, it’s bad for your complexion.”
“Right.”
Akira began to get ready for bed on autopilot.
“Hey, are you okay?” Morgana asked. “You don’t look so good.”
“Well infiltrating a palace with two people is kind of tough, so…” It was out before he could stop himself. But hey, maybe honesty was what was needed to break his friends out of their stupor. “Akechi and I could use the help, if you’re not too busy.”
He knew he sounded sarcastic and spiteful, and he wished he didn’t. It wasn’t Morgana’s fault. It wasn’t any of their faults. He was just tired, and maybe he was spending too much time around Akechi.
“What?” Morgana suddenly looked very awake, and hope stirred in Akira’s chest despite himself.
“Yeah…” He rubbed the back of his neck, desperately searching for the dialogue option that wouldn’t push Morgana further away. “it’s kind of hard to explain, but there’s some really bad stuff going down. I—I need your help.”
“You know I’m here for you, Akira.” Morgana got to his feet, the perfect picture of concern.
“It would be easier to just show you!” Akira couldn’t fight his grin as a plan took form. It was possible Morgana’s metaverse body was unchanged, or maybe just seeing Maruki’s palace would be enough to bring him to his senses. “I’ll bring you to the palace tomorrow. We don’t have to go in far, just enough for you to give me your expert opinion. We’ll go after school, or I can even skip if—”
“No, no, you shouldn’t skip,” Morgana cut him off, shockingly casual. That was the first warning. “I know your grades are impeccable, but you shouldn’t get into the habit.”
“Right…” Despite the dropping of his stomach, Akira pushed on. “After school then. You know more about the metaverse than me, and this is beyond anything we’ve dealt with before. Please.”
“I don’t know.” Morgana sighed, moving over to the couch and flopping down. “The metaverse is interesting and everything, but I don’t know if I have the time to go just to indulge your curiosity. Lady Ann has a shoot tomorrow and I was thinking about surprising her with something sweet. Hey, do you think crepes would be okay, or is she still on that diet?”
“But I…” There was no point, Akira realized. It was like they were having two different conversations. “Fuck.”
The problem with hope was that the more euphoric the high the more painful the crash. For nearly a year, Sumire Yoshizawa had listened to people say her name and heard Kasumi. He’d been stupid to think it would be this easy.
That night, Akira woke again in the Velvet Room. Once more, he was bound and chained, separated from the creatures who sought his help, as if they were afraid of him. Stiffly, in the same automatic way that one brushed their teeth or took the train home, he walked to the bars, the clanking of the chains as familiar as the sound of his own name.
“It’s been quite some time.” Lavenza looked at him with something that could have been pity.
No it hasn’t, he almost said, but decided to remain silent, knowing there was no point in a clever retort. Instead, he wrapped his hands around the cold metal and waited for his next order.
“We have finally succeeded in reaching you.”
“What’s going on?” There was no point in beating around the bush.
“You have been imprisoned once more. This time, not by The God of Control but—” It was the same dance with different music. He did his best to listen, though he knew it did not matter.
“Though you held fast to your free will and believed in your bonds, the enemy you face is a powerful one. Perhaps it is because he is human, in a way the Yaldabaoth was not. I beg you, do not give up on what you’ve built just because the path is difficult. Do not give up on your friends. Their connections with you have been stolen from them just as surely as they have been stolen from you.”
“I know that,” he whispered. “I know they’re fighting.”
“You are on the verge of grasping a potential reality once more. Our meeting again now, within this place, is proof enough. Please, do not look away from the truth.” There was a dull, distant ringing, pressing at the back of his head like a migraine. “It seems the time has come. Please, Trickster, you need to wake up.”
“Wait! What do I do now?”
“Beings like us have no will of our own. We merely provide assistance to humans as they carry out theirs.” The sound got louder. “You must be the one to determine the path and actions to take. If the will of rebellion still thrives with you, then we should surely meet again.”
But, Akira did not say, what if my will traps me so that there is only one choice? Is it truly rebellion if it is the only path? I can be nothing but what I am. Does that make me something more like you?
He awoke in the dark attic, the echoing of the ringing still throbbing behind his temples. Morgana’s breathing was slow and even. Akira sighed once, letting himself slump back onto his pillow. When he went to the Velvet Room, he always woke as tired as if he had not slept at all. Finally, with the light of dawn just below the horizon, he was allowed to dream; real dreams where there were no butterflies to follow or gods to disobey. He dreamed of Akechi, though when he woke he could not remember the details, knowing only that they had been pleasant, leaving them behind as difficult as leaving the warmth of his blankets.
It was an unusually cold January in Tokyo.