Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

   It’s bright. That’s the first blow to land. It’s too bright for comfort. Too bright for any phantom thief to stand without cowering. And the lack of a discernible light source is disconcerting only so far as they can afford to be disconcerted without going blind in contemplation.

   It’s loud, too, though none of them can identify what the sound actually is—all they can tell is that it’s fucking deafening—

   The building is crystalline and fractaling and the light bounces off every which way, dances at their feet and over their clothes—

   “We’re in our phantom thief outfits,” Makoto manages, one hand shielding her eyes. “Are we already a threat?”

   “I guess everyone in the world is,” Morgana says grimly over the cacophony. “Let’s get inside already. This is hurting my eyes.”

   The door, blessedly, is as ostentatious and outstanding as the rest of it; they hurry toward it, the glittering skyline rising ominously overhead.

- This is truly an unjust game. –

  Futaba is the only Thief who doesn’t silence her phone. Ever. Ren attributes this partly to the fact that she has not yet had to accustom herself to the perils of classroom policy and partly to the fact that common courtesy was not, in her mind, a worthy enough cause to silence her lifeblood.

   In lieu of her own courtesy he’s taken to spiriting her phone out her pocket before they enter the cinema and quieting it himself. There’re only so many more times he can get away with it, though, before she finally catches on, since even a master thief can’t explain three separate instances of 499+ come credits roll.

   And anyway, it doesn’t matter to him most of the time. He himself is among the guiltiest of parties for the crime of glowing up the movie theatre. It didn’t much matter, he thought. The Yongen theatre was usually pretty quiet, fairly unpopulated, and its occupants generally indifferent to the misadventures of a few scrappy teens slash master criminals and what were social niceties anyway but a set of rules for the sake of rules? Futaba was Futaba, untouchable and yet fragile as a frosted impression, and nobody could tell her what to do, so who was he? to tell her she couldn’t interrupt an action film with a ringtone? because she could just as well as Ryuji could yell inanity to the heavens and not beware of the odd looks or Haru could quietly ask what a 777 was and Morgana could howl his lack of cattitude halfway through a packet of dry and Akechi Goro could seal the bulkhead and his fate all at once and be dead.

   Oh.

   Ren spins his phone on his knuckles again. Takemi had told him just a week ago his thoughts were wont to wander (and that it was very annoying, guinea pig, I don’t pay you to zone out, to which he’d responded she didn’t pay him at all and she’d cuffed him over the crown with a set of pliers, which had hurt, but surely not so much as the bullet Akechi had just taken to the) but he doesn’t think that’s quite right actually because wandering implied a lack of direction and his thoughts seemed to know quite exactly what they were doing and where they were going, just like Akechi had, when he’d sent himself to hell.

   Are you religious, Amamiya-kun? (And maybe that’s a harder question when you summon gods on the regular but they’re not so much holy as they are holey, haha, get it, because he shoots them quite a lot, just like)

   (Is Akechi an atheist? He’d never struck them as a man of grace but who did anyway)

   So Futaba’s phone is not on silent but the rest of theirs are, and the rest of them are, which is what started Ren on this tangent in the first place. Her keyboard makes those little artificial tap sounds when she taps them. The haptic feedback. It’s loud. It actually might not be loud, but anything is loud right now, loud as compared to a silence, louder compared to the silence after a goddamned gunshot. And it’s cold as all hell in this fucking crate of an attic. Which is not relevant, but which Ren clings to as something he can feel, because it’s usually his friends’ words he takes to ground him in moments like these and nobody. Is. Speaking.

   He’s spiralling. Very un-Thief-like. Very un-leader-like. You know what else is un-leader-like? Letting one of your own seal himself away and hoard a bullet all to his own head—

  —how selfish, Akechi! You ought to learn to share—

   He doesn’t realise he’s trembling until Ann rests a manicured hand over his own to stop his cup rattling coffee over the sides. There’s a puddle in his saucer. He hadn’t noticed.

   She can’t meet his eyes. Her palm barely meets his knuckles. Just hovers. Maybe she doesn’t want to hurt him, or maybe she just doesn’t want more blood on her hands. His skin is raw and scraped from another him, a distant him, long past, of an hour or something like that ago, who was stupid enough to think he could punch his way through a wall which had torn through his gloves and then somehow perform a grand act of resurrection by—something. Or something else, since he’s so infallible. O, Joker! Bullets are nothing to Joker! The wild card, the trump card, and if only his teammates were only so bulletproof. If only his ex-teammates were only so

   He sets the cup down on the floor and picks himself up off of it. Nods to Ann, whose eyes are fixed under his own, lips fixed into a smile.

   taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap

   bang joker you have to stop crash joker your hands are bleeding bam joker he’s gone.

   Kind of weird they never really have big reactions to this kind of thing.

   “So,” says Makoto. Bless her. She sounds pained and more painfully awkward. Good for her, owning it. “Does anyone… want something to drink?”

   Silence. Ren wishes she’d asked something else, because now he can’t even drop her a line unless he kicks his coffee over into the floorboards and pretends it never existed.

   “I can make curry,” he offers instead.

   “That’s not a drink,” Yusuke murmurs, correctly, and Ren does not say anything, because it’s not.

   “Curry sounds great,” Ann says brightly. Oh, Ann; lovely, terrifying Ann, whom even a looming headstone couldn’t dim. She summons cheer as easily as Ren does demons, which is relieving and unnerving in equal measure, because now he has no way to tell when it’s real and when she’s fracturing and slapping glittery tape over the cracks.

   She’d made him get an Instagram account several months ago and so far it’s two photographs of Morgana tying himself into knots trying to get comfortable and one of some cracked and broken pavement he’d taken by accident. Futaba had yelled at him for tagging everything #relatable so he hasn’t stopped doing it. #relatable, Ann. I have bandages if you need them. I bought them from the TV fourteen Sundays ago. If you need any for the psyche, or the wounds you got trekking through it.

   They were pretty cheap. My cat told me it was a good deal.

   Yusuke had told him once about kintsukuroi, a practice in which broken or cracked pottery was mended by pouring gold lacquer into the cracks. The purpose, Yusuke had said, was to make something beautiful out of something ruined. In highlighting what had once been destroyed, the piece was to become something new, something better, stronger than ever.

   Ren thinks about pouring gold into the cracks in his own psyche and wonders where he’d get some. If you don’t have homemade golden soul juice then perhaps store bought is fine. He could paint a bandage gold, or maybe crumble gold leaf into his rancid gravy and call it Luxury EX.

   “You gonna go or what?” asks Futaba, still tapping her phone. “Can’t make curry by staring at the wall, old man.”

   It’s an old joke. Borne of his hunchback and her broken youth. He’s an old man and this is the oldest he’s ever felt, like he’s been alive for centuries. “Got it.”

   Hey, wanna know who won’t be alive for centuries?

   “Spicy or mild?” he says instead of that.

   “If we say spicy are you gonna make that hell concoction again?” Futaba says, not looking up.

   “I like it,” Ren says.

   “You’re the only one,” mutters Ryuji, who needs juice to wash down pepper.

   “It’s not so bad,” Makoto reasons, too kind.

   Oh, but this is an extremely pointless conversation. Just a massive waste of time. “Thank you,” Ren says to Makoto.

   “Yeah, you guys are just cowards,” says Ann, who needs juice to wash down garlic. “Not everyone’s as bad with spicy foods as you, Ryuji.”

   “That’s not fair!” Ryuji snaps. “That shit’s as good as poison, man! No way I’m gonna get taken out by curry after that bullshit in the Palace.”

   “Be nice, Ryuji,” Makoto admonishes, like Ren’s feelings are going to be hurt by Ryuji’s Curry Opinions after the day they’ve had, or at all. “It has a certain… unique charm…”

   “That’s bullshit and you know it,” Ryuji insists to Makoto’s defeated sigh. Fired up through this mindless chatter now with the honest energy he brings to everything by default, so much that Ren can almost borrow enough from the air around him to sit up straight. If a little more brittle from the tension. “I don’t have to suck up to Ren! I ain’t gonna fake like I can eat that crap, I’m not like effin’ A—”

   It’s the stop more than the words themselves. The stop that freezes them all in place, because Ryuji never stops talking, and as soon as he does it’s obvious what he’s about to say.

   “Let’s go with mild,” Makoto says, too cheerfully. “Is that alright, Ren?”

   But Futaba sits up suddenly and her phone falls to the floor with too loud a clatter and it’s louder still because the usual shriek and scramble doesn’t come with it, Futaba isn’t checking if her phone is alright, which makes Makoto flinch, which makes the rest of them flinch.

   “Hey, who are you talking about?” Futaba says. Her voice is ground and scraping metal bits and Ren needs to not sink down and tuck his ears between his knees because that’s not what they need from him right now, or ever. “Huh?”

   “Futaba,” Yusuke says, wary, the rare calm. The balance is shifting and the scales have cracked—ever their fulcrum Ren reaches, but the beam is shattering over him.

   “Did someone die in there?” Futaba asks. Light and breezy like the wind at a hornet’s nest. “In that Palace? Maybe I don’t know. Maybe you have to say the name. Or are we all gonna keep pretending like nothing happened? Let’s not think about it! Repression, my old friend! That always works!”

   “Futaba,” Haru says too, gentle, frightened. Ren’s coffee is still half in its saucer, spilled over where he shook, trying to contain too much. Ryuji’s mouth is open, teetering on an apology, but she’s not done.

   She’s on her feet. “Or can’t you say the name now that he’s dead?” she says in possibly the closest she’s gotten to a real yell in all the time they’ve known her. Of the lot of them she came the closest to watching it happen. Watched his life stutter and blink off her radar like a failing spotlight and it’s not even the first time she’s seen someone die. Eyes wide and glasses wider and shrinking into the brittle shell she plasters over again each moment, like she’s a pearl, like she’s protecting from an internal irritant by growing it larger and larger and larger. “Are you scared?”

   Ren is vaguely aware that he’s shaking again, but thank god no one’s noticed but Ann and she’s always taking his hand anyway. Plausible deniability remains. This isn’t how he wanted the tension to overflow. This isn’t when. He’s meant to go downstairs and simmer curry and reassurances, and then they’re all meant to leave knowing tomorrow is another day and their fearless leader’s gonna fearlessly lead them into it, Morgana keeping pace with Futaba for the night to provide comfort to the one who needs it and deserves to, and then he can climb back up the stairs and slowly and patiently tear his hair out in methodical shreds in the cosy quiet comfort of his own storage facility capacity of one. But they’re all frozen, and the carrots are still in the fridge, and Futaba is up and demanding the centre of attention. And up is down. And signals are gone.

   “What’s wrong?” Futaba shouts, and Ren is bracing for the deathly quiet again when the shot subsides once more. “You can’t say Akechi Goro?”

   Her phone, lying on the floorboards, didn’t break. It’s probably the most undamaged of the lot of them. And it’s the only one talking.

   Candidate found.

   Pretty clean, this place. Neat as a pin for someone they’d last seen with his guts close to spilling through his armour.

  No one asks why Futaba had the Nav open, because no one feels like denying the whole business had been on their minds. Oddly enough, new priorities have arisen.

   It becomes chillingly clear at once that Ren’s the only one who might have a shadow of an inkling of what Akechi’s keywords might be, because they’ve spent all of a month with the man and none of the others have the slightest idea who he is, because they hadn’t wanted to.

   That’s reasonable. Not everyone’s got Ren’s morbid curiosity or penchant for throwing himself in harm’s way. Not everyone wants to meet their murderer or the murderer of their best friend. Swings and roundabouts—like knitting or swimming the mile, running headfirst into a speeding bullet isn’t for everyone.

   Still.

   There’s something depressing about the fact that Akechi, a boy their age, their kind, is more of a mystery than the head of a Shibuya crime syndicate or the CEO of a corrupt international company. There’s something depressing about Akechi. Being the one who knew him best is a burden Ren was not prepared for, nor does he really feel qualified for it. And that doesn’t even answer the biggest question—

   “So does this mean he’s alive?”

   Don’t know. Couldn’t tell you. The answer, Morgana says, is yes—he thinks.

   “You think?!”

   Well, no one who’s dead has had a Palace before. And Shido’s Palace collapsed when he’d done that dead-not-dead thing (join the club, Ren thinks, not that he’d like to have anything in common with Masayoshi Shido nor let Akechi share in the same), and he’d clearly done so with intent, so the answer appeared to be—well, they’d find out. But the outlook was good.

   “Good,” Haru murmurs. “Depending where you stand.”

   Nobody answers this. Nobody feels they have the right to. Ren gets the feeling even Haru doesn’t know where she stands, and he doesn’t blame her.

   Honestly, he doesn’t feel like he’s standing at all.

   “So?” asks Ryuji to Ren, trying to exude bravado but looking about as tired as the rest of them. “What’re his keywords?”

   You could start with his name.

   “I don’t know,” says Ren.

  Akechi had been in Leblanc a lot, especially coming into late October-through-November. In the later days, though, Akechi had started to look a little more haggard when he’d pushed open the door. Not to anyone else. But Ren had a frame of reference they lacked.

   He’d asked a few times if Akechi was okay, knowing full well he wasn’t. Or maybe hoping. Was that selfish?

   Was that absurd? To wonder if it was selfish. To maybe hope that someone you liked and found interesting might be a little upset, discomfited perhaps, to be putting a pistol to your head and blowing your brains to the wall in a matter of days. Goodness, Ren—any more self-centred and you might start carrying a briefcase with your own initial on it, or something equally ridiculous.

   “Oh yes, I’m fine,” Akechi always said, smiling at him. And then something like: “Thank you for asking, Amamiya-kun. It sometimes feels like you’re the only one who always looks out for me.”

   Ren denied this.

   “Oh, and Sae-san, of course,” Akechi would add, on prompting. “Still, I’m grateful for you. Least of all because you always tolerate my griping.”

   He didn’t complain that much, actually, for how hard he worked.

   “Haha. I’m glad you think so. It’s odd, the effect this place has on me. On the surface, it’s only a cafe, but it’s become a much-needed place of reprieve.” Another smile. “Perhaps that’s the effect of your company, Amamiya-kun.”

   You can call me Ren. We’re teammates.

   “Alright,” Akechi agreed. “Thank you, Ren.”

   Sure.

   Akechi always sighed when he finished his coffee. “Time to face the real world again, I suppose,” he’d say, and Ren would remind him that he was welcome to stay longer. “That’s very generous of you, but I mustn’t make excuses for myself. Self-discipline is so hard-won and slips away so easily. I’m afraid if I stayed a moment longer, I might never leave.”

   That wouldn’t be so bad, Ren told him.

   “You flatter me,” Akechi laughed. “Nevertheless, I must be going. Thank you as always, Ren, for these moments of calm, however brief.”

   You’re welcome.

   Ren watched him go, though he never left right away. He took his time gathering his things, then he’d stand for a moment at the door, looking outside, like he was surveying a warzone before leaping into the fray. He’d turn over his shoulder, a smile and a wave at Ren, and then he’d draw himself up and push the door open and step out at last.

   It always felt like losing him to something much greater, in those moments.

  “The world,” Ren says softly, and his phone confirms a match.

   He’s out there in it, somewhere, right now. Alive and living in what Ren has to assume is some kind of personal hell.

   “That arrogant bastard,” Ryuji rages. “Imagine thinkin’ the whole world is just up for grabs!”

  Ren doesn’t say anything, because there’s nothing he could say that wouldn’t counter the notion so well as seeing the thing itself, anyway.

  “Hey, so,” and Ren looks up, because Ann is hovering over him, clearly looking for an invitation to sit. He scoots and she curls up against his shoulder. “Are you holding up okay?”

   Ren nods.

   “No, really,” she says softly. The others are sprawled in various states of disuse around the attic; Makoto is still murmuring sleepily into the Nav, trying to guess the last word, though they’ve all long since given up in reality. Joker’s the only one with a chance, they’ve known it from the start.

   They look so tired. Ren feels so guilty. A good leader wouldn’t let his team do this. Feel this.

   Ann’s eyes are so blue. So, so blue. She’s not at all like anyone he’s ever met, not only for the shade of her eyes but for their quality—so light, but so sharp and so clean, able without disguise to cut directly to the heart of him or to anyone like a sliver of clear sky through a waning rainstorm.

   (The rainstorm, in this instance, is his self-sacrificial bullshit.)

   “I’m okay,” he says. “Are you?”

   She waves this off.

   “So, I wanted to ask you,” she says. “What are you planning to do?”

   “About…”

   “Akechi,” Ann affirms, as always giving him no room to squirm away. “Are we gonna do his Palace?”

   He blinks at her. This isn’t a question he expected. They’ve never come up against a Palace they didn’t traverse, or an evil they didn’t face, or—

   “Someone we couldn’t save,” he murmurs.

   She sighs. “I thought you’d say that.”

   She’s right, of course, as she so often is. It needs to be unanimous. “We’ll put it to a vote once we get the keywords. Just like always.”

   “Once you get the keywords,” she corrects him. “This isn’t like always, Ren. You know it’s not.”

   Yeah. He knows.

   “We do this to save people,” she says. “But all the Palaces we’ve done so far were for us, too. Kamoshida was for Ryuji and me. Madarame was for Yusuke.”

   “This is for Akechi,” says Ren.

   “Isn’t it for you, too?”

   “I don’t want—”

   “It’s not selfish,” she assures him. “It’s a good thing. You saved us, Ren. All of us. But you don’t need to pretend you don’t have a stake in this. No matter how we feel about Akechi”—she glances at the others—"we’re not going to turn our backs on you now.”

  Once, he’d asked to meet Ren at the TV station instead of at Leblanc or any of their usual haunts. “I’m sorry,” he’d laughed. “I didn’t think I’d be doing any more media appearances, but this interview request sounded interesting. I know it’s last minute.”

   “It’s okay,” said Ren. “I’ll meet you outside?”

   “You can come in. Tell them you’re here for me.”

   But Ren hadn’t felt comfortable in the studio. There were lights and people everywhere, shouting and calling attention—far from ideal for a phantom thief. Far from ideal for a guy who’d become used to skulking just outside of notice anyway, both in the real world and out, lest he fail to escape the whispers. No one knew him here. But he was braced for accusations and sideways glances all the same.

   Akechi found him tucked into a shadow, white-knuckled grip on his phone as he texted his location with more laser focus than corner in b block warranted, and had to laugh even while he apologised. “I didn’t think I’d cause you this much anguish, Ren.”

   “S’fine,” Ren mumbled. “Let’s go?”

   They did, but Akechi clearly wasn’t ready to let it go. “Do you not like being in the studio?”

   “It’s okay.”

   “You looked like you wanted to sink into a puddle on the floor,” Akechi pointed out, and then took too much pleasure in Ren’s minute pout. “I suppose it’s not your kind of place.”

   “Too many lights,” Ren murmured.

   “That’s right, you’re a thief. I should have known—places like that are built on the spotlight, after all, and that means danger for you, doesn’t it?” Akechi chewed his lip thoughtfully. “It can be rather overwhelming if you’re not used to it.”

   “You’re used to it, I guess.”

   “Well, I have to be.” Akechi lined up the cue again. “But I suppose I wouldn’t have sought out my current work if I didn’t feel comfortable in the spotlight.”

   “It suits you.”

   “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Akechi smiled. He missed the shot. “Ah, that’s too bad. You must have distracted me, Ren.”

   “Sorry.” Ren took the cue from him. “Maybe I stole your luck.”

   The next shot does exactly what Ren wants it to. They watch Akechi’s target ball roll straight into the pocket.

   “A thief to the end!” Akechi lamented, clapping Ren on the back. “It serves me right, I suppose, for dragging you into my own habitat.”

   “You calling me a pest?” Ren grinned at him.

   “A natural consequence, I’d say,” said Akechi, nudging his shoulder. “Give that back. It’s time for my redemption.”

   Ren watched him line up another shot. There was always a grace to Akechi’s motion that Ren couldn’t quite master in the real world but recognised easily from the cognitive. An easy showmanship, a deliberate performance to every action: Akechi moved like he lived in the spotlight, even when the cameras were off.

   With a tap of the cue, Akechi’s chosen ball ricocheted into another and sent them both into adjacent pockets.

   “You’ve redeemed yourself,” said Ren, applauding. Akechi straightened up with a satisfied expression.

   “Nice to know you haven’t stolen the title from me yet,” Akechi laughed. "Shall I buy you a drink to celebrate?”

  “Theme park,” says Ryuji.

   Conditions have not been met.

   “Battlefield,” suggests Makoto.

   “Chessboard?” Ann tries.

   “Arcade,” says Haru. "Forest.”

   Conditions have not been met.

   There’s no rhyme or reason to any of these guesses—no pattern, no starting point, nothing like they’d had with any of the others. Department store. Limousine. Factory…

   “Actual palace,” Ryuji snaps. "Heaven! Hell? The effin’ ocean! Space!”

   “Theatre,” murmurs Ren.

   Candidate found.

   They all look at him.

   “You’re amazing, you know that?” Ann says admiringly, but a couple of his teammates are avoiding his gaze.

  “Say,” Akechi said, legs crossed over and one hand idly stirring his straw through his drink. “If you keep spending so much time with me, won’t your friends get jealous?”

   “You’re my friend too,” said Ren.

   Akechi laughed and said, “Thank you,” which Ren thought was rather an odd thing to say.

   “Shido hasn’t had his change of heart yet,” Yusuke says. “There’s no telling when that will happen.”

   It’s nearing midnight. Ren’s phone is running down to zero but Ryuji’s using his charger and it’s Ann’s turn after that. It doesn’t matter. It’s only the Nav open, and surprisingly changing or saving or utterly ruining the heart of their dead-not-dead bastard ex-teammate-slash-friend-slash-whatever doesn’t trickle down his phone battery as badly as Clipchat does. He is a different matter, but there’s no way to plug himself into the wall.

   “Knowing our luck, it’ll be on election day,” Futaba mutters.

   But Morgana’s nodding. “It would be risky to take on another Palace so soon,” he says. "But I think that’s exactly why we have to do it now. We can’t afford to wait and see what happens with Shido. If we’re going to save Akechi, we have to do it now.”

   “So…” Makoto ventures. “Are we going to do it?”

   Normally this is when they’d all turn to Joker, but it seems they’re having a hard time looking at him. He hates it. This is his team. If they can’t meet his eyes, he’s failed them.

   He can’t meet theirs, either.

   It’s Haru who breaks the silence, to the surprise of them all. “I think we should do it,” she says.

   In all the time they’ve known her, Ren’s never stopped marvelling at her voice. She talks like a little mouse. Sweet and lilting, a petal on the breeze, though it might slice your skin open if it got close enough. But grounded, light as it is, in something firm and unyielding. When Haru plants her roots, she can’t be rocked or blown over. All of 5’2” and fluffy as a cotton field. The shadow she casts over them at this moment is cowing.

   “Why’s that?” asks Yusuke. “I would have thought you, of all of us, would have the strongest reason for objection.”

   Haru shakes her head.

   “I think I’ve learned a lot this year,” she says. “I don’t want to live a life for revenge like Akechi did. I want him to learn from what he did to me. To all of us.” She looks pained. “Saving him won’t bring my father back, but I think I’ll be more at peace if I know the heart that took him from me is in my hands. And I meant what I said,” she adds. “I don’t forgive him. But I understand him.”

   “All for one, and all that crap,” Ryuji mutters, but flushes when everyone looks at him. “I mean, he wasn’t a Phantom Thief, but he was one of us, kind of. We can’t just abandon him. He did save us, after all.”

   Futaba hums.

   “What’s up?” Morgana asks her.

   “Just thinking,” she says. “If he’s alive, it means something happened in that engine room that I couldn’t figure out. Either something funky happened when the Palace collapsed, or he’s got a way to cloak himself from my sensors.”

   Everyone digests this.

   “But… why would he do that?” Ann asks.

   Futaba shrugs. “Dunno,” she says offhandedly, but Ren doesn’t need the look she shoots him to let him know she’s not as undisturbed as she lets on.

   “Well?” asks Makoto. “All in favour of infiltrating Akechi’s Palace?”

   The vote is down to Ren, as always.

   “Let’s do it,” he says.

  “You’d do better if you played your sacrifices more effectively,” Akechi admonished, and took a step closer to yet another win.

   Ren watched him curl his fingers around the black king in anticipation. “I don’t like making sacrifices.”

   “That’ll be your downfall someday,” said Akechi. "But I can’t stop you from playing the hero, now, can I?”

   He hummed thoughtfully, apparently mulling over his own words.

   “Check,” he said. “Will you concede?”

   “Never.”

   Akechi clucked his tongue. “It’s only graceful to know when a concession is in order, you know,” he said. “Surely you must know as much—don’t you play shogi with Togo-san?”

   Ren ducked his king behind another piece, which Akechi swiftly claimed.

   “The outcome here is clear, Amamiya-kun,” he said softly.

   Even within the clear walls of the Theatre’s enclosed balcony, all they can make out is the maw of voracious nothing tumbling from the exterior. The building itself is mostly glass, but they can’t see through it and the secrets within remain a mystery: there are lights shining off it from every which way—the effect is dazzling and renders the building inescapably opaque. But more dazzling still is the scale of it.

   “You weren’t kidding when you said ‘the world’, huh,” says Ryuji, awed.

   What they’re perched on might equate to the rim of a floor standing globe, but from where they’re standing it looks more like a ring as of Saturn. The Theatre is not so much a building as it is a planet of its very own. There is no smooth horizon, no comfortable glow of atmosphere; only the glittering, jagged shape of an inversely silhouetted skyline—not as shadow against light but blinding white against yawning void. Roving spotlights arc out from somewhere at the northern pole, reaching forever into space. The far corners of the structure extend beyond what they can see but already they can hear the cacophony rising from its insides. It’s hard not to shrink back knowing what awaits them, what’s already inviting them in.

   The lobby entrance looms taller than what they’d expected. The frame looks to be solid gold, the handles asscher cut crystal. It provides little shelter from the light, though the sound, at least, is mildly muffled by the slight overhang.

   “Glitzy moron,” Futaba mutters.

   “Shall we begin?” asks Haru.

   Cymbals crash from somewhere deep inside the Theatre’s core, reverberating throughout the structure, and someone shrieks, though with terror or ecstasy it’s impossible to tell.

   Joker looks up at the gilded doorframe. It’s a graceful arc, winking smartly in the light, but even from where he’s standing, he can see a patina of wear that no amount of polishing can hide.

   “Do you think it’s real gold?” he murmurs.

   “Does it matter?” Morgana asks him. “We’re not here to steal the doorframe.”

   “Aren’t you gonna go crazy over it?” Ryuji snickers to affronted yowls.

   The doorknob seems to reach for Joker’s outstretched hand, refracted light distorting and lengthening his gloves and blooming red eagerly from its own core. He touches it. It turns easily and the heavy door slides open as smoothly as if it had decided to open itself.

   “Guess this is it,” he says, and inclines his head so the Thieves will follow.

   “Welcome,” says a voice from the lobby, “to the Theatre.”

   I won’t accept checkmate. Not until it’s truly over.

   And when is it over, Joker?

   When I say so.

Chapter Text

   “Welcome,” says the figure once again. A Shadow, it seems, not unlike the attendants they’d become so familiar with in the Casino. A dark head with glowing eyes, tuxedo-clad and standing smart. It’s almost all black but for a clean white shirt-front under its jacket; it would be near impossible to see if not for the grandiose backdrop.

   It doesn’t seem hostile—instead it regards them with a detached sort of weary grace, displaying no visible reaction to the team of seven wackily-dressed teenagers and their anthropomorphic cat who just stumbled into what looks like a very high-end theatre lobby. Never mind that they’d all fallen into battle-ready stances at once. Ren thinks he might be feeling a little paranoid—tromping around in the heart of your almost-murderer might do that to a guy, he thinks—but something about this place unsettles him deeply. He wishes his mask were a little larger or wider-reaching. For some reason he can’t identify, he wants to conceal himself as much as possible. This to say nothing of the applause that fills the space—constant and unrelenting, if not actually loud, it hasn’t let up since they stepped inside, nor has it swelled. It doesn’t seem to be in reaction to anything, just another strange feature of the Palace. It’s grating at best and incites a growing anxiety deep in Ren’s gut, rising like bile.

   “Really didn’t skimp on the red velvet, huh,” Ann mutters.

   Understated, like the lobby is not. Anything that isn’t red is gold, and anything that’s neither is a brilliant crystal to match the exterior. Grand staircases arch and swirl above them to a point so far up it fades to a horizonal glow; looking up at the exterior from the balcony had given them a sense of the Palace’s scale, but trying to see the building’s ceiling from here gives them vertigo. Still more staircases lead down and further down into what seems to be the Theatre’s southern hemisphere. The stairs, like most everything in the lobby, are carpeted in the same deep, rich red as the wine being toted past them on gleaming trays. Ryuji reaches for a diamond glass and Makoto slaps his hand away. The serving Shadow glides off, near-invisible once again.

   In here, the light is less all-consuming, aided by the fact that they can finally see where it comes from. Chandeliers hang from indiscernible high places, sending winking spots of light around the lobby from faux candles. The front of the lobby consists of that familiar glass, but the rest of it boasts more solid walls, dripping in the same red and adorned with chandelier-reminiscent lamps.

   The room bleeds excess and whispers sickening grandeur in their ears in time with the applause. Ren feels he shouldn’t breathe in case he can’t afford the dust, which is surely made of ground diamonds. But—

   “Don’t touch!”

   Ann’s already wrenching her hand away from one of the flickering lamps on the wall, but it’s too late—the delicate crystals are cracking away and making tiny tinkling crash sounds on the floor. The glass of the bulb itself has shattered beyond repair.

   “I didn’t mean to!” she squeaks. “It was just—pretty—” She hovers anxiously over the shards, waving her hands over them like she might magic it back to life.

   But Yusuke is frowning at the remnants of the actual lamp. “The gold flaked away,” he observes.

   When Ren squints at it, he sees that Yusuke is right. Under the elegant gold—or so they’d thought it was—it looks like it might actually be plastic, or something similarly cheap. Ann raises her gloves; the gold leaf has attached itself to her fingers.

   The Shadow who’d cried out to them sighs.

   “I’m so sorry,” Makoto apologises. “We’ll, um… replace it?”

   “Idiot!” Ryuji hisses. “How the hell are we gonna do that?!”

   “It’s no trouble,” the Shadow says. He waves a hand idly; two serving Shadows deposit their trays and glide over at once to take care of the mess. A third replaces the lamp with an identical one. Ren looks at it more closely this time and thinks he sees the seam of the plastic down the middle.

   “So,” says Yusuke. “Nothing in here is real, after all.”

   The Shadow clears its throat.

   “Welcome to the Theatre,” it says.

   “Yeah, you said that already,” Ryuji snaps.

   “We trust you will enjoy your time with us tonight,” the Shadow continues, like no one had spoken. “Will it be the usual?”

   “The usual?” asks Futaba.

   “You must be mistaken,” says Haru. “We’ve never been here before.”

   The Shadow consults a clipboard that none of them had noticed.

   “No,” he says politely, again with the gentle weariness of one who’s made this same correction many times before. “Most will find they have attended the Theatre at one or another time. It appears several among you have been patrons here since”—it consults again—“June.”

   “June,” Ann murmurs. “That’s when we met Akechi, isn’t it?”

   The Shadow looks pleased. “Then you are acquainted with the Master,” he says. “Lovely. I shall ask again, then. Will it be the usual?”

   The Thieves look at each other.

   “Um,” says Makoto tentatively. “Sorry to be… ignorant… but what is the usual, exactly?”

   The Shadow says something to her, but Ren’s stopped listening—his ears are ringing and it’s becoming harder and harder to resist the urge to crumple into a ball and cover himself with his coat. His fingers are twitching toward his pockets, where he has a dozen Covertisers at the ready—but he doesn’t need them yet, they’ve barely gone anywhere—and this Shadow isn’t hostile, so why—

   “Joker?” Ryuji prompts, and Ren shakes his head quickly to clear it. It doesn’t work. “Hey, you okay, man?”

   “I,” says Ren. His voice doesn’t sound like his own, or rather it doesn’t sound like Joker’s. Joker is suave and smooth and confident, but this voice sounds like it’s being ripped from him, all jerky and rough and uncertain. He clears his throat. “I don’t—like this.”

   Suddenly all the little lights winking at him around the lobby feel an awful lot like eyes, thousands of them, millions of them, and that’s it—the crawling sensation of being watched from all angles. If there’s any feeling in the world that Ren knows it’s this, and it’s growing stronger every moment. He’s itching to douse himself in the Covertiser though he knows it’ll do him no good, but he’s sure of it now—

   “The security level,” he says haltingly.

   “Huh?” says Morgana. “But it hasn’t risen yet. We haven’t met any Shadows except this guy, and he’s not even fighting us.”

   “Fighting is prohibited in the lobby,” the Shadow agrees blandly.

   But this doesn’t reassure Ren. He shakes his head. “No, not the Palace. It’s—” Suddenly his hand is on his chest, clutching at his heart.

   “Joker?” Ann asks, alarmed.

   “Fine,” he chokes out. Isn’t that a nice relative term. He’s fine, yes, alive and breathing, but the paranoia is growing unbearable and he feels like he’s suffocating. It’s not the Palace’s security level he’s worried about—all of a sudden he’s deeply, painfully aware of his own heart, his own mind, like he’s been caught prowling in his own psyche, chased by millions of roving eyes that won’t let up—

   “Joker’s right,” Futaba says suddenly. “I don’t like this. I don’t think I have it as bad as him, but there’s something weird about this place. It’s like I’ve tripped some kind of alarm in my own head. I can’t relax.”

   “I do kind of feel like I’m being watched,” Ann admits.

   Haru shudders. “I thought I was just being paranoid. It feels like everything I do is up on display.”

   They all look warily around the lobby, Ryuji with one protective hand on Ren’s shoulder. He appreciates it. Without something to ground him, he feels like he might disintegrate.

   The Shadow stands impassively by, waiting for them to be done.

   “Let’s get out of here,” Futaba urges.

   “Shall I reserve seats for you?” the Shadow suggests.

   “You shall eff off,” Ryuji snaps. “We don’t want any part of your weird freak theatre!”

   “But there’s nowhere to go,” Haru frets. “What if this feeling persists throughout the whole Palace?”

   “I really don’t wanna go back out there,” Ann says, wincing like she’s already anticipating the light.

   “It looks like we don’t have a choice,” Morgana says. “We’ll have to try the stairs. Joker, are you gonna be okay until we can find a safe room?”

   “Yeah,” says Ren automatically.

   Is he gonna be okay? What a funny question—he gets asked it every now and then, but he’s long since figured out the right answer. It’s been a long time since he’s actually asked as much of himself, which, well. None of his confidants have revealed themselves as therapists yet, so.

   “Where does this staircase lead?” Yusuke asks the Shadow, which thankfully does not seem miffed by Ryuji’s earlier rudeness.

   “The Theatre consists of interconnected Wings,” the Shadow says. “The staircases will lead you through several of them. Would you like a map?”

   “Thank you,” says Makoto, taking the map and squinting at it.

   “What’s this at the end?” asks Yusuke, pointing at a vague shape at the top of the diagram.

   “The VIP Box is located at the very top of the Theatre,” says the Shadow. “However, only the Master is permitted to enter.”

   “Sounds like that’s where we’re headed,” Morgana says.

   “No,” says the Shadow, looking distressed, or as distressed as a shadowy faceless blob can.

   “So we have to climb all these stairs?” Ann asks. “There’s gotta be some safe rooms or something along the way… You said Wings, right?”

   Ryuji growls. “What a pain… Joker, we gotta get a grappling hook or something so we don’t gotta keep doin’ this shit.”

   Ren nods tightly, too pained to speak. “Let’s go,” he says.

   The Shadow bows. “Please enjoy your stay.”

   “Whatever,” Ryuji mutters, ushering Ren toward one of the swirling staircases. The metal railings are twisted into elaborate embellishments, but the gold here comes off too, leaving Yusuke’s glove a glittering mess. He rubs it distastefully off on Futaba’s suit and she tries to push him off the staircase.

   “Look, but don’t touch,” Makoto murmurs, as they ascend.

   The weather was cooler now than it had been in a long time, so Ren thought it an apt time to ask a long-standing question: “Do you always wear gloves?”

   Akechi looked surprised, and he paused in the act of slipping his money back into his wallet. “Pardon?”

   Ren gestured at his hands as Akechi moved aside to let him order. To the man at the counter, he said, “Peaches and cream, please.” To Akechi, he said, “You weren’t wearing them in summer.”

   “Well, it would be odd to do so. They’re quite warm.” Akechi rubbed his fingers self-consciously along the back of one gloved hand. “I really can pay for you, you know. It’s impolite of me to invite you out and let you order separately.”

   “It’s no trouble.” Akechi had tried to pay for him several times already, which was nice of him, obviously, but it always made Ren go somewhat warm in the face and lose several minutes afterward to being a bit flustered about it, though he didn’t know quite why. He did know it was a waste of time, though, as those were minutes he could have spent talking to Akechi, instead. “Thank you,” he said to the counter, accepting his change and slipping it into his little coin-pouch.

   “Why ask about my gloves?”

   “Just curious.” Ren was curious about most things to do with Akechi. He was curious, for instance, about what Akechi carried around in that attaché case of his and where he’d gotten it emblazoned with his initial. About whether or not he actually wore lifts in his shoes like Ryuji had mutteringly accused him of once, bitter that he was apparently taller than both of them. About how he took his coffee when he wasn’t clearly trying to impress Sojiro, and where he’d bought the nice pen he used to sign autographs, and what exactly the scent was that had clung to Ren’s clothes for several hours the one time he had managed a particularly brilliant trick shot in pool and Akechi had gotten excited and actually flung an enthusiastic arm around him about it.

   Some combination of expensive cologne… soap… shampoo… laundry detergent? Or did he get his clothes dry-cleaned?

   Most of all, curious about why he cared so much about any of this at all. Haru had asked him about this once, and he’d provided no answer, because he couldn’t explain it himself. Something about Akechi intrigued him, like his soul itself was reaching out a hand from somewhere deep within himself quite aside from what he might have willed it to do.

   “I’m just more comfortable with these on, I suppose,” Akechi said, raising a hand to consider his gloves. The stall owner handed him his crepe (strawberries this time—he ordered something different every time, or so he said, because why bog oneself down with repeated experiences when there was simply so much to explore?) and told Ren that his would be just a moment longer. “Oh, do you want to try some of mine?”

   “It’s okay,” said Ren. If he shared in Akechi’s crepe, he would be expected to share in return, which might fluster him again.

   “Oh, go on,” Akechi said merrily, all but shoving it in Ren’s face. Reluctantly, Ren took a bite.

   “It’s good,” he said.

   Akechi laughed. “You have whipped cream on your nose.”

   Ren went cross-eyed for a moment while he tried to locate the offending blob, but Akechi laughed at him again and said, “Here,” before swiping it away. The cream was very bright against the matte leather of Akechi’s gloves, and it stood out even more when he stuck his finger in his mouth to rid himself of the evidence.

   He looked very silly like that. “Aren’t your gloves dirty,” was the only thing Ren could think to say, which made Akechi pause again, and he extracted his finger looking slightly sheepish.

   “Oops,” he said. “Pretend you didn’t see that, okay, Ren? It’s a bit childish of me, but I think it’s fun to eat with your hands. And… well, whipped cream is a guilty indulgence of mine.”

   Privately, Ren had thought it was kind of endearing. “Cream and bacteria,” he said.

   “Ha, I didn’t take you for a germaphobe, Ren.”

   Why do you say my name so much?

   “Peaches and cream,” said the vendor.

   “Thank you,” said Ren.

   Sure enough, before he could so much as appreciate the artistry of the crepe, Akechi’s hand had snaked out to take hold of his wrist, and Ren found himself with an faceful of Akechi’s hair as he ducked to take a bite out of Ren’s crepe.

   “Hey,” he said, slightly indignant.

   Akechi emerged, dabbing delicately at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Fair’s fair,” he beamed. “It’s good. Thank you, Ren.”

   “I didn’t do anything,” Ren muttered, which unfortunately just made Akechi laugh more brightly. There was a distinct bite mark in the crepe now, which Ren looked a little forlornly at—no longer a simple peaches and cream flavoured crepe, it was now something Akechi had put his mouth on. Ren didn’t believe in cooties, but something about that made him pause before he started eating again.

   “Do you like them?” Akechi asked, some minutes later when they’d started walking.

   “Crepes?”

   “Oh—no, my gloves,” said Akechi. “Sorry, I forget you don’t automatically catch my train of thought. Talking to you is very refreshing, Ren. I don’t believe I’ve met anyone else who understands me quite as well as you do.” He smiled, entirely too fondly. “I suppose that’s why I’ve begun to expect that you read my mind.”

   Ren raised his fingers and wiggled them at Akechi like he was telling a ghost story, which made him laugh. “They’re nice gloves,” he said. “They look soft.”

   Without thinking, he reached to touch one—but at the same moment Akechi pulled his hand away to plop a straying strawberry back into the bed of cream. Ren drew back at once, but Akechi didn’t acknowledge the odd moment, or perhaps he hadn’t noticed it.

   “They are quite soft. With use, perhaps. I’ve had them for quite a while now.” Akechi rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe I ought to get new ones, but unfortunately I’ve gotten attached.”

   “You said you feel more comfortable with them on.”

   “Yes—you do too, actually,” and Ren looked at him. “I mean, not these ones, obviously, but don’t think I haven’t noticed that little habit of yours.” Akechi tugged meaningfully on his gloves to adjust them. “You do it outside of that world, too, even when you’re not wearing any.”

   Right. Ann and Futaba teased him about this constantly, but it still made him flush. Ren adjusted his glasses so he wouldn’t automatically grab at his wrist. “It’s—”

   “Charming,” Akechi laughed. “If a little amusing. The lines do blur, I suppose—although you seem almost to be two different people with them on and off, Ren, in some ways if not others.”

   “Do I?”

   Akechi hummed thoughtfully. “At a glance,” he said. “There are things Joker does that I would never think of Ren doing. On the other hand, I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t see him in you quite clearly.”

   And you’d never do that, of course.

   “Perhaps I know you too well,” Akechi chuckled. “Or perhaps that’s wishful thinking. What do you think?”

   “You could know me better,” Ren said, without thinking. There was plenty Akechi could know better about; for instance that the whole team was onto him, or for another instance that Ren thought his laugh was a bit cute, even if he laughed more than Ren was funny.

   Akechi, however, seemed to take this as an invitation. “Well, I’ll look forward to more outings, then,” he smiled.

   Ren looked at his shoes.

   “Are you really taller than me?” he blurted, which startled Akechi into laughing harder than he had yet that afternoon. He did a funny sort of squeak on the inhale when he laughed too hard and threw his head back to boot, which Ren thought was entirely unfair and should be considered some form of foul play.

   The unsettling sensation of being put on display ebbs the higher they climb, much to everyone’s relief. Ren finds himself straightening up as they ascend, no longer needing the grounding (if slightly anxious) touches of his friends to stay upright. The applause has not subsided, but the overwhelming aura of the Theatre seems to extract its claws from his mind; he brushes hair out of his eyes and murmurs, “Sorry.”

   “There’s nothing to apologise for,” Yusuke reassures him. “I found that place deeply unsettling also.”

   “Looks like it only has that effect in the lobby,” Futaba reports, squinting at her heads-up display. “There’s these other sections of the Palace, though. I don’t have a solid reading on them yet.”

   “Will it be worse in there?” Haru asks her anxiously, but Futaba shakes her head.

   “There’ll be other weirdo stuff, that’s for sure,” she says, “but I don’t think it’ll be the same stuff.”

   “Hey, Joker, why’d it get to you so bad?” asks Ryuji, but Ren can only shake his head—if Akechi were here, he’d probably say something like I have a few theories on the matter and then spout off on something that the others only partly listen to, but Ren isn’t a detective. With the panic only now beginning to creep from his brain like a reluctantly abating fog, he mostly feels like a slug.

   They reach the landing and stop, because the other side of the staircase actually starts to wind back down again. Morgana wrinkles his nose. “Looks like we’ll have to find another way up,” he says.

   They all glance upwards. The Theatre is larger than they can get their heads around, but Ren has the vague impression that the upper hemisphere is very roughly domed. They can see more staircases sidling up toward the top of the Theatre, but those staircases evidently don’t begin from where they’re standing now.

   Makoto glances around. “It looks like this is some sort of balcony,” she observes. “There’s a door there—do you want to check it out?”

   There’s nowhere else to go, so they troop toward the door in a straggly little group. Ren feels a bitter, stabbing resentment that even here, in some perverse construction of a theatre manifested by a particularly fucked-up companion's brain, the opulence of his surroundings make him feel very strongly like he doesn’t belong. Stoic, fearless Joker, stalking the halls of Shujin amid the reaching whispers and sharded looks, unaffected, like the dauntless hero he is. He still expects to be thrown out of every institution he steps into. He wants to slink into every semblance of a shadow, install eyes along the curve of his back. It’s him, did you see him? That good-for-nothing delinquent—what does he think he’s doing here, in a place like this?

   (He’s with me, Akechi had said that time at the TV station, once or twice, which had made Ren feel equal parts annoyed embarrassed relieved and mildly pleased.)

   Another Shadow greets them at the door. This one is dressed a little differently to the host who had greeted them at the door—his suit is a little brighter, extravagant in a slightly goofy way. The doorway seems to match him, adorned with a colourful marquee not unlike that of a circus tent. The doors themselves, red to match their surroundings but a little more garish, look like curtains to be pulled aside. When Ryuji pokes one in an apparent inability to resist, though, they don’t give way. Just another illusion.

   “Welcome to the puppet show,” the Shadow says. “Will you be joining us this evening?”

   “Puppet show?” asks Ann, at the same time as Ryuji snaps, “Just tell us how to go up, damn it!”

   The Shadow doesn’t flinch. “The higher Wings of the Theatre may be accessed through this Wing, if you so desire. Will you be joining us this evening?”

   “That doesn’t make any effin’ sense,” Ryuji moans. “What kind of theatre only lets you into the rest of it if you go through this bit?”

   “None of this makes sense,” Morgana sighs. “We’d better just get used to it.”

   “I guess it kind of makes sense,” Makoto ventures. “It’s not like all the different sides of Akechi are available to everyone, right…? I assume that’s what all this is about.”

   “True… but why restrict them arbitrarily?” Yusuke asks.

   There’s a pause.

   “I think he’s just difficult,” Futaba decides, to murmured assent.

   “Will you be joining us this evening?” the Shadow repeats blandly.

   “Yeah, sure, whatever, you weird Shadowy freak,” says Ryuji. “Let’s go see a puppet show, I guess.”

   “With our very special guest,” Futaba mutters, “emotional turmoil. Yaaaaaay.”

   “Wonderful,” says the Shadow, not sounding like he gives a single shit about how wonderful any of this is. “May I see your tickets?”

   They all look at him.

   “Your tickets,” the Shadow says again.

   Ann breaks the silence with a very nervous high-pitched giggle. “Ohhh, nooooo,” she says. “I gueeeess I must have forgot my ticket! Heh, ehehe… Won’t you let me in without it? Pleeeeease?” She bats her eyes.

   “Kill me,” Ryuji whispers to Ren, who snorts.

   Ann elbows Makoto hard in the ribs. “Oh,” Makoto wheezes. “U-uh, m-me too! I guess we… all forgot our tickets! Um… Could you let us in anyway?”

   The Shadow looks on impassively.

   “You will need tickets to enter,” he says.

   “Figures,” Futaba mumbles.

   “What are we going to do?” Haru frets. “There wasn’t anywhere to buy tickets downstairs, was there?”

   “Don’t think so,” says Ryuji. “This ain’t gonna be one of those things where we gotta go do stuff in the real world, is it?”

   “That would be a problem,” says Morgana. “I have no idea what this ‘puppet show’ could correspond to in the real world—do you, Joker?”

   Ren shakes his head.

   “Besides,” Morgana continues, “we don’t even know where Akechi is. I don’t think we can do anything to get in that we can’t do right here.”

   Ryuji hefts his bat. “We could kill this guy,” he suggests.

   “Please show me your tickets,” says the Shadow, looking mildly apprehensive.

   “There’s no need for that,” says Makoto. She motions them all a little way away from the Shadow, who slumps a little when they walk out of earshot. “He doesn’t look like he’s guarding the door so much as he is just attending it, so one of us should be able to distract him easily. All we need to do is draw him away, that’s all.”

   “So how’s the distraction gonna get in?” asks Morgana.

   Makoto blanches. “Um,” she says. “Knock him over the head?”

   “So it does come down to beating him up!” Ryuji says, way too loudly. The Shadow looks over at them nervously.

   “It’s fine,” says Ann. “We’ll just cause a commotion somewhere else in the Palace so he goes away. It’s worked before.”

   “Yeah, but nothing about this Palace is anything like before,” Futaba mutters.

   “It’s worth a try,” says Haru.

   “I’ll cause the distraction,” says Morgana. “It’ll be easiest for me to get back unnoticed. Just make sure you keep the door open!”

   “We won’t leave you behind,” Ren promises.

   Morgana eyes him. “You saying that definitely makes it more suspicious.”

   “Just go!” Ryuji urges. “We ain’t got time to be standing around like this!”

   “Alright, alright! I didn’t see you volunteering any bright ideas, Skull,” Morgana complains, but scurries off. A minute later they hear a crash and a yowl.

   “Oh, no!” Ann shrills, glancing at the Shadow. “That sounded like trouble! Someone should go check it out!”

   “Dude, quit it!” Ryuji hisses. “Your bad acting’s gonna give us away!”

   “He-ey—”

   “Be quiet,” Makoto whispers. “He’s going!”

   Ren waits for the Shadow to turn the corner and then pulls open the door as quietly as he can, gesturing them all inside. Futaba pauses on her way in and says, “You ever worry what’s gonna happen one day when our bad JRPG plans stop working like they should have six Palaces ago?”

   “Too often,” Ren says grimly, and nudges her inside.

   A black blur races back around the corner and in through the doorway. Ren closes the door again.

   He turns around to find all the Thieves listening at the other door in a highly conspicuous manner.

   “Are we safe?” Ann whispers.

   Ren stares at them. “Get away from the door,” he says, which they do sheepishly.

   “I really hope we don’t have to go through this every time,” Makoto sighs.

   “Seriously,” says Ryuji. “Leave it to effin’ Akechi to need tickets to get into his head.”

   The space they’re standing in is much smaller than the Lobby—almost cosy, really, after the grandeur of the rest of the building, and actually almost tacky. Brighter, bolder colours and a distinctly constructed look to the décor. The applause is louder now than it was outside, and now it’s interspersed with cheering and the occasional spurt of raucous laughter.

   “Creepy,” mutters Ryuji, and Futaba nods fervently. The applause doesn’t seem to be coming from anywhere, or at least they can’t tell what the source is. It’s simply omnipresent, like the lights outside.

   At least the unsettling sensation of being watched hasn’t followed them in here. Ren presses two fingers to his temple; his third eye feels blurry in here, like it might be underwater. It’s making out vague impressions of the noteworthy but he’s unable to discern anything with full clarity. Several glowing marks almost send him staggering, the starburst effect leaving spots on his field of view even after he’s blinked the supernatural vision away.

   “You okay, Joker?” Morgana asks, and he nods. Akechi was at once unlike anyone he’d ever encountered and the only one who might have shared his soul; adjusting to him was a matter of easing oneself slowly into the shallow end and wading with apprehension. Diving straight into his heart like this was as jarring as a shock of cold water or a searchlight to the eyes. Once he adjusts, recalibrates, it will be easier to see.

   The foyer consists of a manned reception desk and two sets of entryways—an impressive set of double doors set with lights that seems to lead into the performance area, and a simple door labelled BACKSTAGE in a far corner. Inevitably, Ren thinks tiredly, they’ll need to head backstage and go through a convoluted maze of impractical corridors and boxes, but he’d like to cover their bases first.

   “Let’s check out the stage,” he says.

   “Please enjoy the show,” says the Shadow at the desk, who until now none of them had realised could talk—and by the way Ryuji and Makoto jumped, who some of them hadn’t even realised was there.

   “Thanks,” Ann says to it.

   “Eff you,” Ryuji adds.

   “There’s no need to be rude,” Haru protests, throwing the Shadow an apologetic face, which it does not acknowledge.

   “Everything about this damn place creeps me out,” Ryuji mutters. “Let’s just go inside already.”

   Inside, unfortunately, is not less creepy. It is much, much creepier.

   “What the fuck,” says Ann, which gets them shushed by several intangible theatregoers. Ryuji swats ineffectually at them and passes straight through their heads. The noise in here is absolutely overwhelming; the applause is louder than ever, for one thing, which Ren had not thought possible, but it’s also accompanied by a lot of undistinguishable clamour which clouds his brain until he quite literally cannot hear himself think. It’s also completely dark all the way through the seating, though they can feel rather than see the vague shadows of ghostly audience members milling about between the rows.

   The stage itself, by contrast, is dazzlingly bright and hurts their eyes to look at. Ren feels like letting his eyes adjust to the light will render them incapable of ever seeing anything ever again, but once he does he realises what Ann’s what the fuck was in response to. And he kind of wants to echo it.

   “Is that Akechi?” Haru says in a hushed voice.

   Ren hopes it’s not. It would be really fucked up if it is.

   “That’s him,” says Futaba, eyes shielded by her goggles. “That’s not a cognition. It’s definitely a Shadow.”

   “Wait,” says Ryuji. “We’re runnin’ into his Shadow already?”

   “Um,” says Futaba. “Well, it’s definitely him, and it’s definitely a Shadow, so… I guess so?”

   “Something about this doesn’t seem right,” says Ann nervously.

   “You can say that again,” Ryuji yelps, apparently finally adjusting to the light. “That’s an effin’ string puppet!”

   Yeah. Really fucked up.

   The seating area is large and the stage a decent distance away, but even with that and the ridiculous spotlights, they can see more of the marionette Akechi than they’d probably like to. Stood centre of the gaudy, almost circus-like stage. For one thing, it’s huge—maybe three or four times the size of a human being. It’s also gleaming, carefully polished and buffed, reflecting light more viciously in the areas where it seems the wood might be chipped or worn. The polish throws the lines of joints and pieces into sharp relief, giving the puppet the general impression of something whole that had been cut up and pieced slowly together with hinges and nails. Behind it, mostly concealed by its limp bulk, is a door.

   As they might have gleaned from the chatter of the audience, the show does not yet seem to have begun. As such, the puppet on stage is limp on its strings. Most disturbingly, it’s draped backward, not forward, snapped unnaturally at the spine and giving it the extremely uncanny look of a corpse on uneven ceiling hooks.

   They can just make out the side of the thing’s eyes from where they’re standing. Gravity has not been kind to them: the puppet’s eyelids are dropped open, bulging eyes left wide and staring up as far back as the build will let them. They haven’t rolled all the way into the wooden skull, presumably because they can’t. Instead, the unseeing yellow eyes remain fixed on the back corner of the stage. The puppet is entirely still.

   “I think I’m going to be sick,” Makoto says faintly.

   “Yeah, that’s fucked,” says Futaba.

   Yusuke is observing the puppet quietly, but without any of his usual detached scrutiny. His hands hang by his sides, framing nothing.

   Ren touches his shoulder. “You okay?”

   “Yes,” says Yusuke, slipping out of his reverie to turn his intent eyes on Ren. He looks downcast. “Thank you. It’s… not very pleasant to look at.”

   “Let’s get out of here,” Morgana says. “There’s no way we can get to the stage through all this mess and I don’t like the idea of getting up on there without knowing what’s waiting for us. Unless—Joker, can you see anything in here?”

   He’s already tried. “Nothing.” Not nothing. The stage is ringed by a deep pit and a barrier too unfriendly to climb. There’s a barricade of guards around the pit and the illusions milling through the seats are interspersed with real Shadows that could turn hostile any moment. No way through, no way over. He’s not leading his team into that, not when there’s always a back way.

   And the Puppet, whose golden eyes bored deeper into him like it knew how closely it was being watched.

   “Man, I hate this place,” Futaba growls.

   “Let’s go,” says Haru, casting the stage another frightened look, and they all stumble blindly back toward the door and crowd out again.

   Back in the foyer, Makoto slides wearily down the wall and rests her head on her knees. Ann squats beside her. “You good?”

   “Yes,” says Makoto. “Sorry. That was just…”

   “Yeah,” says Ryuji.

   “We’ve seen a lot of disturbing stuff in Palaces,” says Ann. “But I mean… It’s kind of different, since this is his Palace.” Someone they knew, if they didn’t really know. “It’s… kind of sad. And weird.”

   “Was my Palace like this?” Futaba asks quietly. They all look at her in surprise, which makes her shrink. “I—I mean! Not—like this, exactly, but…”

   “Mostly it was just annoying,” says Ryuji. “I was like, ‘do you want us to help you or not?!’ Like, stop tryna to kill us, damn!”

   “Ryuji!” Ann snaps, but Futaba’s grinning again and smacking Ryuji on the back, so Ren figures he doesn’t need to interfere.

   “I didn’t expect Akechi’s Palace to be like this at all,” says Morgana. “I thought it would be something violent or vengeful.”

   “I don’t think that’s it,” Yusuke says slowly. “The deaths he caused aren’t at the centre of his distortion. It seems they’re more a result of… emptiness.”

   “So what is his distortion?” asks Ann, sitting down on the floor next to Makoto. “I mean, I know it’s a theatre, but I thought Palaces could only form from distorted desires. Is this all something Akechi wants…?”

   “My Palace wasn’t really a desire,” says Futaba. “Just… a worldview.”

   “I guess that’s true,” Ann says.

   “It would appear that Akechi desires to be seen,” says Yusuke. “How confusing. This is all so melodramatic and artificial. Why would he want to be seen for everything he’s not?”

   “Perhaps because he doesn’t like what he is,” Haru suggests.

   Everyone looks at her. “You’re kidding,” says Ryuji. “I’ve never met a guy who liked himself more than Akechi.”

   “Everything he showed us was an act, though,” Ann muses. “The Akechi we saw in Shido’s boiler room didn’t seem to like himself all that much.”

   “Well, yeah, but…”

   “If he really wanted to be seen like this, then why would his Shadow look like that?” Haru says, gesturing at the stage door. “Maybe his desires are in conflict.”

   Or it’s something he thinks he needs, and that’s the distortion. To voice or not to voice. Whether it’s stranger to Ren or to his friends how well he knows their would-be enemy/teammate—he knows not.

   “A puppet show, huh,” Futaba muses, squatting down and curling up in a google-eyed ball beside Joker’s legs. Her text walls are scrolling, but he wonders if she’s really looking or just blocking herself from view. “Wonder why that’s the first wing we get to see.”

   “You know,” said Ren. The café is warm around them, quiet but for the gentle whirr of the fridge and an occasional tap on the board between them. “I heard you were an excellent detective.”

   “Is that so?”

   “So someone said. But he hasn’t put his money where his mouth is yet.”

   Akechi laughed. “Careful, Ren. You shouldn’t antagonise me when you’re already on the losing side.” He took another of Ren’s pieces seemingly without strategy, perhaps just to demonstrate that he could.

   Ren took another step towards Akechi’s king. “Maybe that’s why I’m doing it.”

   “Trying to throw off my game? You’ll have to do better than that.” Akechi dodged neatly aside. “Check.”

   “What—oh,” said Ren, frowning at the board.

   Akechi laughed again, more lightly. “You’ve improved,” he said with a tinge of pride. “But you haven’t surpassed me yet. Shall I take credit for being a good teacher?”

   “Take credit when I win,” said Ren.

   “I’ll never get it, then. So why are you goading me about my detective skills tonight?”

   They had reached November, the early areas of Sae’s Palace no longer a mystery, but Ren knew there was still a long way to go. These days Akechi was in Leblanc almost every evening under the guise that they had strategy to discuss, but they usually just played chess and carried on infuriatingly obfuscating conversations like this one. The official excuse Ren had given Morgana was that one must keep one’s enemies close; the real reason, and the reason why he’d told Morgana not to tell any of the others that the meetings were happening (bar Futaba, whom he couldn’t keep this from), was only a little further from that truth. The better he understood Akechi, the more he felt Akechi was not the enemy—and the better chance he might have of convincing Akechi of the same.

   And… well, he couldn’t not enjoy Akechi’s company. There was a spark in it he couldn’t find anywhere else.

   “I seem to recall,” Ren said, “a certain detective prince promised me he’d catch the culprit. I’ve been looking forward to it like he told me to, but he hasn’t delivered yet.” He smirked at Akechi, who was already pouting at him. “Maybe he’s not as good as he thinks he is—what do you think?”

   “You wound me,” said Akechi, indeed looking deeply injured. “If you’re going to hold me to such a high standard, then you must have some equally impressive theories to offer me.”

   “You first.”

   “Cop-out,” said Akechi.

   “Poser,” Ren shot back.

   Akechi shook his head, smiling. “Well, alright,” he said, “if you’ll have my half-baked musings, I’m happy to share them.”

   “Please,” said Ren.

   This was dangerous territory. If Akechi insisted on hearing his thoughts in return, he’d have to make sure he didn’t let anything slip about what he actually knew—it would undo everything they’d worked for.

   (Which, privately, Ren thought might not be so bad, but even in his resentment of the Plan he’d yet to come up with an alternative, unless of course Akechi turned over a new leaf overnight.)

   His best bet would be to play dumb, which he was pretty good at. Sorry, Akechi, but I really don’t know anything. There’s a reason you’re the detective between us. (Ah, but Amamiya-kun, I’m sure you have something interesting to add—you always do, after all—)

   He couldn’t quite bring himself to commit to the act, though. It was funny; Akechi was the least honest person he’d ever met and in so being forced Ren to mirror him when they spoke, but every single time he found himself in close proximity to Akechi’s smiling, painted face, he felt something flare to life deep within himself that seemed to call out to something akin in Akechi. It felt almost like another Persona, or some other supernatural power of the heart. Maybe you just have a crush. Well, there was that, but there was also something else that seemed much more—wait, what?

   Akechi was still talking. Twist my arm, Amamiya-kun, you know I hate showing off for hours about all my opinions— “I’ve already told you some of my thoughts, of course. I believe the psychotic breakdowns cannot be the work of one person alone. Most likely there is an actor and an instigator, of sorts, and the latter is almost definitely the one running the operation.”

   “So you think it’s a hitman?”

   “It must be,” said Akechi. “Think about it, would you? The black-masked man I saw in Okumura’s Spaceport was about our age, if a little older. Certainly not a fully grown adult. What possible motive could someone our age have for causing mass hysteria? Certainly there’s no personal benefit to be reaped, so why do it?”

   “A hitman our age is a little scary,” said Ren.

   “I suppose so,” Akechi mused. “But a group of heart-altering teen vigilantes might be equally scary to the public, don’t you think?”

   “It’s not really on the same level,” said Ren. “But I see what you mean.” A thought occurred to him. “Why not think about what drives us, then? If we’re the same age as him, I mean.”

   “Ah, so as to isolate his motive by analogy?” Akechi hummed. “Interesting perspective. But do you think the hitman is doing this for social reform, as you are?”

   “No,” said Ren.

   “My thoughts exactly,” Akechi said. “The psychotic breakdowns don’t seem to follow any pattern or rationale. Nothing comes of them but destruction. The targets are average, ordinary people, and the victims are innocents. So why bother? What possible motive could this person have?”

   The chessboard lay forgotten between them, one white pawn mere steps from victory.

   “So let’s consider it from a different angle,” said Akechi. “Let’s not focus on the victims, but on the greater social impact. The train accident, for instance, the one from a few months back. Was the culprit targeting the people on the train? Or was the true target someone else?”

   “The impact?” Ren repeated.

   “Did you watch the news that day, Ren?” Akechi asked.

   “Yes,” said Ren. “It was mostly about the engineer. But they mentioned the tracks were deteriorated too, or something.”

   Akechi nodded. “Very good. You pay attention. The deterioration of the tracks was reported six months before the accident, but the railway company and the Ministry of Transport did nothing when it first became an issue. They copped a lot of heat in the media after the accident. The engineer’s breakdown was what caused the crash, but it certainly served to highlight a lot of existing issues the current government had been ignoring.” He sipped his cooling coffee. “Of course, there may be more to it than that, but as to the ugly depths of the political world… well, I’m really not qualified to speculate much on the specifics.”

   “So you think the hitman has a political motive?”

   “Almost, but not quite,” said Akechi. “Again, the hitman is someone our age.” He smiled suddenly. “Do you have political ambitions, Ren? I know you enjoy spending time with Yoshida-san, but we’re a little too young to enter the political world right now.”

   “Never,” said Ren, firmly.

   Akechi laughed. “Fair enough. I’m quite the same. So I’ll ask you this: why would someone our age bother manipulating the political scene? It doesn’t seem to be an endorsement of any particular ideal—only smearing the name of specific people, departments, and other significant entities. This isn’t a matter of values, but of reputation. Someone stands to gain from this, but it can’t be our masked man. Who is it?”

   “It must be a politician,” said Ren.

   Akechi nodded. “That’s what I think, too.”

   “So…” Ren struggled to absorb what Akechi was telling him. Why was Akechi telling him all this? A red herring? Or… “Some corrupt politician hired a teenage hitman to do his dirty work. That’s your theory?”

   “About the long and short of it, yes,” Akechi said cheerfully.

   “That’s awful,” said Ren.

   “Politics often is,” said Akechi, examining his nails.

   “That doesn’t answer something big,” said Ren, mildly disturbed by the dismissiveness with which Akechi spoke of the matter. “Why?”

   “Why what? You can’t be surprised that a corrupt person in power might resort to such means to gain more.”

   “Why would someone our age agree to do something like that?” said Ren.

   Akechi paused.

   “That much,” he said lightly, “I’m afraid I haven’t been able to deduce.”

   Ren looked at the floor.

   Akechi picked up his own king and turned it over in his hands.

   “Bit of a brutal game, chess,” he said. “You really would do better to sacrifice a few more of your pieces, you know.”

   “I don’t like making sacrifices.”

   “So you’ve said. Almost foolishly sentimental, given they’re only bits of wood and the sacrifices are symbolic,” Akechi smiled. “But there’s something to respect about that. Perhaps you give it more thought than the average person, Ren. You’ve realised how disturbing it is that you must build an army around one man and expect them all to lay down their lives for his protection.”

   Ren said nothing, merely watched him. Akechi seemed lost in thought.

   “He doesn’t even do anything,” Akechi murmured, looking at the king. “The game is built around him, ends when he does, but it’s the others that actually play. Without them, he’s nothing. But if he orders them to die, they must die. It’s like they don’t have a reason to exist without him.”

   “It’s just a game,” said Ren.

   “Yes,” said Akechi, finally returning his gaze. “You’re right. I’m overthinking again. It’s a bad habit of mine, I’m afraid.”

   “I like it,” said Ren. “I think it’s interesting.”

   “Well, thank you,” said Akechi, eyes shining. “Then I guess I can admit that I sort of like it, too.”

   “Well, we are not goin’ back in there,” Ryuji says firmly. “So we’re gonna have to find another way around. Whaddaya think, Leader?”

   “Let’s try backstage,” Ren says heavily. Just once, he’d like for his instincts to be wrong, but after seven Palaces he knows the drill. The long, tiring, often pointless-feeling drill. Being a Phantom Thief is sexy and stylish until it’s not. Sometimes he has to fight down the urge to scream in frustration whenever he sees a corridor, which is kind of inconvenient considering he goes to a fucking high school.

   “You cannot enter the backstage,” says the Shadow, making them all jump again. “Authorised personnel only.”

   “Yeah, let’s go backstage,” says Ryuji to the others.

   “No,” says the Shadow.

   Makoto and Ann get up to follow as the others begin to head backstage.

   Suddenly Futaba gasps and stumbles backward into Yusuke, and a split second later they all have to stop, because the Shadow behind the desk is suddenly very much in front of them and blocking the door.

   “Authorised personnel only,” it says.

   “Dude,” says Ryuji.

   It doesn’t move.

   “This is just like Minecraft,” says Futaba.

   “Get out of our way,” Ren tells it. He’s got his knife in his hand, spinning it more out of habit than anything else in a way that always makes Ann take a nervous step away from him because that’s freaky Joker stop showing off you’re gonna cut off your hand, but the Shadow doesn’t even look at it.

   “You cannot enter,” it says.

   “Let’s just push past him,” says Morgana, but doesn’t make a move, and neither do the rest of them. This Shadow, much like the two they met outside, does not seem hostile; it’s not armed, and it’s gazing wearily at them without raising a single alarm. But when Ren tries to shift into a battle stance, it just feels… wrong. The Shadow doesn’t react. It just gazes right back at him and doesn’t move.

   “Call his bluff,” Morgana urges, hiding behind his leg.

   Joker straightens up. “Stand down,” he says to the others, who shuffle back in some relief.

   “That sucked,” Futaba complained. “He wasn’t even gonna fight back!”

   “Yeah,” said Ann. “I didn’t wanna kill him, either.”

   The Shadow is still standing by the door, completely expressionless. It doesn’t look innocent, exactly, just tired. They’ve killed hundreds of Shadows, maybe thousands. And Ren isn’t naïve enough to think that his morals have only just now kicked in. But something about the concept of fighting this Shadow makes him uncomfortable.

   “Now we’ll have to find another way in,” says Morgana.

   “That shouldn’t be a problem,” says Yusuke, staring at something else.

   “What is it, Fox?” asks Ann.

   Yusuke frames a portion of the wall with his fingers, which is helpful to nobody but him. “Do you see that dip in the wall there, beyond the ledge? The wallpaper looks uneven.”

   “You dragged us away to complain about the wallpaper?!” Ryuji demands. “…Well, fair enough. Akechi’s taste is ass.”

   Yusuke shakes his head. “I mean, I think there’s a break in the wall. A vent, perhaps.”

   “One day,” says Futaba, “we’ll go into a Palace that doesn’t have convenient vents everywhere for no reason, and then where will we be?”

   “We’ll think about that when we get to it,” Morgana says, eyes gleaming. “Let’s get into that vent!”

   “Hold on,” says Ann. “That guy’s gonna see us if we go from here. We need to distract him somehow.”

   “Not this again…” Makoto sighs.

   “Nah, look at him,” says Futaba. “Here, check this out. Hey, dude!”

   “Yes,” says the Shadow.

   Futaba holds up her hands. “We’re not gonna try and get into that door anymore. Promise.”

   The Shadow nods. “Please enjoy the show,” it says, and then it’s back behind the desk.

   “Uh,” says Ryuji.

   “Wow,” says Ann.

   Futaba makes an ominous cackling noise. “They’re Shadows, but they sure behave like cognitions, right?” she says. “Maybe Crow thinks everyone else is too stupid to question his shit. Or maybe all his brain cells just have one purpose each. Who knows? But you have to admit, the Shadows we’ve met so far are totally way simpler than any of the other ones we’ve dealt with. This’ll be a breeze.”

   Simpler? Ren frowns behind his mask. They did seem simple, but there was something… “They look tired,” he offers.

   “Hey, you’re right,” says Ann. “Usually the Shadows we meet are all like, ‘RAAH I’LL KILL FOR THE MASTER, BWAAAAAH’ but these guys just kind of look done with it all.”

   “Bwaah,” Yusuke repeats thoughtfully.

   “This theatre does look like it requires a lot of upkeep,” Haru says. “Putting on a show that never stops surely must take its toll on a person’s psyche.”

   “Kind of weird that that leeches into the Shadows, though,” says Morgana. “Usually Shadows aren’t actually part of the Palace, they’re just drawn to it.”

   “Yeah, but remember the Casino? That one had attendant Shadows too, and they were way different than the normal guards and things,” says Futaba.

   “I give up,” Ann complains, to tired acquiescence. “I don’t get any of this. Let’s just go.”

   Joker hauls himself to the ledge and gives the others a hand up after him before clambering into the vent. It’s narrower than they’re used to.

   “Hey, Joker,” says Ryuji, squished up behind him in the cramped vent. “How come Fox caught this thing before you did? Don’t you have that freaky sixth sense in here?”

   Futaba pipes up before Ren can answer, which is good, because he can’t actually figure out how to. “I’ve been wondering about that too. I can scan the place like normal, but it kinda feels like I’m not catching everything in here, like I’m being blocked. Seems like this Palace has some kind of internal cloaking device. I’m guessing Joker’s third eye is the same deal.”

   Ren nods, though no one can see him in the vent.

   “What a pain,” Ann sighs. “As if this needed to be any harder than it already is.”

   “Seriously,” grumbles Ryuji. “Effin’ Akechi, bein’ all special and shit.”

   Well. I do hope I’m not being a bother.

   No, of course not.

   Are you sure? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen any other customer remain past closing.

   You’re not any other customer.

   Am I special, then?

   Maybe.

   Mm, you flatter me.

   Because you won’t stop fishing for it.

   Haha. So insolent today. Nevertheless, I won’t pretend I’m not pleased to stand out in your eyes. You certainly do in mine.

   …You talk too much.

   My, are you flustered?

   I’m trying to make my move.

   …

   In chess.

   I know, Ren. Did you think my mind was elsewhere?

   Just stop talking. Check.

   Very nice. Check.

   What?!

   It seems we’re evenly matched. An honour I won’t take lightly, I assure you. Shall we suspend our game for the night? I ought to be going.

   Running? You afraid I’ll win?

   No chance of that, but it’s cute you think you have a chance. No, I suppose I just like the idea of leaving our match in a deadlock of sorts. …That, and the last train leaves in a few minutes.

   Ah… We lost track of time.

   I don’t much fancy cycling home at this time, I’m afraid. I’ll seek out your company again sometime soon, Ren.

   I’ll look forward to it.

   “Is there a safe room nearby?” Futaba asks suddenly, as Joker smoothly dispatches the last Rangda with a flick of his dagger.

   “Oh, thank goodness,” Ann says, flinging herself at the door. “I’m soo tired. This place just doesn’t let up…”

   “Wait,” says Ren.

   Safe rooms… He hadn’t considered the implications of that yet. In a Palace like this, where would Akechi’s distortion be weakest?

   He calls out too late. Ann’s already pushing open the door.

Chapter Text

   Akechi’s Palace, much like Akechi himself, seems intent on reminding them of its own uniqueness every chance it gets. The dressing room shimmers once into an unfamiliar space filled with unfamiliar furniture, and then it stays there, and moves no more.

   “Is this… his bedroom?” Yusuke murmurs.

   “Must be,” Ann says. “Man, this is really weird. Usually we can’t see past the distortion at all. But I can totally see what his apartment looks like.”

   “Ain’t that good?” asks Ryuji. “That means the distortion’s real weak here, right?”

   “It depends,” says Morgana. “I don’t think we know enough about this Palace yet to really determine what it means. It might mean he has an undistorted view of the place he lives, or… it could mean he doesn’t see a difference between the distortion and the real world.”

   “I see Featherman!” Futaba yelps, pointing frantically at a neat shelf of figurines by Akechi’s bed.

   Ren’s never been to Akechi’s apartment. Akechi had never invited him, and he’d never asked. It felt like a breach of some too-far line—knowing something of Akechi he wasn’t welcome to know.

   It had hurt, after. Wondering if there’d been some secret way closer to that line, so it would no longer feel so unreachable.

   Looking around now, Ren can’t help but feel like he shouldn’t be here. It was like breaking into someone’s house… an odd hang-up for a thief, perhaps. But it was different, because Ren had known him. More different still, actually, because he hadn’t.

   Akechi’s bedroom is cold, colder than the attic, cold even for December. Ren doesn’t know what he was expecting. A lavish suite? A concrete box? The physical manifestation of every philosophy text Akechi had ever quoted at him? But it’s just a bedroom. The bed against the wall, a single but roomy enough. Coated with too-large, too-plush comforters and soft covers. It looks like he’s built himself a small burrow to nestle into at night.

      In the corner sits his desk, classy and sleek and simple but for its layering of loose objects and paper scraps. Several cup ramen lids leaf its surface. Any otherwise unoccupied space houses a glass or a plastic bottle. Sticky notes litter the wall, covered in a frantic scrawl that only resembles Akechi’s usual elegant chaos in passing, that Ren recognises only from experience.

   “I can’t even read this,” Ren said, waving the crossword puzzle at him. “Your handwriting is terrible.”

   “Hey,” Akechi complained, snatching it from him. “You caught me on a particularly frazzling day, Ren. Look—” and he flipped the pages back a few to show Ren a puzzle from a few visits ago. It was neater—well, no, actually, it was about as hard to read as the most recent one, but the script was prettier and more even than the chicken scratch.

   “I still can’t read it,” Ren proclaimed.

   “Your lack of literacy hardly sounds like my problem,” Akechi huffed, smacking him good-naturedly with the book. “Fine, then. I’ll prove myself if you insist on goading me.” He turned back to the current page and carefully wrote out Ren’s name in neat, clean writing in the top left corner. “There, you see?”

   “Why don’t you do that all the time?” Ren prodded.

   “Everyone’s a critic,” Akechi sighed. “It takes too much time. I can never keep up with the pace of my thoughts, so it just becomes a scrawl. I’d rather type.”

   Ren took the pen from Akechi’s hand and printed ‘AKECHI GORO’ under his own name. The book was still facing Akechi, so it wound up upside down on the page.

   “Like our names are facing each other,” Akechi laughed. “How fitting. I can read your name, but not my own.”

   “It’s just a scribble. No need to overthink it.”

   “I’d rather fixate on the symbolism of the thing than acknowledge your attempt to one-up my handwriting, Amamiya-kun.”

   “Do you like it?” Ren asked him, smug.

   “It’s neat,” Akechi said, closing his eyes and taking an imperious sip of his coffee. “Congratulations, I suppose. I’ll let you have this one thing over me, since you seem to need it so badly.”

   Ren sighed and told him, “You look so nice, but you’re a total ass,” which made Akechi choke on his drink and cough it all over the page while he tried and failed not to laugh.

   Later, watching Akechi mop up the spill and pout about Ren’s goading (when will you stop making a mess of my boss’s crossword book, Akechi-senpai?), Ren wondered when his thoughts on Akechi Goro had become so fond.

   “So in the Palace, this is a dressing room,” says Makoto. “That makes sense. If his distortion is that he can never stop performing, then the distortion must be weakest where he doesn’t have to perform to anyone.”

   “A momentary respite,” Yusuke muses, “before one must return to the stage, and the show go on.”

   “It’s hella messy,” Ryuji mutters. “Hell, I think it’s worse than my room.”

   “Honestly,” says Ann. “I’d say that’s impossible, but this place is kind of a sty.”

   “It’s surprising, isn’t it?” says Morgana. “He was always so prim and proper when he came to our place. I thought he’d be the neat and meticulous sort. Plus, he has so much stuff. It’s like Futaba’s room in here.”

   “Hey!”

   “It looks so lonely,” Haru murmurs, eyes sweeping the room.

   None of the others have moved from the doorway. They’re all crowded around it still, observing the room with some trepidation like Akechi’s mostly-covered desk lamp might spring to life and bite them. Joker’s taken point as he always does, and while the rest of his team all look like they want to shrink back into the door he’s suppressing an urge to stride forward and explore; turn over every sheet of paper, examine the carefully arranged figurines on the shelf for price tags and dust, run a hand along the bedsheets and memorise their texture. He nudges a tentative hand against a sticky note on the wall and finds it goes right through; instead, he presses against a much colder surface, and the mirror of the dressing room vanity ripples into view around his glove. That’s right—Akechi’s Palace may deign to show them the reality behind the distortion, but this is still the cognitive world. Illusion remains king. Look, but don’t touch.

   “Lonely?” Makoto asks Haru. “There’s so much in here. It’s more than well-populated with enough possessions for ten people.”

    Haru just hums.

   Ren remembers visiting her home once or twice. The estate was as lavish as he’d thought to expect. She walked straight past a litany of paintings so valuable that just looking at them made Ren’s head spin, didn’t so much as blink when she led him over a rug that definitely cost more than Ren’s life. He hadn’t even wanted to step on it lest he sully it with the filth of being human, but she’d assured him with a bit of bitterness that the decor had been the choice of her father’s assistants and she couldn’t give less of a shit about any of it.

   (Which came with its own bitterness, Ren thought, considering how just one of the forks in Haru’s dining area probably could have paid for all Yusuke’s meals for a good few months.)

   Haru’s bedroom was very classy, which was the best and possibly only word Ren could think to describe it, because it did not speak remotely to the sort of person she was, nor did it reflect at all the life and spirit he saw when he looked at her. Even the tea sets, which Ren knew she loved to use, seemed only to be pretty and nothing really more than that. Sitting alone in the glass cabinet on careful, pristine display, alongside the silky blue sheets that were so perfectly made it looked like they were never used… The room looked like a fancy hotel, and he told her so. She just smiled, and looked a bit sad.

   The only thing that seemed to say Haru was the abundance of plants in the room and outside on the balcony. When he asked her about them, she said it brought her pleasure to surround herself with life. The greenery injected a soul into the space. The dirt gave her a heart.

   Ren envisioned Haru as he had met her—properly met her—covered in mud and draped in baggy Shujin tracksuits. The life in her eyes had been inexorable then. He hadn’t seen it at all since they’d stepped into her home.

   (She’d brightened when he suggested they go garden on the school roof for the rest of the afternoon.)

   Standing in Akechi’s room now, Ren can’t help but think he’s never seen anything at once so different and so painfully similar. Akechi’s room, for no want of expensive and luxury items, has none of the class or elegance of Haru’s pristine display case. It’s clear a lot of money has gone into the acquisition of everything in the room but there’s no pattern or logic to the random sprawl of them all over the place, and he suspects there’s about as much dust as there is everything else, collected in the random corners of things too cluttered together to clean.

   “I wouldn’t have taken Akechi-kun for a hoarder,” Haru says.

   Haru’s room did not belong to her, but Akechi’s did him—in fact it might have been one of the only such places. Still, looking around, Ren understands why Haru had labelled it lonely. More books than anyone on Akechi’s schedule had time to read. Stacks of papers, printed articles, puzzles—stacked and hopeful, like to be saved for a future spell of free time, but it didn’t seem they’d been attended for a while. An overflowing waste paper bin beneath the desk full of scrap paper that didn’t look like it was useful for anything but the recycling anymore. A small case of miscellaneous fossils and gleaming minerals on a far shelf, some labelled and others haphazardly placed, with several more scattered around it still in the packaging they were purchased in like he hadn’t been bothered to display them yet.

   The whole space reeks of a person lost at sea, grabbing at anything that flies past in desperate search of an anchor. There is no love in this room, no self, no home. Haru had turned to plants, externalising life when she could not find it within. Akechi, it seems, had turned to things, and found little success.

   “You didn’t buy anything,” Akechi complained. “I thought it would be fun to shop with you, Amamiya-kun, but you’re far more frugal than I would have expected.”

   “That’s me. Always subverting expectations.”

   Akechi sighed, ever-theatrical. “What was I supposed to think? Your room is full of those little knick-knacks. A bowl of ramen, a sea slug? No rhyme or reason at all—but your hands are empty and I’m holding a Roomba I don’t need.”

   “It’s an attic,” Ren said, smiling back slow and deliberate. “Isn’t it the place for it?”

   “For junk?”

   “They’re not junk,” Ren objected. “They’re sentimental.”

   “Ah, sentimental,” Akechi said, grinning. “For a sentimental fool like yourself.”

   “I’m the fool? You’re holding a Roomba you don’t need.”

   “To clean my floor of the sort of rubbish I thought you would be guilty of purchasing.” Akechi leant back in the train seat he’d managed to snag ahead of Ren, who was leaning on a pole front of him with only minimal sulking. “Must you hang off that thing? It’s probably seen germs you’ve never even met.”

   Ren poked his tongue out as though to lick the pole, then made a face before committing to the bit. Akechi looked appropriately horrified anyway. “I don’t buy things for my room. They’re gifts.”

   Akechi made a sound of comprehension. “From your many admirers, then.”

   Ren snorted. “No one’s exactly lining up to give sea slugs to a known criminal.”

   “And yet!” Akechi said.

   “They’re from friends, Akechi. You know, friends?” Ren rolled his eyes. “They’re like admirers, but they say your name instead of squealing it.”

   “I’ve never heard any of these ‘friends’ of yours say your name—isn’t it always ‘this guy’ and ‘him’? Have they perhaps forgotten it?”

   “I’m tired of you,” Ren announced, and Akechi laughed, delighted. “You’re mean. Did you know you’re mean?”

   “I certainly did, but don’t tell anyone.” Akechi winked. “Our secret. Does this mean I win?”

   “It’s a conversation. No one wins.”

   “That’s what losers say.” Akechi hoisted his new Roomba up. “Why did you let me buy this?”

   “Since when do I tell you what to do?”

   “The train will stop at Yongen-Jaya,” announced the train. “Yongen-Jaya. The doors on the left side will open.”

   “Want coffee?” Ren offered, before Akechi could open his mouth to subtly invite himself.

   Akechi smiled. “Certainly, if you’re offering. Will you help me set up my new Roomba?”

   Ren frowned. “In the attic? You’ll have to carry it home.”

   “Oh, I can manage a Roomba on my lap if it means a little more of your company, Amamiya-kun,” Akechi said smoothly. “Besides, I’m excited to put this together, and I don’t think I can wait.”

   “You just want to spy on my stuff,” Ren said. The train slowed and he swayed on the pole, clinging to it just to piss Akechi off.

   “I’ve seen it all,” Akechi protested.

   “Yeah but now you want to make points about it.” Ren let his next sway rock him toward the opening doors, swinging gracefully out of it onto the platform as Akechi got up to follow him.

   “Perhaps I want decorating tips,” Akechi said, matching his pace on the stairs. “It’s only an attic, but it does feel rather cosy, don’t you think?”

   “Get a cat,” Ren advised.

   “Hmm. I suppose my new toy could pick up the fur.” Akechi shook his head. “I wonder how you do it. Is it the atmosphere of the café, perhaps?”

   “What?”

   “The—vibe, I suppose—of your room,” Akechi said. “I’ve been wondering about it. It’s plain. A little drab, even.”

   “Thanks.”

   “But it always feels somehow full of life,” Akechi added. “I do enjoy being there.”

   “Thanks,” said Ren again. “I guess I have good stuff.”

   “Yes,” said Akechi thoughtfully. “Gifts, you say—souvenirs, for our Tokyo tourist? Perhaps I’ll visit a few of those places myself. I wouldn’t mind a ramen bowl for my fine china shelf.”

   “I’ll get you a sea slug if you want,” said Ren, and Akechi laughed, and pushed open the door to Leblanc.

   “There’s Roomba Hood,” Ren remembers, spotting the Roomba in a dusty corner of Akechi’s room. It has a sticky note taped to it, adorned with a little drawing of a bow, done by Ren himself.

   “Roomba Hood?” asks Ann, while Futaba groans, “That’s so lame,” so violently it sounds like it hurts. Ren points at the Roomba. “He named his Roomba?” Ann says incredulously, like naming a Roomba is dumb, or something.

   “I named his Roomba,” says Ren.

   Yusuke inspects it. “This is a poorly drawn bow.”

   Ren pouts at him. “Oh, I am sorry, Joker. It is, though,” Yusuke adds, and shrugs when Ren pouts harder.

   “Does anyone else feel like maybe we shouldn’t be looking too closely at his things,” says Ann, a little tentative. Then, more defensively, when the others look at her: “I mean, I wouldn’t want Akechi-kun poking around in my room.”

   “Maybe somethin’ in here’ll help us change his heart,” Ryuji suggests.

   “You just wanna poke through his stuff!”

   “Shaddup!”

   “Panther’s right,” Makoto interrupts. “Let’s rest and continue. There’s still a long way to go, after all. Does anyone need restoratives?”

   They call him Leader, sometimes. It gets a little weird to Ren, how little they actually say his name—it’s Joker more than it ever is Ren and sometimes he thinks he’ll get Pavloved into responding first to ‘this guy’ before his own name. Leader, trump card, person last of all. Makoto takes charge more than he does most of the time and mostly he lets her. It’s not like he asked to be leader. He’s only bitter when it involves throwing his life in the pool, and then perhaps not as much as he ought to be, anyway.

   They heal and take stock. They’ve barely made a dent in the Palace, is the consensus—someone as infinitely complicated (effin’ annoying!) as Akechi would obviously have a heart so labyrinthine, and there’s been every indication that this is Wing One of many. How many they’ll have to pass through to reach the VIP Box? Unclear, at this point. A long way remains. Ryuji downs a Dr. Salt NEO, smacks it down on the table and announces, “One up, Joker!” so Ren slams back two and Morgana slaps his back when he chokes. Then they’re off again.

   “I never would have guessed, you know,” Akechi says offhand, while Ren struggles to shove a damp leg into his jeans. “That you were so much the competitive type. You don’t seem it, from the outside.”

   “What do I seem.”

   “Not much of anything,” Akechi says, cheerful, and gains precious seconds when Ren stops to glare at him. He’s buttoned his shirt wrong in his haste and Ren will not tell him. “I wouldn’t have expected such a strong personality had I only passed you in the street. That’s a good thing, you know. Anonymity can be so useful.”

   “You wouldn’t know,” says Ren, getting tangled in his sleeves. Damn it. Akechi’s noticed his buttons and is smoothly undoing them like he’d meant to the whole time, like he thinks he can still fool Ren with shit like that.

   “You’d be surprised. I had my fair share of the days before notoriety.” Akechi’s fingers slip and he winces. “Of course, I didn’t appreciate them as much as I do now, but they do say those things about hindsight.” He reaches for his coat and in a panic, Ren bats it off the hook. “Really?”

   “All’s fair.”

   “In which, Joker?” Akechi makes a show of dusting his coat off before slipping it on, just to flaunt his spare moments of victory. “My point.”

   “You are going to bankrupt me,” Ren tells him, still halfway into his blazer. “I’ve been to the bathhouse more this week than the last month.”

   Akechi wrinkles his nose. “I know I said to take advantage of your anonymity, Ren, but you still ought to bathe,” and hops when Ren tries to kick him. “Oh, that’s hardly mature.”

   “Me. You’re the one who turns dressing into a speed contest.”

   “Is it just me?” This is tossed smugly over his shoulder as he makes his exit, along with a patronising few hundred yen for entry which land squarely in Ren’s bag. “Keep the change—I won’t let you be a cheap date if you insist on blaming me.”

   Ren frowns, opens his mouth to retort, but Akechi is long gone, smirk in the winds.

   Sometimes Ren thinks it’s bizarre that the Palaces they explore all look so alike in so many respects. Be it spaceport or cruiser or theatre, each has its long winding corridors and inexplicably locking doors—the convenient platforms, the vents to nowhere, a million fail-safes a guard wouldn’t need, for an obstacle meant to keep the likes of them out. He leads them past patrolling officers in velvet vest, dispels a third, a sixth, a seventh Rangda with a flick of his wrist and a flash of light.

   They’re running on empty when they hit the second safe room, switched twice between front and relief, and with a nod from their leader they collapse into crushed velvet chaises without a second look at Akechi’s flickering bedroom.

   Going like this, they won’t make good time. Ren lets Makoto dole out the medicine, ration out the curry he made fresh yesterday (honest), and restructures. Restrategises. He was too reckless the past few rooms, too careless—started too many fights he could have slipped past, made a couple moves that took more energy than they were worth.

   They can’t know but he’s rattled. Off his game. Ren rumples his hair and smooths his face, keeps the mask fixed. Fearless leader, always. Nevermind the treading through the soul of his—whatever. Mind Trek: the Eightquel, or whatever, by now. Nothing they haven’t seen before, nothing but the worn strings their once teammate dangles by, as grotesque to hang as they would be to cut and let him crumple. In the next wing Ren will be more careful. More stealthy. He’s seen the true forms of the monsters here—they’re not what he’s interested in.

   “Should we continue?” asks Haru, and they all turn to him. Exhausted, at the ready. They’re here for him, Ann said. All for him.

   Joker’s used to eyes on him, by now.

   “Take five,” he murmurs. Watches them slump when he relaxes his hands. “We’ll rest.”

   “How do you always know when a boss fight is coming up,” Akechi complains, indignance almost drowned by the clangs and whoops of the arcade, and Ren wipes the sweat from his hair with an equally sweaty hand off the console buttons of the only shitty shooter in the place Akechi isn’t learned in and says, “Practice.”

   And so they wait in the wings, for something.

   They’ve scanned the backstage. The curtains are black here, draped and heavy and Futaba emerges briefly from Prometheus to nestle into a fold, scaring the living daylights out of Yusuke when he runs a gloved hand along the soft fabric. In the wings, waiting to emerge, though the stagehand Shadows pay them no mind, frantic and busy and ever-moving. There are no other exits, no secret vents, just the door on the stage they’ve all tiredly accepted as the way forward. Past the thing.

   “I don’t think this act is going to end anytime soon,” Makoto whispers to Ren, who knows. But like a train wreck or a fresh corpse or a dull metal wall risen from the floor, he’s transfixed. Though not as blinding as the crystal outside, the stage lights freeze him, even from this distance. The polished wood of the gargantuan puppet is only a glimpse from here. They’re waiting for his cue, watching from the shadows they’ve all melted into for him to nod or gesture them out in a flash of red but he’s stock still, waiting for a curtain call that won’t end. The applause continues.

   “Joker,” Morgana prompts, a little flash of blue at his feet, and Joker slinks back into himself.

   “Let’s go,” he says. Sticks his hands into his pockets and saunters onto centre stage, into the spotlight.

   Into the…

   The Puppet looms overhead. Up close—well, it’s not more unsettling, perhaps, just… close.

   Its blank, half-lidded eyes are pointed at the corner from which they emerge but it doesn’t seem to see them, just stares past them with a sort of hopelessness that nothing carved from wood should be able to achieve. It doesn’t move when they approach, which is weirder, or maybe it can’t. Futaba is scanning and saying nothing which is more concerning than any sting she could throw out. Ren is beginning to think they might be able to get past and slip through that door without a fight when the whole creature rears up, back strings going taut, and lashes wildly out at him with a horrible clack of its arms—he leaps back and crashes directly into Haru, who catches and dips him like a princess before twirling him frantically into Ryuji and the puppet gouges a deep gash in the stage floor.

   As they watch it screeches, howls an unnatural shriek, eyes suddenly wide and bulging larger. They ‘blink’ a few times, eyelids flipping, then the puppet Akechi goes limp on its strings again, though decidedly more upright than before, like whoever’s pulling the strings is now on guard. Its eyes stay open this time, bright gold and piercing.

   “Okay,” says Futaba. “That sucked.”

   The crowd is roaring with applause. It feels torrential, crashing down on Ren while he steadies himself on his teammates, crushing him to kneel beneath it and it’s stupid, it’s just sound. Makoto says, “I guess we’ll have to fight it,” and they all look a little dubiously at the puppet which says nothing back—its eyes are slack but its mouth firmly closed and now it looks almost—curious. Not hostile. Ren’s eyes dip to the new scrape across the wooden stage.

   “It’s kind of weird that his Shadow can’t even talk,” Ann murmurs, sounding a little suspicious, and Ren agrees, but they didn’t make him leader to wax philosophical. That was always someone else’s job. He raises a hand. Fires his gun once, because he can.

   “Formation,” and okay, it is a little gratifying that they leap to his word like that no matter how softly he speaks. “Support from the back. Noir, Panther—”

   He doesn’t need to finish. Noir’s cast Tetrakarn on him before he can speak although he’d rather she prioritise Mona, as their healer, or herself, or really anyone other than him, and Panther’s already charging up. Puppet Akechi shifts on his strings and Joker reaches into his soul to pull out whichever mask he needs, like always, and murmurs, “Rakunda.”

   Lands. The puppet roars, rage and fear filling the air before fire replaces it, engulfing the thing as it lashes out at random—a string snaps and nothing changes, and scorched wood polish sears acrid in their noses. Panther rears back to strike again. Hecate moves with her.

   The applause continues…

   “It’s burning,” Queen shouts. “Mona!”

   Joker feels his hair whip around his mask before he even sees Mona leap, twisting midair to meet Zorro’s rapier as the Garudyne hits—the puppet howls again—

   The applause continues…

   “Wait,” Oracle shrieks one second before the wave hits, and Joker crumples from within.

   They've never really got the measure of how the status effects work. Fire, at least, makes sense, and Bless can be explained away, but the crushing flood of total despair doesn't feel like it should be inflictable through a murmured curse. The first time it ever hit him it took three restoratives before he could stop shaking, Ann murmuring low in his ear and rubbing his back while he stared at her abandoned mask on the floor of Futaba’s Palace and tried to keep breathing. Too close to home. The floor dropping out from beneath him when the judge read out the verdict and he'd looked around, and around, and around, and saw all the blank faces staring back at him.

   (It might have been the bitterness that killed him, then and now. Well, little hero? And for what?)

And then: the realisation, hitting on the way out, and on the way back, and in the ceiling over the bed that wasn’t his anymore, and in the bag he toted to Tokyo, and in his own hands trembling so the rattle of the train disguised them, that you could do every single thing right and go to hell anyway. And what was the goddamn point.

   “—ker! Joker!”

   And a fan to the face.

   “Joker!”

   “Fuck,” he groans. "What?"

   “Get up!” Mona screeches. “It's coming again!”

   Right—because then there's this: a burn you could bump off with the application of a good balm or some believe-in-it magic but despair left vestiges of itself hooked and snagged into your skin after it had ‘healed’, like an ingrown hair, or the barb of a bee sting. He's still shaking when he shakes it off. They're all watching anxiously for him to stand up straight again.

   He manages: “I'm good,” before Skull howls, “Eff this!” and he's being tackled violently around the middle. And he can't complain, because the puppet's fist slams down on where he was. Skull's leg just barely escapes the impact.

   “Fuck, Ryuji!”

   "Code names," Skull grits out. “I'm good. You good?”

   Nearly squashed and just half out of not caring—“I'm good." And then: “Thanks,” because he'll never really get accustomed to the fact that his teammates would take a killing blow for him. It's hard to reconcile that with the bitterness and not a thought he wants to get lost in again still clawing his way out of the throes of despair and pervasive self-loathing. It's his bad leg. Ryuji's bad leg. Inches away Akechi's Shadow draws the fist back for a second go around. “Get up!”

   “Right,” gasps Skull and leaps to his feet, yanks Joker up by the arm. “Don't get hit next time!”

   “Roger.”

   In the back lines, Fox muses, “So his Shadow is a puppet. How fitting,” and Oracle shrieks, “Can we save the philosophy and not get squashed? Panther, burn it again!”

   Ever-obliging: Panther raises Blazing Hell and the Puppet howls, writhes and makes for a grotesque silhouette in the glowing firelight. Screeching incomprehensible obscenities, arms flailing wild as its strings curl and snap and Panther’s eyes go blank. Joker realises what’s up a second before she wheels around and roars the flames into Fox’s face.

   Noir screams. Mona’s already through a Baisudi and Fox is coughing, at some point gone to his knees, embers alight in his tail, face and suit blackened but blessedly whole. Joker breathes. Breathes. Watches Fox follow his lead and take a shuddering breath of the foul smoke-filled air. Fox raises his head and meets his eyes, ice-cold and alive, and smoke is the best thing Joker’s ever tasted.

   Queen is shouting for Panther over the relentless applause but it’s not until the Energy Shower that the flames finally die. Panther crumples and Skull is there in a heartbeat to hold her up; she manages a horrified “Sorry” that Fox brushes off with an easy nod.

   “Ain’t there any way to shut them up,” Skull is snapping. Joker barely hears, and the applause must truly be deafening if it’s drowning Ryuji out. It’s somehow grown louder in the preceding seconds and Puppet Akechi pauses what he’s doing to give a jerky, dangling bow.

   “He seems revitalised,” Oracle crackles in their ears. “Wait—he’s gaining back HP!”

   “Are you kidding?” Mona wails.

   “It’s the applause,” Noir gasps. “It’s healing him!”

   “She’s right!” Oracle yells. “It’s getting louder every time someone lands a hit, so the effect gets stronger, too!”

   “The applause seems connected to Akechi’s strength and health,” Mona muses. “Joker, let’s see if we can stop it!”

   Every time someone lands a hit…? “Guard,” Joker says.

   “What?” Skull yells back. “C’mon, I got an opening here!”

   “Don’t attack.” Joker falls back and gestures for the others to do the same.

   “Wait, he’s right,” Queen says, eyes brightening. “If the applause gets louder whenever someone lands a good blow, that means us, too. Stop attacking it! Guard so it can’t land a satisfying hit!”

   They brace for attack. The Puppet lashes, but the hit lands dull. Again. Again.

   The audience is growing restless…

   Again.

   Puppet Akechi seems discomfited…

   “Keep goin’!”

   The applause is dying down…

   “Do you hear that?” Panther whispers. Joker listens. Disinterested muttering filters over the crowd and through to the stage. He waves; they all guard again.

   The audience is displeased…

   The applause has stopped.

   “Something’s happening!” Oracle reports, and then gasps. “What’s happening…?”

   The Puppet goes slack in his strings like whoever’s controlling him can’t be bothered with it anymore. Stretched taut while he hangs in the silence. The lack of applause is suddenly absolutely cavernous and the weight of it is crushing. And then a horrible screech. Like nothing they’ve heard yet.

   And then…

   “Wait,” Fox tremors, but too late. Puppet Akechi jolts violently once like he’s been shocked. Twice.

   “He’s taking damage,” Oracle whispers. “Massive damage.”

   The arms of the puppet reach up to clutch his head as though in pain, the motion limp, jerky, differently to the smooth pulled motions of the strings. He starts shaking, screaming, screaming, twitching—

   “What’s…” Queen falters, eyes wide with horror. “What’s happening to him?”

   “He’s losing SP,” Oracle says.

   Panther takes a step back, unsteady. “Is this… despair…?”

   Fox’s face is tight. “This is… truly horrible…”

   “That’s three times,” Noir reports, voice dead. The Puppet starts shaking, so hard the stage starts to rumble beneath their feet.

   “No…” Oracle’s voice cracks. “No…!”

   “Anat!”

   Like the friendly corpse, the familiar trainwreck. Joker had been transfixed, but he blinks back as sparks shower the Puppet. He turns to see Queen drop her hand from casting her second Energy Shower of the fight.

   The Puppet jerks once and then falls limp, hanging still, like it would be breathing heavily if something had ever breathed life into it.

   Queen slowly drops her face to her hands. Noir rests a hand on her shoulder, eyes worried.

   “I… I couldn’t let it…” she whispers. “It was too awful…”

   They all stare up at the still, unnaturally heaving Puppet.

   Fox silently raises his gun.

   The Thieves collectively flinch as the Puppet dissipates. The applause starts back up.

   “If we’d left things silent,” Yusuke says, “it would have only happened again.”

   Slowly, in the aftermath of battle, Ren feels himself start to return. In the midst of a fight, even in the height of infiltration, the swirling chaos and adrenaline seems to quiet his head, but now, the sombre silence makes it too easy to see the space where the Puppet stood for what it is. What it stands for.

   Ann shifts. “Hey… Let’s not stop the applause anymore, okay…?”

   “It’ll put us at a severe tactical disadvantage,” says Morgana. “But I agree. That was way too disturbing.”

   “The hell’s goin’ on in that guy’s head,” Ryuji mutters.

   Morgana looks around at them. “Hey. Let’s keep moving. We can’t afford to hang around.”

   “Right,” says Ren, feeling Joker slink back into his brain.

   “He dropped something,” Futaba observes, but Joker is already striding toward it. The same deep red with the same embossed gold edges—a ticket.

   “‘The Master’,” Morgana reads, “‘invites you to attend the Opera.’”

   “I suppose that’s the next wing,” Haru says, holding a hand out for it. Ren passes it over wordlessly for her to examine. “An Opera House.”

   “At least we won’t have to break in this time,” Yusuke murmurs.

   “How many of these goddamn wings are we gonna have to go through,” Ryuji groans, playing at his usual juvenile anger, but like the rest of them he doesn’t step where the puppet was. Respect, maybe, or resounding horror. The strings still hang from the ceiling, uneven and unattached and drifting a little in the controlled air of the stage, cut to length so they can almost see the corpse of the marionette hanging still.

   Joker reclaims the ticket and tucks it into his pocket like it’s inconsequential. Like it isn’t a reward for dispatch, like he’s not going to think about what that could stand for. He strides forward like the strings looming overhead mean nothing and tries the door, which opens easily.

   “Wait—” says Ann suddenly, faltering a little when he turns too abruptly to check on her. “Just—there’s a chest.”

   They look. It’s hidden in the wings on the other side of the stage, gleaming.

   “Good spot,” he says, and she flinches a little even though his voice is soft as ever. Ryuji slaps him on the back while he unlocks the chest. Just a sword. Yusuke glances it over and passes, hand firm on the hilt of his own. He’ll sell it later, then. Stows it in Morgana’s pack, whatever sense that makes. All their loot ends up there at some point, the stuff they pilfer from the hearts of men and decide isn’t worth it after wrestling a couple lost souls for the right.

   “Think we’re done here,” Ryuji says, and Ren glances around the stage once to confirm. His Third Eye is starting to clear, though only a little. The gleam still lacks allure. Besides, whatever completionist streak blazed through him once isn’t present this time. Somehow conquering Akechi’s Palace doesn’t feel like it’s going to be a searing victory like the others and the entitlement that’s carried him through changing past hearts has long fizzled.

   Ren doesn’t know when his teammates started to see the flick of his tailcoat as the go-ahead, but they file behind him as he goes for the door once more.

Chapter Text

   Akechi came by more, now, and had been doing so ever since that day in late August when he’d come into their confidence. Ren was becoming used to his presence at the bar. It was actually a little annoying, since Akechi seemed to find an excuse at least once per visit to not-so-subtly dig at the Phantom Thieves and at Ren for supporting them, but it seemed to be in what Akechi clearly thought of as good-natured fun. Never mind that he’d recently taken to laughing when Ren couldn’t suppress a pout about it.

   “Sometimes you could just drink your coffee without opening your mouth,” he’d muttered once after a particularly imperious and (Ren thought) unnecessary jab at Ren’s ideals, to which Akechi had actually snorted and pointed out that he couldn’t exactly drink coffee with his mouth shut, could he? Which had made Ren accidentally (“”) put a little too much chilli into Akechi’s curry, which had wiped the smugness off his face and replaced it with spluttering.

   In September, they found themselves frequenting Shinjuku moreso than what had become their usual haunts. Akechi refused, however, to accompany him there after dark, and had in fact delivered quite a stern lecture about how he ought not to be going there at all.

   “Boring,” said Ren.

   “I’m afraid this is on you, Amamiya-kun,” Akechi said, eyes twinkling. “You shouldn’t tell me about your unlawful activity. I do work in law enforcement, you know.”

   “Narc,” Ren added, so Akechi shoved him into a store mascot and got them both a stern talking to which they just barely got through without snickering.

   The reason they were in Shinjuku was because Akechi had run out of books and wanted to try the store there. This was only vaguely successful, as the storeowner only consented to sell them about five of the available books and none of Akechi’s sweet talk made the slightest difference.

   It was a shame, Akechi sighed as they walked back out to the street, a copy of the Flowerpedia tucked under his arm. Ren asked if he’d actually been all that keen on the dubious-looking covers in the rest of the store, and Akechi shot him a rather wry glance out the corner of his eye.

   “Not particularly,” he said. “But at the end, there, it was really more about the game of convincing him than it was about the books.”

   Ren thought this was a bit stupid and said so.

   “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Akechi said, grinning. “It’s an odd and prideful idiosyncrasy of mine.”

   “I think you’re a nerd,” Ren announced, and got bopped on the nose with an illustrated hyacinth for his trouble.

   Akechi continued to negotiate with the store without much success the next few times, but Ren was happy to accompany him if only because Akechi had a surprising wealth of knowledge about the area which he was only too willing to share.

   “How do you know so much about the red-light district?” Ren blurted once, interrupting his most recent impromptu lesson.

   Akechi blinked. “It’s a hotspot for crime,” he pointed out. “I’m quite familiar with the area from my work.”

   That made sense, Ren supposed. He didn’t think he knew Akechi well enough yet to interrogate what he thought was a slightly odd look in Akechi’s eye when he’d said that.

   In the late afternoons, once Akechi had finished with the bookstore, they’d usually go and see a movie before they headed home for the day. The cinema didn’t update its screenings that much, so a few times they wound up seeing the same film once or twice over and mocking it in the back row, mimicking the dialogue and snickering until they were violently shushed again.

   Ren hadn’t taken Akechi for the type—I thought I was supposed to be the delinquent between the two of us, he’d whispered once, and Akechi smirked and whispered back, What if that’s what I wanted you to think?

   The stairs out from the back of the Puppet’s stage look different to those in the lobby. Less ornate, more solemn, marble and monochromatic but for a signature gold vein. Joker resists the urge to call for a uniform change; breaking into the second Wing is starting to feel like a black-tie occasion.

   The Opera House has a cooler, more refined sort of energy, and the applause is distinctly restrained as compared to the raucous laughter of the Puppet Show. Light and unceasing and perhaps muffled by gloves. The palette is more muted here, dull and stark and modern in a stuffy sort of way.

   They slip their way through the backstage, as is expected. Entry, this time, was simple matter with the gilded ticket Joker pulled smoothly from his coat pocket. The Shadows they encounter are almost melancholy, dignified and funereal. It takes just about everything they have to take down a particularly determined Valkyrie, only to promptly be confronted by a Unicorn, at which point Joker takes Oracle’s cue and instructs them all officially to hightail it the fuck out of there.

   They double back to the last safe room they’d found (another copy of Akechi’s bedroom, where Ryuji unwinds by tossing empty soda cans at his collection of Featherman figurines heedless of the fact that the aluminum simply ripples through their illusory poses anyway) and collapse for a few minutes before Makoto meekly asks what they’ve clearly all been thinking: “Do we think it might be time to call it a day?”

   Ren’s doling out the curry again. Scraping the Tupperware. He’s going to have to make more tonight. His coat brushes the edge of the map as he leans over to hand a portion to Haru. “Do you need a restorative?”

   “I need a nap,” Ann complains, lounging back like a big cat until she’s draped across Futaba’s lap. “For like, a hundred years.”

   Guilt again, prickling at the edges of his soul like a new mask. They’re all exhausted, ornery and aching, but Joker knows they won’t question him if he tells them to continue. This is not their most stressful infiltration and it doesn’t even approach their highest stakes. Expulsion is not a risk and nor is extortion. Just his own precious feelings, just the soul of a boy who’s rejected their help and his life several times over now. They’ve been through worse and Ryuji still refuses to acknowledge the knee injury their little excursions have certainly exacerbated, though Ren doesn’t need a third eye or even a second to see the way he winces when they climb out of the eighteenth vent of the day. Half of them are staring up at him with doleful eyes and the others won’t look at him at all. Perhaps afraid he’ll give the order to go on, knowing they’ll obey.

   “Let’s go home,” he says. The air itself relaxes. “Come back fresh.”

   “We still have t-t-time,” Morgana yawns, snapping when Yusuke pokes a curious finger in his mouth. “Hey!”

   “Mona’s right,” Ann says, ignoring this completely. “The election’s not for a while still, so we should pace ourselves.”

   “How far in do you think we are?” Haru asks, and Futaba frowns at her incomprehensible scrolling text. “Halfway?”

   “Not even close,” Futaba reports to frustrated sighs. “I’d say… a quarter? No, less.”

   “Less?” Ryuji squawks. “Oh, man. I’m gonna be fifty before we get the treasure.”

   “It’s hard to tell, okay?!” Futaba retorts, her green text walls speeding up in her defensiveness. “The map that guy gave us covers the entire planet, so it’s kind of difficult to figure out what the shortest route to the treasure is. And I still can’t see clearly in this stupid place!”

   “Is it still blocking you?” asks Yusuke, and Futaba huffs her sweaty fringe out of her goggles, which seems to mean yes. “Interesting. I wonder where he got that ability.”

   “I wonder why he uses it,” says Haru.

   “Do you think he means to?” Ann muses.

   “Let’s worry about that another time,” Makoto says wearily. “Joker, do you remember the way back to the entrance?” Yes, of course. “Great. Let’s go home for today.” She suppresses a yawn. “Make sure you all get some rest. Drink plenty of water.”

   They’re too tired to even make fun of her. Joker takes point, as always, as they drag themselves back to the entrance and let the Nav take them home.

   You have returned to the real world. Welcome back.

   People come and they go…

   “We’ve heard this song,” said Ren.

   Akechi grinned. “We have, haven’t we. I suppose the singer is entitled to her favourites as much as any of us.” He took a sip of his drink; it was a shocking purple. “Mm. That’s quite refreshing, don’t you think?”

   “Dunno,” said Ren.

   “You are obstinate,” Akechi complained, with a dramatic sigh. “Don’t tell me you’re still on this. I thought we were past it.”

   “Did you,” said Ren, flatly.

   “I would have thought you’d tired of my opinions by now,” Akechi sniffed.

   “That’s not the point,” said Ren. “I just think you should learn to say things that aren’t relative to someone else.”

   “Well, that’s quite rich, Ren,” Akechi said politely. “I sometimes think you ought to learn how to speak at all.”

   Ren, sullen, said nothing, proving it.

   “Go on,” Akechi encouraged coolly, warm red eyes piercing him over the rim of the cool purple drink. “I even spoke first, so you have permission to respond.”

   To this Ren gave him a kicked puppy sort of look that made him relent. “Oh, fine,” Akechi sighed. “I’m sorry. You do have a point, but it truly is just that I enjoy hearing what people have to say—well, you in particular, I admit.”

   “Don’t flatter me,” Ren said, making Akechi snort. “So you’re saying you don’t change your opinion when someone disagrees with you.”

   “I don’t,” Akechi said. “I may… tweak my wording, slightly.” Seeing Ren’s face, he rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t be so holier-than-thou, it’s simply the easiest way to avoid a pointless argument.”

   “Not everything has to be an argument.”

   “You’re doing an excellent job of proving otherwise. Discussion, then.” Akechi cast him a wry look. “Don’t tell me you’re so magnanimous you’ve never wished your way out of a pointless conversation.”

   Ren thought wearily of the Phan-Site and said, “Point.”

   “You see? Someone as pure and simple as yourself might argue—oh, don’t give me that look, Mister Justice Itself,” Akechi said, amused. “You might argue honesty is always the best policy, but I can’t agree. When you work with as many people as I have to, you sometimes have to employ a few techniques just to keep your head.”

   “And here I thought you loved people,” said Ren, cutting eyes at him so that Akechi rolled his eyes again. “Darling of the media.”

   “I dearly hope we don’t become enemies one day, Ren. You have far too much dirt on me.” Akechi tipped an ice cube out of his empty glass and skimmed it across the table. It slipped off the edge and landed in Ren’s lap. “Oops.”

   “You did that on purpose.”

   “And you’ll find I didn’t claim otherwise.” Akechi smoothly handed him an embroidered handkerchief. “Well, you’ve won our little discussion, so which unfiltered opinion of mine would you like to hear?”

   “I dunno,” said Ren, gingerly picking the ice cube out of his lap.

   “Were you antagonising me for the sake of it, then?” asked Akechi, pretending to be enraged. “You’re such a shit-stirrer for how quiet you are.”

   “You have such a potty mouth for someone who wears sweater vests.”

   “I don’t know why you always come after my clothing choices. It’s not like you’re the most fashionable person I know.”

   “You’re right,” said Ren. “Clearly I need more beige pants.” Akechi flicked another ice cube at him. “Please.”

   “So sorry,” said Akechi. He flagged down a waiter and ordered two more drinks. “Oh, it’s on me, don’t worry about it.”

   “Maybe I wanted something different,” Ren said.

   “Here’s an opinion: you’re dreadfully annoying,” Akechi announced, making Ren grin. “I don’t know why I spend so much time with you.”

   “You don’t have any other friends.”

   “Yes, and your company is making me remember why I never bothered making any.” Akechi made a face at him. “Come on, I’m serious. If you’re going to needle me, you might as well ask me a question.”

   “That’s still talking relative to me,” Ren pointed out.

   Akechi cursed. “You’re right. There’s nothing quite like having my one friend point out the habit I didn’t even realise I had.” He shot Ren a wry smile. “Well, we’ll see how cocky you’re feeling after I’ve subjected you to twenty minutes of philosophical nonsense.”

   “If I didn’t like philosophical nonsense, you’d have zero friends,” said Ren.

   “I’m touched.” Akechi tapped his chin with his straw. “Well, let’s see. How familiar are you with hedonism?”

   “That’s the guy you quoted to me,” said Ren.

   “No,” said Akechi, plainly trying not to laugh. “That was… Hegel.”

   “Then I’m not familiar,” said Ren, doing what he thought was a pretty good job at maintaining his dignity.

   Akechi laughed. “Okay. Hedonism is a school of thought that argues that the highest purpose of human life is the pursuit of pleasure. It argues that pleasure is the ultimate good, and anything that does not bring pleasure is unhelpful to our wellbeing. Does that make sense?”

   “No,” said Ren, frowning. “I mean, yes, I understand you, but no.”

   “Well, good, because I’m not done. You can rest assured I will not be making an argument for hedonism.” Akechi’s posture had shifted and so had the tone of his voice, attaining a lecture-like quality that might have been frightening if it didn’t draw Ren in so much. “I assume, then, that you haven’t heard of the experience machine.”

   “You can just assume I don’t know anything, I think,” Ren said, a little defeated.

   Akechi gave him a sort of pitying smile. “Don’t feel bad. I enjoy explaining these things.”

   “Clearly,” said Ren, but Akechi was so entranced with his new topic that for once he did not seem to pick up on the dryness—or perhaps didn’t give a shit.

   “The experience machine, or the pleasure machine, is a thought experiment intended to refute hedonism,” said Akechi. “Imagine, if you will, a machine that can provide you with any sensation of pleasure in the world. If you hook yourself up to this machine, then at the press of a button, your brain is stimulated in a way such that you cannot tell the difference between the pleasure the machine gives you and the pleasure you could otherwise have attained. Does that make sense?”

   “Sure,” said Ren.

   “So I put to you this,” said Akechi. “Would you hook yourself up to the machine?”

   “No,” said Ren, at once.

   “Why not?”

   “It’s not the same,” said Ren. “It doesn’t matter what I’m feeling in my brain. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life sitting next to some machine pressing a button. It’s unfulfilling.”

   Akechi looked pleased. “And thus goes the argument,” he said. “But let me follow the logic a little further with an established argument form—just an indulgence.” He picked up his napkin and crumpled it into a ball. “This argument form is called modus ponens. It’s a conditional statement: if x, then y. As an example…” He smiled. “If this napkin hits you in the face—x—then I have good aim—y.” And threw the napkin.

   It hit Ren in the face. “Thanks,” said Ren.

   “Therefore?” asked Akechi.

   “You have good aim,” said Ren. “Supposedly. I’m starting to think this is just an excuse to throw things at me.”

   Akechi laughed. “You understand the form now, yes? So.” Now he drew Ren’s napkin toward himself, smiling indulgently when Ren cautiously leaned away, and plucked a pen from his pocket. “Suppose we accept hedonism’s proposition that pleasure is the ultimate good. Now suppose that doing activity x brings more pleasure than activity y. We arrive at our first premise: To achieve our goal, we ought to do activity x, not activity y.” Akechi wrote this down. “For example, you might prefer spending time with me to doing your homework.”

   “Spending time with you is feeling a lot like homework right now,” said Ren.

   “Hey, you asked. Our second premise, then, is this: Plugging yourself into the experience machine will bring more pleasure than not. That is to say, machine is x, life is y.” Akechi wrote this down also. He drew a line under both premises and then looked expectantly at Ren. “Therefore?”

   “Therefore… we should plug ourselves into the machine?”

   “Correct.” Akechi dotted the napkin three times and then scribbled Ren’s answer under the line. “But, as you have so astutely pointed out, the promise of pleasure is often not enough to convince people to abandon their lives in favour of a machine. Which gives us another piece of information—that in the minds of many, there is a reason not to plug into the machine, so one of our premises must be wrong.”

   “Which means the purpose of humanity can’t be pleasure,” said Ren, cottoning on. “Got it.”

   “I’m pleased you catch on so fast.” Akechi leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “So tell me, Ren—what are your reasons not to plug yourself into the experience machine?”

   “I told you,” said Ren. “I want to live, not just feel like I’m living.”

   “That’s Nozick’s first point, too,” said Akechi. “Ah—Robert Nozick, who coined the experiment.”

   “I got that, thanks.”

   “His second reason was that plugging into the machine makes you less of a person than it does just a blob experiencing thoughts, which takes control away from you as to what kind of person you’d like to be,” said Akechi. “And finally, that plugging into the machine forces you into a reality that’s entirely simulated—man-made. You become limited, and reality becomes shallow.”

   “I have a question,” said Ren.

   “Yes?”

   “Why are you telling me this?”

   “You asked,” said Akechi, looking a little put-out.

   “No, I mean, why does it matter? Like, what’s the point?”

   This seemed to stump Akechi. “I don’t follow,” he said, frowning.

   Ren chewed his straw. “Like… Okay, so people don’t want to be hooked up to a magic machine,” he said. “So what?”

   Akechi’s eyes cleared. “Ah, I see. No, you’re missing the point of philosophy.”

   “Which is?”

   “Philosophy,” Akechi said. “Proving the point is its own point. It’s about thinking through questions we don’t fully understand so that we can come to a better understanding of ourselves and the world around us. Plus, don’t you think it’s interesting?”

   Ren must have still looked lost, because Akechi added, “It’s not about finding an answer, it’s about how you think. It’s fun!”

   “That is the lamest thing you’ve ever said,” Ren said, making Akechi cluck his tongue. “But fine. Continue.”

   “Really? You haven’t had enough?”

   “I like listening to you talk,” said Ren, trying to look engaged. “Tell me more about—Chardonnay.”

   Akechi coughed. “That would be a variety of white wine,” he said, biting back another laugh. “It’s alright. Thank you for humouring me. I think I ought to leave off the rest of the lecture for now before you fall asleep on me.”

   “I’m not bored,” Ren objected. “Just—I think this is kind of beyond me right now.” He made a mental note to read more books, and possibly to eat more burgers. “Tell me the rest another time.”

   “Certainly. I was about to launch into teleology and Aristotle’s principle of perfection, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to miss that.” Akechi smirked at him. “In any case—now that you’ve seen a somewhat more unfiltered version of myself, I’m sure you understand why I don’t—ah—bust that out too often.”

   “I really am interested,” Ren insisted, but from Akechi’s indulgent smile and resigned dismissal from the bar thereafter, he sensed he might have chosen the wrong thing to say somewhere along the line.

   “It’s another stage,” Mona whispers. He’s dangling through the ceiling, Fox holding him by the legs. “I can see a figure there, but he’s not as big as the Puppet.”

   “It’s a Shadow,” Oracle reports. “Same kind of reading as last time. Different one, though.”

   “Wait, so they really aren’t cognitions?” Panther asks. “They’re really Akechi’s Shadows?”

   They’re crammed into a vent, crowded around Mona’s little kicking feet as he strains to see the stage through. Joker wriggles his arm out from where it’s jammed into Skull’s ribs, elbowing Queen in the process, and swipes his sweaty hair out of his face. Truly, the glamour of phantom thievery knew no bounds.

   “Definitely a Shadow,” Oracle confirms. “This proves it. There’s more than one.”

   “Why does he have more than one Shadow?” Noir whispers.

   “Well, he has more than one Persona,” Mona calls up. He’s starting to look a little green. “Can we talk about this later? Pull me up already!”

   “There’s no room.” Fox awkwardly shuffles back a bit and kicks Futaba in the knee, making her shriek at him in offence. “Hold on.”

   “I’m going to be sick,” Mona groans.

   Joker reaches over and tugs him up by the waistpack, slamming the vent shut under him before he can fall through. “Okay?”

   “Do you have a mint,” Mona says weakly.

   “Not for kitties.”

   They vacate the vent and collapse into sweaty piles in the backstage safe room. This is only their second run into the Palace and they’re nearing the end of their second Wing; a murmured discussion confirms they should all be able to manage at least another big fight before they have to tap out. The door to the wings is firmly locked but they’ve found a path to the stage in the crossbeams above the seats, as long as they all trust their balance and/or upper body strength. Mona runs through what few details he could catch: there’s an orchestra pit and a lone figure stood beneath a massive chandelier—the one they’ll have to swing from to land on the stage. Their best guess is that somewhere behind or above the stage will be another door, leading them into the third Wing. What’s certain is that fighting the new Shadow is the only way forward.

   “It’s wearing a red mask,” Mona reports. “A long cape. And a tailcoat.”

   “What kind of mask?” asks Panther. “Like Crow’s?”

   “I couldn’t see,” Mona admits. “I guess we’ll find out.”

   It’s a simple enough matter to get to the chandelier. It sways lightly once they’re all stood atop it, the crystals tinkling together. Joker hangs off the stem of it, surveying the stage below. It’s darkened, lit dramatically from beneath with tiny floor lights that rim its edge, then with miscellaneous candelabras stood around the back of it and warm, climbing lights up the walls. The figure’s cape trails as he stalks the stage, singing wordlessly in a rich baritone. From his vantage point above, Joker can see the deep crimson mask on his face, gleaming in the dim light and flickering strangely with the candles. It splits his face in half, covering one eye and down the side of his cheekbone, cutting around his lip. When the figure faces him, he slows to a stop and his voice fades out. He merely stands there, gazing up at the chandelier, and Joker can tell they’ve been spotted. But the second Shadow of Akechi Goro merely looks at them, passive. His mask catches the crystalline light like fresh blood.

   “He sees us,” Queen whispers.

   The Singer watches them, unblinking. His cloak pools around him, floor lights shining through the black velvet like covered stars, elegantly gloved fingers held aloft and clad in the same rich red as his mask. Silently, he extends a hand up toward them, letting the cape drip off his arm.

   “He’s not hostile,” Oracle says. “Not yet, anyway.”

   “That will soon change, I believe,” Fox murmurs. “Joker, at your cue.”

   “Get ready,” Joker says. “Are you ready?”

   A round of affirmative nods. Joker drops.

You know, Joker, sometimes I think you would save some energy if you didn’t have quite so much a flair for the dramatic.

I’m hearing this from you?

   Up close, the Singer is not menacing the way the Puppet was. He’s elegant, even. Dressed for the opera, his tuxedo is cut to fit and his hair is slicked back. A cane hangs from his right wrist. The mask on his face is curved at the edges, sleek and polished and liquid, like blood that’s been poured over his face. His cloak billows when he flings his arm out toward them yet again. And then he starts to sing.

   “Oh, fuck,” Skull whispers. Joker echoes the sentiment.

   He’s never thought of Akechi’s voice as deep, but the Shadow sings with a depth he can’t comprehend. It’s clear at once that his song before they landed was barely a prelude; this, rich and directed, is a voice that holds incredible power. Joker feels it hit him in the gut and sink there like a heavy stone, a horrible weight of emotion that drains him like a newly opened pit. Out the corner of his eye he sees Fox drop to one knee, overcome.

   “What is this,” Mona chokes out. “What’s he doing?!”

   “Hit him,” Joker gasps. “Noir—”

   He’s not sure what his thinking is—perhaps that a psychic attack might devastate the onslaught of overwhelming emotion. He sees Noir throw her arm out, mask in hand and in flame, and Milady appears in a burst of blue fire. Her skirts and fluttering fan shield them momentarily from the song’s assault and Joker’s mind clears long enough to see Milady cast a psychic blast in the Singer’s direction. The Singer stumbles—his song falters—

   “Now!” Joker yells at the same time Queen shrieks it, and Panther and Skull at once strike out with fire and lightning. For a moment, the air is still, and it seems to hit…

   And then Panther screams in frustration and Skull is smacking the side of Captain Kidd’s boat with an angry fist. “Nada, Joker!” Panther yells. “It’s resistant!”

   Bad luck. Joker manages not to curse. The distraction seems to have interrupted Akechi’s song, at the very least—he reaches for Mona, who doesn’t need his words. A Garudyne goes out at once, only to blow straight back in his face. So forceful it sends Mona’s ears back.

   “Eff this,” Skull yells just as Fox sends an icy blast in the Singer’s direction, which immediately slams back into him. Joker sees Skull raising his gun just as Oracle shrieks, “Wait!”

   Too late. Skull fires and the bullet ricochets off an invisible barrier, pinging straight back at him. It embeds itself in his shoulder and he howls.

   “Skull!”

   “It repels!” Oracle wails in despair. “It’s not resistant, it’s repelling everything! It’s got a shield! Repeat, it’s got a shield!”

   Akechi’s song has resumed full force, mournful and longing, and for once Joker thinks he might be able to put words to it.

   I’m a shape shifter… What else should I be?

   “What’s he singing?” he wonders aloud, to nobody.

   “Who cares?” Panther screams. “Don’t shoot it!”

    Please don’t take off my mask…

   “Wait,” Oracle says again, fear clouding her voice. “Wait. Something’s coming. Guys, watch out! Something’s coming!”

   My place to hide…

   The flood hits them all at once with the Singer’s next fretful note. Joker stumbles back with the impact and then feels his knees buckle. They won’t hold his weight anymore. How was he standing to begin with? What is he doing here? They could die—any moment, any of them could—

   Dimly, he gets, oh god, not again. Not again.

   “—Joker! Joker! Queen, c’mon, snap out of it!”

   —and oh, god, does anyone even know they’re here? They don’t. Of course they don’t. He’s going to die here. He’s going to die, surrounded by the friends he led to their doom, and not a soul will know to find them—and if he cries for help no-one will hear—

   “Panther! Shit, this is bad. Mona? One of you!”

   —and he can’t remember why they’re even doing this in the first place. Skull’s frantic voice is muffled like he’s underwater and he’s shaking so badly he thinks he might drop his knife. Fuck, he’s holding a knife. Those are dangerous.

   “Fox, do you have any—do you have any items—fuck, this—”

   Is he supposed to attack with it? Is that what Skull’s screaming for? But he—he can’t remember how—he’s frozen to the spot, unable to flee, unable to—

   “Please,” and the desperate crack in Skull’s voice finally hits him like a fucking whip. His head snaps up like he’s been punched.

   “Ishtar,” he rasps, watching her shimmer before him. He raises his shaking hand and casts Energy Shower.

   Awareness drains back in reluctantly and he breathes once, twice. His knee is on the cool stage floor. He’s curled in a ball. Thrice. Panther, Queen, and Mona are shuddering back to life around him. Four times. Five times. In, out. Hands, pressed to his chest and to his boot. Leather on leather. Six times. The air smells like the fog that billows from those machines. Like dust, like the oil in lamps. Seven times. Lights in his eyes, the grit of the stage pressing into his knees. He’s here because he wants to be. He’s here because he wants to be. He’s holding a knife because he can handle it. He can handle it.

   The Singer throws his arm out again and Joker calls Ardha. Whispers, “Makajama.”

   The Singer doesn’t move for a moment. A moment longer.

   Lowers his arm. His voice falters.

   “Is everyone okay,” Joker tries to call, croaks instead. Exhausted. He’s here because he wants to be. He’s not going to die. Nobody’s going to die. Nobody’s died yet. “Are you all okay?”

   “I wanted to run,” Panther whispers. “I’m sorry.”

   He shakes his head. “You okay?”

   Please don’t take off my mask…

   “I’m fine,” she mutters. “Fine. Queen? Mona?”

   “Guys,” Oracle says, suddenly warning and alert, but she barely manages to get out, “He shook it off,” before the Singer howls in fury, a note so clear and so striking that Joker feels bowled over yet again. He shakes his head violently; it missed him this time, but Skull and Queen weren’t so lucky. “Skull, don’t! Don’t—”

   “You piece of shit,” Skull bellows, and Joker lunges to tackle him but it’s too late—he launches himself at the Singer and—

   “Skull!”

   —reflects off him at once and crumples to the floor. Noir screams.

   My disguise…

   Joker rushes to Skull to shove a melon pan in his mouth but he barely has time to unwrap the goddamn thing before Queen’s screaming bloody murder herself, and Fox only just manages to haul her back by the arm. She struggles so badly there’s a nasty pop and then she’s screaming in something more like pain, mingled with horrible rage, like a wounded predator. Fox roars, “Heal them, NOW!” Desperate, Joker hurls a Relax Gel to Noir, who hurries to apply it.

   “Hurry up!” Oracle shrieks. Skull stirs and moans and promptly chokes on the bread, which Joker finds counter-productive but he’s long since stopped questioning the cognitive fuckery that keeps them alive.

   “You good?” he asks, and Skull grunts, “Effin’ ship-shape.” Clasps Joker’s hand and pulls himself up by the arm that doesn’t still have a bullet in it. Queen’s clear and hissing in pain. Mona’s tending her. The Singer is gearing up to attack again.

   “We have to stop it,” Panther says, frantic. “We can’t keep doing this, it’s gonna kill us!”

   “Calm down,” Joker says. “Regroup. Everyone guard.”

   But they’re scattered, and his forced cool isn’t enough to keep them from shaking this time, even as they back up. The Singer is inhaling again, advancing again, cane dangling from his outstretched hand. It’s topped with a clear gem, blooming red from his gloves, and Joker has the ugly thought that it all looks terribly familiar. “Fox,” he says for good measure, and Fox says, “Masukukaja.”

   Please don’t take off my mask…

   “We need to find a way to get rid of his shield,” Queen says urgently. She’s still wincing, rubbing and rolling her newly replaced shoulder, and Joker has to admit he’s not all that envious, with the cat as their default resident medic for everything from burns to dislocations and he doesn’t even have thumbs.

   Revealing dark…

   Said cat now says, “Psst, Joker. You see that mask?”

   “The one he won’t shut up about?” Joker shakes his head. “It’s kind of hard to miss.”

   “Right?” Mona smirks. “Makes me think it’ll help us if we can get that thing off him. I bet that’s the source of the shield.”

   Panther frowns. They all guard again as the Singer sends another wave through them, but it’s a near miss this time. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I don’t want a repeat of… last time.”

   “We can barely land a hit on him while he’s got that thing on,” Mona insists. “Even Noir only just hit him, and it didn’t even do any damage. Without it, he’ll be vulnerable!”

   “Mona might be right,” Oracle says uncertainly. She scrolls frantically through something. “It’s hard to know for sure, but there’s definitely something weird about that mask. If you can get it off him, it might be easier to actually fight him fair and square.”

   “We’ll have to send someone to remove it,” Queen says, businesslike. But the next wave hits before they can discuss any further, and they’re not so lucky this time.

   Sing for me…

   So Joker steps forward.

   “Joker?!”

   “Joker!”

   Energy Drop washes over him.

   The tune changes…

   Joker steps forward.

   “Someone get him!”

   Those who have seen your face… draw back in fear…

   Joker steps forward.

   “What’s… happening…?”

   I am the mask you wear.

   It’s me they hear, Akechi whispers.

   “How the eff does Joker know the words, bro?!”

   Akechi’s arm stretches toward him, inviting him, and with each step he comes closer. Closer. Akechi pulls back, drawing him in, closer, in perfect step, closer.

   “Joker!” Panicked, terrified. Another Energy Shower. “Joker, please!”

   In all your strategies, you always knew, Akechi tells him. Within arm’s length now. Joker reaches up to meet Akechi’s crimson glove with his own. Golden eyes stare back at him through the mask. Entrancing. That foe and fantasy…

   “Were both in you,” Joker says aloud.

   He reaches up, tender, to touch the side of Akechi’s face. Akechi closes his eyes.

   And Joker tears off the mask.

   A collective intake of breath rises up over the house. The Thieves, behind him, are quiet; he can feel their perfect stillness, frozen in place. Waiting. The moment of anticipation before the curtain rises, the velvet hush as the audience leans in, diamond dust drifting and twinkling in the silent spotlights.

   Then a terrible shriek rips the silence into messy, ragged halves. The mask in Joker’s hands bleeds into nothing over his fingers. Akechi staggers away, hands up over his face, crimson gloves in a new mask that clutches at his features in total agony. He stumbles, his cloak twisting and folding and twining between his legs, trailing darkness as he collapses into the shadows. Joker snaps out of his reverie and his own coat flutters as he darts after him, and the Thieves follow, but there’s only smoke in the wings.

   “Did he run?” Makoto gasps, puffing like she’s run the stairs instead of half the stage. Futaba shakes her head. Wordlessly points to the side.

   Just a cloak. The cane rests beside it, the tuxedo beneath it. The Singer is gone.

   The applause continues.

He’s just… gone.

Hey… you sure he really disappeared? I mean, you said he was gone back in that engine room, remember? But—

The signal was gone! What was I supposed to think?!

Please don’t fight… We need to stay calm. Can anyone see any sign of him?

I can’t see him anywhere… And his… his clothes are here.

…

I wasn’t expecting that.

Me neither. I thought taking off his mask might make him vulnerable, but…

It just made him dead.

…

Let’s keep moving for now, okay?

   The ticket lies in the shadow of the crystal chandelier, winking morosely in the light. Joker picks it up and turns it over in his hands. The red of his gloves stretches across the letters, staining the cool silver into a more vicious scarlet. The Master invites you to join him at the Playhouse.

   “There’s our way into the next Wing,” Ann says, peeking over his shoulder. He hands her the ticket and she takes it. Ren breathes once, twice. Her cherry red suit is less accusing in the ticket’s sharp reflection and her gloves are sweet, kissing the words in saccharine pink. She hands it off to a grasping Ryuji who bleeds sunshine over and across it, to Yusuke, who cools the burn. Thrice. Joker tugs off his gloves. The terrible hush following the end of the fight is starting to creep away. Four times. The others are watching the ticket, musing over it, but Haru watches him walk back to where the Singer’s remnants lie limp.

   She doesn’t say anything. Her eyes betray so little behind that black mask. Noir, she said, for walking on the dark side. Joker lays the gloves over the cloak where his are missing. A tribute, maybe, or a sacrifice.

   “Hey, Joker,” says Ryuji, finally noticing him. “You good?”

   Ren nods. “How’s the shoulder?”

   Skull rolls it back. Impromptu surgery courtesy of Morgana, some funky brain-magic, and Yusuke’s steady hands. “Good as new.”

   Thank god, for the little conveniences they’re granted. “Head back,” Ren says. “Enough for today.”

   “I’ll say,” Ann groans. She bats her eyes at Yusuke. “Oh, Fox, would you carry me back?”

   “I would prefer not to,” Yusuke says, with a hint of apology.

   Haru’s eyes haven’t left Ren, but she turns to follow the others now with a soft little nod. Even now he knows she holds nothing against him, though by all rights she ought to. Ann is smacking Ryuji for laughing at her and will certainly bully a piggyback ride out of him before they reach the entrance. Makoto, weakly adopting a job that has never been hers nor has she the qualifications for, is trying to quell the argument before it swells the security level. Ren looks back at the cape. The engine room had hit harder. Two for two as far as scampering into the shadows so Ren wouldn’t watch him die.

   Ren raises his bare hands and claps.

[Yusuke] I have done some research.

[Makoto] Oh?

[Yusuke] I believe when the Opera Shadow sang of “Poe’s Masquerade”, he was referring to a short story by Edgar Allan Poe, entitled “The Masque of the Red Death”.

[Ann] A red mask!

[Futaba] so even his shadow is a pretentious prick

[Yusuke] In the story, a man named Prince Prospero barricades himself inside a castle-like abbey with one thousand other nobles in order to escape a plague. Outside the abbey’s walls, common folk suffer and die.

[Makoto] Wait.

[Yusuke] While the world outside is wracked with plague, Prospero holds a masquerade ball for his high-class guests. At midnight, a mysterious figure enters the castle. He wears a robe that looks like a funeral shroud, splattered with blood, and a wearing a mask that looks like a dead victim of the Red Death plague.

[Makoto] Yusuke

[Yusuke] Prospero demands to know his identity, but the figure simply makes his way through the chambers of the abbey. Eventually, he faces Prospero, who shrieks and dies. He is then unmasked by a furious crowd of guests - only for them to discover that there is nothing underneath at all. The guests all then fall victim to the plague, and die.

[Ryuji] uh wow

[Futaba] great story inari

   “Hey, wait,” says Morgana, as ever perched precariously on Ren’s shoulder and squinting at his phone. “What was the Shadow singing, again?”

[Ren] Please don’t take off my mask, revealing dark

[Ann] OMG!!

[Haru] Oh!

[Makoto] …

[Ryuji] wait I don’t get it

[Ann] THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED WHEN WE TOOK OFF HIS MASK!!

[Ann] HE REVEALED DARK!!!!

[Ann] HE DISAPPEARED!!!!!!!!!!

[Ryuji] YO WTF

[Makoto] You’re right… That’s exactly what happened. It’s just like the story.

[Yusuke] Have I been helpful?

[Ren] Thank you, Yusuke.

[Haru] So… What does this mean?

[Futaba] I mean doesn’t the story sound like us

[Futaba] like, punishing people with power who ignore the suffering of ordinary people

[Haru] I was going to say it sounded like him.

[Haru] Killing them all in one fell swoop by making them confront the nature of their sins.

[Ann] kids can we lighten up a bit

[Makoto] I suppose it’s becoming clearer and clearer the similarities between us.

[Futaba] his nerd crow mask totally looked like a plague doctor mask too

[Ann] Hey, you’re right.

[Ryuji] Ain’t the Poe guy the one who wrote that story about a crow?

[Makoto] A raven, actually, but yes.

[Yusuke] I’m surprised you knew that.

[Ryuji] HEY

[Futaba] It’s all connected… ＼(º □ º l|l)/

[Futaba] If I didn’t know better I’d say our writers know what they’re doing

[Ann] Huh??

[Ren] It’s late. Mona says to go to bed.

[Ren] Get some rest. You’ve all earned it.

[Ryuji] we goin in tomorrow?

[Futaba] don’t even ASK

[Futaba] joker never decides until one second beforehand just in case he needs to return a DVD or something

[Futaba] like hello joker it’s 20XX

[Futaba] just stream

[Ren] Yeah, we’re going in. Meet here tomorrow morning.

[Futaba] (ʘ言ʘ╬)

[Ann] Ren… Are you sure?

[Ren] We need to get this done as soon as possible.

[Makoto] Well…

[Haru] Understood.

[Haru] We’ll be there.

[Futaba] yeah

[Yusuke] Bright and early.

Chapter Text

   There’s an elephant in the room. Deeply unfortunate, as Leblanc is barely large enough for its patrons. Were it not for the accommodation of the cognitive, the bulk of the unspoken might have been enough to crush them.

   Ren doles out coffee. Drops cream in Ryuji’s, gets a suspicious “How long have you had this, dude?” for his trouble.

   “I just made it yesterday,” Ren says. Then: “Honest,” because the flat looks he gets are not unearned. They could almost make believe they’re home like this. Home with Sojiro behind the counter and spices warming the air, the attic just overhead and the cool world over the threshold. Leblanc ripples vaguely around them each time Futaba shifts in the booth she’s claimed or Ryuji kicks idly at the counter. Mona is Mona here and not Morgana—that’s the biggest indicator that they’re still inside the Palace and not at the hideout. Ren’s not got his apron here. The coat’s a strange substitute, but it’s tougher to stain ideology than cotton anyhow.

   When they’d first fallen inside, fresh Shadows in hot pursuit and expecting Akechi’s bedroom, the group had taken a collective breath in. With all the subtlety of a thief in the shadows Ryuji bellowed, “Ain’t this Leblanc?!”

   Full of surprises, as ever. Can one Palace have different safe rooms?! and Mona, frustrated and exhausted and multiple weirdo happenings beyond his own experience, had thrown his little paws up in the air and given up.

   “He did always say he felt he could relax here, didn’t he?” Haru asks, when they’ve gingerly settled into their seats. Ann's still running her fingers over the leather and watching the illusion ripple in fascination, like if she touches it enough times the texture will turn familiar again.

   “Yeah,” Ren says to Haru, since there’s nothing to say and no one to say it.

   “How contradictory,” Yusuke says. “One of the few places he felt safe was the home of his archrival.”

   “Kinda sad if you think about it,” mutters Ryuji, and Ann whispers, “Yeah.” And conversation lapses, and stays there.

   Can’t even turn the TV on in this place. It’s just the drip of the cognitive tap where Joker tried to use it to rinse out the thermos and found he went straight through the handle. It’s leaky in reality. Figures Akechi remembers.

   Now Queen glances at Joker, who glances away. There’s an elephant in the room but he never speaks first. She’s a force on the front line and one to be reckoned with, but there’s a part of her that hasn’t yet outgrown its subservience; much as she delights in shattering the status quo she will not broach it, hems and haws at the impropriety until she snaps enough to snap it in half. It’s Fox who speaks up, in the end. He’s never given a shit about when the right time is, only that it, eventually, is.

   “We’ve killed two of his Shadows. Is Akechi going to suffer a mental shutdown?”

   Weird that it’s only come up now. Weird they didn’t freak out as soon as the Puppet went down. But there’s something horrifically off about these Shadows—they’re unfamiliar enough that the patterns haven’t just broken but vanished. They guarded no Treasure and spat no taunts. The defensiveness they hissed spoke to a wild animal, not to a broken ace. There was nothing sentient, nothing recognisably Akechi in any of them besides their faces. It was harder to reconcile, that way, the Puppet with the prince they knew and—well. Nothing of the Singer in the snarling face of the engine room to remind them it came from something human.

   It’s easier to kill the ones that don’t look like people. It’s easier when they don’t have a face. Sometimes Joker launches into the all-out before they have a chance to beg. Easier that way.

   They didn’t even think about this, when they started out, and to be honest most of the others probably don’t at all. It had only started nagging at him several hundred downed enemies in, by which point it was an instinct better suited to smothering than fostering, like the Shadows that plead for their mothers before Joker can raise his customised model gun and fire.

   Funny, that justice itself could be so cowardly.

   Akechi’s Shadows went down like game, not a word wiser. Still, from the way none of them flinch, it’s clear they’ve all been thinking it. Oracle shifts and the leather seat shifts with her, ripples into a dressing room chair.

   “Don’t think so,” she says.

   For an assumption they’ve all been making, the assertion certainly relaxes the air. Skull peeks over his seat at Oracle’s holograms and squints like he can read them. Across the booth, Noir takes a delicate sip of her coffee, pinky tucked against her cup.

   Oracle says, “There’s a lot of them. This place seems to generate more, too. I’ve been trying to nail down the rate, but it looks pretty random.” Frowns, clicks, another screen leaps up and slaps Skull in the face. “From what I can tell, each of these Shadows only contains a tiny piece of Akechi. Either there’s a Master Shadow to Rule Them All, or we’d have to take down all of them at once to give him a mental shutdown.”

   “Thank goodness,” murmurs Queen, and Skull nods fervently, still looking a little affronted by Futaba’s HUD.

   “Do you think it’s because he has two Personas?” Panther asks. “Like, maybe his heart is stronger, or something…?”

   “I don’t know about stronger,” Mona says. His head bobbles about and Joker has to resist the instinct to shoo him off the counter. “I mean, how can he have a Palace at all? I thought it was impossible to have both a Persona and a Shadow. Even if he’s a wild card like Joker, that doesn’t make any sense.”

   “I’m not sure he really is a wild card,” Queen muses.

   “What do you mean?” asks Panther.

   Queen rolls her shoulders back. The spikes on her shoulder pads gleam eerily in Leblanc’s warm light. “Think about it,” she says. “Joker’s other Personas are collected, right? That, or they just kind of… appear, one day.”

   “I fuse them,” says Joker.

   “When?!” Skull demands.

   “But where did Robin Hood come from?” Queen asks. “I’ve never seen a Shadow like him before.” She glances around at them, but they all just look nonplussed. “I don’t think Akechi can recruit Shadows the way Joker can. Which means Robin Hood must have been born from his soul, just like all of our Personas were.” She hesitates. “Just like Loki was.”

   Mona frowns. “So both of them are his true Persona?” he says slowly. “What kind of person are we even dealing with, here?”

   “Indeed,” says Fox. “His soul must be truly fragmented to allow two Personas to spring forth, let alone two of such different natures.”

   “No wonder he can form a Palace,” Noir hums. “His Shadow is split. Not just in two, either.”

   They descend into silence. Joker looks down at the counter. The crossword book sits an arm’s length away, but when he reaches for it, it shimmers away around his fingertips.

   “We probably should have thought about this before,” says Ann. “What if we’d killed him…?”

   But Futaba shakes her head. “Trust your instincts,” she says. “The Metaverse is the collective unconscious, remember? It’s us, it’s our minds. We could tell there was something off about those Shadows from the start. There was no way to negotiate with them, and sending them back to the real Akechi wouldn’t have done anything. Even before we talked about it, you already knew.”

   Ryuji exhales. “Well, I say it’s a good thing. It’s a pain in the ass having to hold back when we’re fightin’ Shadows, especially when they’re assholes.”

   “Maybe that’s why he never bothered,” Haru says quietly, which shuts them all up a second time until it’s time to go again.

   The Playhouse is a multi-storey amphitheatre that Haru insists resembles the Globe in London. Ren has never visited London, but this particular bit of imagery could not escape even him; for one thing, the walls are papered over in what looks like pages from vintage atlases.

   “It’s not even symbolism at this point,” Futaba mutters.

   This Wing, at least, is kind. Open-air as it is, they have very little dungeon to crawl through before they reach the stage, where an elaborately dressed Shadow is waiting for them. The Bard is elegantly costumed. Elegantly. Ryuji snickers that he’s wearing tights which dissolves the illustrious Phantom Thieves for several minutes. It’s been a long day.

   “Okay,” says Makoto. “Let’s talk strategy.”

   “Pants him,” Ryuji suggests.

   “Seriously,” says Makoto, several more precious minutes later, wiping her eyes. “We’ve seen two Shadows so far. What have we learned?”

   “We should anticipate status effects,” Yusuke suggests. “The brute force has been cowing, yes. However, we have suffered most in the Shadows’ ability to destabilise our psyches. We must be cautious on that front.”

   Ann nods. “Right. It’s Shakespeare, isn’t it? We should be ready for him to fight us with words.”

   “Anyone bring earplugs?” Ryuji suggests glumly.

   Nope. Also, it’s too dangerous to fight without being able to hear each other. “It’s too dangerous to fight with bein’ able to hear that thing!” Okay, well, nobody brought earplugs anyway.

   Hey, what’s he saying?

   All the world, the Bard whispers, and they become suddenly aware that the whispers permeate the air around them. The same words, over and over and over. All the world’s a stage. All the world’s a stage.

   “Thematically appropriate,” Oracle comments drily, and braces herself when Joker launches himself up to face the Bard.

   And all the men and women merely players…

   Fox fires an icy blast. The Bard freezes, but it doesn’t stop his voice.

   They have their exits and their entrances and one man in his time plays many parts, it yammers, his acts on many stages…

   “Try wind to drown it out!” so Mona acquiesces, which only makes the thing louder.

   At first the puppet, flying and twitching on his master’s strings;

   then the howling opera, with its grandeur and…

   “Queen, try hitting it with your bike!”

   “Wait,” says Queen.

   …now the bard, bemoaning injury with his woeful ballad, made for the masses’ cry, says the Bard mournfully.

   “He’s telling us,” Queen whispers. “He’s telling us the path.”

   Then the lightfoot, intones the Bard, prancing from the floor and stepping-side the mines

   then the horror, worker of miracles false, seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon’s mouth.

   and still the justice.

   The Bard shudders. Still the justice. Still the just. The just, the just.

   “Don’t let him keep talking!” Oracle trills.

   “Panther,” says Joker. Those frills look pretty flammable, and Panther must agree, because the Bard screams a moment later, patting them out. It’s kind of funny. For about a second.

   Then the Shadow’s golden eyes flash, and his mouth opens wide.

   “Brace yourselves!”

   The words don’t actually seem to come from him. They seem to come from everywhere—the air all around, the space between their ears, reverberating in their skulls. Not in sequence, but in a flood, like they’re hearing a whole story in a single overwhelming moment, delivered by that sweet, sweet voice…

   Take thou, my words, being now with me

   And my distilled figure, drink it in

   When presently through all thy minds shall run

   A cold and drowsy humour…

   “Don’t listen!” Oracle shrieks. “Stop! Don’t listen to him!”

   …sweet and syrupy, honeyed, wrapping around them like so much heavy down. Joker stumbles, lands on one knee. Even the surface of the stage feels soft compared to the impossible weight of remaining on his feet.

   …for no pulse

   shall keep his native progress, but surcease

   no warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest

   “SNAP!” Oracle screams. “THE FUCK! OUT! OF IT!”

   Distantly, Joker sees her run into the fray. She produces a fan and slap Ryuji in the face, hard.

   “WHAT THE FUCK?”

   The pained howl feels aeons away. Fog is descending—on the stage, on his mind, Joker isn’t sure. He feels safe like he hasn’t in months, maybe years. Which is longer, again? Time is oozing through his fingers. Where is he? A Palace… Paper on the walls. The Casino, perhaps? That’s right… Something about a cognition, or a fake-out… The plan… whatever it was… is a good one... It’ll work... They’ll be fine… He’ll be fine…

   Then the words change.

   Now is the winter of our discontent…

   Joker loses track of the words entirely. His mind is a swirling fog. Voices chatter in the background. Is that Ryuji? Ann? In the far horizon, someone calls something that sounds like his name, and he wants to shake his head to dispel the sounds, but it feels like he’s moving through slime. There’s a dull thud as his shoulder hits the stage, and it hurts, sort of, but the floor is a solid, heartening relief. Something to rest against and hold himself steady. Does it matter where he is? The plan’s going to work. He’s going to be fine.

   …since I cannot prove a lover to entertain these fair well-spoken days

   I am determined to prove a villain and hate the idle pleasures of those days…

   plots have I laid, inductions dangerous…

   All he has to do is…

   by drunken prophecies, libels and dreams

   to set my fellows, phantoms in the wings

   in deadly hate the one against the other…

   This isn’t the Casino. This is somewhere else entirely. The Casino, and everything that came with it, that was months ago. How did he forget? The cottonwool that had crept so slowly into his blood dissipates in a mad rush that leaves him dizzy with disbelief. His hands, now that he can feel them again, are trembling. The knife between his fingers, trembling. The cool floor beneath him, the air in his lungs. How close had he come to never feeling that again?

   Had he really just been feeling safe about that plan? Had he really felt everything was going to be okay? If anything had gone wrong—anything at all—he’d have been gone. He’d have been dead. How had they made it so he felt okay with that?

   A trick? A ruse?

   How blasé they’d all been, when it was his life they were gambling with like a worthless set of poker chips! And they’re here—all around him. Safe? He’s never been in more danger.

   “Joker!”

   Surrounded. He’s surrounded by the ones who left him for dead.

   “Oh, fuck—guys, he’s been—”

   “Maeigaon,” Joker growls.

    See them try to kill him when they’re screaming, stumbling, clutching each other like children. See them throw his life away again when they’re pleading for their own. One of them slumps to the floor—the one with the metal mask, the one who’d concocted the plan, and he watches in something like hurt as the fluffy one sprints to her, crying. Had they so much as shed a tear at the thought of his death?

   and if your leader be as true and just as I am subtle, false and treacherous

   “Joker,” one of them chokes out. He reaches a blue hand to him. “Joker, please. Wake up. We’re not… your enemies…”

   “You would have let me die,” says Joker. “All of you.”

   The boy reels back. “Never,” he says. “Never, Joker—you mean the world—"

   “Mamudoon,” he says, and Nebiros silences the boy. The fluffy girl falls with him—the others are still standing tall enough to howl in anguish—a shame—but they’ll fall soon enough. The Bard’s words course thorough him like electricity—urging him on, pumping through his veins, moving his hands as he raises his arms again to strike—

   Someone tackles him from behind. All the air goes out of him in a surprised wheeze.

   “Ren, c’mon,” grits out his assailant. “Snap out of it.”

   Joker struggles, but heavy arms pin him down—the boy has summoned his Persona. “You don’t care about me!”

   “Yeah, we do,” says the boy. “And you care about us. You’re my best friend. I’d die for you. Any of us would.”

   Something flickers.

   “Don’t listen to that bastard,” Ryuji whispers. “Come back.”

   Nebiros vanishes. The knife falls from Ren’s hand.

   His voice cracks. “Ryuji?”

   “Thank fuck.” The weight disappears from his wrists as Ryuji dismisses Seiten Tensei and clambers off his back. “Welcome back, man.”

   “I—” Ren’s head is pounding. “Oh, god. Yusuke—Fox, I mean—Queen—”

   “They’re fine,” says Skull. “Noir’s fine too. Panther ‘n Mona’ve got ‘em.”

   “The Bard, we have to—”

   “Take a breather,” says Skull. “We silenced him for a second. It’s not gonna hold, but you’ve got enough time to—”

   “Oh, god,” says Ren again. “I—I’m so—”

   “Joker,” says Skull.

   Skull’s costume is kinda spikey pressed against him like this, but Ren doesn’t mind. He wraps his arms around Ryuji’s back in turn.

   “I’m sorry,” he manages.

   “Don’t be. We got you.”

   Something cold lands in his hand. A can of Creature. He nods and cracks it open with shaking fingers. Some of the residual sluggishness starts to creep away.

   “We gotta figure out how to take that thing out,” says Skull. Joker nods.

   Their comms crackle. “Guys?”

   So Futaba’s withdrawn again—good. Joker taps his ear. “Sorry,” he says. “Is everyone okay?”

   “Vitals normal,” Oracle reports. “Everyone’s on their feet. You still brainwashed, Joker?”

   “Spider-Man 3 was the best one,” says Joker.

   “Skull, kill him,” Oracle advises.

   Then a voice stirs.

   Dive, thoughts, down to my soul…

   “It’s back!” Queen gasps. “It broke through the Makajama already!”

   “Joker, what do we do?” Panther says urgently, but Joker’s distracted—he’s dropped the Creature, and the rattling of the can down the stage is clanking through his brain. His hands go up before he realises it’s happening, covering his ears, and he’s down on his knees but of course it doesn’t help when that voice is reverberating through his skull and the fog is coming from within him this time, a bubble of panic borne not of magic but of his own fractured mind—but he can’t let it happen again, he can’t—”

   “Joker,” Mona says desperately. “Joker, you’ve gotta get up! Everyone! Try—try not to listen!”

   “How are we meant to stop listening?” Noir wails. “It’s—it’s everywhere!”

   Then suddenly, amplified at top volume:

   “I WISH I COULD CARRY YOUR SMILE IN MY HEART! FOR TIMES WHEN MY LIFE SEEMS SO LOW!”

   Wow, that’s bad singing, Joker thinks vaguely through the rapidfire thumping of his heart.

   “IT WOULD MAKE ME BELIEVE,” the voice continues—is that Ryuji? “Come on!”

   “Oh!” someone gasps. Then, screeching: “WHAT TOMORROW COULD BRING!” Ann? Is that Ann?

   “WHEN TODAY DOESN’T REALLY KNOW!” The singing is not improved when it’s both of them. Ren doesn’t think he’s ever heard them sing karaoke before, and now he understands that this was a blessing. They’re so loud and so bad it’s hard not to focus on them, and Ren briefly wonders why Futaba has chosen to amplify them like this, when it’s so overpowering he can hardly hear the sugared tones of the…

   The…

   “DOESN’T REALLY KNOW!”

   “Oh,” says Ren, panic sloughing off him like snow from the roof as the brilliant, absurd clarity of the plan ploughs into him—

   Makoto, quicker on the draw than he is, scrambles on top of Johanna. “I’M ALL OUT OF LOVE!” she bellows. “I’M SO LOST WITHOUT YOU! I KNOW YOU WERE RIGHT FOR LEAVING FOR SO LONG!”

   “Those aren’t the words!” Futaba yells back. She’s got headphones on, he sees now, and is boosting their voices like a DJ.

   “I’M ALL OUT OF LOVE! WHAT AM I WITHOUT YOU?”

   “Skull,” Ren manages, gesturing, because Ryuji is closest. Skull spots him, nods, announces: “I CAN’T BE TOO LATE!” and smacks the jabbering Bard in the face with a spiked bat.

   It is, after all, just a playwright, and they are not the most durable of creatures, nor can they speak with their mouths bleeding Shadowy goop.

   “TO SAY THAT I WAS SO WRONG!” Morgana yowls, a little too joyfully, and Panther hisses, “We’re done already!”

   The Bard twitches a hand to his mouth, then topples over.

   Stiff and stark and cold, appear like death, he whispers.

   In the new silence, the Bard is suddenly not at all threatening. Voiceless and pitiful, just another boy. It has none of the grandeur of the opera before it, nor the grim horror of the puppet show. It shudders, in shape and size horrifyingly human, lying prone on the floor.

   In a most un-Shadowlike fashion, it reaches out a shaking hand.

   “Careful,” Makoto warns, but Ryuji, who is closest, takes it.

   The eyes that find him are golden and strange, empty of true intelligence. The figure is clad in frills and tights, but it is his. They are his. Goro Akechi gazes up at Ryuji, frightened and dying in front of them for the first time.

   Last scene of all, the Bard tells him, heaving, that ends this strange eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion.

   Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste. Sans everything.

   With that, it dissipates, leaving Ryuji’s hand grasping at nothing but another shining ticket.

   The Master invites you to the Dance.

   The next safe room marks the return of Leblanc, and without the shadows hanging over them Ren can really take the time to reflect on the space and what it means. The Thieves are sprawled over the booths but Akechi’s usual spot at the counter remains empty, probably out of habit, idealistically out of respect. He hadn’t been a part of the team when the café had served as their hideout. By that point he’d been gone, convinced he’d done away with Ren and the others no longer worth pretending for. In an odd way Ren is grateful to him, for this little drop of home in the hellscape of his cognition. In finding his salvation here, Akechi had lent them all salvation in his mind. Of course they wouldn’t be here at all if Akechi hadn’t needed a place of salvation to begin with, but that was all rather circular and Ren too weary to think on it.

   They retreated here after downing the Bard. It’s their centre of operations in the real world and it only makes sense to return after such a confusing encounter as that.

   Ryuji hasn’t stopped shaking since they left the Playhouse. Under the guise of clapping a hand on his back and then forgetting to remove it, Ren guided him through the halls to the safe room and slapped a cold drink into his palm, hoping it might remove the sensation of a peer disappearing from his hands.

   “Thanks, man,” Ryuji says quietly.

   “Hey, I owe you.”

   Makoto’s found another pamphlet somewhere and is spreading it out over the table. “Alright,” she says. “Let’s go over what that Shadow told us.”

   The puppet and the opera were clear enough. The bard they’d just seen.

   “What’s ‘the horror’?” Ann asks, and they puzzle over this for some minutes.

   “Clown,” Futaba suggests.

   “Haunted house attraction?” Haru muses.

   “Killer clown,” Futaba suggests.

   “That’s just clowns,” says Ryuji. “No offence, Joker.”

   “Wasn’t until you said that,” says Ren, miffed.

   The consensus, after all that, is: dunno.

   “Lightfoot has to be dancer,” says Makoto, gesturing at the ticket. “I guess we know what to expect next.”

   “Great,” says Ann wearily. “Does that mean we can take a break?”

   They laze in the Leblanc safe room for a while. Compared to the previous days’ work, they haven’t achieved much, but Ren’s learned the hard way over a year of exertion that ‘all the time all the time’ as a working model is unsustainable. Beyond how physically taxing it is to trek through a Palace, the mental gymnastics required for your average cognitive landscape let alone Akechi’s was enough to wear down even the sharpest of minds. And after that fight…

   They might have to call it after this. He doesn’t think any of them have it in them to keep going today. He doesn’t think he could lead them through it. He can’t get the image of Yusuke’s prone body out of his mind, one gloved hand still reaching towards him. Nor Haru, slumped next to Makoto—Makoto, whose eye he hasn’t been able to bring himself to meet since they’d left the stage.

   The real world awaits, though, and it’s no more inviting than this, so this cognitive Leblanc is as good a place as any to catch their breaths before they go face it. Strange to find refuge in a Palace. Once again, he mentally thanks Akechi for finding refuge in his home—what’s gone around has, in an odd way, come around. The countertop lacks the familiar woodgrain when he runs a gloved thumb over it, but if he concentrates hard enough on the warm brown, he can almost trick himself into feeling it.

   Ann is absently braiding Haru’s hair; distracted, she doesn’t notice Ryuji trying to follow along on her left twintail. Ren hopes the knots will dissolve with the Metaverse when they return, for Ryuji’s sake. Makoto is talking to Yusuke, who is idly sketching Morgana. Their conversation is low enough that Ren can’t hear it, not that he needs to.

   Futaba sidles up by him, behind the counter.

   “Sup,” she says, and he does a little cool-guy nod back. “How’s my favourite criminal mastermind.”

   “Shucks,” he says. He splits the coffee in his thermos and hands her the lid, which she cups in two hands. Her goggles are still on and they fog up when she sips, not that that matters much when they’re more a heads-up display than anything else, anyway. More concerned with the internal than the external, as always. Sometimes he has to gently steer her around walls. For all her omnipotence in the Metaverse she still occasionally misses what’s in front of her—the distant is less overwhelming than the up-close.

   “So,” she says, and he carefully doesn’t look at her, because eye contact makes her fidget. “Wanted to say I’m sorry.”

   Here he fails. She gets the full force of his surprise right in her face, but to her credit she doesn’t flinch away. Her fists are clenched in their gloves, he realises—she’s been steeling herself for this.

   “What for?” he says finally, when she doesn’t elaborate.

   She still doesn’t. Waves a hand around instead, like, look around. Like, all this.

   “His Palace is still cloaking,” she says.

   Yeah. He knows. He’s given up on the Third Eye, since it only sends him staggering. There are no hacks with Goro Akechi, no shortcuts.

   “I don’t know where he got the ability,” says Futaba. “I’ve been looking. No dice, though. But, it kinda makes sense.” He doesn’t need the visual aid she pulls up but she does so anyway, like he could forget the figure Loki cuts. “It’s called dazzle camouflage. It was used on warships in World War I. Makes it hard to tell how big they are, or what they look like. You see?”

   Ren does. Even squinting at the still of Loki on Futaba’s screen, unmoving and unthreatening, it’s incredibly difficult to tell what shape he is, and what’s what, and what’s where. Robin Hood had been comparatively straightforward, if kind of extra. Horns seem to sprout from where Loki’s eyes should be. It’s unclear what’s a braid and what’s a limb, and which leg which hoof is attached to. The stripes point every which way, confusing the evidence of his eyes until they cross.

   “I like the name,” says Futaba. “Dazzle camouflage. It suits him, right? Super in your face. Definitely dazzling. Look at me! But when you do? What do you see?” She shakes her head. “What’s actually there? And if it disappears—did it? Or is it just blending into something else? Something he wants you to look at instead, until you think that’s all there is?”

   “Oracle,” says Joker, gently as he can.

   “Sorry,” she says. Almost casually, if only he didn’t know her as he does. “Sorry I missed him. Sorry he fooled me. He really was gone, you know. His signal—pop. Beamed up, Scotty. But if I looked closer—maybe if we double-checked, you know? Maybe—”

   “Oracle,” Joker says again.

   “Maybe we wouldn’t have lost him there,” says Futaba. “Maybe we wouldn’t be here now, and you wouldn’t have—"

   He wonders what he’d looked like in that fight. Bad, he guesses. It’s hard for the others to look at him now.

   “Or he could have—I don’t know,” says Futaba. “Helped us help him. Like you made me do. For me.”

   This is why, he realises. This is why the Nav was open that day in the attic. This is why she’d broken so harshly when Ryuji dropped his name. It was like she collapsed and fell, Futaba had said. She’s a year Ren’s junior and seen one hundred percent more death than he has. She’d joined the Phantom Thieves to catch her mother’s killer. Not to watch him die.

   She looks so small beside him. All the Thieves terrify him, sometimes, but the fear she inspires is unlike the others. Futaba doesn’t fight with them; she doesn’t fight at all. But she wins. Without trying, without ever showing her face. Her mask is the only one that doesn’t reveal her eyes. She doesn’t need to be seen, not the way the rest of them do. Reputation means nothing to her and there’s no glory in her victory. But if you opposed her, or god forbid, she opposed you, you fell.

   “Maybe I just didn’t look hard enough,” she says. Rough, determined, detached, like she wants to say the words without hearing them. She’s scared, he realises. Scared of herself. “Maybe I just didn’t want to.”

   Single-minded as fire eating through a field, heat bleeding through metal, gravity pulling something to earth heedless of the air it carves through. She’d wanted him, Ren knows. Wanted to catch him and make him suffer. But as ruthless as Futaba could be, this wasn’t the outcome she’d wanted. Wasn’t what she’d worked for.

   Now she doubted, guiltily. Wondered, in self-directed terror. But he didn’t.

   “That’s dumb,” he says.

   She jerks her head up to stare at him.

   “You can’t stop me recruiting Shadows,” he says. “Can’t stop Skull shooting lightning.”

   “Damn straight!” (For as much as Ryuji does not listen, the sound of his own name always whips him around. Ren does finger guns at him, which he returns, then returns to Ann’s hair.)

   Joker taps Loki, which makes him shudder out of view. “Can’t stop him doing what he does,” he says to Oracle. “I can’t see in here either. That’s who Akechi is. We couldn’t find him because he doesn’t want to be found.”

   “I’ll keep looking,” she says firmly. “I won’t give up. He’s not gonna get the better of me.” Not this time, she doesn’t say.

   “I know,” he tells her. “I’m counting on you, Alibaba.”

   “Don’t cross codenames,” she scolds. “It’ll get confusing.”

   “Roger,” he says, grinning.

   “Joker,” she says. Stops.

   “Trust me.” He flicks her nose. “I’m still your key item,” he says, “aren’t I?”

   She turns the thermos cap over in her hands, over again, tumbling it like a boulder. “You betcha,” she says. “I’m counting on you, too.”

               [Ryuji] hey

               [Ryuji] we goin to the palace tomorrow?

   “Who is texting you in the middle of the night,” Morgana groans. His ear tickles Ren’s chin when it flicks in irritation. He dives under the covers when Ren lifts a sleepy hand to unlock his phone. “No, don’t turn on the screen yet!”

               [Ren] Nah.

               [Ren] Wanna come over?

               [Ryuji] can I come over

               [Ryuji] oh

               [Ryuji] hell yeah brother

               [Ren] ╭( ･ㅂ･)و ̑̑ ˂ᵒ͜͡ᵏᵎ⁾✩

   “Who was it?”

   “Ryuji,” says Ren, letting his arm drop.

   He waits for Morgana to make a loud complaint, but his cat is oddly silent. “I’ll keep an eye on things tomorrow,” he says finally. “You guys should go out and do something.”

   “Thanks,” says Ren. “Hold the fort for Boss.”

   “You can count on me!”

   In the morning, Ryuji is already nursing a mug of hot chocolate in the far booth when Ren stumbles down the stairs. He looks up and grins at the state of Ren’s hair. “Lookin’ bad, sleeping beauty.”

   Ren groans and topples sideways into the bathroom to tidy himself up.

   Ryuji appears in the doorway a second later. “So what do you wanna do today?” he asks, heedless of the fact that Ren has a toothbrush in his mouth and can’t respond. “I was gonna say ramen, but I’m broke. We could go to the arcade and shake the crane machines until something falls out.”

   Ren spits into the sink. “Let’s get ramen. Team funds.”

   “Hell yeah!”

   Sojiro eyes Ren when he emerges from the bathroom. “Ryuji was telling me about how he goes running in the mornings,” he says pointedly. “Said it really wakes him up.”

   “Are you using that,” Ren asks, pointing at the press on the counter, but Sojiro just rolls his eyes and pushes an already-poured cup towards him. Ren grins and takes it. “Thanks.”

   “Get out of here,” Sojiro grumbles, so Ren grabs his bag and they go.

   Ogikubo is surprisingly quiet, but then it’s a little early for lunch. Anyway, it’s not the only thing. Aside from a muttered thanks when Ren pays, Ryuji is oddly subdued the whole time they’re eating, and since Ren isn’t much of a conversationalist, the meal passes in companiable silence.

   Walking down the street afterwards, Ren stops at a vending machine and tosses Ryuji a Dr. Salt NEO.

   “Thanks,” Ryuji says again, popping it open. “Hey—thanks.”

   “You said that already.” Ren cracks his own drink open and sighs when it fizzes all over his hands.

   “You know what I mean,” Ryuji says, shoving a crumpled napkin at him. It’s got the ramen shop logo in the corner. “I mean, you do, don’t you?”

   “The soda?”

   “No, dude,” Ryuji starts, then catches Ren’s face and scowls. “Aw, you’re messing with me.”

   “I actually don’t know. I’m pretty sure I should be thanking you,” says Ren. “You saved my life.”

   Ryuji shrugs. “You’ve saved mine a hundred times,” he says. “It’s no big deal.”

   “Big deal to me.” Ren nudges Ryuji’s shoulder, so Ryuji nudges him back and almost makes him drop his drink. “Not just because you snapped me out of it before I killed you all. I mean—what you said.” Ren averts his eyes. “Thanks.”

   “It’s no big deal,” Ryuji says again. “Also, no way you would’ve killed us all. We’d’ve taken you out first.”

   “In your dreams.” Ren tosses the balled-up napkin back at him, but Ryuji just catches it. “What were you thanking me for?”

   Ryuji shrugs. “I dunno, man,” he says. “You ever just get really glad you met someone?”

   “Yeah,” says Ren.

   They stop at the entrance of Otaguro Park. Ren hadn’t even realised they’d been walking towards it. Ryuji looks up at the gate. “Wanna go in?” he asks, so Ren nods.

   In the autumn months, the maple and gingko trees here colour the park a brilliant golden red. They’re at the tail-end of that now that they’ve hit the freefall into the colder December weather, but there are still a respectable number of deep-red leaves clinging to the branches. Ren’s heard that there’s a week or so where they light the place up at night so you can really see the trees glow, but it seems they’ve missed it by a couple days.

   Besides, it’s only early afternoon. Ryuji is squatting by a koi pond, watching the fish wriggle happily in the cool water.

   “Don’t you reckon they get cold,” he asks Ren, but Ren shrugs, knowing very little about fish and their temperature regulation needs.

   He squats next to Ryuji. They gaze at the fish.

   “It was really weird,” Ryuji says abruptly. “Holdin’ his hand when he disappeared.”

   Ren glances at him.

   “Why’d you take it?” he says, after a short pause.

   “I dunno,” says Ryuji. “I didn’t think about it. Just, he reached out, and…”

   A koi fish jumps out of the water.

   “They just don’t feel like normal Shadows, y’know?” says Ryuji, eyes on the fish. “‘Specially the ones that ain’t huge like the rest of ‘em. Most Shadows turn into monsters, like Kamoshida. Even that freakin’ puppet had his face, though. And these last two… Ah, I dunno, man.”

   “They’re too human in the wrong ways,” says Ren. Ryuji nods.

   “Kinda feels like they’re just defendin’ themselves, you know,” he says. “Or somethin’. Look too much like him. It’s weird they can’t talk, cos it’s like fighting a dumb animal. Don’t they all seem real scared to you?”

   None of Akechi’s Shadows have delivered grand speeches about conquering the world. Even Futaba’s Shadow had given them a fairly strong indication of what was going on with her, that overwhelming guilt which had given birth to a resolve to lock herself up in her mind and die. Akechi’s Shadows have lashed out, tried to destroy them, sure. But it feels different in a way that’s growing more and more impossible to ignore. Desperate to fend them off, more than anything, like each one is the final bastion standing for a world that could crumble at any moment.

   “He looked scared, anyway,” Ryuji says quietly. “I was looking right at him when he—you know.”

   He sniffs when Ren puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m alright, man.”

   “Thanks,” says Ren.

   Ryuji looks at him in surprise. “What for now?”

   “Taking his hand,” says Ren. “Coming with me. Everything.”

   Ryuji’s expression morphs into something almost offended. “Dude, you don’t gotta thank me for coming with you,” he says. “Ride or die, right?”

   Ren knocks the fist that Ryuji holds out.

   “Anyway, we gotta see this through,” Ryuji says. “I guess none of us really knew Akechi except you. I just thought he was some arrogant bastard who wanted to burn shit down. The more we see of his Palace, though… I really think we gotta save him. Even if you didn’t say to keep going, I don’t think I could turn back now.”

   “I don’t know that I knew him, either,” Ren murmurs.

   “Doesn’t matter,” Ryuji says firmly. “That just makes you even cooler. No matter who it is, you seriously can’t let anyone go without fightin’ for ‘em, huh?”

   Looking into Ryuji’s shining, determined eyes, Ren remembers with startling clarity the day he met Arsene.

   “I’m really glad it was raining my first day at Shujin,” he says. Ryuji’s face splits into a grin.

   The Studio might be the most irritating Wing yet.

   “Don’t jinx it,” Mona mutters. The Thieves, remembering the Bard’s ominous promises of a distant ‘horror’, pack up their complaints and zip.

   As a child, Ren had taken ballet for a little while. He relays this to the others the fourth or so time he runs directly into a mirror and leads the rest of them in a little pile-up behind him, and Ann and Haru egg him on with such enthusiasm it almost makes him feel guilty for informing them he’d given it up after a scant few months.

   “What’d you do instead?” Ryuji asks, and Ren says, “Gymnastics,” which delights the group so much he decides not to tell them that he’d only lasted a couple years there, too.

   The backstage of the Studio is functionally a hall of mirrors set in an infuriating maze which seems to loop infinitely in on itself. The novelty of the mirrors had faded fast—somewhere around the time they had realised that the mirrors were not innocuously reflective, a fact which had revealed itself when Fox’s reflection had melted into a Macabre, oozed out of the glass, and granted him a scythe to the face.

   “I was merely inspecting the surface,” Fox says indignantly after they’ve dispatched it and Joker is diligently rubbing Relax Gel into his shoulders. He’s still shaking with residual fear. “It’s crystal clear.”

   “Admiring yourself, more like,” Oracle mutters. “Stay away from the mirrors, team. Ouch!” she adds, driving Prometheus directly into one and bouncing off with a little bonk. Panther rushes to pick her up, but she’s wobbling back into the air again. “I hate this freakin’ place!”

   The mirrors are bad enough—without Oracle’s clear sight and Joker’s third eye, navigation is a hellscape. Worse still is the traps.

   “I,” Skull grinds out as Fox tries to pull him out of the floor by the armpits, “hate this effin’ place.”

   His boot pops out of the floor with a horrible squelch. The trick tile ripples innocently back into place, as if it hadn’t just absorbed his whole leg like a muddy glue.

   “Come on,” Joker says wearily. “I think we’re halfway to the end.”

   He’s wrong, it turns out. Two-thirds to go.

   The last safe room before they meet the Shadow brings with it a surprise. It’s not Leblanc. It’s not even Akechi’s apartment.

   “This is the men’s restroom at Shibuya station,” says Fox in surprise.

   “Eugh!” Panther squeaks, darting away from the urinals to duck behind Skull.

   The girls don’t seem keen to explore, besides Noir, who appears fascinated by all the unique fixtures of a public bathroom. Joker wanders between the stalls, looking for a clue as to why this, of all places, is a safe room in Akechi’s Palace.

   One stall is more detailed than the others—the last one, right next to the wall. Mona peers in. “Guess he spent more time in this one,” he meows.

   “I don’t get it,” says Skull. “Why a toilet? Ain’t he all stuffy and clean?”

   They all look at Joker. Joker shrugs helplessly.

   Then an unexpected voice pipes up.

   “Checkpoint,” says Oracle.

   “What?” asks Panther.

   Oracle perches herself on the edge of the bathroom counter. It’s a good thing the place is cognitive, or she’d topple straight into the sink. “Public bathrooms are like the safe rooms of the real world,” she says. “Out there, you’re exposed. Nowhere to hide. Reality’s not built for privacy. Can’t run home every time you need a breather. So where’s the one place where you know nobody’s gonna see you?”

   Queen exhales. “Toilet stall,” she says.

   “Bingo,” says Oracle.

   They look around. It’s a bathroom, so it’s not exactly designed to seat a party of eight, even if one is a cat. Noir’s joined Oracle on the counter. Panther, Skull, and Queen have deigned to stand. Fox has gingerly seated himself on a closed toilet seat.

   Joker gazes into the mirror. It’s not as clear as the ones in the hall outside, though it’s clean enough. He tries to imagine Akechi here—prim and proper Akechi with his pressed slacks and perfect posture, hunched in the last stall of a public bathroom, readying himself to resume the show the moment the lock clicks back open. The illusion ripples a little as he contemplates himself in the mirror and for a moment they all see the dressing room—designed for a dance studio this time, with a costume rack in the corner and a vanity against the wall. It’s never seemed so fitting. How cruel it is: to have so little space, when one has so much to hide.

   The curry stays tucked away. Nobody feels much like eating in the bathroom, so they carry on.

   “What were you like as a kid?” Ren asked.

   They were leaning on a wall outside the arcade, taking a breather. Akechi was better at Dance Dance Rebellion than he looked, a fact Ren was trying to come to terms with over a can of soda.

   Akechi hummed. “Do I know how to answer that? Do you remember what you were like as a child?”

   “My dad said I used to be louder.”

   Akechi laughed. “I could see that,” he said. There was a strange fondness in his voice that caught Ren off-guard. “That’s what I mean, though. For the most part, all you’d have to rely on are the testimonials of others, and I don’t really have anyone to ask.”

   Fair point. Ren looked at his shoes, a little embarrassed.

   Akechi seemed to take pity on him. “I do remember how I used to think and feel,” he offered. “I was louder, too.” His smile turned distant. “I spent a lot of time with my mother.”

   Ren teetered for a moment, then dared to ask: “How old were you? When she…”

   “Young enough,” Akechi said.

   Ren didn’t press it. He nodded, wearing an expression he hoped said go on.

   “It was different after she was gone,” Akechi said. “She was all I had, so I trusted her completely. She always did what she thought was best for me. I thought all grown-ups must be like that. Then she left.”

   There was a crease between his brows now. Ren said, “Sorry. We don’t have to talk about this.”

   Akechi turned piercing eyes on him. “You want to know, right?” he asked.

   “I…”

   “I don’t mind,” Akechi reassured him. “It was a long time ago. I’ve told the story many times since.”

   But how much of the story he’d told had been real?

   “I called the ambulance when I found her and they took her to hospital. They couldn’t bring her back, though.” Akechi’s voice was casual, though he wasn’t looking at Ren anymore. He wasn’t looking at much of anything. Ren got the sense he was seeing something from a very long time ago.

   “I’m sorry,” he said.

   Akechi smiled at him again, resolidifying and snapping the plastic back into place. “Thank you,” he said warmly. Ren watched his own good intentions crackle and snap in the hearth, crumbling feebly away like twigs too fragile to belong in the fireplace at all.

   Akechi continued, “She’d been to the hospital once or twice. They always released her after a few hours, so I figured she must have been fine. They always fixed me when I was sick. But then she was gone. It was hard to keep the faith after that.”

   He stared into his drink.

   “Sorry to bring the mood down like this,” he said brightly. “You’ve heard more than enough of my sob story by now, I’m sure.”

   “I asked,” said Ren. “Thank you. For sharing.”

   “Of course, Ren. I’m more than happy to share my life with you.”

   “You…” It was hard to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. Ren had never lost anyone, unless you counted their old family dog who’d died when he was two. He’d loved her, of course, but he got the sense this was a little different, and he wasn’t sure where was fine to tread. “You sound like you were close.”

   Akechi didn’t say anything for a moment, and Ren worried he might have said something wrong.

   “She loved me,” Akechi said after a pause. “No matter what. I was a bother,” and he laughed, “a pest, really, quite often, but she always made time for me. I never had to hide anything from her. Not that I really would have had many secrets at that age anyway, but it was nice. She’d scold me if I did something wrong, of course, but I knew she loved me. It was… I thought it was unconditional.”

   Ren frowned. “What do you—”

   “Sorry,” Akechi said quickly. “That was a strange thing to say.”

   It wasn’t your fault, Ren wanted to say, but didn’t. He hated when people said things like that. It felt trite, and patronising, and he felt certain Akechi’s face would slam shut the moment he tried something so presumptuous. Still, Akechi’s voice had contained a little more contempt than Ren was comfortable hearing and he couldn’t tell precisely where it had been directed.

   “Do you ever wonder,” Akechi started, and stopped. “Ah, I don’t know if I should ask, actually.”

   “Tell me.”

   Akechi twisted his lip. “After your arrest,” he said. Ren stiffened. “How did your parents react?”

   “About how you’d expect,” Ren said. He felt he owed it to Akechi to say more than that, after the soul-baring conversation they’d just had, but somehow he couldn’t muster it. It was exhausting to talk about. He’d spent so long dwelling and longer training himself out of it, so long now that he could barely muster the energy to think about it if he had to.

   But Akechi just nodded, like he hadn’t needed any more detail than that. “Did you ever wonder if you’d broken something beyond repair?” he murmured, more contemplative than enquiring. “Did they look at you differently, once they knew?”

   “Akechi?”

   Akechi sighed. “Never mind all that. I’m sorry I asked. I’m a little caught up in my head right now.”

   “It’s okay,” said Ren. “I just… don’t know what to say.”

   “Why would you?” Akechi agreed. “It’s not the sort of thing the average person expects to be asked.”

   “It’s not the sort of thing the average person asks,” said Ren. “Neither of us is very average, though.”

   “That’s rather arrogant of you,” said Akechi, “so thank you for saving me from having to say it myself.”

   Ren smiled.

   “Why did you ask?” he couldn’t help but say, and Akechi looked distant again.

   “I suppose,” he murmured, “it’s hard not to think about. I’ve spent most of my life without her. It’s hard not to wonder what she’d think of me. I don’t think she… Ah, it’s useless to dwell on hypotheticals.”

   “Can I—ask,” Ren said tentatively.

   Akechi looked a bit vague, and this didn’t change when he turned to give Ren half a smile. “Always, Ren,” he said.

   Given permission, Ren fumbled for a question and found none that encompassed what he wanted to know. What did he want to know?”

   “Usually,” said Akechi, “people ask what she was like, or if we got along. Or how I coped, afterwards.”

   Ren shut his mouth. Part of him was relieved Akechi understood his pause; the rest of him was a little frustrated that he’d lost the chance to find his own inquiry, perhaps something less run-of-the-mill. “Tell me about her,” he said anyway. It was a start, if nothing else.

   Akechi hummed.

   “To be honest, I don’t know how much I know,” he said. “Children don’t really know their parents, do you know that? Not when you’re young. To me, she was only ever my mother. But she was a person outside of me, outside of having me and raising me. I didn’t think about it until years after she’d already gone and I’d grown up.”

   Ren wasn’t sure he understood—but both of his parents were still around, and maybe he was old enough by now that he didn’t know what he might have missed.

   Akechi looked at his probably confused face and laughed. “Sorry. That’s quite a long-winded way of saying I don’t know that I’m qualified to tell you about her.” He brushed some hair out of his face, though it hadn’t really been much in his way at all. “She was kind, I suppose. To be honest, the moments I remember most clearly are the ones I’d rather leave behind. Days when I was rude, or childish, and the look on her face.” He laughed again, more bitterly. “How typical.”

   “Do you… have a lot of regrets?” Ren asked him.

   Akechi finally looked at him again. “That’s a fairly loaded question, Joker,” he said playfully. “I think I’ll need some payment in kind.”

   “I don’t think I have any regrets.” Was that true? Ren didn’t know. He didn’t think about it much, not anymore. In the weeks after his arrest, while his parents frantically made arrangements and avoided eye contact, he’d lie staring at the ceiling thinking about how he’d gotten to where he was. What he’d done along the way that had sent him down that road. He relived every minute choice, every split-second before the police had grabbed him by the wrists and shoved him into their car, and wondered—if he’d not stopped to buy a drink on the way home, if he’d taken just a little longer helping his friend with her homework, if he’d skipped his after-school activities and gone home for a nap…

   But did he regret any of it? Not now, not anymore. Not after a year in Tokyo with a rebel’s spirit and then some rumbling justice in his head, not after realising time after time after time and again that he’d lay down his life for the ones he was lucky enough to call his friends, his liberty for anyone who deserved the same and had it taken from them.

   Do I have regrets? Should I?

   “I should have gotten melon,” Ren said, looking at his soda. And Akechi threw his head back and laughed, because you never fail to surprise me, Joker—although I shouldn’t be surprised anymore. Of course someone like you couldn’t have regrets. The world is very much your playground, and time on your side.

   “He bought me another one,” Ren murmurs.

   “Huh?”

   “Nothing,” says Ren, snapping out of it. “Just craving soda.”

   “We can get some when we’re outta here,” says Ryuji. “You’re buying, though.”

   “Okay.”

   The Dancer turns out to be a glittering Shadow with bloody pointe shoes and a penchant for moving so quickly the Thieves can barely see him. They waste time trying to figure out what he’s wearing—it seems, at first, to be mostly silk and tulle, like a ballet dancer.

   “That bit looks like a flamenco skirt, though,” Panther points out, and they all murmur in agreement—it’s not a full skirt, just a dangling bit of fabric that juts out of his hip.

   “The patterning down his torso is reminiscent of Irish dancing dress,” muses Fox. “What gorgeous embroidery. If only he would slow for a moment so I—"

   “Can you guys shut up about fashion,” Skull yells, furiously lashing out once more at the space where the Shadow had been only half a second prior.

   Joker’s never known all that much about dance. From his few months in ballet, though, he is pretty sure that whatever the Dancer is doing is not ballet. At least, not straight ballet.

   “Is he effin’ breakdancing?”

   Yes, and there’s none of that in ballet. Joker is fairly certain of this.

   The Dancer employs an eclectic mishmash of styles in a seemingly random pattern, but the end goal becomes apparent right away: he never stops moving, is completely unpredictable, and all this makes him nigh on impossible to hit. A constant stream of Masukundas leave them all sluggish and clumsy. What’s more, the constant fluttering of fabric and glitter makes him an infuriating target, and he leaves bloodstains wherever he steps, which is unsettling at best. The team is gasping for air within minutes and Joker is forced to swap in the reserve group, which fares no better—they’re fast running out of Snuff and Chewing Souls; Noir, Skull, and Fox are heaving with the effort it takes to keep up the physical attacks, and none of them can maintain enough Sukundas or Masukukajas to make up the difference. The Dancer’s attacks, which always land, are not particularly strong. But he is wearing them down.

   “Doesn’t this freak ever get tired?” Skull demands, pitching into hysteria. “Damn it, stay still!”

   “We have to get him to stop dancing,” Queen pants. “If we can… freeze him, or… get him to fall asleep…”

   Joker fumbles through his Personas until he finds one with Ailment Boost.

   “Get in close together,” Oracle orders. “On three, use whatever you’ve got that inflicts Sleep or Freeze. Something’s gotta hit!”

   Nothing does.

   “I’m out of SP again,” Panther wails, and Joker digs through his pockets, but even the last sticky Soul Drop is gone. Instead, he turns up a Sleep Vial.

   “Here,” he says, turfing everything out of his coat and tossing more Freeze Sprays and Sleep Vials at his friends. “Again.”

   “On three,” Oracle warns. “One…”

   “FOOTLOOSE SUCKS,” Panther bellows right as she lets loose with the Freeze Spray.

   It’s unclear whether this is actually what does it, but the Dancer teeters as he’s hit with the spray. Two more immediately follow it, along with a Bufudyne from Fox, and he shrieks in terror as he finds himself frozen solid.

   An exhausted Skull turns to Joker, dead serious. “Let me kick his shins just one time.”

   “You’re on your last legs!” Oracle reminds him. “Inari, you’re up!”

   The Dancer is encased in ice, screeching and wriggling frantically. Every moment it’s still seems to cause it pain. Its panicked gaze zeroes in on Fox, who is advancing grimly with his sword hefted.

   “I am sorry to rid the world of something so beautiful,” he informs it, before Kamu Susano-o smashes it with a stick.

   The terrified Shadow dissolves at once, leaving a soggy block of melting ice.

   “Wow,” says Mona. “That was… easy.”

   A number of screens flash up before Prometheus. “His defence was really low,” Oracle reports. “Agility off the charts, but tons of weak spots.”

   “So his only chance was to keep moving so he wouldn’t get caught,” Noir muses.

   Fox leans down to fish a gleaming, soggy ticket out of the puddle.

   “The next Wing is the House of Cards,” he reports.

   Queen gives a little gasp. “Of course,” she says. “The horror. It must be a magician.”

   “That ain’t that horrifying,” says Skull dubiously.

   “Haven’t you ever seen one of those terrifying tricks where they cut someone in half or lock themselves in a water tank?” Panther shudders. “If they can do that stuff in the real world, I don’t wanna know what a Shadow can do.”

   “Hopefully this is the last one,” Mona says wearily to general agreement. “I’ve had enough of this Palace.”

   They all look at Joker.

   “Head home for the day,” he says. “We need to restock anyway.”

   None of them will look at the puddle where the Dancer had been just moments before. The water is creeping slowly toward them as the ice melts, still tinged pink with the blood from its feet.

   The diary Sojiro had given him at the beginning of the year had a little flippy calendar as its first few pages, which Ren used to carefully record all his commitments and opportunities. Sometimes he flicks between months, reading through everything he’d done. Reads the diary entries from the days he found most noteworthy. He doesn’t really write anything much in there, no details, nothing incriminating. On a clear Tuesday in July, he’d gone to Big Bang Burger with Ann. That was all it said in the diary, at least, but Ren remembered it as the day he’d told some bad joke about skeletons and made Ann snort juice out her nose, and then used a bit of his uniform mopping it up. It’s still a bit orange, if you knew where to look. August saw him at the gym with Ryuji every weekend, the one month they’d managed no missed days, which meant treadmills and punchbags and training schedules but it also meant the more unwritten comparing bruises from the Metaverse and snickering at the guy who always took more weights than he could handle and slacking off to eat snacks in the corner and gossip about girls.

   The entry for the ninth of June was blank, and right now it’s the loudest entry in Ren’s mind. He has to wonder what might have happened if he’d filled the subsequent pages a little more with its star. Learned his life and lies before he’d strongarmed his way into Ren’s life. Put a little more effort into spotting those moments where he’d sidestepped a question or smiled his way through an odd moment. Maybe Ren could have committed to memory some pattern, the way he’d tried to do for Dance Dance Rebellion after being told that was the secret, though hopefully with more success.

   Sometimes it’s wishful thinking and indulgent questions about what might have happened if they’d met a year, two years earlier. Maybe Ren would know his heart by now instead of trampling through it in a split tailcoat and domino mask.

   Or maybe he’s just a fool, and this always had to be the endgame, no matter where the starting line was.

Chapter Text

               [Akechi] Ren?

               [Akechi] I know we’re supposed to catch that movie today, but…

               [Akechi] I’m so sorry to do this, but I have to cancel our plans.

               [Akechi] An urgent case has come up. I’m needed in Yokohama.

               [Akechi] It’s very unlikely I’ll be back in time to meet you.

               [Ren] I was looking forward to it.

               [Akechi] I really do apologise.

               [Akechi] Will you let me make it up to you?

               [Ren] How?

               [Akechi] How about I bring you back a souvenir?

               [Akechi] Another little item for your collection? 😊

               [Ren] I’d rather spend time with you, but okay.

               [Akechi] I’m flattered.

               [Akechi] Two souvenirs?

               [Ren] Deal.

               [Akechi] Every man has his price!

               [Akechi] When next I have some free time, I’ll come straight to Leblanc.

               [Akechi] I’ll even bump you to the top of my priorities list.

               [Ren] What else is on that list?

               [Akechi] That’s a secret. 😉

               [Akechi] Are you upset? I do hate to let you down, Ren.

               [Ren] It’s okay. Work comes first.

               [Akechi] Thank you for your understanding.

               [Akechi] I’ll see you soon.

   “Aren’t you going out with that detective kid today?” Sojiro asked him.

   “He cancelled.” Ren poked at his curry. “Need help around the shop?”

   “Not today.” Ren didn’t look up, but he could feel Sojiro’s scrutinising gaze on him. Sure enough: “Actually,” said Sojiro. “What say I teach you another coffee technique today? Family secret, but if you’re going to be moping around the shop all day, I might as well get some use out of you.”

   Ren managed not to smile and give the game away. “Okay.”

   “Finish that off and wash up, then.”

   The café was reasonably quiet for the remainder of the day, so Sojiro lectured him on beans and tried not to look like he was trying to keep him busy. Ren was mopping up a spill on the counter when the bell rang.

   “Are you closed?”

   Ren looked up.

   Akechi was standing in the doorway, looking somewhat rumpled. Still in his work clothes with his hair in mild disarray, like he’d been on the train for a long time. He smiled.

   Sojiro spoke up before Ren could. “What are you doing here? I thought you stood him up.”

   Akechi chuckled, self-conscious. “I really am sorry about that. Did I spoil your day?” He sighed. “I know it’s late. I was going to catch an early train tomorrow morning, but… I managed to finish up a bit sooner than I expected, so I thought I’d come home tonight and see you. I’m glad I caught you before you closed up shop.”

   Sojiro sniffed. “We don’t normally serve customers who come in so near closing,” he began.

   “Thanks for coming,” Ren interjected.

   Sojiro shot him a look, but Ren shook his head.

   Rolling his eyes, Sojiro muttered, “Just keep your head above water, alright?” Out loud, he said, “I’ll leave you two to catch up, then. Flip that sign, would you?”

   Akechi glanced backward and said, “Oh, of course.” He opened the door and flipped the sign to ‘closed’, wisely not commenting on the fact that as Sojiro was heading out anyway, he could quite easily have done it himself.

   Once they were alone, Akechi took a seat at the counter.

   “The usual?” Ren asked him.

   Akechi smiled and put a few bills down. “A little late for coffee, perhaps,” he said. “But I admit I’ve been craving yours.”

   Ren poured him a cup. “Yokohama cafés not stacking up?”

   “Not even close.” Akechi rubbed his temples. “I would much rather have been at the cinema with you today. What a dry matter that turned out to be.”

   “Serves you right for standing me up.” Ren hesitated, then poured a cup for himself as well. “Where’s my souvenir?”

   Akechi grinned and plopped his attaché case onto the counter. As he was opening it, he said, “Do you get free coffee here, then?”

   “Usually. You’re shouting me tonight, though.”

   “I suppose I deserve that,” Akechi sighed. He put a few more bills on the counter, then stacked a takeout box and a small lucky cat on top. “I’m afraid I didn’t have much time for sightseeing, but I did head to Chinatown for lunch. I brought you a steamed bun.” He frowned. “Of course, it’s ice cold by now…”

   “Thanks.” Ren grinned back. “Just one?”

   “Aren’t we greedy.” Akechi clicked his tongue. “And this, of course,” he said, gesturing at the lucky cat. “I always find it amusing that the maneki-neko is considered a Chinese symbol. They’re Japanese in origin, of course, but they’re so popular over there they often get mistaken for originating elsewhere. I couldn’t resist the novelty of a figurine which had gained its popularity off rumours and misconception… Fitting, don’t you think?” Akechi’s smile turned sly. “For the leader of the Phantom Thieves, who’ve gained their following off pretending to be heroes of justice.”

   Ren raised his hand like the cat and waved it back and forth.

   “You’re doing a pretty bad job of making it up to me,” he said.

   Akechi laughed. “You’re right, sorry. How about this?” He slid a flyer across the table. “It turns out the theatre in Yongen is running a promotion tonight. The movie you wanted to see starts in ten minutes.”

   Ren stared at him. “They never stay open this late.”

   “Sometimes they do,” Akechi purred. “When requested by a public figure who’s offered to do some free promotion.” He drained his cup and gestured for Ren to do the same. “You should hurry and finish that coffee, Joker, unless you want to miss the film a second time.”

   Ren shook his head in amazement. “You know I didn’t really care about the movie,” he said. “I just wanted to hang out with you.”

   “Is that so?”

   Ren grabbed his steamed bun. “Nah. Wanted to see the movie. Let’s go.”

   Akechi stood gracefully and pulled open the door. “After you,” he said, eyes sparkling.

   Ren bowed, then paused. “Thanks,” he said.

   “What for?”

   “I thought you said you wouldn’t get back in time,” Ren said. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

   “I didn’t, either,” said Akechi. “But one must try, after all, mustn’t he?”

   “To not let his friends down?”

   “To manifest the outcome he wishes to see,” says Akechi, “with what little power he is given.”

   Much like everything else in Akechi’s mind, the fifth Wing is at once familiar and like nothing they’ve ever seen. At its mouth, the Phantom Thieves come to a fumbling stop in an inelegant little pile, eyes up, jaws slack.

   “Damn,” says Ryuji, which kind of sums the place up.

   The House of Cards is an assault on the eyes, plain and simple like the décor is not. Cards flutter from an indistinct ceiling space, much like they had in the Casino. Ren doesn’t notice that Yusuke has been collecting them until they’ve paused to catch their breath and Yusuke fans them out before him.

   “There are no jokers,” he says, in his sweet, calm voice, betraying nothing at all of whatever he might be thinking.

   The walls all jut at uncomfortable angles, large playing cards leant precariously against each other all working to prop the place up with no thought as to creating room. The space is not designed to be occupied. It is spectacle first and nothing after.

   They veer awkwardly through winding paths and unnatural corners, the cards creating an illusory tilt like they’re wandering through a kaleidoscope. The overwhelming visual noise leaves diamonds and spades spotted across Joker’s vision; twice the others bump into him, apologising that with his black coat and red gloves and domino mask, he blends into the walls a little too well.

   The cards, Morgana notes, are not in good shape.

   “There’re tears everywhere,” he points out. “They’re all creased.”

   “There’s tape on this one,” Ann says, tentatively reaching out to touch it. The card crumples at once, splitting down the middle with a tremendous ripping sound, and the cards around it begin to fold even before she gets her bearings together enough to shriek. “Wait, no! No, no, no!”

   Mercurius is there before Ren can say a word, holding the remaining cards up so they don’t topple on their heads. Morgana, who has his little arms up in a mirror of his Persona, shouts, “Hurry up and fix it!”

   “How?” Ann wails.

   “There’s tape in my pack!”

   “Is that going to work,” Makoto says nervously. They’re about to find out: Ryuji is fumbling through the bag that Morgana tosses him. He draws out an improbably large roll of duct tape and, with Haru’s help, slaps it onto the card.

    But when they stack it back up against the wall, it sags right along the tear.

   The paper walls creak.

   “It’s not enough,” Haru gasps.

   “Hurry,” Morgana groans, struggling to keep Mercurius steady. The walls creak louder; Mercurius’ knees wobble. Ren glances nervously around them; cards they may be, but they’re large and weighty. If they come down now, he and his friends will be crushed.

   In a desperate rush, Ann squeaks, “Diarahan!” and Hecate appears in a whirl of turquoise light. The card wiggles feebly; the tear seals itself shut.

   The walls settle.

   “Whoa,” says Ryuji.

   Ren takes the tape from his slack hands. He and Yusuke apply several more layers, just in case, blending the card back in with its ragged fellows. Morgana dismisses Mercurius with a relieved huff.

   “Okay, so don’t touch them,” he says weakly.

   Yusuke is examining the card. “If healing magic works on these, perhaps the cards in this Wing are more directly representative of Akechi’s psyche,” he says. “That’s quite a departure from any environmental features we’ve seen so far.”

   “It’s pretty fragile, in that case,” Ann says shakily. Wordlessly, Ren passes her a thermos. She shoots him a grateful smile and takes a sip of coffee, cradling the slightly warm cup in both hands.

   Ryuji is grinning. “Hey,” he says, “does that mean if we just use healing spells on this place we can fix his effed up brain?”

   “That’s not how it works!”

   “It looks like there’s a safe room around the corner,” Makoto interjects. “Let’s take a moment to rest, shall we?”

   “I’m starting to get a headache,” Yusuke agrees.

   The safe room, unfortunately, is a reprise of the Shibuya bathroom, so they form an uncomfortable little huddle around the mirror while Makoto tries her best to make the bathroom countertop work like a desk. She’s got notes sprawled out over the faucet and the map dips into the sink. The only saving grace is that the distortion cannot recreate the dubious little puddles, though she still handles it somewhat gingerly as though anticipating damp.

   Ryuji is leaning over her notes with uncharacteristic scrutiny, which surprises Ren slightly until he realises Ryuji is just surreptitiously checking his hair in the mirror.

   “So,” says Makoto, clapping her hands, which startles Ryuji into dropping his bat into the urinal. “Let’s go over what we know.”

   Nobody responds; Ren glances around and Yusuke and Ann are whispering with Futaba while Haru confers with Morgana.

   Another look at Makoto reveals a harried resignation, just visible from under her hard metal mask. She tucks her hair behind her ear.

   “Guys,” Ren says quietly, and they all turn to him.

   He nods for Makoto to continue and she nods back, not looking at him. “So,” she says again, anyway. “This is our fifth Wing. Based on what the Bard said, this is probably the last one we’re looking at before we reach the VIP Box, which is likely where the Treasure is. Does that sound about right, Oracle?”

   “Yep,” Futaba reports. “We’re definitely close. At least, closer than before. I can actually see the Treasure now. I mean, I can’t see it, but I can tell it exists. So we must be close!” She throws a Devil Fruit at Ren to get his attention, which is literally so unnecessary because he is already looking at her, but it’s fine because he catches it anyway. “Joker, how’s your Third Eye?”

   He’s tried it a few times. It doesn’t give him a headache anymore, but it doesn’t reveal much. Also: “It works better in places we’ve already been,” he says, and taps his brain. “Hindsight is 20/20.”

   She rolls her eyes at him, but says, “Same here.” She flashes up a diagram and spins it to face the group. “Here’s the map that Shadow gave us in the lobby,” she says. It’s covered in little notes and highlights—treasure spots, safe rooms, strong Shadows, but only in the first four Wings. The fifth Wing is fuzzy and the area beyond almost completely illegible, but there is a glowing mass visible just past where they are. “I’m guessing that’s the VIP Box,” Futaba says, pointing. “And that blob’s gotta be the Treasure. It’ll clear up more the closer we get.”

   “So we should be in the final stretch,” says Makoto. “Are we all feeling okay?”

   “Give me back my Devil Fruit,” Futaba asks Ren, who eats it.

   “Guys,” Makoto says, looking like a harried schoolteacher.

   Ann stretches her arms. “I’m kind of tired,” she offers. “Sorry. I know we haven’t got far today, but…”

   “This place gives me a headache,” Ryuji says. The others mutter agreement. “Can’t we come back later, Joker?”

   Ren can’t look at Makoto, though in his periphery he sees her bite her lip.

   Futaba is scanning her map. “I’m pretty sure the Shadow from this Wing is just through this next part,” she says. “We should be able to come straight here and take him down.” She glances at Ren. “We could do it today if you want, but…”

   “It’s okay,” he says. “Let’s go home for today. We have time.”

   “The election’s getting closer,” Makoto warns. “Remember, we don’t know what’s waiting for us in the VIP Box. We can’t afford to waste time.”

   “It’s not a waste,” Ren says quietly. “I have you guys to think about, not just the mission.”

   Nobody says anything for a tense moment.

   “Fine,” says Makoto finally. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

   Ann touches Ren’s shoulder as they shuffle back to the entrance. “Hey, you okay?”

   “Yeah.”

   It’s difficult to feel grim under the force of Ann’s bright smile. “It’ll be fine,” she offers.

   “Yeah,” Ren says again, because what else can he say?

               [Makoto] Hi, Ren.

               [Makoto] Are you busy today?

   “You haven’t seen Makoto in a while,” says Morgana.

   “We just saw her in the Palace.”

   “That’s not what I mean!” Morgana butts his hand until he resumes petting. “You’re gonna have to talk to her eventually. You can’t avoid her forever.”

   “I’m not.”

   “Prove it!”

               [Ren] I’ve got time.

   “Am I being goaded into social activities by my cat,” Ren realises.

   “I’m not a cat!”

               [Makoto] I thought we could go for a walk.

               [Makoto] Meet me at Inokashira Park in a half hour?

               [Ren] See you there.

   Inokashira Pond has always seemed more like a river to Ren than a pond. Maybe it’s the small-town boy in him—so much in the big city seems to understate itself in grandeur and scale while the rest fatally overperforms.

   Makoto is waiting by the swan boats. She’s holding a small clutch and is worrying the strap. She hasn’t spotted him yet.

   Compared to the relaxed surrounds of the park, she looks disconcertingly formal. Ren doesn’t think it has much to do with her clothing. There’s something about Makoto that so often makes her seem very slightly to the left of wherever she is—maybe the stiff line of her shoulders or the way she presses her legs together like it’ll make her harder to see. Something in her heart is so determined not to let her belong that she manifests it herself, like the real world is hers to shape with cognition the way the Metaverse is.

   She sees him approaching at last, and waves.

   “Hi,” she says. “Thanks for coming.”

   He gestures at the boats. “Part of the plan?”

   Truthfully, he does it mostly to watch her blanch at the idea. “Oh, no,” she squeaks. “That’s—mostly for couples, isn’t it, Ren-kun? Oh, you’re smiling.” Reluctantly, she smiles back. “Sorry. I suppose I’m on edge. Akechi’s Palace has been fairly taxing… well, I don’t need to tell you.”

   She shivers as a gust of wind blows past, hands going to her arms. The few leaves still clinging to the barren branches rattle in the breeze. Ren unwraps his scarf and hands it to her in a warm bundle. She looks so abashed it almost crosses into horror, but she takes it.

   “Thank you,” she says quietly. “I thought the peacoat would be enough today.”

   “We’re in a cold spell.”

   “Yes…”

   The silence that settles between them as they walk feels like a morning frost: not particularly out of place, but wont to leave more discomfort in its wake were one to touch it too clumsily. Ren, who at the best of times does not usually reach to break such silences, finds himself struggling with it. It’s less companionable than he’s used to. But after all, she’s called him out here, and he imagines she has something she’d like to say.

   If that’s the case, though, she seems in no rush to say it. His scarf is tucked awkwardly into the front of her coat and she looks like she’s trying not to breathe it in.

   “Are you cold?” she asks him. “I’m sorry I’ve taken your scarf.”

   He shakes his head. “I run warm.”

   “That’s good,” she offers.

   Ren’s about to fake a text just for something to do with his hands when he realises they’ve reached a little zoo. Makoto coughs—he turns and sees her rifling through her bag.

   “My treat,” she says, businesslike. “Do you like capybaras, Ren-kun? I think they have a few here… a guinea pig petting zoo, too.”

   “Is there a gift shop?”

   She smiles. “There’s a gift shop.”

   A few minutes later, holding a small guinea pig in his hands, the situation seems less insurmountable. The staff member monitoring the petting area seems a little vexed by the two of them, as guests are probably not meant to be actually sitting in the sawdust and also Ren is pretty sure the target audience is of a more three-years-old persuasion. They must have come at the right time, though, as there aren’t many toddlers here today, so Ren monopolises the guinea pigs’ time guiltlessly.

   Makoto is watching him.

   “You certainly look happy,” she says.

   He holds up his guinea pig. “Kurumi,” he says. She looks like a walnut.

   “I think they might already have names,” says Makoto, amused.

   “They do now.”

   Makoto sits down with him in the pen. In the corner of the room, the staff member lets out a near-imperceptible sigh.

   Ren offers her a black guinea pig. Nori. Makoto takes him and puts him in her lap, where he sniffs her buttons.

   “I owe you an apology,” she says.

   Ren looks at her, surprised enough that for a moment he thinks she’s talking to Nori. But no, her eyes are on him, and if anything it should be Nori apologising because he’s started chewing through the hem of her shirt.

   “What for?” Ren asks.

   She bites her lip. “Ren-kun, you’ve barely looked at me since we fought the Bard. I think we both know why.”

   “Surely I should apologise to you,” he says. “I nearly killed you.”

   “Even if that were your fault,” she says bluntly, “it would only make us square.”

   Ah. So they’re talking about this after all.

   “I think you resent me more than you let on,” she says.

   He thinks he resents her more than he’s ever let himself know. It wasn’t until the Bard poisoned his mind that he realised he’d been brewing the toxin himself, keeping it stored in a valve of his heart he hadn’t known about. If he’s been keeping that truth from his friends, it’s only because he himself hadn’t known it existed until the Bard stole his thoughts and put them to verse.

   Makoto is watching him. He’s been silent too long and she knows.

   Kurumi squeaks and finds his pocket. They’re not as roomy in his jeans as the pockets he wears as Joker, but she manages to stick her nose into one anyway. He touches her little tail, which wiggles.

   “I’m sorry,” he says. To Makoto, not the guinea pig. It’s as much of a concession as he can manage.

   The feeling he’s been holding since the Globe is ugly and acrid in the back of his throat. It doesn’t help that he’d let it fester into something foul, left it as something that’d fallen into a crack in his mind and rotted, leeching into restless dreams, and all the while he’d been left wondering what that awful smell could be. The fear, the helpless distrust—it’s not the worst he’s ever felt. That dubious honour was bestowed in a cold interrogation room, deep underground, beaten and bloody with something burning in his blood that makes him dizzy just to remember. It’s a close second. Ren hasn’t doubted for many months that there are at least six people and one cat he’d die for without a second thought. Even just wondering if any one of them might not care if he were gone… even just thinking of flinching if they were to raise a hand, it makes him feel disgusting. Like a traitor himself for daring to doubt them. And through it all, still afraid.

   But Makoto is just smiling, bitter with what looks like relief. “Don’t be,” she says. “Please don’t be sorry. I… actually need you to resent me. Otherwise I might never have realised you deserve to.”

   Bored with her inattentiveness, Nori has vacated her lap. She looks down, but doesn’t pick up another guinea pig.

   “Were you scared?” she asks him.

   “Yeah.” He hadn’t thought he was. He’d really thought it was fine. She’s looking sadly at him, and he figures he ought to keep going, so he says, “I,” but anything else he might have said gets stuck in his throat.

   She touches his arm, concerned, and his tongue unsticks.

   “I have nightmares,” he says.

   That’s not what he thought he was going to say. It is true. It’s still true. Morgana’s stopped commenting on the sweat soaking through his quilt when he starts awake at three in the morning, stopped following him when he stumbles down the stairs with a choked out “Bathroom” like it’s taking everything he’s got to say the word instead of retching it. Ignorance isn’t just bliss, it’s survival. The what-ifs never crowd his head before the fact—there’s too much strategy in there to make room, especially when the stakes are high enough that peeking over the edge doesn’t let him see what awaits him should he fall from them. But after?

   After? When everything’s gone fine and the tactics have bowed out? It’s harder to busy his mind enough night after night that the retroactive fears can’t creep into the gaps. They leave his blood icy. He never sees the forks in the road more clearly than after he’s passed them and has eyes on the cliff’s edge they would have led him off.

   That room was cold and too bright. One entrance, one exit, no furniture, cameras blinking. A thief’s nightmare. Two nights a week, sometimes three, sometimes more. Sometimes he wakes up and when his leg isn’t in pain he thinks he’s lost it, ordinary waking sensation too numb to feel after everything he’s just felt.

   He dreams that Sae leaves before he remembers himself—that she leaves before he can find his tongue to say ‘phone’—that she leaves in disgust because he can’t hand her a victory. He dreams that he can’t move his mouth, can’t move his arms, and she stays right there in front of him for a hundred hours just to watch him sitting stock still, tied up in something invisible.

   He dreams that they beat him until he screams his friends’ names in a prayer that only reaches the devil. That whatever they pumped into his veins rolls his eyes back and he finds himself slumped on the floor, sobbing out in his own mind to wake up before his last chance ends, unable to convince his body to move, as after all he is not a Phantom Thief of Limbs. That they lock the fucking door and rip his tongue out, tear his hair out, parade him in the streets before the cameras and the gods, sew his lips shut and stop him screaming while everyone he’s ever loved watches him in disgrace. He dreams that Akechi Goro opens the door into the room he wasn’t supposed to reach and wakes with the memory of his own brains splattering out the back of his head.

   Ren says, “I thought I was okay.”

   Kurumi scrambles off his lap when Makoto tentatively leans toward him. She hesitates first, like she thinks he might not want to touch her, but when she hugs him he buries his face in her shoulder. She has the grace not to comment on how badly he’s shaking.

   “Sorry,” she says. Her voice is thick. “I think I scared Kurumi off.”

   His laugh is wet. Lucky she’s wearing his scarf, really—she might not realise it’s damp before she gives it back.

   Their time in the guinea pig pen runs out, so they walk around the rest of the zoo. There are, in fact, capybaras. Makoto wasn’t lying.

   “Have you been here before?” she asks him.

   He shakes his head. “I didn’t know this was here.”

   “Oh, that’s right,” Makoto says, “you’re not from Tokyo originally. I always forget.” She shakes her head. “You fit in so naturally here… but I guess you’re just the type who fits in anywhere, right? Or maybe it’s just… so easy not to notice when you’re feeling out of place, because you’re so good at putting everyone at ease.”

   She sighs. He doesn’t know what to say, which happens a lot. People don’t seem to mind, usually, or notice.

   “I think I’ve been taking you for granted,” she says. “I was so naïve, thinking if we just did our best… everything would be fine. I guess I was assuming you were infallible, because you always seem like you are. But…”

   “I’m just a guy.”

   “Yes,” she agrees sadly. “Not our superhuman Joker. Just our friend Ren, who bleeds like the rest of us. Fate always seemed like your plaything.” She seems lost in thought. “But defying fate’s not the same as defying a good old-fashioned gun, is it?”

   “Can I ask you something?”

   “Please.”

   “It wasn’t just about me,” says Ren, “was it? It was about Sae.”

   Makoto visibly tries not to flinch. “What about her?”

   It’s a struggle to organise his thoughts without fleeing. Ren closes his fingers around the railing and watches the capybaras snuffling.

   “We didn’t have any intel about whether a person could collapse their own Palace naturally,” he says. “The plan depended on winning someone over who still had an active distortion.”

   Silence from next to him. He can’t look. He doesn’t want to see her expression.

   “If it had been anyone else but her, would you have made that bet?” he asks the capybaras. He doesn’t add, you just needed to have faith that your sister wasn’t so far gone that she couldn’t help herself.

   Right?

   Makoto exhales, long and shaky. He finally gathers the courage to look at her, and finds her face ashen, because she’s heard what he didn’t say.

   “Did I do that?” she whispers. “Is that what I risked your life for?”

   Ren doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

   Makoto’s hands are shaking so badly he starts to worry she’s going to drop her bag. She startles terribly when he covers her hands with his, closing his fingers around hers. She seems to force herself to look up at him.

   “Ren, I—” Her voice cracks a little. “I’m so sorry.”

   “It’s okay.”

   “It isn’t.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t see it. There were so many ways we could have beaten Akechi, but I… You said it yourself in the Palace. Hindsight is 20/20. In the moment, that really was my best plan. But I never thought about why.”

   She clams up. For a moment, it looks like whatever she wants to say next is causing her some pain.

   “I was jealous of Akechi,” she admits quietly, like he didn’t know. “Jealous of you. Oh, yes,” she adds, when he looks startled, because this he didn’t know. “You lead so effortlessly, Ren. Everyone respects you. It’s like you always know the right thing to do. I sound like Akechi-kun, don’t I?” She laughs again, harsh. “Like I said, I thought you were infallible. I’m starting to realise… Having everyone trust you implicitly like that? It’s a curse, too, isn’t it? Nobody thought for even a moment that anything could go wrong for you, because we trust you so much. Isn’t that stupid? It’s like we all forgot what brought you to Tokyo in the first place.”

   She steps back, so he lets go of her hands. She’s shaking less now, anyway—partway through that little speech, steel had re-entered her voice.

   “And you’re right,” she says, almost defiant, voice trembling like she’s forcing herself to hear it. “Yes, I trusted you. I trust you. But it was never just that. If it had been anyone but my sister, I don’t think I would have expected you to do the impossible. I guess I wanted to believe it wasn’t impossible.”

   A small capybara is watching them.

   Makoto’s voice shakes. “Ren… for the rest of my life, I’ll be sorry for what I put you through.”

   “I don’t want that,” he says.

   She jerks her head up, almost angry. “Don’t be too kind again! Get angry with me!”

   “I don’t want to,” he says. “You saved us. I didn’t have a plan.”

   “I almost got you killed!”

   “But you didn’t,” says Ren.

   On the nights he wakes up gasping, he usually splashes water onto his face. The cold shocks him into feeling, so he doesn’t wipe it away, even when the rivulets run down his jaw and under his collar. The floorboards creak when he climbs his way back up the stairs and he tilts his head back and forth to hear it in both ears. The scent of the curry soaks into the wood when it cooks each night and he can smell it, the warm spices and rich coffee grounds lingering in his clothes no matter how many times he takes them back from the laundromat.

   He counts the stars outside his window when he lies back down. Feels the breeze swirl in and rustle his shirt and it’s just nice to have a better reason to shiver. Some nights if he listens hard enough he can hear the traffic. Morgana is warm and heavy on his chest or nestled at his feet or tucked into the crook of his arm, little heart going and going and going, and Ren times his breaths to the pace. He purrs when he thinks Ren is having or just had a nightmare. The mattress is hard, and the quilt is warm, and the air is cool. And Ren is alive.

   And the bathroom tap, the stair rail, the warm body of his cat, they’re all easier to hold onto than any grudge. He can already feel reality washing the remnants away.

   “If it wasn’t for you,” he says, “I might be dead for real.”

   Makoto’s eyes are welling up.

   “Please just be angry with me,” she whispers. “Tell me you can’t trust me anymore. I can’t trust myself with you. Any of you.”

   “I can,” says Ren. “I do.”

   He does, he realises, beyond just saying what he thinks she needs to hear. The nightmares, when they melted, left the fear behind. Left the doubt to linger. But whenever he wakes with a start, frightened and disoriented and feeling more alone than he’s ever been, his eyes invariably fall on the shelf of mismatched curios by his bed. The shumai cushion sits next to his plant. She’d bought it for him in Chinatown. It’s not as warm as Morgana to hug, but is more receptive to being squeezed.

   Yes, the fear remains. The love is simply bigger, that’s all.

   He thinks about never meeting her. What if they’d turned her away back in June? Ren imagines never seeing the mischievous glimmer in her eyes when she’d presented him with the little dumpling cushion, never laughing at the startled look on her face at Suidobashi when that huge Gi-Nyant doll had been shoved into her arms. He imagines the cold wash of realising Akechi was going to kill him, and in the space where Makoto had raised her voice, hearing silence.

   “We need you,” Ren says.

   Makoto sniffs. She doesn’t seem convinced, but doesn’t argue. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

   “I understand, by the way,” she says quietly. “About Akechi. Why you like him so much.”

   This is such an apparent non-sequitur that Ren briefly doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

   “I’m finally realising how much we take advantage of you,” says Makoto. “Of how steady and easy-going you are. We even put you in danger because of it. You’re so reliable and constant that…” She winces. “I think sometimes we even fail to see you as a complete person,” she says, sounding a little horrified at herself. “Even when I spend time with you, it feels like I do all the talking. Like you just reflect back what I need to hear, to help myself. And I—I’ll owe you forever for everything you’ve done for me, but I’m just now realising how little I actually know about you, Ren, because I didn’t make the effort.

   “But Akechi did, didn’t he? Akechi never spent time with you because he needed your help. Every time he talked about you, even if it was to say he hated you... it was like he was endlessly fascinated by you. Like he really, really wanted to know you.” Makoto smiles. “You two had such a unique relationship. No wonder he mattered so much to you.”

   When she laughs, he knows it’s because he’s blushing—he can feel the warmth in his cheeks. He fiddles with his fringe, but she just smiles more indulgently still.

   “If you’ll let me, Ren,” she says, “I really do want to get to know you. You as a person with flaws, not just someone I can confide in. If you can forgive me, and if you really can trust me.”

   “I can. On both counts.”

   “I trust you too,” she tells him. “Not just as a fearless leader, now, but as a dear friend. And I’ll follow you. All the way through this Palace and beyond. We need to do this. And more than that… because I believe in you.”

   Something swells in his throat. He finds he can’t speak for a long moment, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

   When he finds his voice, he says, “Don’t regret your faith in me.”

   “I don’t. You’ve never let us down yet.”

   He shakes his head. “I mean don’t feel bad,” he says. “Nobody’s ever believed in me this much. You, all of you... you don’t know what it means to me.”

   She seems speechless, which suits him—he digs in his bag for a moment and takes out a little pouch.

   “I trust your judgement,” he tells her. She shoulders responsibility alongside him, not just as their tactician but frequently as the one to direct their movements. He can tell, now, that she’s finally starting to understand what that really means, to feel the weight of lives in her hands.

   She reaches automatically to take the pouch when he holds it out to her, and her eyes widen when she realises he’s given her their entire supply of Goho-Ms.

   “I’d trust you with my life,” says Ren.

   When she smiles at him, it’s as steely and sincere as he’s ever seen her.

   Leaving the gift shop some time later, the space in his bag which had been housing by the Goho-Ms is now occupied by a small wooden guinea pig, which he has graciously named Makoto after its benefactor.

   There are seven entrances to the Magician’s stage. Joker emerges gracefully through a trapdoor in the floor, but only after almost falling through the one concealed by the light fixture in the ceiling.

   He’s been on stage for all of four seconds before a white-gloved hand gently takes his. Joker looks up, startled, to see a domino mask and top hat gazing back at him. The Magician’s cloak is sweeping, inky black, and lined in red. He gestures for Joker to come forward and join him. His little table is velveteen and draped in stars.

   “Hey, you probably shouldn’t go with him,” Panther says nervously, but Joker steps forward anyway.

   The Magician smiles like Joker’s just made his day. Wordlessly, he points at a large silk handkerchief and a mallet, then holds out his hand.

   “It’s the reconstruction trick,” Oracle says. “He wants you to give him something he can smash, then he’ll reconstitute it.”

   “The hell? That’s obviously a trick!”

   “Well, yeah,” says Oracle, smirking. “A magic trick.” She pauses. “But yeah don’t give him anything valuable.”

   Joker digs around in his pockets and produces a brass pocket watch he’d pilfered from Shido’s Palace and hadn’t sold yet.

   “Um, Joker,” ventures Noir. “Is there a particular reason you’re playing along…?”

   “Curious,” says Joker, and hands the watch to the smiling Magician.

   The Magician points out some little engravings on the watch, as if to say, this is yours. Then he makes a grand show of covering the watch with the silk cloth. He takes up the mallet with a flourish and slams it down.

   The rest of the Thieves flinch.

   The handkerchief is now completely flat.

   “That was worth at least fifteen hundred yen,” moans Mona.

   “Fourteen hundred,” says Joker.

   The Magician winks at him. He clicks his fingers, and a little golden box appears in his hands. He hands Joker the box.

   The box is locked, but the Magician is watching him expectantly, so Joker takes out the Perma-Pick in his pocket. In a matter of seconds, the box is open.

   Staring up at him, nestled in gold silk, is his watch. The very same, engravings at all, happily ticking away.

   “Whoa!” Skull exclaims, as if they don’t see weirder than this in Palaces every day.

   “Joker…” Oracle says warningly.

   Yes, there’s the watch. The Magician smiles beatifically at him. The same old watch. Attached to a mechanism of some kind, ticking away.

   Ticking…

   “Joker!”

   Joker drops the box and dives as the bomb goes off. The others shout and scramble for cover at the flick of his wrist—except Noir, who’s standing frozen behind him. He tackles her around the middle, ducks and rolls them both behind a tall chest.

   “Joker,” Noir gasps. “You—”

   “You okay?”

   Noir gulps. “I’m okay,” she says, flat on her back and breathing hard. Joker helps her up; holds her hand a little longer than he needs to so she has an excuse to keep gripping his. She’s shaking. “Thank—thank you.”

   Ash marks the spot where Joker had been standing moments prior. The Magician, of course, is gone, the little velveteen table standing innocently alone in the debris.

   An ominous chuckle echoes around the stage.

   Skull crawls out from under a trick cabinet. “Why can’t he just bomb us like a normal person?!”

   “And where’d he go?” Panther wails.

   “Jokers,” Fox says suddenly, and when Joker looks at him, his face is tilted up. “Here they are.”

   Raining from the ‘sky’—the stage ceiling which fades into light, no doubt smoke and mirrors—all those missing jokers flutter down around them. Fox catches one and turns it delicately over in his fingers, and then in a flash it’s gone.

   Joker blinks.

   “Ah,” says Fox. He turns his head.

   The joker is pinned to the wall behind him with a small throwing knife. The Thieves all spin around to see the Magician standing behind them with a blindfold tied around his eyes. He removes it, looking almost sheepish, and offers them all a cheeky grin.

   Then he throws another knife.

   Mona isn’t quite quick enough and he yowls like nobody’s business when the blade gazes his tail. Mercurius appears in a swirl of green, gusting everything in the stage so the cards on the ground pick up and flutter in a whirling tornado, but once the flurry passes the Magician is gone again.

   “I can’t find him,” Oracle gasps. “Every time he vanishes like that, his—he just—”

   “It’s alright,” Joker calls up to her, hearing the panic rising in her voice. “Oracle, it’s okay.”

   “It’s just like the last time,” she whispers. “I can’t see him. He’s just gone. I have no idea where he’s going to come from next!”

   “Calm down,” Queen tries.

   “Not again,” Futaba moans. “I said I wouldn’t let this happen again!”

   A panicked yell startles their attention back to the fight. The Magician is back—but more importantly, Ryuji is shackled to a fucking table.

   “GET ME THE HELL OUT OF THIS—”

   “Skull!” Panther is sprinting over already and Joker joins her, Perma-Pick at the ready. The Magician, standing behind Ryuji’s head, looks straight at Joker and winks. He touches Ryuji’s cheek almost sweetly (“GET YOUR EFFIN’ HANDS OFF ME YOU FREAK UAAGGHH—”) and vanishes in a puff of cards.

   In his place, a buzzsaw appears.

   “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding,” Queen whispers.

   Ryuji’s face has gone from red with anger to stark white. “Joker,” he says, eyeing the descending buzzsaw. “Joker—man—”

   “It’s alright.” Ren’s picking the manacle on Ryuji’s left ankle—his bad leg. “I’ve got you, Skull.” The lock pops loose and Ryuji shakes his leg out—

   Another one appears out of the table and slams down on his knee. He howls in pain.

   “Ryuji, stay still,” Ren says frantically.

   “FUCK THIS PLACE!”

   “Calm down,” Ren says, picking the new lock as fast as he can. The other Thieves are hacking desperately at the other manacles, the table, anything, but nothing is budging. The lock on his knee clicks open and no new ones appear, so Ren moves to his waist. But the buzzsaw is descending, faster and faster and faster—

   “Ren,” says Ryuji.

   Terrified brown eyes find gray ones a second before the buzzsaw slams down and hits the table with a sickening thud.

   Ann screams. “Ryuji! RYUJI!”

   Ren’s hands are frozen on the fourth lock. The saw has cut clean through Ryuji’s torso. As they watch, the table slowly splits in two, with Ryuji still tied to it.

   Gloved hands slam down on Ren’s shoulders and he flinches, but it’s just Yusuke. “Sorry,” he says faintly. He looks green. “I think I…”

   He sways on his feet. Ren grabs him around the waist, his mind a static buzz.

   Then Ryuji’s foot moves.

   This time so many people scream Ren can’t keep track of who’s doing it. Chief among the voices, though, is Ryuji.

   Ryuji.

   “AAAAAAAAAAAHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!”

   “Skull?!” Mona demands, hopping over to Ryuji’s detached legs. “What the… What’s going on?!”

   “MY FUCKING LEGS ARE OFF MY BODY THAT’S WHAT’S FUCKING—”

   “You’re alive?!” Queen demands.

   Ryuji’s eyes are screwed tight shut and the table under his head is soaked with sweat. “Oh god,” he says. “Holy shit. Oh my god.”

   “He’s back,” Oracle says suddenly. “The Magician’s back!”

   Ren’s head snaps up. Sure enough, the Magician is standing just a few feet away, watching them. As Ren catches his eye, he winks again and snaps his fingers.

   The saw immediately starts whirring again. Haru squeaks and leaps away from it, but Ren watches, entranced, as the two halves of the table lift back up and slowly connect around it once more. The buzzsaw lifts off the table, leaving Ryuji whole again.

   The manacles unlock, and Ryuji lifts himself up on trembling arms. He wiggles his left foot, then his right foot. Still working. Still attached to him.

   He stumbles when he tries to get up and Ren’s beside him at once, heaving his arm over his shoulders.

   “Thanks, man,” Ryuji says shakily, and passes out in his arms.

   Ren’s feeling pretty faint himself. He lowers Ryuji to a seated position on the floor. Morgana casts Samarecarm without being asked, but it doesn’t seem to do much. Ryuji doesn’t actually look hurt, except for the—everything.

   “Guys, you can’t relax,” Oracle says stiffly. “He’s still there.”

   The Magician is still watching them. He smiles again when he notices he’s got Ren’s attention, then smiles even wider when he spots the barrel of Ren’s gun.

   BANG!

   For a second, the Magician’s body ripples. He staggers backwards and his body folds like he’s—well, like he’s been shot.

   Then he straightens again.

   Haru says hoarsely, “He’s got something in his mouth.”

   He does. Joker’s bullet winks from where he’s caught it between his teeth just as the Magician winks his eye. Then he dissolves again and the bullet falls to the floor. Ren exhales.

   Ryuji groans and stirs beneath him, eyes fluttering back open. Ren tugs off his glove to touch Ryuji’s forehead—why, he doesn’t quite know, because Takemi’s never mentioned that being bisected at the waist might cause someone to develop a fever, but his hands are restless. Ryuji's face, like the rest of him, is sweaty. Ren moves his fingers to Ryuji’s throat and feels a jackrabbit-quick pulse. Ryuji’s eyes are on him when Ren looks him in the face again.

   “I’m good,” he says quietly. “I’m fine, dude.”

   Ren runs his hand through his own hair, feeling his own heart hammering. “Scared the hell out of me, man.”

   “Sorry,” Ryuji croaks. “Won’t do it again.”

   The others try to convince him to stay seated, but Ryuji pushes himself unsteadily back to his feet. He shakes his left leg out again as though he needs convincing it’s still his. “I’m gonna get that bastard,” he says grimly.

   “Here’s your chance,” Mona says warningly.

   Panther whips around just as the Magician appears behind her. He’s actually got his hands on her arms, ready to pull her into some ominous looking cabinet, but Hecate casts him off without a problem. While he’s still staggering, Panther roars, and he disappears in a pillar of flame.

   “Way to go!” Oracle cheers.

   When the fire fades, the Magician is visibly burning. He shrieks, a surprisingly clear note for something so panicked, and makes a mad dash for another tall structure on the stage—a large glass tank filled with water. As they watch, he somersaults off a table and dives into it with a little splash.

   “Quick, seal it,” Ryuji says half-heartedly.

   But before Ren can even snort, familiar shackles shoot out from inside the tank and grab hold of the Magician’s limbs. A large bubble escapes his mouth in apparent surprise, and then visible panic—held upside down, submerged in water, the Magician appears well and truly trapped.

   “I think something went wrong,” Queen says, somewhat unnecessarily. They all look on in horror as the Magician begins to struggle, hammering his gloved fists against the tank walls. More bubbles escape, as though he’s shouting for help.

   It’s Skull who sprints forward, and Ren shouldn’t be surprised but he is, because those legs are just back from working thanks to that godforsaken Shadow and yet Skull is tugging furiously at the tank walls, scrabbling for a hold, shouting for the other Thieves to help him. Panther’s right behind him and Fox is only two steps back, and by the time Joker’s reached them they’re all desperately trying to break the tank open so the Shadow who wants them dead can breathe. Those wide yellow eyes stare frantically around at them, but even as Joker jams his dagger into the sealed edges, he can see the Magician’s panicked movements growing weaker.

   “Not like this,” Noir gasps. “We can’t beat it like this!”

   Skull slams his bat into the glass, but the impact only reverberates. They watch in horror as the Magician gives a final grotesque twitch and then falls still, floating limp and lifeless in the tank.

   “No,” whispers Oracle.

   But Queen frowns. “It’s not disappearing,” she mutters. “Why isn’t it disappearing?”

   The answer slams into Joker at the very same moment that the Magician opens its eyes. It lifts its hand again, winks, and snaps.

   The tank explodes. Joker can hear his teammates shriek in pain as glass shards shoot out, shredding fabric and embedding into skin. Water rushes out in a tidal wave and leaves them all soaked—all except the Magician, as now the shackles have retreated he’s flipped upright and is standing imperiously before them, completely dry. And then he melts away again.

   “I,” Queen grits out. “Fucking. Hate this place.”

   The glass in their wounds seems to dissolve from their scratches. The shards slink back to the tank, which slowly reforms itself. The water level begins to rise again.

   “Oracle, we need a strategy,” Fox gasps, wringing water out of his tail. “Do you have anything for us?”

   “I don’t know,” Oracle says in despair. “I can’t see! There’s just—nothing!”

   Gunshots make Joker spin around again, and he sees Queen and Panther firing at the Magician, who’s just reappeared in the corner. He’s raised his hands as if to shield himself, but then he does a complicated little manoeuvre and little slivers of silver seem to fly from his fingers. At first Joker thinks he’s just redirecting the bullets, but as they land one by one in the now-reformed tank, he sees they’re fish—each of Queen and Panther’s shots now a live little swimming thing darting around in the water. They’re beautiful, actually, and Ren pauses for a stupid moment just to watch them.

   Panther angrily tosses her gun to the side, out of ammo. The Magician smiles benevolently at her. He holds out his hand, once again trying to beckon her into the tall cabinet.

   “No way in hell,” she hisses. “Piss off!”

   The Magician turns to Noir, who shrinks away.

   “Absolutely not,” she says firmly.

   The Magician looks very briefly hurt, but then shrugs. He snaps his fingers—they all flinch, but for a long moment nothing happens.

   Then a woman walks out from the wings.

   “Who’s that?” Oracle says in their ears.

   Fox frowns. “I’ve never seen her before,” he says. “She is beautiful.”

   Ren glances at Makoto and knows she’s seen what he’s seen. The woman looks just like Akechi. There’s no mistaking it.

   “That must be his mother,” says Makoto.

   “His what?”

   Akechi’s mother smiles at the Magician as he gestures her into the cabinet. She touches his face tenderly, then steps inside.

   The Magician sweeps his arm around to all of them, then closes the cabinet. His mother gives a little wave as she vanishes behind the door.

   An overwhelming blast of sound hits them and the Thieves all buckle under the wave. It’s gone as quickly as it came. Joker straightens with some difficulty, grief and panic creeping out of him. The Magician is still standing beside the cabinet. He opens the door. It’s empty.

   “Pretty classic trick,” Panther murmurs.

   The Magician waves his hand inside the box as if to demonstrate that it really is empty. He smiles and closes the box again. Out of nowhere, he produces a long glowing wand, with which he dramatically taps the box twice. Then he opens the door again.

   The Magician’s smile fades when the Thieves don’t react. Evidently he had been expecting applause. He frowns and looks inside the box, then looks around some more, apparently confused to find it empty.

   “Is this part of the trick?” Haru whispers.

   This Shadow has cried wolf enough times now that Ren isn’t convinced it’s not. The Magician looks around again, then closes the door once more. He pulls it open and glances inside.

   Still empty.

   Now the Magician is really frowning. He steps inside the box himself, but stops short of closing the door. He steps back out and walks around it in a lost little circle, closes it and opens it, taps it twice and then thrice—empty, empty, empty. He snaps his fingers again, and the Thieves wait, but nothing happens.

   “I think—” Oracle’s voice quavers. “I think it went wrong. For real.”

    The Magician finally closes the door again, slowly, like he doesn’t want to hear it click shut. The sound of the latch seems to echo for a moment.

   When he spots Joker watching him, the Magician doesn’t wink. He doesn’t smile. His face is hard and unhappy when he snaps his fingers, and he disappears with another damning wall of sound. Makoto cries out and crumples—it must have been psychokinesis—and Haru is already helping her up by the time Joker’s got his senses back.

   “We can’t keep going like this,” Haru says, letting Makoto lean on her. “We need a different approach.”

   Joker nods. He closes his eyes and puts his hand to his head—it’s the first time he’s tried the Third Eye in a while.

   When he opens his eyes again, the dazzle is once again completely overwhelming. Ann catches him when he stumbles, but he doesn’t stop looking. One spot in the centre of the room looks slightly different in a way he can’t quite identify. Soundless with dizziness, he points.

   “Get ready,” Oracle says, seeing him. “Everyone brace for it!”

   In a little smattering of cards, the Magician appears right on the spot where Joker is pointing. With a yell, Panther and Noir both tackle him. He shouts inelegantly as the three of them crash to the floor, limbs flailing as Panther literally sits on him to keep him from escaping.

   “Hurry up!” she shrieks. “We can’t hold him like this!”

   Blinking spots out of his eyes, Joker pounces. The Magician glares up at him, golden eyes gleaming with hurt even as they cross to focus on the pistol Joker’s holding to his head.

   When Joker fires, a huge cloud of gun smoke erupts. For a solid few minutes, none of them can see a thing. He can hear the others coughing and complaining, and it takes Morgana casting Garudyne again to clear the air.

   In the spot where Panther and Noir had been holding the Magician down, there’s only empty space. A growing red stain spreads out from where Joker is aiming his gun, which he hastily puts away. There’s a golden ticket lying between them, and Noir picks it up.

   “It’s to the VIP Box,” she reports.

   Fox is looking at the empty space where the Magician was. “Did we kill him?” he asks.

   “He’s gone, ain’t he?” says Ryuji. “And there’s the ticket.”

   “Yes,” says Fox. “But that smoke… Joker, does your gun normally smoke that much?”

   No, it doesn’t. The Thieves look nervously around the stage like the Magician might emerge from behind a curtain, screaming and flapping its arms.

   Ryuji takes the ticket and bites it.

   “Feels real,” he says.

   “What the hell would that even do?” Ann demands.

   “There’s only one way to find out,” Makoto says. “We take it to the VIP Box and see if it works.”

   “I guess we didn’t need to kill the Shadow,” says Morgana uneasily. “I mean, we normally don’t, right? As long as it gave us the ticket…”

   They all look at the ticket. In its glittering reflection, Ren can see the looming cabinet with its closed door.

   “Shadows don’t normally bleed,” says Haru.

   No, they don’t.

               [Ren] Did you get home okay?

               [Ryuji] yeah

               [Ryuji] Yusuke walked me

               [Ren] Okay.

               [Ryuji] thanks

               [Ren] I’m sorry.

               [Ryuji] ? what for

               Ren is typing…

   Ring…

   Ren picks up. “Hello?”

   “I told you, man,” says Ryuji. “I’m doing this. It ain’t just for you either.”

   “Ryuji…”

   “I’m okay,” says Ryuji, and somehow he actually does sound fine. Unlike after they’d fought the Bard, when Ryuji had been shaky and uncertain—today, his voice is hard and resolved. It makes Ren feel better and worse all at once to hear it. “Promise. Hey, Yusuke says hi.”

   “Hello,” comes Yusuke’s voice, distantly. Despite himself, Ren smiles.

   “Morgana says hi, too,” he says.

   “No I didn’t!”

   “He says he loves you,” Ren says. “So, so much.”

   “I can hear him, dude,” Ryuji grumbles.

   Morgana hops onto Ren’s bed. “Hey, is he doing okay?” he asks quietly.

   “I’m okay,” says Ryuji. “For real. Thanks, Mona.”

   Ren waits for Morgana to say something else, but the cat just sniffs. “He’s our best runner, after all,” he says. “The team would be worse off if something happened to him.”

   Ren hears Ryuji snort. “Listen, I gotta go,” he says. “Yusuke and me are gonna grab something to eat.”

   “Okay,” says Ren. “See you later.”

   “Bye!”

   “Are you okay?” Morgana asks him after he hangs up. “You’ve been real quiet lately… more than usual, I mean.”

   Ren rubs his head between his little triangle ears. “Just a lot on my mind,” he says. “I’m fine.”

   Morgana’s ear flicks in irritation. “It won’t kill you to say you’re not, you know. This Palace has been pretty intense. I know you’re worried about everyone, but you should worry about yourself too.”

   “I’m tired,” says Ren. “We should get some sleep.”

   “That’s my line!”

   But despite the yowling, Morgana settles next to him the way he always does, making biscuits in the sheets next to Ren’s ribs. He purrs when Ren sleepily strokes his back, feeling the warm fluff smoothing under his hand.

   “Don’t worry about anything,” Morgana mumbles, half-asleep. “As your stalwart companion and protector, I’ll keep you all safe, okay?”

   “I’m counting on it,” says Ren.

   “No matter what he throws at us,” Morgana yawns. “It’ll be no match… for…”

   Ren’s always found his little kitty snores cute, though voicing this would of course be a death sentence. Morgana purrs in his sleep as Ren pets him, and the warm sound continues into his dreams.

               [Ryuji] Hey so uhh

               [Ryuji] how are we gonna send the calling card?

               [Haru] Oh, I hadn’t thought of that…

               [Haru] Do you know where he is, Ren?

               [Ren] ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

               [Ann] Is he even still in Japan…?

               [Futaba] His phone number’s still active.

               [Futaba] Can’t pin his current whereabouts though >:x He must be keeping it turned off most of the time so it doesn’t ping the cell towers. Clever Crow…

               [Futaba] Let me see…

               [Futaba] Last known location…

               [Futaba] ……………………………

               [Futaba] ………………………………………………………………

               [Yusuke] While Futaba does that, would anybody like to get together for a meal?

               [Ryuji] Oh yeah! There’s a new yakiniku place that just opened up near me. Wanna go?

               [Futaba] I want yakiniku! >:X Cruel Inari leaving me out!

               [Ren] We’ll wait for you.

               [Makoto] I suppose it IS important to eat well before a mission like this.

               [Makoto] And we’ve all been working hard. Perhaps a treat is in order to let us unwind, so to speak…

               [Makoto] Ren, when do you think we’ll send the calling card?

               [Ann] Surely sooner is better, right?

               [Ryuji] HELL YEAH

               [Ryuji] eff that palace

               [Ryuji] can’t wait to tear it tf DOWWWWNNNNNN

               [Ann] Amen…

               [Yusuke] Is there squid?

               [Ryuji] oh lemme check

               [Futaba] GOT IT!

               Futaba sent a location.

               [Futaba] Last seen about six days ago!

               [Futaba] He’s pretty far from here.

               [Futaba] More importantly, he’s been turning his phone on once every week or so.

               [Haru] Ooh, good job, Futaba-chan!

               [Ryuji] yeah there’s squid

               [Futaba] He moves a pretty decent distance each time.

               [Futaba] He’s taken the bug off though so I don’t know what he’s doing >:x

               [Yusuke] How about scallops?

               [Ryuji] dude I don’t think we can afford scallops

               [Futaba] His location doesn’t really matter though.

               [Makoto] Yes, all that matters is that he can be reached by phone.

               [Haru] Dinner will be my treat! Yusuke-kun, please order the scallops! ♥️

               [Ryuji] WOW THANKS HARU

               [Ann] If he’s turning his phone on every seven days, we should probably send the card before tomorrow, right?

               [Yusuke] Thank you, Haru. I’m in your debt.

               [Ann] We’re running out of time before the election after all.

               [Haru] Not at all! ♥️

               [Ren] Morgana wants to know if there’s tuna

               [Ryuji] It’s a barbecue place! Why would there be tuna??

               [Ren] He says he wants tuna

               [Yusuke] I am not opposed to sending the card tomorrow.

               [Futaba] The sooner the better!

               [Futaba] And Ryuji I want pork belly!

               [Ryuji] ok theres tuna

               [Ryuji] CAN YOU GUYS JUST CHECK THE MENU YOURSELVES

               [Yusuke] After we finish our meal, I will accompany Ren back to Leblanc. We can design the calling card.

               [Futaba] Mwehehe >:3

               [Yusuke] Makoto, will you join us?

               [Makoto] If you want me to, sure.

               [Makoto] I think Ren should write the card this time, though.

               [Ann] Mmhm! I agree~

               [Ann] Then you can text it to him! You and Makoto are the only ones with his number.

               [Ren] Sure.

               [Futaba] Ren let’s go to the train station

               [Haru] It’s satisfying to be so close to the finish.

               [Ann] I knooooow I’m sooooo ready to be done with this Palace

               [Yusuke] It’s been quite the ordeal.

               [Ren] Are you guys all feeslg

               [Makoto] ?

               [Ann] Yeah I’m always feeslg

               [Futaba] Joker just walked into a pole

               [Ryuji] LMAOOOOOOOOOO

               [Haru] Oh no!

               Futaba sent an image.

               [Futaba] Don’t text and walk kids

               [Ann] Omg Joker looks so defeated on the floor

               [Yusuke] You text and walk all the time, though.

               [Futaba] I have seeing eye powers

               [Ren] You walk into more poles than I do

               [Futaba] ok polewalker

               [Ryuji] GOTTEM

               [Makoto] I hope you’re okay, Ren!

               [Ann] Anyone else feeslg rn

               [Futaba] im feeslging as we speak

               [Haru] I’m feeling pretty feeslg too!

               [Ren] (-̩̩̩-̩̩̩-̩̩̩-̩̩̩-̩̩̩___-̩̩̩-̩̩̩-̩̩̩-̩̩̩-̩̩̩)

               [Yusuke] What were you saying, Ren?

               [Ren] I was going to ask if you were all feeling okay about the Palace.

               [Ren] Now I don’t care though. （；へ：）

               [Ann] AWW REN LOL

               [Makoto] I’m feeling quite prepared.

               [Makoto] I think we’ve learned a lot about Akechi from his Palace. Hopefully we understand him well enough to take down whatever awaits us in the VIP Box.

               [Ryuji] brb getting on the train

               [Haru] What do you think will be in there?

               [Haru] We’ve fought so many of his Shadows already.

               [Makoto] Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe an extra-strong Shadow?

               [Ryuji] wait I missed the train DAMMIT

               [Futaba] We should be prepared for an ambush.

               [Ann] Ryuiji what’s the restaurant called

               [Ann] *Ryuji

               Ryuji sent a link.

               [Ryuji] here1

               [Ryuji] hangon a sec getting on the train for real

               [Ren] Is it pet-friendly?

               Ren edited a message.

               [Ren] Is it human-friendly? [edited]

               [Ryuji] huh

               [Ryuji] Why tf wouldn’t it be human friendly

               [Futaba] Mona’s yelling at Ren

               [Yusuke] I am almost there.

               [Ryuji] What restaurant is human unfriendly

               [Ann] Yusuke I see you!!

               [Makoto] We may well be entering the Palace tomorrow, so we should all try to relax tonight. I know it might be hard.

               [Makoto] …Never mind, I can hear you guys from here. I guess it won’t be that hard after all.

   “Thank you for your hospitality,” says Yusuke.

   Ren sometimes worries that habitually drinking coffee at night will throw his sleep cycle out of whack, but it’s not been a problem so far. For better or for worse, he’s never really counted insomnia among his struggles. Besides, his sleeping habits are kept in check with an iron paw—though Morgana isn’t here tonight, having decided to keep Futaba company for the evening.

   Ren nudges the cup across the bar and Yusuke takes it.

   “I prepared a template while you were preparing the coffee,” he says. He shows Ren the card. “I’ll fill in the lettering once you’ve finalised your written draft.”

   “Thanks,” says Ren. “Got a pen?”

   Since she joined, it’s been Makoto writing these. Ryuji did those first few. Ren’s never actually gotten his hands on one. Makes sense. He’s not very verbose. He probably wouldn’t have had much to say—maybe just “look behind you”. Or “boo”.

   Yusuke hands him the pen, though, and Ren reaches for the crossword book because it’s the paper nearest him. It falls open to the page where he and Akechi had written their names—he flips it uneasily, but Yusuke’s eyes trail it when the page turns.

   Ren hesitates.

   “Take your time,” Yusuke says. “The trains won’t stop for another hour or so.”

   Ren writes, Goro Akechi, and stops.

   Yusuke seems to be peacefully absorbing Leblanc’s environment, though his gaze strays frequently to the Sayuri. Each time his eyes lands on it, something in them turns warm. It gives Ren a funny feeling. Pleasant, mostly, a sort of wiggle deep in his gut. Glad for Yusuke? Sad for Yusuke?

   Envious of Yusuke?

   Why? Yusuke’s mother is gone; Ren’s is alive. Yusuke, in fact, is all alone. No parents to speak of, no home to return to. Just a school dorm. Where will he go after he graduates? Has he even thought about it? Ren has no doubt Yusuke will find somewhere to take him in. That Kawanabe man seemed keen to support him, even if Yusuke hadn’t wanted to accept it. No doubt Haru could put him up in a studio apartment if he asked. Hell, Ren’s pretty sure Sojiro is already assuming he’ll be taking Yusuke in.

   Still. He’s unmoored, without any one place to belong except with the seven of them. Ren’s felt it before, or he thought he had, and he wonders how Yusuke can be so unbothered by it all when cutting the rope and watching himself drift further and further from his hometown had left Ren petrified and alone.

   Yusuke continues to gaze at the Sayuri. The warmth flooding from the painting is unassailable. Ren struggles to even look at it most days, overwhelmed by the tenderness in the woman’s expression, but he understands why Yusuke found comfort in it for so many years. In Yusuke’s face, Ren sees the woman’s love reflected. Unconditional. Perhaps this was the shield Ren had been missing.

   Ren adds a comma beside Akechi’s name. Yusuke is not watching him write the card, but he still feels self-conscious.

   “Want a refill?” he says.

   Yusuke glances at him as though just remembering he’s there. He pushes his cup forward. “Yes, thanks.”

   Ren pours coffee into it. “What are you thinking?”

   “Me?” Yusuke looks surprised to be asked. “I was merely admiring the café. I would like to do a painting inspired by this place sometime, if Boss would allow it.”

   “A painting of Leblanc?”

   “Not of Leblanc as such. Of the feeling it conjures, perhaps.” Yusuke takes a demure sip. “Mm. Inspired by the coffee, also.” He smiles at Ren. “You must feel it too, given you live here, do you not? The safety provided by these walls. There are few places I would truly consider sanctuaries in a city like this, but Leblanc has always made me feel welcome.”

   Ren doesn’t really know how to reply, which is a common occurrence when he’s with Yusuke. The way Yusuke talks and thinks is uniquely blunt. It always leaves Ren blinking as he recalibrates all his own assumptions, though Yusuke never seems to mind.

   Yusuke takes another sip of his coffee.

   “It appears I am not the only one who thinks so,” he adds. “I was surprised to see Leblanc in Akechi’s Palace at first, but after some thought, it wasn’t so unexpected.”

   Ren looks down at the counter. He runs his thumb over the wood. Here, of course, he can feel the grain, though now he’s remembering the uncanny smoothness from the safe room. Sojiro still hasn’t fixed the faucet, so it’s still dripping—Ren’s been meaning to do it one of these days since he thinks he has the requisite proficiency, but he hasn’t gotten around to it yet.

   Yusuke is watching him now, which as always makes it difficult for Ren to look him in the eye. It’s an uncanny ability that Yusuke has: Ren feels like he’s being scanned from the inside out, as though Yusuke is able to see what makes him up so that he might commit it to paper. He’s never asked to paint Ren. Ren isn’t sure what he’d say if he did.

   “Are you alright, Ren?” Yusuke asks gently, and this, of all things, suddenly makes Ren feel like he might cry.

   He swallows and manages a nod. Yusuke nods back thoughtfully, though his eyes don’t leave Ren’s face. Ren picks up an empty cup and starts rinsing it out.

   “What about you,” he says. His voice stayed even—good. “What are you thinking?”

   “Of the Palace?”

   “Yeah.”

   Yusuke hums. “There are some truly marvellous aesthetics at play,” he says, considering. “Yet the design as a whole leaves me feeling sick and empty. A whole Palace of pale imitations.” He shakes his head, and Ren wonders if he’s remembering Madarame’s Museum. “What a pity, when Akechi seems to have so much to legitimately offer.”

   “You think so?”

   “Of course. Don’t you? I would have thought you of all people, Joker, would see how much there is to his heart.” Yusuke drums his fingers on the table. Ren refills his cup, which is empty again. “Oh, thank you.”

   “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?” Ren blurts out.

   Yusuke looks surprised. Ren feels surprised. Another thought he hadn’t realised he was harbouring until it escaped his lips.

   Is he having second thoughts? Doubting what they’re doing? Akechi had never made a secret of his thoughts for the Phantom Thieves and their methods. Even in his falsehoods, Ren’s sure that his disdain, at least, had been genuine: Akechi had always maintained that the worst thing a person could do was forcefully change another’s heart. He looks down at the second time he’s written Akechi’s name in this book and wonders what Akechi will do when he reads it.

   “Ren,” Yusuke says softly.

   Ren blinks in surprise when a drop of water lands on the book. No—not water.

   Yusuke reaches across the counter and takes Ren’s hand. Ren squeezes it almost automatically, but doesn’t look up. Can’t.

   “I did not want your help,” says Yusuke. “I rebuffed you most aggressively, if you would recall. I believe I even threatened you with police action, which…” He winces. “I now realise was quite a significant threat for you. Yet you insisted upon meddling in my affairs. You forcibly inserted yourselves into my life without my consent.”

   Ren has closed his eyes, but the moisture leaks through his eyelashes.

   “And if you had not, I am quite certain I would be dead. Or worse.”

   This finally makes Ren look up. Yusuke smiles at him and extends his other hand to wipe a tear off Ren’s cheek.

   “I am not saying, of course,” he says, “that we should presume to know better than Akechi what he needs for himself. I am only telling you that today, I am alive because you saw in me a friend who could not admit his own need, and refused to give up on him. I believe Futaba would say the same.”

   Ren’s phone buzzes. He takes it out.

               [Futaba] he’s right.

   “No one can ever know for certain precisely what the right course of action is,” Yusuke says, watching him put his phone back in his pocket. “But you must trust your own judgement. What else can you trust, if not that?”

   Ren finds his voice.

   “I’m afraid,” he says, “of betraying him.”

   He waits for Yusuke to comment on the irony.

   Instead, Yusuke just squeezes his hand. “Better that than betraying yourself,” he says, and nudges the book closer to Ren.

   “I thought you wanted to pass your class,” Akechi said, deeply, rudely, wholeheartedly amused. Ren was sure that if he were looking, he’d want to push Akechi out of his chair. He wasn’t. His face was smushed into the desk in defeat. “Come on. Surely the leader of the Phantom Thieves can’t be bowled over by something so trivial. I didn’t take you for such a pathetic student.”

   “Sticks and stones,” said Ren, who knew Akechi was trying to goad him into resuming his studies and was trying valiantly not to let it work.

   “Come on. There’s only one topic left.” Akechi flicked his cheek. “You can’t give up so close to the end.”

   Ren groaned and heaved himself back up to a seated position. “I wish,” he said emphatically, “you were a sea cucumber.”

   “How kind.” Akechi flipped his book open to a dog-eared page. “Now. Are you ready?”

   Ren rearranged his face into something bold and heroic. “Born ready.”

   “There’s my favourite leader.” Akechi laughed. “In that case, let’s get started on the deadly sins.”

   “Seven, right?”

   “There weren’t seven to begin with,” said Akechi. “The idea actually originates in early Egypt. In the form we recognise today, though—that is, numbered and discrete ‘sins’—there were actually eight. Gastrimargia, porneia, philargyr—have I lost you?”

   “Gastrointestinal,” Ren said, “pornography, and—what?”

   Akechi was grinning again. “You’re actually not far off.”

   “Greek to me. Sorry.”

   “Greek to me as well.” Akechi smiled. “Because it’s Greek. Gastrimargia was what we would call gluttony. Shall I proceed in Japanese instead?”

   “You could have started in Japanese.”

   “Where’s the fun in that? Gluttony, fornication, and avarice were the first three. Then there was lype—a sort of sadness, but specifically triggered by someone else’s good fortune.”

   “Envy,” Ren translated.

   Akechi nodded. “Very good. It’s been referred to as envy as well, and that is what it would later be identified with. Then there was orge—wrath. Akedia—acedia, or a sort of listlessness and indifference to one’s circumstances.”

   “Depression,” Ren said.

   “That’s one way to put it,” said Akechi. “It’s commonly understood as ‘sloth’, these days. Isn’t it interesting, the idea that lethargic negligence or inertia might be considered sinful?”

   “It’s pretty cold.”

   “The last two were kenodoxia—something like boastfulness—and hyperephania, grandiosity or arrogance.”

   “So some of them have stuck around,” said Ren, squinting down at his own notes. “Gluttony, wrath, greed… fornication became lust?”

   “The very same. Lype became envy, as we said, and acedia became sloth. Kenodoxia—well, this might be a good time to transition into the Latin revisions. Although there is never a bad time, really, is there?” Akechi laughed gaily, then paused, because Ren’s expression was black. “Is everything alright, Ren?”

   “Just weighing up,” said Ren, “whether it might be worth just failing this exam so I don’t have to listen to this.”

   “Oh, come now,” said Akechi, businesslike. “Here, let’s make it a game. See if you can guess which sin corresponds to each Latin word.”

   “Did I befriend the Bilingo owl?” Ren asked nobody. “Is that what happened to me?”

   “Gula, fornicatio, avaritia,” said Akechi. “Go on, these are easy.”

   “Gluttony,” Ren said, “lust, avarice?”

   “There, you’re a natural! Tristitia, ira, acedia.”

   “Acedia is sloth,” said Ren. “Ira… like ire, right? Wrath?”

   Akechi clapped.

   “Triscuits,” said Ren, defeated.

   Akechi smirked. “Sorry. That was cruel of me. It was a trick question. We haven’t encountered tristitia yet. It translates to… despair, perhaps, or sorrow. Another fairly cruel sin, perhaps. Alright: vanagloria and superbia?”

   “Van…ity,” said Ren. “I don’t know superbia.”

   “Hubris,” Akechi told him. “Or pride, it’s more commonly called. This was the next phase of the sins in Christianity. There are still eight, as you may have noticed. Much later, the list was revised again—tristitia was combined with acedia, and vanagloria was combined with superbia. Envy—invidia—was also added back to the list, which we still use today. So there are all the sins throughout history—gluttony, lust, avarice, envy, wrath, sloth, vanity, pride, and despair.”

   “But there are still two more here,” said Ren, frowning at his notes.

   Akechi leaned over. “Those aren’t traditional sins,” he said, his brow creasing. “Where did you find these?”

   “Uh… online.” From listening to Caroline and Justine in the Velvet Room, but Ren could hardly tell him that.

   Akechi tutted. “Ren, Wikipaedia isn’t a real source.”

   “I didn’t get them from Wikipaedia,” said Ren primly. “I got them from… deadly hyphen sins dot jp.”

   Akechi twisted his lip. “I don’t believe I’m wrong when I say these are unlikely to come up on your exam, then.”

   “Can you translate them?”

   “Well, let’s see,” said Akechi, who was medically incapable of resisting a challenge, even a pointless one. “Irritum would translate roughly to… invalid? Void, perhaps? And this other one, cavum…” He fell silent.

   “Do you not know it?” Ren asked him.

   “I know it,” said Akechi. “Hollow. Empty.”

   His voice sounded suddenly strange. He closed the book.

   “I do apologise,” he said. “I’ve just realised I have an appointment this afternoon, and I’m running late.”

   Ren stood up as he did. “Sorry to keep you. Thanks for your help.”

   Akechi turned to face him in the middle of packing his bag. He shot Ren a funny, strained smile. “It’s no bother,” he said. “Even when you’re needling me, I always enjoy your company, Ren. Let me know how the exam goes, will you?”

   Ren nodded. “See you later?”

   “I wouldn’t miss you for anything,” Akechi said, and off he went.

Goro Akechi,

You believe there is nothing to your heart beyond the performance you put on for the world. Your smiling face hides that which you are too afraid not only to show, but to see.

For your grave sin of emptiness, we have decided to make you confront your true self. Believe in us, as we will steal these distortions without fail.

From The Phantom Thieves of Hearts.

   Yusuke nods his approval as he reads carefully over the letter. Without a word, he begins to cut characters out of magazines. Ren watches him paste them onto the card. He’s going to have to explain the holes to Sojiro later.

   Yusuke glances up at him.

   “It will be fine, you know,” he says.

   Ren must look confused, because Yusuke smiles. He pastes down another character without even looking and it comes out perfectly, artfully crooked. “You knew Akechi best.”

   People keep saying that to him. Ren isn’t sure how true it is anymore.

   “One would have to be blind not to notice the bond you two shared,” Yusuke continues. “I have every faith in you, Ren, that when we come down to the crucial moment, your heart will guide you to the right course of action.”

   He presents Ren with the finished card. “There. What do you think?”

   “Perfect,” says Ren. Yusuke smiles. “I’ll take a photo and text it to him”

   “Be sure to get both sides,” says Yusuke.

   Ren angles his phone camera and snaps. Yusuke scrutinises the photo for a moment before declaring that it passes muster. They send it to the group chat first for completeness, where it undergoes a brief and enthusiastic peer review.

               [Ryuji] man our aesthetic is SO COOL. Thanks Yusuke

               [Makoto] Artfully written, too, Ren. I couldn’t have done better.

               [Futaba] Countdown to Crow visibility!

   “Here goes,” says Ren, and hits send.

   They wait a moment, but nothing catastrophic happens. Ren switches over to the group chat and taps out, Sent.

   “I suppose I ought to get going if I want to return to my dorm tonight,” says Yusuke.

   Ren nods. “Here,” he says. He opens the fridge and takes out a container of curry. “Breakfast tomorrow.”

   Yusuke takes it with visible gratitude. “I don’t think I will ever be able to convey, Ren,” he says, “exactly how glad I am to have met you.”

   “It’s just curry,” says Ren.

   Yusuke smiles, but simply collects his coat and says, “Good night.”

   “See you tomorrow,” says Ren.

   The door tinkles with Yusuke’s exit, and Ren slowly climbs the stairs. It’s always a little lonely when Morgana spends the night with the Sakuras. A little strange, to be left alone with his thoughts. The bed is colder without his usual fuzzy hot water bottle. At least the plant looks healthy.

   Shouldn’t have had that thought about insomnia—it’s jinxed him. Ren loses track of how long he tosses and turns before he finally concedes defeat and clicks his phone on to check the weather for tomorrow. Stormy—that’s fine. They wouldn’t be outside to enjoy the sunshine anyway. Checks the running mobile game match he has with Hifumi—still her turn. No word from any of his confidants around Tokyo. All is as calm and quiet as the sky outside.

   He’s just opened his texts with Akechi to read over the card again when he sees it.

   ✓ Viewed 1:18AM.

Chapter Text

   November had not seen them go to Mementos as often as the others might have liked. In truth, Ren was reluctant to relinquish the precious few afternoons they’d had that month to the depths of the subway. Sae’s Palace had been trying, yes; it had also been the most fun he’d ever had in a Palace, and he privately thought Crow had felt the same even despite the deceit. That bright shine he’d seen behind the red mask hadn’t been just smugness or even the thrill of victory. Ren remembers Akechi: matching him step for step, solving each little mystery, finding the ways forward that none of the rest of them could possibly have seen. That gleam in his eyes as they danced their way through the Casino together… Ren wasn’t imagining things. Akechi had loved it.

   The repetitive tracks of Mementos were dull by comparison. Each time the Thieves crawled out of the underground they did so drenched in sweat, tired and sore and grumpy. They had precious few requests to complete in November and so Ren kept putting it off and putting it off, preferring to spend the days he had left with Akechi on the surface and not cramped together in a bus deep underground where they couldn’t speak freely, or really at all. Laughing as Akechi regaled him with yet another story from work, or some old bit of academia he found interesting—in turn making Akechi snort in surprise or choke on whatever he was drinking at the time—it had seemed like an excellent way to while away the hours at the time, and as each second ticked by Ren wondered if any of it was making a difference at all to the denouement they were hurtling towards.

   He slightly regretted, now, not going to Mementos more often, if only because it meant he saw less of Crow in his element. They’d had precious little time with that white suit and red mask. The few times they’d held meetings while Crow was still a Phantom Thief, they’d all crowded into the attic in which Ren slept, and Ren tried not to think about Akechi standing just inches away from his bed. Akechi always stood right behind his chair when they huddled around the little table and Ren had never known why. There had been plenty of room.

   Now, crowded around that same table with his best friends, the space at his shoulder feels cold.

   Ren’s phone lies in the centre. They’ve all passed it around, though of course the little gray words don’t change. Ryuji picks it up again and Ren watches him tap in the passcode. It’s 8888. They all know it.

   Ann leans over his shoulder. “He didn’t reply.”

   No, he hadn’t. Ren supposes it’s not a surprise.

   “If we didn’t know he was alive before,” Morgana says, “I guess we have confirmation now.”

   There’s no new information in Morgana’s quiet meow, but the Thieves collectively tense. Days upon days of tramping around in his heart—yes, they’d all known Akechi was alive. The Palace, though, was steeped in metaphor. It all represented Akechi perfectly well in a symbolic way. Yet none of it felt quite the same as imagining the boy they’d all spent their time with not a month prior and then heard die, somewhere out there in the same world they occupied, checking his phone in the middle of the night.

   Ren had called them together at 11AM. There would have been no point in calling them at one in the morning. Akechi was alive, and now he knew they were coming. That fact wouldn’t change if his team were to sleep a few more hours, so he’d let them, because at least someone should.

   (Besides, texting any earlier might have raised questions Ren didn’t want to answer, like “Why are you awake at one in the morning?” and “Are you okay?”)

   “I’ve been wondering something,” Makoto says. “Do you think Akechi-kun knows he has a Palace?” Then, defensively, when the others look at her: “I’m just curious.”

   So they all look at Futaba.

   “Don’t look at me,” she squeaks. “How am I supposed to know? Just because I had one too? I didn’t even know my keywords until I heard you all say them.”

   “You must’ve had some idea, though,” says Ryuji. “I mean, you told us tomb.”

   “If he didn’t know before, he does now,” says Morgana. “It won’t affect the Treasure, so don’t worry. All the Shadows will be on high alert, though, and in a Palace like Akechi’s, that could be dangerous. We’d better be careful.” He looks sternly around at them. “Are we all ready to go?”

   A round of nods.

   Ren glances up at the big TAKE YOUR HEART banner on the wall. Not exactly subtle, but there’s not much point hiding anymore when he’s already stood and died once for their flag.

   “Haru?” Makoto asks, and with a start, Ren realises Haru is looking straight at him.

   Hawklike. She’s watching his hands, which he notices too late are stock still. He tries to remember what he usually does with them and has just settled on tapping his fingers when she says, “Are you really okay with this?”

   The question startles him.

   “What’re you talking about?” Ryuji asks her. “It was his idea.”

   This makes Ren flinch, though he doesn’t know why. It was his idea. They’ve assured him now that they would go through with it regardless, but it was his idea. They were all there, same as he was, down in that freezing engine room. They’d all watched the partition rise, and they’d all heard Akechi’s desperate, echoing, unreachable voice, but it was his fists that hit the wall, and it was his idea. It was. It was.

   And he knows now—and he’s known all along—and he’s known every time Akechi’s smiling face flashed behind his eyes, and his bitter laugh rattled around in his ears, and his ragged pleas roused him to thrashing at night—that he would do anything, give anything. Anything, to see him again. One more time. Just for a chance to figure out what question to ask.

   But Haru is still staring at him. With her soft, sweet eyes she pierces him, unrelenting.

   “Akechi tried to kill you,” she says.

   He had.

   He’d also killed Haru’s father. Yet this, now, is the closest she’s come to voicing an objection. Akechi had tried to trick her into working with him, all the while knowing the criminal she sought was fighting right beside her.

   She’d walked the Theatre halls right beside Ren, eyes forward, hands steady. Never faltering once.

   “He lied to you,” Haru says softly.

   He did.

   “He pretended to be your friend, and then he betrayed you. He’s been alive all this time. He’s had his phone. And he never tried to contact you.”

   Each word lands duller than the last. Ren feels like his mind is full of static and his ears are full of cotton.

   He turns almost automatically to Futaba when she makes a sound in the back of her throat.

   “Sorry,” she says. “Just had a thought. When Akechi thought Ren was dead, it took him ages to find out we’d fooled him. Kind of a funny mirror, isn’t it?”

   “It’s not the same at all,” Haru says sharply. “Ren was pretending because Akechi would have killed him otherwise. Why would you hide from someone who wanted to save you?”

   Ren thinks of a few reasons and says none of them.

   Haru turns back to him anyway.

   “Ren,” she says. It’s so hard to hide from her. “When you say jump, I’ll jump. So just answer me this one thing before I do. How can you be okay with this?”

   I sense a solid bond between me and Akechi…

   “Let me tell you about the Speluncean Explorers,” said Akechi.

   Mid-to-late November and the weather was mild. Brisk enough to justify a coat, but Ren made do with his sport jacket. The little veranda at Miel et Crêpes was sheltered enough that he didn’t shiver, and Akechi seemed more than comfortable in his standard sweater-vest/button-down combo.

   Akechi leant forward, resting his chin on his folded hands and his elbows on the table. How unbecoming, the table manners of a celebrity detective.

   They didn’t come here often. When they did, they tended to occupy this table right by the railing. Ren wasn’t sure why. It was right next to the street. Surely if Akechi wanted not to be spotted, the less populated interior provided more protection.

   Then again, perhaps it wasn’t about being spotted. The inside of a building, after all, had fewer routes of escape than the outside. Just beside Akechi’s seat was the café’s exit, two little steps that lead straight down onto the main road. Akechi could stand swift-as-you-please and make a rapid exeunt any which way he liked. When they dined together, he did tend to make a point of placing his attaché case on an adjacent seat, where it could be quickly collected.

   That, at least, was how Ren would approach the area. It was a thief’s perspective. Was it Akechi’s?

   “Tell me,” said Ren.

   Akechi smiled. “Are you familiar with Lon Fuller?”

   “Yes,” Ren said, because for once he was. The name had cropped up in one of the books he'd found in Jinbocho.

   Before he had been permitted to sit with Akechi and partake in tiny cakes, Akechi had warned him of the arbitrary standards he must meet that he might be spared the ire of Akechi’s fans. To be sighted in the presence of the second coming of the Detective Prince, one must appear sufficiently intelligent. Or so he was told.

   And handsome, Akechi added, almost as an afterthought. So casual Ren could not work out if the casualness was false from disingenuousness or false from shyness, only that it was false, for Akechi never said anything merely incidental.

   Anyway, Ren had passed.

   Akechi's eyebrows had shot into his hair. “You are,” he said, delightedly dubious. “Well, you tell me.”

   “He was a legal philosopher,” said Ren.

   Actually, he'd only looked into it because he'd seen 'legal philosopher' and thought that was something Akechi might be impressed by.

   He’d been correct. Akechi, looking pleased, said, “That's right. So you're familiar with the case?”

   Ren shook his head. “I don't know his work.”

   “That's quite alright,” said Akechi, whom Ren thought might be rather disappointed if he were not given the opportunity to explain something. “Well, you’re correct. Fuller was an American legal theorist who made significant contributions to the field of jurisprudence. His work was often centred around the so-called morality of law, which he believed to be inherent. I won't get into that.” Akechi smiled like he was sharing some private joke with himself. “One of his more famous works is a thought experiment called the Case of the Speluncean Explorers. It's an article written in the style of a court judgment, though it is of course entirely fictional. Would you like to hear the story?”

   “Sure,” said Ren.

   Akechi's eyes sparkled. Ren realised with a start that he, too, had begun to lean in; there was now much less space between their faces than there had been at the start of their conversation.

   “Five men are caught in a landslide,” said Akechi. “These men are amateur spelunkers—cave explorers. After the cave-in, they’re trapped inside. A rescue operation commences, during which ten workmen are killed. Radio contact is established with the spelunkers. It is determined that the rescuers will not reach them before they starve.”

   There was something captivating about Akechi's voice. Ren was sure that if this were something that had come up in class, he would long have drifted off—but delivered in Akechi's charming lilt, a picture began to form in Ren's mind of the five men, desperate and alone; of the dark cave; of the crackling voice over the radio informing them that they were all about to die.

   “One of the men is named Roger Whetmore,” Akechi went on. “He radios the rescuers and asks to speak to a doctor. When the physician arrives, Whetmore says he has a question. If, for instance, four of the men were to kill the fifth and consume his flesh, would they then fend off starvation long enough to be rescued? The physician answers reluctantly: yes. Whetmore asks for someone—a judge, or a priest—to make a ruling. Should the men draw lots to determine who should be killed?”

   Akechi paused to take a small bite of cake.

   “Nobody is willing to answer this question,” he said delicately, “and radio contact is lost soon after.”

   Ren’s own cake lay abandoned on his plate.

   “In time, the men are rescued... at least, most of them are. When the rescuers reach them, they find that only four of the men have survived. Roger Whetmore has been killed and eaten by his fellows after losing a game of dice.” Akechi paused and smiled apologetically at Ren. “Sorry. It's a little gruesome.”

   “That's okay,” Ren managed.

   “Shall I stop here?”

   “That's okay,” Ren said again. “I didn't expect legal philosophy to be so gory.”

   Akechi winked. “Exciting field, isn't it? If you can stomach it, I'll continue.”

   “Go for it.”

   Akechi grinned. “The men confess that, prior to his death, Whetmore had tried to rescind his own suggestion. He wanted to wait a few more days before they resorted to such grisly measures. The other men were having none of it, though, and cast his dice for him. Whetmore conceded that the throw was fair, and subsequently met his fate.”

   Akechi rested his chin on his hand again.

   “The men are brought to trial,” he said, gazing at Ren.

   Anyone watching them might have thought they were on a date. Two ordinary young men, utterly besotted, or so it would seem from the expression on Akechi's face. Quite the expression for someone still recounting a tale of cannibalism and murder, fictional though it may have been.

   “The relevant law provides—and forgive me, I may have to paraphrase, I don't have Fuller memorised to quite that extent,” like Ren would know or care, like Akechi thought Ren would know or care, “but imagine that the wording is unambiguous: ‘Whoever wilfully takes the life of another must be put to death.’ The four men are convicted of murder and sentenced to be executed.”

   This, finally, broke through Ren's reverie. “What?”

   Akechi's delighted smile widened. “I'll make a philosopher of you yet. You've spotted the problem.”

   “Anyone could spot the problem. They're executed?”

   “Sentenced to be executed,” said Akechi, “and as to the problem being obvious, I only wish that were so. The story continues... but surely you must be bored by now, so perhaps I ought to—”

   “Finish the story,” Ren demanded, which was worth it just to hear Akechi’s cackle.

   “The verdict is appealed,” said Akechi, still snickering, “to the Supreme Court. Five judges sit at the bench. This, actually, is the meat of Fuller's article—he writes these five fictional judgments, each representing a different perspective on the purpose of the law and the art of its interpretation. I won't bore you with the legal minutiae, Ren, but before I tell you what each judge decided…” Akechi’s smile is a little too knowing. “I’m quite confident I can predict your perspective on the matter, but do recall this is a legal puzzle and not a purely ethical one, will you? There are many competing considerations at play; for instance, whatever rule is set here would have precedential value and might need to be applied to future cases, too.”

   “Alright,” said Ren, slightly miffed.

   “The first judge,” said Akechi, “the Chief Justice, as I recall, affirms the conviction. The wording of the statute is unambiguous. His personal belief is that the men should be pardoned; however, the role of the judiciary is to interpret and apply the law as it stands. Thus, he determines that the men should receive their original sentence, but lends his support that they might apply to the executive to commute the sentence. You’ve heard of a presidential pardon, yes?”

   “Yes,” said Ren, frowning. “Hold on. He convicted them, but he wants someone else to un-convict them?”

   “Are you familiar with the separation of powers? In essence, the judiciary is to be separate from the executive—or, the courts from the government. It’s the role of the courts to interpret and apply the law, not to change it. Very little discretion is afforded to them in the performance of that task.” Akechi looked embarrassed. “Sorry. It’s dry. I really didn’t want to lecture you about the legal system, if you can believe it.”

   “I can’t. Keep going.”

   “You really do wound me, Ren. Are you going to finish that cake?”

   Ren picked it up and bit into it. It was fine.

   “Anyway, that was the Chief Justice’s perspective. He felt he couldn’t pardon the men himself, but he campaigned for someone else to do it.” Akechi motioned for Ren to touch his top lip; Ren did and found a blob of cream. “The second judge sought to set the convictions aside entirely. He argued that the spelunkers were not in ordinary circumstances, and thus ordinary laws should not apply. Furthermore, he argued that one should interpret the law according to purpose and not literal wording. The purpose of the statute was to deter citizens from committing murder, he said, and thus must be interpreted charitably, as the men in this circumstance clearly could not have been deterred from saving their own lives.” Akechi rubbed his neck. “Forgive me. I’m realising it’s quite difficult to explain all this without going down further rabbit holes. I’m leaving a lot out, so just keep that in mind.”

   “Feels pretty comprehensive to me.”

   Akechi smirked at him. “Oh, really? Too much for you?”

   “Not even.” Ren smirked back, fairly pleased with himself for keeping up. “What did the third judge decide?”

   “Nothing,” said Akechi. “He recused himself. He disagreed with the second judge—both on the purpose of the law and on the argument about the men existing outside of ordinary law at the time. But he could not bring himself to convict the men regardless, so he withdrew.”

   Ren frowned.

   “You don’t like that,” Akechi said, reading him.

   “That feels cowardly,” said Ren.

   Akechi nodded. “Perhaps,” he said. “I confess I find it rather weak-minded myself. But, just to advocate for the devil somewhat… When lives are on the line, is it not better to confess to a lack of conviction rather than pick a stance for the sake of it? Surely that sort of empty bravado is hardly better?”

   “If the decision ties, what happens to the men?”

   “The original conviction stands,” said Akechi. “They’re executed.”

   “Then it’s better to pick a side,” said Ren. “Making no choice is a choice.”

   Akechi tilted his head. “Every now and then,” he said, “I’m reminded of why I like you so much.”

   Ren, not knowing how to respond to this, shoved the entire rest of his cake into his mouth in one go.

   Akechi politely didn’t remark upon this. Instead he said, “The fourth judge was uncompromising. He affirmed the convictions and criticised the Chief Justice for his appeal to the executive. The separation of powers, to him, was absolute, and morality irrelevant to law.” He spotted Ren’s expression. “Yes, I quite agree.”

   “I didn’t say anything, though.”

   “Did you need to?” Akechi tapped his own head. “I know you quite well by now.”

   Ren twisted his lip. “Some people shouldn’t be judges.”

   “This isn’t real,” Akechi reminded him.

   “Yes, it is,” Ren said.

   Akechi looked startled for a moment, then smiled bitterly. “Yes, it is,” he agreed.

   “There’s one more judge,” said Ren.

   “Yes, well-remembered. The final judge set the convictions aside on the grounds of common sense and morality. His argument was controversial. The courts are not supposed to take account of popular opinion, but he believed—I’m paraphrasing, Ren, remember—that there is wisdom in the common person’s perspective, as uninformed as it may be.” Akechi looked thoughtful. “It’s an interesting idea. It relies on an innate sense of rightness, which he assumes each person possesses. A moral compass which guides each of us even when we cannot explain it.”

   “Justice,” says Ren.

   “Justice,” Akechi agrees. “As something each person holds in their heart. It begs the question—does law follow the justice of the populace, or should the people’s understanding be guided by the law? It's not as simple as it sounds. Neither is reliably just. You’ve witnessed yourself, of course," and here Akechi inclined his head in acknowledgment, “firsthand, both the failings of the justice system and the fickleness of public opinion. Which court would you rather be tried in?”

   When Ren did not respond, Akechi’s smile returned.

   “The Phantom Thieves, of course,” he said softly, “follow only their own justice. You exist outside of the law, as the second judge might posit. I’m not sure that any legal system in the world could claim jurisdiction over the Metaverse. Should crimes that occur there go unpunished?”

   “What happened to the men?” Ren asked.

   “The court can’t come to a decision,” said Akechi. “Two for, two against, one withdrawn. The conviction stands. The executive refuses to grant clemency. The men are put to death.”

   Ren swallowed. The abrupt end to the story made him feel a little sick.

   “I’ve simplified the story somewhat,” Akechi said. “There were many considerations at play. Legal ones, too complex to explain over coffee. Practical ones—what of the ten workmen and their sacrifice? Ethical ones aplenty, of course. But you get the gist.”

   “What’s the point of the story?”

   “It has several. To present different perspectives on the law, perhaps—natural law and legal positivism being the main ones. To raise questions as to what might be considered the true purpose of sentencing. To provoke thought about the best approach to statutory interpretation.” Akechi smiled. “To start arguments with one’s friends.”

   Ren didn’t take the bait.

   “And now to my prediction,” said Akechi, leaning back and crossing his arms. “You would pardon the men.”

   “Obviously,” said Ren. “That’s not impressive.”

   Akechi rolled his eyes. “Your standards for me are so high. Should I be flattered?” He raised a hand and flagged down a waiter. “A chai latte, please. Ren, anything?”

   “Same,” said Ren. “Thanks.”

   “Tell me your thinking,” said Akechi.

   “Predict it,” said Ren. “Since you know me so well.”

   Akechi rolled his eyes again. Ren liked the way it looked on him and resolved to annoy him more often. “Well, let’s see.” Akechi tapped his chin. “I believe your approach would be twofold. An ethical argument and a practical one. Am I right so far?”

   “Tell me the arguments.”

   “The practical argument is obvious,” said Akechi. “Ten men died to save five. One man died to save four. All that grief, all that effort. To kill the survivors after all is said and done—what a terrible waste.”

   The waiter arrived with their drinks. Akechi smiled at him like no one had ever done anything quite so kind, and the waiter left with a slightly dizzy grin.

   “I think you blinded him,” said Ren.

   “Hush, you,” said Akechi. “The ethical argument is equally obvious. After everything those men have been through, how could anyone consider the death sentence to be just?” He sipped his drink. Ren didn’t tell him about the foam moustache. “Mm. Delicious. How close did I get?”

   “Nailed it,” said Ren. “Missed a bit.”

   Akechi, who had started to pump his fist in triumph, lowered it and sighed. “There’s always something, with you. Very well, what did I miss?”

   “The law is inconsistent,” said Ren.

   “How so?”

   “Whoever wilfully kills another person must be put to death,” Ren said.

   “Yes?”

   “That’s a contradiction, isn’t it?” Ren asked. “Someone has to execute them. Who puts the executioner to death?”

   A slow smile began to spread across Akechi’s face.

   “Which means there are exceptions,” said Ren. “They just don’t want to make them.”

   “And why,” said Akechi, “might they not want to make those exceptions?”

   Ren shrugged.

   “Say the law isn’t always about justice,” he said. “Say it’s about control.”

   “What a concept,” said Akechi wryly.

   “The rules never apply the same way to the ones making them,” said Ren.

   Akechi whistled.

   “It always comes back to rebellion with you,” he said affectionately. “You’ve heard of the rule of law, correct? That no one is above the law—it applies equally to citizens and government alike.”

   “Bullshit,” said Ren.

   Akechi’s eyes glinted. “I quite agree.”

   “What would you do?” Ren asked.

   “If I were a judge?” Akechi tended to jut his bottom lip out when he was thinking. It was cute. “I’d pardon the men.”

   “Why?”

   “Tell me,” said Akechi.

   Ren tapped his fingers on the table.

   “You wouldn’t trust the executive to pardon them,” he said. “You think the separation of powers argument is weak.”

   Akechi looked surprised.

   “You wouldn’t follow public opinion,” said Ren, squinting at him. “You don’t think sentencing is about deterrence. So it’s not those. I think you agree with me. The practical and the ethical arguments. And the contradiction.”

   Akechi was smiling again. “And?”

   “And,” said Ren.

   The chai lattes here were served in glasses. Leblanc didn’t sell these, so Ren didn’t feel he was betraying Sojiro by ordering one. Akechi’s was half-full and Ren still hadn’t told him about the foam coating his top lip.

   “I think you respect the men,” he said. “The one who died and the ones who killed him. It was gruesome, but it was fair. They found a way to survive.”

   “That’s not a very legalistic argument.”

   “No, it’s not. Am I wrong?”

   The way Akechi looked at him—it made Ren feel like Akechi wouldn’t have minded sitting there with him forever. He was, in this way, no different from the waiter, whom Akechi had never met before in his life—no better at resisting that sweet look in Akechi’s eyes, like Ren was the most special person in the world, that he was lying to everyone else.

   “You’re right,” said Akechi.

   This is the first time they’ve ever sent a calling card without having actually been in the Treasure room. Not part of the plan, just an oversight. The Magician had flattened them so utterly that none of them had had the energy to crawl even a few steps further—the last, Oracle assured them, before they reached the VIP Box and saw the unknowable shape of the Treasure. Call it a gamble. They’d gotten good at that, anyway, in the Casino—Crow had taught them well.

   The final corridor before the VIP Box is so long and winding it brings up nasty imagery of Shido’s damned Cruiser, but no traps await them this time. Just a long, long trek up to a door with a single guard.

   “Outta the way,” Skull snarls.

   “Guests are not permitted up here,” it answers blandly.

   Joker produces the ticket with a (yes, unnecessary) flourish and hands it over. The Shadow squints at it. Or, well, looks at it, maybe? It’s hard to tell.

   “It’s real,” says Panther, convincingly.

   “It is,” the Shadow agrees. “I apologise. This is highly irregular. Nobody is ordinarily permitted in the VIP Box except the Master.” It… frowns? “However, this is, without a doubt, a genuine ticket.” Joker’s never seen a Shadow look this confused. “I confess I am not sure what I should do.”

   Joker can tell the Thieves are about to shift into old reliable—beat ‘em up—when they hear a voice in the corridor behind them.

   “It’s quite alright,” says Akechi Goro.

   Except—no. That’s not Akechi. Not unless Akechi’s eyes have always gleamed an unnatural yellow, and Ren is sure even now that they’re brown. Cool and chocolatey, tinted just red, sparkling with laughter or glinting with disdain. Soft and wine-dark and framed with light lashes. Glowing bronze in the sun or the dim light of the jazz club, dark and dark and dark in the clanking bowels of a cursed ship. They were brown back then and must be brown now. The Shadow, dressed immaculately in Akechi’s school uniform with a perfectly tied tie and pressed peacoat, smiles a smile that doesn’t reach its golden eyes and raises its left hand.

   Oh, and its gun.

   “I wouldn’t waste my time going in, though,” it says cheerfully. “If I were you, I’d run.”

   Joker can feel the Thieves tense, but none of them break ranks. The gun is pointed straight at Joker’s head, of course. Predictable. A soft hand touches his arm. He inclines his head to look. Noir squeezes his elbow, still staring straight at the Shadow.

   The guard shifts uncomfortably. “Master,” it begins.

   A twitch of his hand—a bang—the Thieves flinch as the guard dissolves.

   “Annoying fellow,” the Shadow says calmly, returning the gun to Joker’s head. “Sorry you had to see that.”

   The air agitates either side of the Shadow, and with an ugly sound two more Shadows manifest. A white suit, a dark mask. Both tilt their heads as though to test them, sharp masks shining and winking in the light from the chandeliers.

   “There are more,” Queen whispers. “Which one is real…?”

   The first Shadow snorts. “Please,” it says. “You can’t still be on about that.” It gestures around and its gaze turns cold. “You’ve seen this place, haven’t you? There’s no real. Not here.”

   “I thought…” Panther’s voice wavers. “Every other Shadow we’ve seen here has been a performer.”

   “Correct,” says the Shadow. It smiles. “Did you think they would all be so theatrical? Sorry to disappoint.”

   Somewhere at Joker’s ankle, Mona says, “They were all performances, remember? Even everyday Akechi.”

   “Sure,” says Skull, “but the Akechi we saw in Shido’s Palace—the one in that freaky black suit screamin’ like crazy—wasn’t that the real one?” He shakes his head. “So why’s he standing right there?”

   “I’ll rip you to shreds,” hisses the black-masked Shadow. “I’ll rend your flesh from your bones.”

   “Shut up, man,” says Skull.

   The Shadow bares its teeth. Oracle gasps before anyone can react, but she doesn’t say a word when Joker looks at her—just points in horror to one of her inscrutable screens, on which even Joker can tell something is wrong. The air is stirring. Around them, one by one, new Shadows materialise with a swishing sound like the space is made of fabric.

   “There are so many,” Mona says, amazed.

   Tens, maybe hundreds. Each with those same clear yellow eyes. They would actually be pretty funny if not for the dire straits the Thieves are in. One looks like a clown. There’s an acrobat, someone who looks like a comedian or maybe a debate team captain. A TV presenter, a pop idol, a dancing drag queen.

   Queen is just saying, “Get ready for a fight,” while Joker is already calculating an escape route, when one final Shadow appears. Skull yelps and topples back into Panther, who catches him, but he’s not the only one who’s been thrown off balance because—

   “He’s back,” Fox says faintly, and the Magician winks.

   “I said Shadows don’t bleed,” Noir said, almost accusingly.

   The first Shadow twirls its gun. “Well?” it asks. “I’d ask if you’d like to give up now… but I’d actually find that quite unsatisfying.”

   The Magician spots Ryuji and gives him a coy little wave. Ren tenses.

   But Ann’s still got her arms around Ryuji’s shoulders, not that he seems to need it. Ryuji swallows once and growls, “Not again, you bastard. You’re not getting any of us this time.”

   “Skull, don’t—”

   The original Shadow sighs like it’s disappointed, even as Ryuji launches himself straight at the Magician like this has historically ended well for them ever. The Magician finds time to mime a shocked little pose à la The Scream before a massive playing card shoots out of the floor, fresh from the previous Wing, and smacks Skull upside the jaw so hard he flips backward and hits the floor.

   The Thieves shout, but Ryuji seems fine, if winded. He waves off Makoto’s fretting hands. “Bith my thongue,” he says, miffed.

   “What did you think was going to happen?!” Oracle demands.

   The Magician is out of sight now, hidden behind the ace of clubs which has settled from floor to ceiling with a happy creak. Then again, it could be anywhere. The other Shadows—the other Akechis—they’re advancing slowly, each playing up variants of that familiar amble Ren had come to smile at. The Thieves look around nervously, beginning to draw together.

   “Joker,” says Queen shakily. “This is too many for us to take on.”

   Yes, he’s past that already, never having entertained a fight in the first place. He lets his eyes dart past the original Shadow—there. In the wall, up high, there’s a gap that might be a window. Queen follows his gaze.

   “Everyone,” she says tersely, but the original Shadow tuts.

   “You’re leaving already?” it asks. “I expected better of such heroes.”

   “Watch out!” Oracle shrieks, just as the Magician materialises in their midst and snaps its fingers once more. Eight more cards shoot out of the floor—nine, ten, eleven—a king of hearts, a six of diamonds. Red, black. Red, black. Joker watches a numbered spade knock Oracle’s goggles clean off in the split second before he has to backflip out of the way, before he’s decapitated by a passing queen, and suddenly he can’t see any of them at all.

   No. He can see one of them.

   “I know this is important,” Haru said. “I won’t take too much of your time.”

   They were outside Leblanc. Makoto had protested only half-heartedly when Ren had gotten up and offered his hand to Haru to help her up, too. They’re short on time, she’d said. The rest of them were probably fretting up there with each moment he stood out here with their second-most recent member, but there were fourteen hours before the calling card expired, and Yongen wasn’t so large that a little walk was going to rob them of more than a few precious minutes.

   Each of his strides was a pace and a half for Haru, almost a head shorter than him. He slowed.

   “Are you cold?” Haru asked him quietly.

   “I’m okay. Are you?”

   “No,” said Haru, "thank you," and this was good, because Ren had forgotten his coat to offer her.

   A cat darted across their path. Ren wondered if Morgana could speak to them or if it was only people he could hear.

   “Ren-kun,” said Haru. “I really do want to understand.”

   She meant it, he could tell. If he were her, would he try as hard? Ren pictured the ones who’d wronged him and found he couldn’t say he’d ever managed half her grace. And they’d never done anything quite as bad as murder his father and make him fear, however briefly, that he’d been the one to cock the gun. If they had—and if he’d turned around to find Haru fretting not after him but after the cold-blooded murderer—

   Would he stand out here with her after weeks of gruelling effort on her behalf and fret that she was cold?

   Haru blew into her hands and rubbed them together. It was late December, after all. Ren took off his jacket, though it was too thin to do much of anything, and wrapped it around her shoulders. It barely fit over her sweater.

   She tried to smile at him. “Always the gentleman,” she said.

   Joker was the gentleman. Standing out here in his stupid little hoodie, about to ask her to risk her life for a man she should probably want dead... Ren didn’t feel much like him.

   Haru sat on a side bench, only a little gingerly, although it was dirty and would surely leave grime on her white leggings. She patted the spot next to her, so he sat, too.

   “Ren-kun,” she said.

   “Senpai,” he returned.

   She smiled despite herself. Ren remembered with a jolt of guilt: sometimes he’d catch her gazing at him, cheeks going warm before she hurriedly looked away. Ren thought of bloodstained hands and wondered how affectionate he would feel if Haru wore red gloves.

   “Don’t misunderstand me,” she told him. “You know I’m in favour of changing Akechi-kun’s heart for my own reasons. I only feel that, in good faith, I can’t act until I know why you want to. He was something altogether different to you than what he was to me, Ren-kun. To all of us.”

   “Especially to you,” Ren said.

   Haru nodded. “That’s why I need to know. I hope you don’t mind my asking.” Ren shook his head. “The Phantom Thieves have to unanimously agree, after all. I wouldn’t feel right pursuing him if I didn’t understand your motivations. And right now… Please forgive me, Ren-kun, but I fear I don’t.”

   In their strategy meetings, Akechi had always stood behind Ren’s right shoulder. There was something oddly possessive about it. Ren had been so aware of him there, hovering with his left hand on the back of Ren’s chair. His fingers had always been so close that if Ren had leaned back, he would have squashed them. Those were the same fingers that had pulled the trigger. They must have been.

   The way Akechi stood there, breathing down Ren’s neck, he was close enough to touch Ren's spine in some mockery of a caress if he’d wanted to. Ren had never minded it. Missed it, in fact, even now.

   More than once, Ren had caught Haru’s eyes on them. Mostly on him, but it wasn’t uncommon for her gaze to drift past his shoulder. Akechi’s gloved hand curled around the chair back and it felt almost like he meant to curl them around something else—Ren’s arm, maybe, his throat, his hip. Akechi would lean over Ren and look at the plans, look at the notes, look at the others, and Ren would feel him standing there, that somehow heady presence he had and couldn't shed, leaning into Ren’s space like the space was shared. Here, Akechi's hair would brush the side of Ren's cheek. If Ren turned his head just so, he could just about tuck his face into the crook of Akechi's neck. Could, even, breathe him in; intoxicate himself with Akechi's expensive cologne, which had grown rich in its time resting on Akechi's skin. Ren might ask a question, and his lips might brush Akechi's collar.

   It was never quite so explicit as this, but whenever Haru looked at them Ren couldn’t help but hear what she must have heard in Akechi’s warm breaths and the way he would reach across Ren’s chest: He’s mine.

   She would look away here. The flush in her cheeks would deepen before it cooled and she’d stare at her hands again. More than once, Ren had sworn he’d heard a chuckle behind him. Too quiet for the others to hear and light enough that Ren might have imagined it. Maybe imagined the heat it brought to the nape of his neck, too.

   Ren had seen resentment in Haru’s eyes more than once, but there was none in them now. She touched his fingers, steady and resigned.

   “Please tell me about Akechi-kun,” she said softly. “I want to know your feelings, Ren-kun. Please help me understand.”

   Her eyes were round and beseeching. Ren knew—she did not want to hear of his justice, of their defiance, of the right thing. He could not insult her by pretending. This was not like always.

   All those days ago, though it felt like years. Before they’d stepped foot in Akechi’s Palace, before they’d even known his words. Ann had sat him down mere feet away from the team on a wooden floor so dusty their age had collected into black crud wedged between the boards. He’d told her it was just like always. He’d told her they did this to save people. She’d said, Isn’t it for you, too? She’d said, No matter how we feel about Akechi—

   “I’m not going to turn my back on you,” Haru said firmly. “No matter what. You are my leader and my dear friend. Wherever your heart leads you, Ren-kun, that's where I'll be.”

   Would Ren have sat here with her if their roles were reversed? Here in the cold, in the dirt? Haru did him one better: she wiped the helpless tears from his cheeks, wrapped his jacket more firmly around her shoulders, and listened for as long as he would tell her. So he told her.

   Joker flattens his back up against the nearest card. Three of spades. He doesn’t blink, and neither does Akechi’s yellow-eyed Shadow.

   What a cosy little alcove they’ve found themselves in. Cards as three of four walls, the fourth high and solid and arching. That glowing little window sits high above the Shadow’s head. Joker taps the card at his back—Morse code—but Oracle doesn’t tap back.

   “Just you and me,” Akechi’s Shadow says silkily.

   As Ren watches, that gun hand rises to meet him once again, steady and inevitable as the sun.

Chapter Text

   “Jinbocho,” Akechi sighed. “Why didn’t I think of Jinbocho before I thought of Shinjuku?”

   “You didn’t want books, you just wanted a pointless challenge,” said Ren.

   “Have you met that storeowner in Jinbocho? It’s a challenge.”

   Ren snorted. Akechi looked pleased, the way he always did when he managed to make Ren laugh. The train hit a bump and they both rocked on their feet, gripping adjacent loops. Neither had been quick enough to get a seat.

    Ren waved Akechi ahead of him when the speaker announced their stop. “If she’ll sell me anything, you should give me your recommendations.”

   “You’re out of books already?” Akechi clucked his tongue. “I honestly don’t know where you find the time to read. It feels like I haven’t been able to pick up a book all year.”

   “Maybe you should do fewer extracurriculars. I see you too much on TV.”

   Akechi looked so very, very hurt as they walked toward Book Town. “You don’t like seeing me on TV?”

   “I prefer seeing you in person,” said Ren.

   For a bookseller, the storeowner at Ren’s most frequented shop was stubbornly reticent to sell him any books. Only when she’d determined that he had in fact finished everything she’d deigned to sell him would she allow him to enter the store. Akechi she allowed in with a weary wave, adding, “Though I don’t think you’ve so much as touched a page in months, dear, do you get enough sleep?”

   “No,” Akechi said under his breath, making Ren snicker even as he shot the woman a winning smile. “All right, Ren. You asked for it—though you do realise my recommendations will likely be, ah…”

   “Pretentious philosophy and law,” said Ren. “Go for it.”

   “Well, that’s certainly encouraged me to share my tastes,” Akechi said drily. “Let’s skip the legal philosophy today, shall we?” And Ren watched with some apprehension as he walked straight to a dusty little corner of classics and plucked something out. He flashed it to Ren like he was showing off a product in a makeup video. “Read it?”

   Ren shook his head. “I’ve read the Odyssey.”

   He had—for class, back home. But Ren thought he ought to read more, and indeed was reading more these days, because each time he told Akechi he knew something of the miscellaneous things Akechi liked to bring up, Akechi shot him a slightly impressed (if patronising) smile, and Ren was quickly becoming addicted to it.

   Better not examine that too closely.

   Akechi turned the Iliad over in his hands and touched its cover like he was greeting an old friend. “This one’s better,” he said. “In my not-so-humble opinion. Did you enjoy Odyssey?"

   “Sure.”

   Akechi half-smiled at that. “They’re a little dense, I concede. I think you’ll enjoy this one, though. If you want my recommendation, I wouldn’t go past this. It’s one of my favourites.”

   “What’s it about?”

   “A feud,” Akechi answered. “You’ve heard of Achilles, I assume.”

   “He’s the one with the foot,” said Ren, mostly to make Akechi mad.

   Success. Ren laughed when Akechi sighed, and this at least seemed to make Akechi smile. “Yes,” he said indulgently. “That’s him. The Iliad relays the story of a disagreement Achilles had with his commander during the Trojan War.”

   “What’s the disagreement?”

   “Well, why don’t you read it and find out?” Akechi said silkily. He bit back a laugh at Ren’s face. “Here, how’s this—buy it and I’ll tell you more about Achilles so you at least have more context than ‘the one with the foot’. How’s that?”

   “Hmm,” said Ren, pretending to think. “If I buy the book you want me to read, I have to listen to you talk about it.”

   “That’s right,” Akechi said sunnily, so Ren bought the book.

   Back out on the street, Akechi led Ren to a teahouse he favoured and bought him a slice of cheesecake. Ren took a sip from the little teacup and nodded when Akechi asked if he liked it.

   “I always used to fancy myself a tea person,” Akechi said, “before I found Leblanc.”

   “Colour me flattered.” Ren nudged his cheesecake forward to let Akechi try it and snatched a bite of pudding from Akechi’s plate in exchange. “Tell me about the foot guy.”

   Akechi had a little piece of cheesecake stabbed daintily onto his fork and used it to gesture. “I know you’re only calling him that to tick me off, and I do want you to know it’s working.” Ren stole another bite of pudding. “Why did I even buy you that cake?”

   “So you could eat it. Tell me about the foot guy.”

   Akechi rolled his eyes. “He was the son of a king and a goddess,” he said. “A prophecy was delivered when he was born: Achilles had twin fates. He would either live a long, peaceful life and die in obscurity… or, he would become a legend to be remembered for all eternity, but die young. By the time the Trojan War began, Achilles was a young man. His battle prowess was already unmatched. He chose his second fate.”

   “He got to choose?”

   Akechi nodded. “This was one of several things that was unique to him,” he said. “Heroes in mythology rarely get a choice as to their destiny. But Achilles wanted glory, so he went willingly to a war from which he knew he would not return.” He rescued his pudding back from Ren and said, “Well, let’s have it.”

   “I didn’t say anything.”

   “You so rarely do,” Akechi sighed, “and yet, you really are transparent, you know that?”

   “You’re the only one who thinks so,” says Ren.

   Akechi smiled beatifically. “You know,” he says, “it’s incredibly satisfying to hear that.”

   “You want to be the one who knows me best?”

   “I’d like to be the only one who knows you at all, if we’re getting this far into my indulgences,” Akechi said with an odd laugh. “But we’re getting off track, Ren. Why don’t you go on and deliver your judgement on our friend Achilles?”

   “But you already know what I think.”

   “True. But I wonder if I can convince you otherwise, and it won’t be fair if you don’t present your best case.”

   “Because you disagree or because you want to argue?”

   “Wouldn’t I only want to argue if I disagree?” Akechi asked.

   “Or you disagree because you want to argue,” Ren said.

   He always did this. They always did this. The two of them would start walking the conversational path together, side by side, even arm in arm, and then Akechi would point off the beaten track and hold his lantern out. With an inviting crook of his finger he drew Ren into the woods. Each and every time, Ren followed him off the road and into the fog until Akechi, if he so wished, could push him smilingly into a gorge.

   Smilingly, though. So really, wasn’t it worth it?

   Ren reached for Akechi’s pudding again, to which Akechi gave a dramatically aggrieved sigh. “Tell me more before I say anything,” he said. “Since we’re going to be fair.”

   “I do appreciate your devotion to fairness. All right, what do you want to know?”

   “You said the book was about a feud,” Ren said.

   Akechi smiled. “Briseis was a prisoner of war,” he said. “She was Achilles’ favourite prize, stolen from her home city of Lyrnessus when the Greeks sacked it. I know it seems reprehensible to us now, but in those times the division of war prizes—including people—was a serious matter. A rightfully won prize, or géras, was more than just the prize itself. It symbolised a warrior’s honour at war… which was what Achilles was sacrificing everything for.” He spotted the look on Ren’s face. “It was a different time, Joker.”

   “You saying people don’t still make stupid sacrifices for reputation?”

   “Touché.” Akechi sighed. “My prospects of making you see Achilles in a sympathetic light are dwindling, aren’t they?”

   “I have an open mind.”

   “That you do. Funnily enough, I find that irritating, too.” Akechi took a demure sip of tea. “It was more than ego. Don’t forget, the Greeks’ notion of an afterlife was built on glory. Elysium doesn’t reward the good, it rewards the great. You could secure your eternity with a well-placed sacrifice.”

   “You were telling me about the feud,” says Ren.

   “Right,” says Akechi brightly. “That happens in the Iliad’s first book. Achilles’ commander, Agamemnon, had angered the god Apollo by taking the daughter of one of his priests as a prize. Apollo, in retaliation, sent a plague that decimated the Greek camp. Achilles demanded that Agamemnon save their troops by returning the girl. Agamemnon did so… but took Briseis from Achilles as recompense, in front of the entire assembled army.”

   Spotting Ren in a moment of unguardedness, Akechi stole another bite of his cheesecake.

   “Achilles was enraged,” he said, eyes glinting at Ren’s expression. “He withdrew his troops from the war effort and declared that he would fight for Agamemnon no longer.” Akechi nudged his pudding out of the way of Ren’s retaliatory spoon. “Achilles was the Greeks’ best and most formidable soldier. His loss spelled their doom. There—that’s the feud.”

   “Why didn’t Agamemnon just give Briseis back?”

   “He tried,” said Akechi. “But really, Briseis is a symbol more than a person. The theft of Briseis was akin to publicly stripping Achilles of his honour. Remember: Achilles had gone to war knowing he would never return home. The indignity of taking his prize left him to sacrifice his life for nothing at all.” Akechi’s face twisted slightly with something like bitterness. Ren wondered if he realised it was happening. “What Achilles really objected to was the injustice: here was the honour and glory he had rightfully won, taken from him without justification and in blatant contravention of what they all knew was right… yet nobody in the army raised a finger to stop it from happening. Really, leaving them all to fall was the only fair outcome—why sacrifice yourself for those who would forsake you?”

   “But some of them must have been his friends,” said Ren, “right?”

   “Yes,” said Akechi. “And where were they when he was wronged?”

   Ren’s face must have done something, then, too. Whatever it was, Akechi seemed to like it.

   “The Trojan War was started—officially, that is—in the name of one man’s wife: Helen of Sparta,” he said. “She had nothing to do with Achilles, who only stood to gain a name from his excellence in battle. Having that taken from him… wouldn’t you stop fighting, too?”

   “I guess,” said Ren.

   “You aren’t sure?”

   “I just wouldn’t have gone in the first place,” said Ren. “I don’t think it’s honourable to die for a cause you don’t even believe in. Isn’t it better to do the right thing, even if no one sees you?”

   Akechi hummed.

   “I take your meaning, as tiresomely one-note as you’re being,” he said. “His mother tried to forestall his end, you know—she stowed him on an island far away, dressed as a beautiful young girl named Pyrrha. She meant to hide him from the war, but it didn’t matter in the end. No disguise can avert one’s fate.”

   “But he chose to go, didn’t he?”

   “He did, although I often wonder whether he truly did have a choice. I’m inclined to believe it was merely one of fate’s tricks, but I digress… again.” Akechi shook his head as though to clear it. “To your point: I suppose to Achilles, life needed a purpose in order to be meaningful. It’s less about the cause and more about the opportunity. Achilles determined that his purpose was to leave a mark. To matter, somehow, to the goings-on of the vast world, and leave a lasting legacy, even if it meant his time was short.”

   “Don’t you think it’s kind of a waste,” asked Ren. “I mean, to reduce life to having just one purpose when it means missing out on everything else?”

   Akechi didn’t respond for a moment.

   “Achilles ultimately came to the same realisation,” he said finally. “By that point, though, it was too late for him.”

   Ren’s tea was cooling, so he took another sip.

   “How did Achilles’ story end?” he asked, when it became apparent that Akechi wasn’t going to keep talking.

   “He died,” Akechi said, matter-of-factly. “Everyone does, of course. He doesn’t die in the Iliad, but he does die at Troy. He thought himself heartless enough to take his principled victory, and wound up losing something much more precious for his trouble: the person who meant the most to him in the world. After that, he lost any remaining will to stay alive. He accepted his fate, eventually dying for a legacy he didn’t care for anymore. And which probably wasn’t worth it, given he’s now remembered as the foot guy.”

   Ren briefly felt a pang of guilt for making fun before he remembered that Achilles wasn’t real.

   “Why do you think he didn’t realise earlier?” he asked. “That an unremarkable life isn’t so bad, if you’re happy.”

   “I don’t know,” said Akechi. “I always felt for Achilles. Don’t you ever fear oblivion? The idea that whatever time you spend here might be for nothing, and by the end of it, you may as well never have existed for all the difference you made?” There was a crease in his brow. “You must know the feeling. You’re the Phantom Thieves, after all. Don’t you want to leave a mark?”

   Ren opened his mouth to say that that didn’t matter to him and found he couldn’t.

   Akechi, of course, did not miss this. When Ren looked back at him, he found Akechi already watching him.

   “It’s harder to reject than it seems, isn’t it,” he said softly.

   “Maybe,” said Ren. “But I still know what I’d choose.”

   “Of course,” said Akechi with some resignation.

   Ren tried to ignore this and ploughed on. “I just don’t think my legacy would ever be more important to me than my life,” he said. “The small stuff.”

   “Like what?”

   “I don’t know,” said Ren. “You know when you wake up and it’s sunny outside? I get to spend time with people who love me and I know tomorrow’s waiting. If someone asked me to choose a fate, I’d choose my friends. If nobody ever remembered me, I think I’d be okay with that.”

   Akechi didn’t say anything for a very, very long time. With an ugly jolt, Ren realised that Akechi might not know the feeling at all. He never saw Akechi with anyone but him, after all, and he did not need to wonder whether he, Amamiya Ren, was enough to willingly sacrifice eternity for.

   “I suppose this is simply another area in which we differ,” said Akechi.

   “I guess so,” said Ren.

   Time does not seem to pass in the Metaverse the same way it does outside. They’d observed this on many an occasion, spending too many ill-advised hours traversing a Palace before remembering with aching limbs and grimy skin that the sun high outside could not be relied upon to send them home. In the Theatre, neither day nor night seem to exist as Ren knows them; instead, the reality seems suspended in a perpetually dark void reminiscent of a starry extra-terrestrial space, but where the only pinpricks of light rove the pseudo-sky from somewhere within the Palace itself.

   The Shadow picks a twig up off the floor and breaks it. It tosses the halves into the fire. The twig is small and thin, unlikely to really do much to feed the blaze. But the Shadow doesn’t seem to really be looking at the fire anyway, though it stares broodingly into it as it snaps and crackles.

   “You’re not trying to kill me,” says Ren.

   “You’re not trying to run,” answers the Shadow, eyes still trained somewhere in the heart of the fire.

   “No point,” says Ren. “I’d run into more of you and they mightn’t hesitate like you are.”

   “You never were entirely stupid,” the Shadow says.

   “Thanks.”

   Beyond the screen they hear murmurs, lazily attentive. The shadows on the screen dance, flickering strangely with the licking flames. They are not cast by anything in particular, at least not that Ren can see. Nothing stands between the fire and the screen—in fact, if Ren were to get up and stand where they should be, he’s not sure what would happen—if he could obscure what wasn’t there. His eyes stay fixed on the swaying figures. It’s cold out here. They could go inside. But it’s the first time he’s felt calm since they’d come in here, the first time the enveloping applause and the stifling atmosphere haven’t suffocated him, made him feel like he was fighting a sensation that meant to crush him to the floor. The first time he’s felt safe. Bizarre. A Shadow of his would-be murderer seated right across from him, now with its yellow gaze on his face. It’s already tried to kill him once or twice in the short time since they’d met... but, Ren thinks, rather half-heartedly.

   “I wish we had marshmallows,” says said killer-Shadow, too conversationally.

   Ren just grunts.

   “I like marshmallows,” the Shadow continues. “They’re soft. Pillowy, really. I like them when they’re a little charred. Just a bit crispy. It’s a nice contrast—the charcoal really emphasises the gooey, melted sweetness on the inside, and I do feel it enhances the flavour quite—”

   “Why haven’t you killed me?” asks Ren.

   After they’d been separated from the others, Joker had readied himself for a duel. The Shadow had fired a lazy shot at him, which he’d dodged fairly easily, but before he could return fire he’d heard a desperate scream. Futaba, somewhere locked behind walls and walls of hearts and spades, shrieking his name with a shrill in her voice he’d never heard. “I can’t find him,” she’d sobbed. “I can’t find him! Joker! Joker!”

   “I’m here,” he’d shouted back.

   “Joker, where are you?! Come back! Ren, come back!”

   “Here, Oracle!” He’d pounded the walls, tried his comms over and over, but no matter what he did, she seemed not to hear him. Just kept sobbing for him to come back to her while the others cried out for him somewhere in his periphery. They could all hear each other, it seemed—just not him.

   Joker had turned warily back to the Shadow, which had been watching him. It was difficult to raise his gun. This Shadow looked—well, identical, obviously, to the boy who’d haunted the rightmost seat in the café. Stood by his side in the streets and bought him crepes. Was entirely too observant of all Ren’s little quirks, and still was, because the Shadow spotted the tremor in his trigger finger and rolled its eyes.

   “Come on,” it said harshly, and when it raised its gun hand it wasn’t to fire. “We can get out that way.”

   They’re in a courtyard now, somewhere in the Palace depths, in the little shadow puppetry theatre. Akechi’s Shadow had ignored the bright little window above him, and in fact had dragged Joker down when he’d tried to leap for it, hissing, “That’s a trap, are you stupid?” He’d instead led them through a gap in the wall which looked to Joker like a solid bit of brick, down a passage, and out into the planet’s cold atmosphere.

   The shadows out here are just shadows, not capital-S Shadows, and they don’t seem hostile, at least except for the one yawning across from him at the campfire. Its canines show. Joker had followed it when it led him here, unable as ever to escape the lure of Akechi’s retreating back, even just some dark echo of him deep in the recesses of his mind.

   His comms still don’t work. Joker had turfed out everything in his pockets before remembering he’d left all their Goho-Ms with Queen.

   The Shadow had watched him, one disdainful eyebrow crawling ever higher up its forehead with each trinket Joker pulled out.

   It had snorted when Joker asked, “Can you help me find my friends?” and, well, Joker isn’t all that surprised. At the very least, the Shadow doesn’t seem to want to kill him.

   Why doesn’t it want to kill him?

   “Do you want me to?”

   Ren gives it a flat look, which makes it smirk in a way more reminiscent of the real Akechi than any of the other Shadows.

   “I just think it’s weird,” says Ren. He gestures at his Joker garb. “I’m an enemy here.”

   “Are you?” the Shadow muses. “Well, I suppose so. I suppose I ought to, really. But I don’t really feel like it.”

   “Glad to hear it.”

   Ren finds a fruit Danish in his pocket. He hesitates for a second, then tears it in half and offers half to the Shadow. The Shadow looks incredulously at him as if to say you do know I’m not a person, right? Which Ren knows, but manners are manners, and there’s something yawning and lonely in his chest and in his ears where his friends’ voices should be, and he can’t remember the last time he’d gotten to look into Akechi’s eyes unimpeded, even if they are yellow and strange. And after a moment the Shadow takes the pastry.

   “Why are you here, anyway,” asks the Shadow. It’s munching. Ren briefly wonders where the food goes. “You already beat him, didn’t you? My counterpart in reality, I mean. He’s gone. Do you need to take him down so completely?”

   “I’m not trying to beat him,” says Ren.

   “Hmm, you’re not, are you,” says the Shadow. “I thought you were here as a team.”

   “We’re not trying to beat him,” Ren corrects himself, mentally wincing. “We’re—”

   “—trying to help,” says the Shadow drily. “Did I guess it? What a sad little party of one-trick ponies you are. I don’t suppose you’ve stopped to acknowledge what a change of heart can do to its owner, have you? Of course not—you’ve not even bothered to explore the other possibilities such a world as the Metaverse might present.”

   “What, like driving people to psychotic breakdowns?” Ren retorts.

   “Touché, dear. Then again, I suppose it worked out well for your little recluse friend, the one with the goggles.” The Shadow smiles at him. “So what do I know? Perhaps you’re the saviour he’s been yearning for too, hm?”

   “He doesn’t need a saviour,” says Ren.

   “Oh, doesn’t he, now,” deadpans the Shadow. “How noble. Well, you know best. Let’s leave it there, then.”

   “I thought you liked me,” says Ren. “He, I mean. I thought he liked me.”

   “Doesn’t everyone.”

   “I mean it,” says Ren. “Not—I mean, I thought he was being real, some of the time.”

   The fire has a strange effect on the Shadow’s yellow eyes. The dancing reflections of the flames are unnaturally clear, the irises themselves too opaque. “Dear me, Joker. And here I was thinking you weren’t quite as naïve as the rest of them.”

   “You’re being pretty naïve yourself,” says Ren. “You can’t even tell when you’re lying.”

   The Shadow narrows its eyes. “What makes you say that?”

   Ren waves around at the Palace, the high crystal walls climbing around the little courtyard and stretching high beyond the eye can see. “So many Shadows,” he says. “So many Wings. I’ve met tens of you by now, maybe hundreds. But you can’t tell me which one’s the real one, can you?”

   “There isn’t a real one,” says the Shadow. “They’re all real, and none of them are, and you know that already, so—”

   “So does he,” says Ren, and the Shadow’s mouth snaps shut.

   A log cracks between them.

   “You think you’ve got me well and truly figured out, don’t you,” the Shadow says, finally.

   “Nope,” says Ren. “So explain to me why he spent all those hours with me if he hated me as much as you think you do. You never needed to go that far to get my trust. There’s a reason you haven’t killed me, and it’s because of him and whatever truths he can’t face—are you gonna figure it out anytime soon?”

   The Shadow makes a sudden, aborted movement toward his holster. “You,” he hisses, “arrogant—”

   “I liked you too, you know,” Ren says over the top of him. “I still do. I’m just telling the truth, since you can’t, or won’t, whatever.”

   The Shadow sags a bit. Its hand drops from the hilt of its gun.

   “You’re alive, aren’t you?” Ren asks it. “In the real world, I mean.”

   “Yes,” says the Shadow.

   “Where?”

   “Don’t know,” the Shadow says snippily, “I’m not out there, am I?”

   Ren sighs. Prods the fire.

   “I hated growing fond of you,” the Shadow says, quite abruptly. “Hated it. You’re a blight on me and everything I stood for.”

   “Flatterer.”

   “The moment you died, I felt release like I’d never known. You were Snow White and I the queen—my last threat, the one who had everything I couldn’t know. Your head hit the table and I won by default. You know how that felt?”

   “Tell me,” says Ren, slightly weirded out by this account of his own death.

   The Shadow doesn’t say anything for a second. “I don’t know either,” it says. “Isn’t that funny.”

   “Hilarious,” says Ren. He’s rubbing at his forehead without realising he’s doing it and when the Shadow notices, it gives a strangely contrite version of his usual smirk.

   “Sorry,” it says humbly. “I’m being insensitive, am I?”

   Ren shrugs. “Same old,” he croaks.

   The Shadow shakes its head. “When you died, or when I thought you did, something shut off,” he says. “The competition died with you. So did the spark, though. You brought something out in me I’d never known, and then you took it with you. I thought I’d feel victorious. I just felt—nothing. A lot more of it than before.”

   “So you did like me,” says Ren, attempting bravado.

   “Of course I did,” the Shadow murmured, looking back at the fire. “Did you ever have to doubt?”

   “Weird way of showing it,” says Ren, after a moment.

   “The many languages of love, Joker,” says the Shadow, cracking a smile. “And all the time in the world to learn them—lucky you.”

   “You’d have as much time if you joined us.”

   “Fool yourself more, why don’t you. As though you’re the only one I’ve wronged.”

   “I’ll—”

   “—protect me,” the Shadow intones, gazing soppily into his eyes. “Ah, my hero.”

   Joker shakes his head, smiling. “Doth the fair maiden sass me?”

   “Shall I not? I’ve let you into my heart, after all.” The Shadow goes so far as to flutter eyelashes at him.

   “I broke in, thank you very much, and a good deal of force it took. Nice place you’ve got here, by the way.”

   “Yes, help yourself to the silverware—it’s all fake, I won’t miss it.”

   Joker laughs.

   “Seriously,” he says, gesturing up at the Palace again. “This… It’s a lot.”

   “Yes, I know,” says the Shadow, looking almost proud. “I don’t do things by halves, do I? Even my fucked-up brain is sparkly.”

   “Akechi…” At the tone of Joker’s voice, the Shadow stills and looks at him again, mirth flittering from its face. “How’d this happen to you?”

   “You know, don’t you?” the Shadow says bitterly. “You’ve tromped around here enough—you’ve seen all the filthy corners of my heart, I’ve regaled you with the tragedies of my past—you know perfectly well how such a pitiful creature came to be.”

   “What’s your Treasure?” Joker asks.

   But the Shadow just shrugs one shoulder and stares moodily into the fire again. “You’ll have to find out for yourself, great thief,” it says.

   “Is it something to do with your mother?”

   At first, Ren isn’t sure the Shadow even heard his question. Where Akechi used not to take his eyes off him for even a moment, the Shadow’s glances have been flitting and fleeting, and now he might as well be sitting alone, sparks framing his dark eyes and shadowed face as they fly up into the sky.

   “I don’t know,” says the Shadow, so long later that Joker startles like a dozing cat. “My heart truly is labyrinthine, isn’t it? It’s almost gratifying. I couldn’t tell you what it was that started all this—it’s a mess, truly, and almost as much a mystery to me as it is to you.” It smiles, but even as it looks up at Joker’s face again it doesn’t meet his eyes, the curve of its lips directed instead somewhere south of the bridge of his nose. “How lucky I am, to traverse it with you!”

   Is any Shadow of Goro Akechi capable of telling the whole truth? Is this Shadow, as every other Shadow, spilling more convenient lies? Is the Shadow actually being honest, or what it thinks is honest—and it’s the case that Goro Akechi really can’t begin to untangle the depths of his own heart?

   Or is it that Goro Akechi’s cognition so strongly needs to deny those truths to Joker that his Shadow would manifest in innocent ignorance?

   Or is it that…

   “Exhausting, aren’t I,” says the Shadow.

   It really does look just like him. But the Shadow clips every t in a way Ren hasn’t heard Akechi do before and there’s a rude drawl to its voice that he finds uncomfortably alluring.

   Crow had once dusted himself off after a battle, politely allowed Joker to help him off the ground, and then expressed his admiration that Joker was able to keep all his masks straight. The memory is getting more and more ironic by the minute.

   “You told me,” says Ren, “once…”

   He hesitates, unsure if he should keep going. But maybe it’s less invasive to speak to a Shadow, which is after all inclining its head at him in a most Detective-Prince-like fashion. This actually makes Joker more reluctant to continue, but he says anyway: “You said you never really knew your mother.”

   “Did I?” the Shadow says mildly. “You do pay attention, don’t you? Perhaps I’m flattered.”

   “I didn’t understand what you meant.”

   “No, you wouldn’t, would you,” says the Shadow, thoughtful. “Is this really what you’d like to talk about?”

   “Only if you don’t mind.”

   “Who cares if I mind?” the Shadow asks. “Joker, if a thief broke into your home and pilfered all your money but stopped short of rummaging through your drawers, would you think very much of his manners?”

   Joker thinks: point.

   “You may as well take it all,” the Shadow says. “Here, then, a token for the gentleman thief, to thank him for preserving my modesty. You want to know about my mother? Long after she’d gone, I turned up a journal of hers. It was very short. She kept it during her last year. I shouldn’t have read it.”

   “Was it private?”

   “Oh, it brought tears to my eyes,” the Shadow says drily. “I didn’t enjoy that.”

   “It would make anyone cry,” Joker says reasonably, thinking that had he encountered some such thing of Akechi’s mother he might have cried himself, though he had no connection with the woman.

   “Perhaps. Do you know what it was that did it, though? It wasn’t that she’d gone, not really. It was—” the Shadow stops. “I knew about the journal. But I’d never read it before. It didn’t feel right. Like it was an adult’s business, and I was only a child. I couldn’t understand the weight. When I finally read it, I realised she wrote like me.”

   “Like… you?”

   “We have similar voices in writing.” The Shadow smiles. “Funny. She wasn’t much of an influence on me given how young I was. It’s rather interesting how things work out this way nonetheless, don’t you think, Joker? I felt like I’d grown into her the way you grow into clothing. No longer a child. I was finally old enough to know who she was, but it didn’t matter anymore. And she’ll never know me as I am now. A blessing, perhaps,” he adds. “I told you once I don’t think she’d think much of me and I don’t speak only of my choice of—let’s say profession, though I doubt she’d think much of that, either.”

   “What did she… write about?” Joker asks tentatively. “In the journal.”

   “Oh, all sorts,” the Shadow says offhandedly. “Nothing pleasant. She mentioned me once or twice, but I sounded like a stranger. We really are completely different people as children, you know. I think the only thing I kept was my indifference to sweets.” It thinks for a moment. “Perhaps my hair.”

   “Do you think the journal is your Treasure?”

   The Shadow sighs. “That again? I really couldn’t tell you, Joker, I haven’t the slightest clue over you.”

   It’s surprisingly forthcoming, this Shadow. Conversational like its counterpart, and chatty, sitting in the depths of a planet he’d formed entirely out of lies, apparently pouring its heart out to Ren while hiding its location. Is it okay to interrogate a Shadow? Is it productive? Is it underhanded?

   “What else did she say about you?” Ren says, unable to keep the question in.

   The Shadow glances at him, amused. “I feel like I’m on a first date,” it purrs. “You’re so very good at making me feel interesting, Ren-kun.”

   But he is interesting. Everything Akechi had ever cast might well have been a pungent lie and yet Ren lunged for the bait each time, every time. Every pathetic little scrap of dialogue, true or false or rancid and rotting and there Ren was, trying desperately to jam it into a puzzle he wasn’t even sure made up an image.

   We could say he stole the guard’s gun and committed suicide during his imprisonment… How about that?

   Ren had known. Of course he’d known. Of course he’d known that Robin Hood and the gilded white suit with the epaulettes couldn’t be the whole picture. Of course he’d known that he’d been thrown red herring after wild goose. After that—after hearing the cold voice distorted by Futaba’s phone, her eyes big and worried as she whispered, “Sorry, Ren,” and then meeting Akechi for boba the next afternoon, it’s not like Ren had learned anything he hadn’t already known. Goro Akechi was a liar. Goro Akechi had pretended to be his friend and then betrayed him. Goro Akechi wanted him dead. Every word that came out of Goro Akechi’s mouth was poison, or falsehood, or rife with hidden blades. Part of some other picture entirely. Part of something toxic and malicious and new. And here Ren collected every piece. Worthless, irresistible little symbols of something that might have pretended to have value, like the Casino’s million coins.

   The Shadow seems uneasy when Ren doesn’t dismiss his question. “What does it matter what she wrote?” it asks him. “It’s in the past, and she never knew me anyhow.”

   “Indulge me,” says Ren.

   “Quite the imposition,” says the Shadow, “this indulgence.” It hisses the c. Ren likes it almost as much as the clipped t. “Still looking for intel, Mr Phantom Thief?”

   “Can’t steal information. You have to give it to me.”

   The Shadow almost smiles.

   “She wrote,” it says, slowly and clearly, “that I was her little hero.”

   Ren blinks. Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that.

   Now the Shadow does smile. It’s an ugly, jagged thing. Ren thinks of the slim opening in the black mask, cut between two sharp halves of a beak. “I did like to playact as one, once. What a hero I was to her in the end. A hero to us all, in fact.”

   Ren resists the urge to say it’s not your fault or don’t blame yourself or something else that would have Akechi spitting. Instead he says, “You’d’ve made a good one.”

   He waits for a retort, but the Shadow just smiles blandly and says, “Thanks.”

   As inscrutable as the real one. Maybe moreso. How long can they afford to sit here, making no progress? How long before it’s all for nothing?

   “I have to find him,” Joker mutters. He’s running out of time, though there’s no way to keep it in here. Who knows how long ago they sent the calling card? Time doesn’t pass in the Palace the way it does outside, but it does, eventually, pass. Somewhere his team is roaming the Palace. Maybe they’re searching for him—or maybe they’ve gotten out to regroup before they jump back in. They need him, and he needs them, and he’s sitting by this stupid brain-campfire with his knees tucked up to his chest, talking to his feet and a Shadow that hates him.

   And somewhere out there is Goro Akechi.

   He must be furious after that calling card. Joker wonders if he’s scared. If he should be. There’s no way of knowing, the way it stands, whether this whole thing is going to work—even if he does manage to find his team and that goddamned Treasure. There’s no guarantee that Akechi will want a tearful reunion with the likes of the Phantom Thieves, changed heart or no. They might never see him again. Joker tells himself he’s okay with that.

   The Shadow yawns again.

   “Interesting,” it says. “He’s still your priority?”

   “I’m in his head. Why else would I be here?”

   “Don’t know.” The Shadow leans forward suddenly. “Tell me something, would you?”

   Joker just grunts.

   “Why do you give a shit?”

   “This again,” Joker says, tired.

   “Oh, but I’m curious,” the Shadow says smoothly. “I know your answers by heart, of course. You’re my friend, we’re the Phantom Thieves, it’s our justice, bah. Big damn heroes, all of you.”

   “Mm,” says Joker.

   “But spare me the bullshit,” says the Shadow. “Your Hallmark lectures about justice and friendship and the right thing. Why do you care so much about me when you know I wouldn’t do the same for you? And actually think about it this time.”

   There’s nothing else to do, so Joker does. And slowly, he says, still to his feet, “I’d do it for me.”

   This plainly catches the Shadow off guard. “What?”

   “Maybe you wouldn’t do it for me,” says Joker. “I don’t know if I believe that, but sure. You want some complicated answer, I can’t give it to you. You’re unfinished business. If it were me in your shoes right now, I wouldn’t want to be left a loose end.” He’s starting to feel what the Shadow said about marshmallows. Idly he toasts a leaf instead and watches it catch and blacken. “I don’t know how to walk away. That’s all.”

   “That’s all,” the Shadow repeats. “So stealing my heart—it’s just tying your affairs in a bow?”

   “Sure,” says Joker. “Once you take out all the justice and friendship and the right thing.”

   The Shadow scoffs.

   “I wouldn’t do it for you,” he says firmly. Almost to himself. “I’d let you rot. I almost let you die. Leaving you to stew in your own heart wouldn’t be a challenge.”

   “Okay,” says Joker.

   “The great Joker,” the Shadow mutters. “Unable to leave a soul in need… how sickeningly sanctimonious.”

   “Mm,” says Joker.

   “I don’t need you,” the Shadow tells him. “I never have. If I died in that ship—that would be my own business.”

   “Got it,” says Joker.

   “And you still want to help me?”

   “Well,” says Joker. His foot’s starting to fall asleep, so he untucks it. “It’s on my way.”

   “Pah.”

   They sit in silence for a while longer, Joker occasionally checking his comms to see if they’re back online—nope. He’s getting antsy. Surely there’s something better to do than just sit here, but he’s as drained of energy as he’s ever been and with his coffee supplies almost depleted the one thing he can do is rest. Never mind that the Shadow’s still sitting there with a hand on its gun.

   “You don’t want me to steal your heart,” Joker says, finally.

   “You don’t give a shit what I want,” the Shadow replies.

   “Why don’t you?” Joker asks. “This Palace—you’re suffering.”

   “You bleeding heart,” the Shadow drawls. “Joker knows best.”

   “You won’t tell me where he is?”

   “I couldn’t.”

   “I do want to know what he wants,” Joker says softly. “I—I don’t take this lightly.”

   “Of course you don’t,” the Shadow says bitterly. “How delicate. You could have asked me before you sent that fucking card.”

   “You faked your death and you expect me to believe you’d answer a text message?”

   “Dear Crow,” the Shadow mimics. “Please be advised that we plan to fucking rearrange your neurons. If you have any concerns, you can reach us at our goddamn landline, because it’s nineteen eighty three. Regards, Joker. I’d fucking respond to that.”

   “I’d say kind regards, at least,” Joker mutters.

   “I’ve never liked your methods,” the Shadow says. “That’s one thing I wasn’t lying about on those fucking talk shows. It’s despicable to forcibly change someone’s mind.”

   “Oh, yes—we should have just killed them.”

   “It preserves their identity, at least,” the Shadow agrees. He kicks angrily at the ground. “I’d rather die than have you choose who I ought to be.”

   “That’s not how this works.”

   “Convenient.”

   “Tell me where he is and I’ll ask him,” Joker says, desperate. “Help me out of here. Please. I just want—”

   “What?” asks the Shadow. “What do you want, O Joker?”

   Joker groans and buries his face in his knees. “I just want to understand,” he says. “I just want to know how he got here. Who he is. What I can—what I could have done. I failed him. And I just…”

   Akechi’s birthday had been a few days before they’d met for the first time. Ren hadn't found that out until October, idly flipping through a gossip magazine someone had left on the train seat next to him. Half a year of this—of outings and idle banter and less idle flirting and conversation that felt as much like a battle as it did a dance. Half a year of feeling more alive than he’d ever known he could, a month of feeling more alive than any dead person ever had. Goro Akechi was born on the second of June. He was a Gemini. He enjoyed bike rides and trying new things. Goro Akechi didn’t like sweets or people or small talk, he started more sentences with well, actually than anyone Ren had ever met, he advocated for the devil pro bono and he liked cream in his coffee. Goro Akechi had died for them, alone and unloved, behind a metal wall on an imaginary cruiser, and then he hadn’t, and vanished into the winds without a word of goodbye. Ren could live this year a hundred times over, a thousand times, and never know where he went wrong, because Goro Akechi wouldn’t tell him.

   “I can’t,” says the great Joker, to the grand audience of his own ankles, “bear it anymore.”

   The Shadow is watching him when he forces himself to look back up.

   “Finally,” it says. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you confess to a selfish thought.”

   Ren hasn’t seen Akechi’s face since Akechi shot the glass at their backs, so close Joker had felt the bullet whiz by, wondering what that resignation in Akechi’s expression was all about a moment before the bulkhead door slammed shut. He hasn’t heard Akechi’s voice since it had echoed in the cavernous space behind that immovable steel barrier, unsteady and yet not weak, pleading with them to finish what he’d begun. The Shadow before him isn’t dressed up, or dancing, or hanging from the ceiling. It’s just sitting the way Ren had seen Akechi sit a hundred times, talking in Akechi’s voice, gazing at him with that same resentful interest Ren had learned to crave.

   “Help me,” Ren says, knowing the Shadow won’t hear him, or care.

   The Shadow looks at him. The firelight flickers oddly in its opaque yellow irises.

   Then he sighs, reaches up, and takes the coloured contact lenses out of his eyes.

Chapter Text

SE Suite, S. Hem., The Lounge – SR

   “It doesn’t taste as good out of the thermos,” says Akechi.

   “Sorry,” says Ren. “Equipment’s fake.”

   Akechi snorts when Ren waves his hand through the coffee filter to demonstrate. It ripples and vanishes, then reforms mutinously around Joker’s glove. “Surely I ought to be the one apologising? Evidently I don’t know enough about making coffee to manifest something more than a shallow illusion.”

   Well, isn’t that the theme of the day.

   Despite his declaration, Akechi takes another sip of the allegedly subpar coffee. It’s barely coffee, really, just the last dregs from the bottom of the flask. Joker had been trying to save it for an emergency, but apparently a crotchety Crow qualified as such.

   Akechi has his gloved hands cupped around the lid of the thermos, which is different. He normally sips with his pinky out.

   There’s no reason for Ren to be standing behind the counter. He could just as easily have split his remaining coffee from a booth, seated across from the man he now knows to be flesh and blood. From an adjacent stool, even. It’s only habit that led him back here to gaze down at Akechi, who’d taken his usual seat at the bench with a smooth sort of grace and is now avoiding his eyes. Ren’s not sure why. Now that they’re not yellow and glossy anymore, it’s not like they’re anything Ren hasn’t seen before.

   Speaking of his gloves: they’re Akechi’s usual pair. Not the clawed gauntlets Joker had last seen trying to rip his flesh off, nor the Crow prince’s pristine white. Ren watches Akechi tap a finger against the thermos lid. The sound is muted by the buttery leather.

   Akechi spots him looking. “Can I help you?”

   “Your outfit,” says Ren.

   Akechi smiles demurely up at him. “You like it?”

   “It didn’t change?”

   Does this mean he isn’t a threat to himself? Once Futaba had awakened, she’d remained as Oracle for the fight against her cognitive mother. But Akechi is sitting quietly at the counter with a peacoat and slacks, maskless, currently neither Crow.

   “Of course it changed,” says Akechi almost derisively. “I brought a change of clothes, Ren. Did it not occur to you that you could do that? Your Metaverse clothes aren’t tarred to your skin, you know.”

   No, this had not occurred to Ren, in the same way that it had not occurred to Ren that you could use coloured contacts to pose as your own Shadow self, because why the hell would anyone ever think to do that?

   Something of these sour thoughts must show up on Ren’s face, because Akechi conceals a snicker behind his hand.

   “Oh, Joker,” he says almost kindly. “There’s not a deceitful bone in your body. It’s a genuine wonder you managed to fool me back in November. I’m honestly still pretty offended about it.”

   “What about your mask?” Ren asks. “If you take it off, doesn’t it summon...”

   “Oh, Loki?” Akechi grins. “He’s around. He’s rather effective in the art of disguise himself, you know.”

   This, Ren does know.

   So the black suit and mask are stashed somewhere in the Palace? It sort of tickles Ren a bit, imagining Akechi hopping out of that skintight costume to change. At least there are dressing rooms aplenty in this place. That Loki might be hovering somewhere unseen nearby, perhaps utilising that pesky cloaking ability—that’s a little more discomfiting, but Ren isn’t sure he actually wants to see him, either.

   The safe room they’re in right now is buried in the back area of a club. It has a cloying atmosphere, nothing quite so comfortable as the Jazz Jin. The Shadow here had been a lounge singer, dolled up in lipstick and high-heeled shoes. Akechi had regarded it with some mild interest and then asked it to move out of the way.

   Ren’s grateful. They’ve had markedly fewer fights to contend with on the way back up to the VIP Box than the Phantom Thieves had had to deal with the first time around. For the most part, the Shadows here seem happy to acquiesce to Akechi’s polite commands, and the ones that aren’t die easily enough to the jagged red blade. If Akechi is discomfited by killing iteration after iteration of his own face, he doesn’t show it.

   Actually, Ren thinks with concern, he seems a little too comfortable with it.

   Akechi yawns. “You’ve been oddly quiet,” he says conversationally. “Anyone else mightn’t notice the difference, of course, you’ve always been sort of taciturn, but I’m afraid I know you better than that. Go ahead—which grievance to air first?”

   “Not a grievance,” says Ren. “Just a curiosity.”

   “Even better.”

   “Why…” Ren gestures at his eyes. Akechi smiles.

   “Why,” he echoes, “what—disguise myself as my own Shadow, enter my own Palace, and fool you for a full conversation? Or why reveal myself at the end of all that?”

   The first one, because it’s an objectively insane thing to do. “Both.”

   Akechi rolls one shoulder back. “Your calling card took me by surprise, I must admit,” he says. “Kitagawa’s artistry, I assume? I’d recognise his flair anywhere. He really is talented.”

   “Yeah. Courtesy of Boss’ magazines.”

   “It’s no loss. Nobody reads those, anyway,” Akechi says. “As for the authorship… Cavum and irritum, correct? The ‘sins’ you asked me about once upon a time.”

   “Did I remember right?”

   “Close enough,” Akechi says casually. “Either could refer to the sin you invented for my card. Emptiness, was it?”

   Ren, starting to feel a little self-conscious, stares at his hands.

   “If you were wondering, by the way,” says Akechi. “Yes, I knew I had a Palace.”

   This makes Ren’s head jerk up.

   Akechi scoffs at his surprise. “As if I wouldn’t? Given all my years in the Metaverse, is it really plausible that I’d never hear my name spoken while I had the Nav open?”

   “Did you ever come inside?”

   “Once,” says Akechi. “Years ago. I was curious. I must say, it was much smaller back then—I’ve certainly grown, haven’t I?”

   Ren’s thoughts are whirling. Struggling to pin down the words, he says, “Did it bother you?”

   “Not particularly,” says Akechi offhandedly. “Was it supposed to be some kind of revelation that there was something wrong with me? I was fifteen years old and an assassin.” He sips his coffee. “Honestly, until your card arrived, I’d just about forgotten the place existed.”

   This doesn’t seem true, but there’s no point interrogating every little untruth that pours from Akechi’s lips. They’d be here all day.

   “What does this have to do with your contacts?” Ren asks.

   Akechi grins. “That’s right. My apologies for allowing you to lead me off track.” Ren resists the urge to roll his eyes. “My point was—your card caught me off guard, and I realised I’d need to step in. I couldn’t just let you poke around in here and take what you wanted, of course. But I couldn’t come in and confront you head-on, either, because arguing with your friends is like arguing with a particularly grating brick wall.” He takes another sip. Ren tactfully doesn’t point out another of Akechi’s likely reasons: that that their last confrontation had not quite gone according to plan for one of them. “So I decided to come in disguise and survey the lay of the land before taking action, that’s all.”

   “Why bother with this outfit, then?”

   There’s a pause. “I wasn’t sure initially which of my forms would appear as Shadows,” Akechi says. “I thought it best to play it safe.”

   Wasn’t that the real one? Ryuji had asked, staring at the black-suited Shadow. There’s no real, Akechi had scoffed. Not here.

   “Besides,” Akechi adds, “I thought you all might... react instinctively to that costume. If I were going to attempt any kind of diplomacy, I should present myself on neutral ground.”

   “Diplomacy,” says Ren. “Deceit, you mean.”

   “Pick your poison, Joker,” Akechi says wryly. “Either suits me, so long as it functions as intended.”

   “So you got the lay of the land. Then?”

   Akechi shrugs. “I discovered fairly quickly that my Shadows answer to me, for the most part, or at the very least share my intentions. So I separated you from your friends and wasted your time. I think it was working out fine—you’re very distractible, Joker.”

   How much time do they have left before the Treasure dematerialises? Joker feels sure he hadn’t sat out in the courtyard for twelve hours, or however long they’d had left when they entered. If Akechi meant to waste his time, he’d ended the plot rather too soon. So, actually, Akechi’s second point was rather pertinent after all—

   “So why did I reveal myself?” Akechi asks for him.

   Joker stares at him, but Akechi just stares into his thermos lid. He might have been talking to himself for all the attention he’s paying to Ren now.

   When it becomes apparent that no further monologue is incoming, Ren drains the rest of his coffee. “Wanna head out?”

   “Ah, yes,” says Akechi, “back to the treasure room, which I’ve just established I was gainfully leading you away from.”

   “So why are you leading me back?”

   Akechi sighs and hands the empty lid to Ren. “I can’t convince you to leave without your stupid friends, can I?” The words again ring hollow, but this is so familiar Ren thinks he should stop wasting the time it takes to note it. “Let’s fetch them before I kick you out.”

   Ren swallows. Akechi hasn’t been hostile so far, but when they’d left the VIP Box, it had been swarming with violent Shadows. The others—

   “They’re as strong as you, aren’t they?” Akechi simpers. “Surely you believe in their ability? Or does the great Joker think his friends are helpless without him?”

   This stings a bit. Joker frowns before he can clear his expression. “I’m just worried about them,” he says, a little too loud.

   Akechi smiles beatifically at him again. “How noble,” he says. “Well, let’s get going, then—spare you having to play the hero. I know you hate it so.”

ESE Suite, Eq., The Rink – Central Passage

   Joker shouldn’t make a habit of knifing without looking, but he can’t help it. Akechi’s dispassionate expression as he watches himself dissolve into sludge under Ren’s blade is much more interesting than said sludge. Joker wipes off his dagger, sheathes it, and says, “Is it weird watching me kill you?”

   “It’s a novelty,” says Akechi.

   Another novelty: Ren’s never seen Crow dressed as Akechi before. It’s incredibly odd to watch him hop and flicker between hiding spots looking for all intents and purposes like he’s about to head to school. It’s odder still because the polite smart-casualwear doesn’t at all match the antipathy Akechi’s wearing on his face. Whenever they’d spent time together, Akechi had always worn a pleasantly interested smile; but that pretty face, too, was not what Ren had been pining after.

   It was the moments in which the façade cracked with surprise at something Ren had said—when it morphed for a split second into delight or disdain, and Akechi laughed, or snorted, or rolled his eyes—that was truth, it must have been. Ren didn’t have language for the sensation that rose in his gut when that happened, except maybe hunger.

   Although Akechi’s blank face is surely more honest than his sweet wide-eyed one, there’s something so unsatisfying about it at the minute that Ren finds himself turning constantly to examine it. Partway through a Wing where the conceit is something to do with ice dancing, Akechi finally gets tired of this and snaps, “What?” and Ren is so mollified by the outburst that he says without thinking, “You came to see me that evening after you went to Yokohama.”

   “Yeah?”

   “Just,” says Ren, feeling stupid. “You made an effort, that’s all. For me.”

   Akechi scoffs so hard Ren thinks it must hurt his throat. “Don’t tell me you believed that? I knew from the outset I’d likely be home by evening.” His lip twists into a sneer. He takes Ren’s arm, gentlemanly and courteous to keep him from slipping on a perilous patch of ice, and says, “I set your expectations low so I’d impress you by doing the impossible. To ingratiate you to me. When will you realise nothing I ever said to you was real?”

   “But,” says Ren. His veins feel hollow. “Why did you bother with any of that when you were already on my good side?”

   “This from the man who transparently needs everyone to like him so much they’ll kill themselves for him?” Akechi replies snippily. “You’re not the only one. Some of us just need to try harder, since it doesn’t come so fucking naturally.”

   Ren doesn’t speak for a moment. He shouldn’t say what he’s about to say. He shouldn’t.

   “You never needed to try that hard,” he says, “to make me like you.”

   Akechi doesn’t say anything for a moment, either. “I know,” he says finally. His voice is oddly soft.

   “Did you know back then?”

   “Yes.”

   “So why did you?”

   This time, Akechi just looks away. “What do you want me to say, Ren?”

   “What do I ever want you to say?” Akechi snorts at him. “Is it seriously that impossible to tell me the truth?”

   “Have you looked around lately?” Akechi snipes back.

   Ren looks at his shoes. He can feel Akechi’s eyes on him, considering and unreadable but not unkind.

   Softly, and still to his shoes, Ren says, “I just don’t understand why you had to lie to me.”

   “Don’t you?” Akechi says flatly.

   “Fine. Then I just wish you didn’t.”

   Their conversations don’t usually have this many silences. Ren is used to a rhythm more riverlike and merciless. Beat by beat and steady, each stumble just another glimmering ripple. A game, a dance, rushing momentum, relentless, unceasing. Nothing like this hiccupping, trickling confusion.

   Akechi’s voice is so quiet Ren almost doesn’t hear him over his own thoughts. “You really don’t know, do you?” he says. “What a prize it is. Your affection.”

   Ren stares at him.

   “Here,” Akechi says abruptly. Ren blinks, but it seems Akechi’s dropped his last thread; something’s snapped back over his face, though the black mask with the glassy red eyes is still lost somewhere in the depths of the Palace. “I'll teach you the secret to telling the perfect lie. Are you ready?”

   Regardless of the truth, when has Ren's answer ever been no? 

   Akechi says, “You'll have heard all about keeping eye contact, not fidgeting, looking sideways and never up—all that. It's fine for a start, but it’s too rudimentary to serve you for long.” Akechi grabs one of Joker’s hands. Joker jerks, but doesn’t flinch away. “Everyone is different. Your tells aren’t the same as mine. The only thing that matters is keeping character.” Akechi tugs a red hem. “You fix your gloves a lot. If you stopped doing that all of a sudden, I'd be far more suspicious than if you continued.”

   “But you know me,” says Ren.

   “I do,” says Akechi. “But even a complete stranger can tell a stiff act from a natural one, so long as they’re paying attention. And if you can be found out, you haven’t told a good lie.”

   “So how do you get around it?”

   Akechi suddenly smiles rather mischievously. “These are trade secrets, Amamiya,” he says wryly. “Had I told you this before, I might have had to do away with you.”

   “You have experience by now,” says Ren. “Tell me.”

   “The trick,” says Akechi, “is to forget about your audience.” He smiles. “Strange, isn't it? It's about convincing yourself. It's a lot harder than you'd think. The only way to sell a lie is to do away with the truth. That's something that lives in you. You have to kill it.”

   Something in Akechi’s familiar eyes has gone hard in a way that makes Ren feel suddenly tense. “Akechi—"

   Akechi ignores him. “When the part you’re playing is yourself, you need to know who you’re becoming. Who you need yourself to be. What would Akechi Goro do right now? What would he feel? Learn your new truths, take the leftovers and throw them to the crows. You want to know why I lie even when I don't have to?” As he asks, Ren finds his voice has gone as hard as his eyes. “You said it yourself. It's very simple, Amamiya—I don't have a choice. Why do you think the backstage of my Palace is so empty? I have nothing to hide anymore. This—” he gestures at the grand curtains and fanfares—“is all there is to me.”

   In Ren’s mind, the Singer stumbles behind the curtain and sinks into a pile of velvet.

   “You already know this much,” says Akechi. “I can’t tell you which Shadow is my true self. Honestly, there can’t be just the one.” He smiles. “See, that would defeat the purpose.”

   “The purpose,” Ren says quietly.

   Akechi catches Ren's gaze and laughs. “No truly good performer remains themselves when they put on a show, Ren,” he says, almost gently. “You have to forget yourself to become someone else, you know. You track down every shred of what makes you who you are, and you leave it in the wings  before you go on. If you never come off, you never collect. It's as simple as that.”

   For the briefest moment, Akechi’s cool red irises flicker yellow. Ren hears static.

   So there’s the distortion, laid bare as though it were as empirical as water. Akechi fixes him with kind eyes.

   “What do you think will happen if I take off my smile?” he asks. “What did you think I was hiding?”

   “There were times you stopped acting, though,” Ren says. “Times when you were—meaner. Less false.”

   Akechi laughs again. “Yes, there were, weren’t there,” he says fondly. “Tell me, though. Is the truth just the absence of a lie? Don’t you think there’s more to it than that?” He smirks in that way he does, the way which flags to Ren that he’s no longer preening for the cameras. “Perhaps I’m more genuine to you when I’m rude, at least. But does that tell you more about who I am?”

   “Tells me you’re a jerk,” Ren mutters. This is starting to stress him out for reasons he can’t fully identify. But Akechi just smiles indulgently. “You’re not the only one who struggles with finding yourself.”

   “True enough. I trust you have no troubles knowing who you are, at least, Joker, seeing as you’re the golden boy of facing yourself.” Akechi examines his nails. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the face I’m hiding is just a slightly less polite version of my daily disposition. Who knew it would be that simple.”

   “Slightly,” Ren repeats.

   “Oh, hush. I don’t forget my niceties even when I’m speaking with an ingrate like you—isn’t that enough?”

   “Oh, yes,” Ren says drily. “That was just full of niceties.”

   Akechi doesn’t say anything for a long, long moment.

   “There’s still more I haven’t told you,” he says offhandedly.

   Something in Akechi’s face betrays the casual tone of his voice. Ren thinks anyone else might have missed it. “Colour me surprised,” he says.

   The smile Akechi flashes at him is too dry to be cheeky, but it’s almost there. “There’s your next lesson, in fact,” he says. “Omission is a stronger tool by far than dishonesty. Lose focus, and you’ll miss what I didn’t tell you just now.”

   “A novel triple-cross!”

   Akechi grins. “Consider information something to be drip fed. The art of making something believable is moderation. Try and sell too much, and you’ve created a weak point. The façade becomes brittle. A chip becomes a crack becomes a shattering. You need a little something in there to make it stick. Think of it as… tiling.” Akechi tilts his head. “Do you get up to much home improvement, Amamiya-kun?”

   The return to the pre-Palace, pre-Shido, pre-interrogation-room pleasantry is so jarring Ren loses his breath. Akechi watches him recover from the whiplash with a small smirk, a jagged little cut in his perfect countenance.

   “You use tiles to cover large areas,” says Akechi.

   “I know what tiles are.”

   “How clever you are,” Akechi coos. “I’m not finished, be quiet. Tiles may fill space, but there will always be gaps in-between. To fill the gaps, you use grout, which is typically a mixture of cement, sand, and water.”

   Where is he right now. “What’s your point.”

   “The tiles are your lies,” says Akechi. “I’m just a bright student with a job in the media. I’m a strait-laced golden child, I’m a celebrity and a bootlicker.” He smiles humbly. “I’m on your side, Joker. You can trust me.”

   “And the grout?”

   Akechi’s rare silences were never easy to read, even when he was ostensibly their friend. They’re even harder now. Before, Ren had chalked up the inscrutability to—not knowing Akechi very well, perhaps, or the knowledge that he was hiding something. But the more of himself Akechi shows, the more Ren feels he’s scrambling around in the dark.

   He says, “Tell me the truth.”

   Akechi half-smiles.

   “That I switched hands in billiards to make it fair,” he says lightly. “That I like bouldering and riding my bike. Your coffee is some of the best I’ve ever had. I’d never played a shooting game in an arcade before I met you, I love jazz, and I enjoyed your company.”

   Ren stares at him, but Akechi won’t look back. He keeps looking straight ahead, chin tilted up just a little.

   “It’s a paltry cost. Honest words you can afford to spare, for all they mean. Nothing that goes to the heart of you, nothing anyone will miss. Mix in those worthless little truths,” he says to the empty space in front of him, “and your lie becomes watertight and unassailable.”

   The air in the ice-dancing Wing is cold. Joker watches Akechi’s words mist and spiral into the sky.

   Then Akechi snorts.

   “Until you hear a cat talk,” he says bitterly. “All the skill in the world can’t protect you from a random act of fate.”

   “Protected me.”

   Akechi glances at him. “It did, didn’t it,” he says conversationally. “I suppose we had all better be grateful for that cat and his fucking pancakes.”

NW Suite, N. Hem., The Stadium – SR

   They get most of the way back up to the VIP Box before they need to duck back into a safe room to recharge. Out of coffee, Joker turfs soda and bandages out of his pockets.

   Even in the Casino, Crow hadn’t bothered to hide his disdain for the Soda Technique. For the measly amount of power they restored, he said, it wasn’t worth the headache of chugging what always ended up being multiple cans of sugary carbonated drink. To be honest, he’s right—Joker only really likes the Soda Technique for the ritual it had become: a contest between the Thieves to see who could slam the most cans back without burping or tapping out. Ryuji was the reigning champion, but he and Ann had been vying for the top spot for months.

   Makoto had also displayed an initial reticence—that is, until she’d won her first championship round.

   Ren had kind of been hoping that Akechi would eventually come around in the same fashion, but it seems his dislike of Arginade is strong enough that even his competitive spirit can’t overcome it.

   Nevertheless, this is all Joker has to offer right now and Crow knows it. Joker wordlessly holds out a Water of Rebirth. Nose crinkling, Crow regards it.

   “I will never understand,” he says, “this obsession in health nuts with placenta.”

   “You can have the Arginade instead,” says Joker, not bothering to hide his amusement when Crow’s nose crinkles further. The placenta drink isn’t sweet or carbonated. Ann prefers it, too. Crow takes a reluctant sip of Water. “How is it?”

   “Disgusting,” Crow says politely. “I don’t feel better at all. Thank you.”

   Joker briefly thinks about saying If someone hadn’t tried to kill me, I might have had the time and energy to make more coffee. But then Crow would probably say, Surely all that free time you gained hiding from me in your little hovel of a café apartment could have been better spent? and then they’d be back where they started but significantly more tense.

   Instead, Ren leans down and finds a chessboard behind the counter.

   Akechi looks surprised when Ren drags it out. “Did I put that there?”

   “I guess so.” Akechi’s cognition must have placed it where it belongs. He’s watched Ren take it out enough times.

   Normally safe rooms don’t manifest things tangibly enough to be handled. Maybe the chessboard is simple enough to make an exception or maybe Akechi’s just thought enough about it, Ren isn’t going to look this in the mouth. He begins laying out the black pieces.

   “Aren’t you in a hurry to find your friends?” Akechi says snippily.

   Yes. In fact, if Ren lets himself dwell on them for more than a few seconds, his heart starts to pound in a frantic way that leaves him breathless and flighty. After all, he’s the one who’d brought them in here, and who knows what’s happened to them since he’s been sitting pretty with the Theatre’s star? But his legs had almost buckled on that last climb, and his dagger had been shaking when he’d raised his arm to strike. And even Joker knows you can’t run on empty for long, no matter how hard your soul is screaming.

   After a moment, Akechi begins to lay out his side of the board, too.

   “You never told me where you learned to play chess,” Ren says.

   Akechi hums. “Where else? My mother taught me, of course.”

   He says it like it’s obvious, but for some reason this takes Ren by surprise. Akechi smirks at his expression but doesn’t retort. Maybe for once he has nothing to say about Ren’s face.

   Instead he says, “We didn’t have a chess set. She couldn’t afford one. She used to drop letters in the mailbox before she’d go out for work so that I’d wake up and find them in the morning.”

   “Letters?”

   “Correspondence chess,” says Akechi. “When my mother had to bring someone home, she’d have to send me to the bathhouse—but when she was on call elsewhere, she tried to find other things to keep me occupied. Chess was one of the ideas that stuck. She taught me algebraic notation. Here, I’ll show you—” and he takes out a bit of paper and a pen from his pocket and writes the moves in their game thus far: e4, e5, Nf3. “You see? The coordinate of the move on the board, plus the letter denoting the piece—N is ‘knight’. Pawns don’t get a letter. She always said she thought that was unkind.” Akechi laughs. “One of her clients had a chess book she’d flipped through while he was in the bathroom, that’s where she got the idea.”

   He hesitates, then adds, “She used to pretend the letters were from my father. So I’d feel less alone, you see.”

   Ren nudges a pawn forward without really thinking about it, then takes the paper from Akechi to write the move down. “Did you know?”

   “Of course I did,” says Akechi, though not so scornfully as he might usually say such a thing. “It didn’t take me long to put the pieces together, even as a child. The letters weren’t postmarked. If my father really was far away on important business as she’d said, how could he possibly have sent them without a stamp?” He laughs. “I didn’t tell her I knew, but she caught on pretty fast, too. I wasn’t such a good liar back then.”

   “Did you keep playing?”

   Akechi smiles. “Yes. Both of us pretended we didn’t know, so it became a sort of mutual secret. Just a shared amusement, you know?” His next move seems almost as thoughtless as Ren’s. A split second after Ren reciprocates, he spots the trap. “You’ve gotten sloppy.”

   “You’ve had more practice than me,” Ren grumbles.

   Akechi laughs at that. “True.” The execution of his gambit is swift and merciless; Ren stares dolefully at his lost rook. “She did eventually save up enough to buy me a little travel set of my own. We’d leave it out and play that way, over days at a time—I’d wake up to see what move she’d made while I slept, and so on. But eventually I got bored of playing with her. The game was too slow and I was hungry to improve, so I took to practicing on my own.”

   “You outpaced her?”

   Akechi shrugs. “She had a full-time job and other things to worry about. It’s no wonder a precocious child with a wealth of free time might pick the skill up more quickly. I couldn’t spend all my time at the bathhouse, after all. She understood when I stopped playing with her.” He stares at the board. “Of course, now I… Well, it’s pointless to regret things like that.”

   Something about the story, or maybe Akechi’s blank expression, had started to form a strange lump in the base of Ren’s throat. Ren swallows. Akechi notices this, of course, and smiles pityingly at him.

   “Oh, Ren,” he says softly. “There could be a gun to your head and your heart would ache for the trigger.”

   “Been there already,” Ren rasps. He tries without success to blink away the picture in his mind, conjured perhaps by the Palace’s haunting environment: a much younger Akechi, without that bitter cut to his eyes. Hair wet from the public baths, hunched over a little chessboard, nudging the pieces back and forth. Waiting for hours on end for his mother to return—giving up—going to bed alone.

   He doesn’t know what to say that won’t close Akechi off again. He settles on, “What was she like to play against?”

   “Against?” Akechi clucks his tongue thoughtfully. “I suppose we were technically opponents in chess, but I wouldn’t use that term. It feels more accurate to say I played with her. It felt…”

   Ren watches him tap his chin. It is, as always, somehow satisfying to ask him something he has to think about.

   “Present,” Akechi decides. “It was collaborative more than combative. Even though we were rarely together, I knew she was there in mind. She had to be thinking about her next move, after all, and mine—our thoughts had to be in sync. She cared about me enough to be doing that.” He shrugs carelessly. “That’s how it felt.”

   “Hey,” says Ren, “Akechi?”

   “Yes?”

   “Why’re you telling me this?”

   Akechi smiles sardonically. “Why not,” he says. “I told you already, why hide anything? You’ve seen the rest of me.”

   Is that it? Since the campfire, Akechi’s been outright open with his secrets. It feels almost like a dam breaking. Being inside your own Palace must be raw in a way that makes exposure feel cheap. And maybe Akechi’s never had anyone listen before, not in a way that didn’t invite consequences, at least. What are the consequences of Ren hearing this? That he might steal Akechi’s heart more?

   Rescuer, saviour, hero. Is Akechi backed into a corner here? Over the last year, the Thieves had paused a few times to wonder whether they were doing right, but pause was the right word, because the hesitation had never lasted long.

   Akechi reaches into Joker’s pocket and fishes out another Water of Rebirth. He cracks it with a thumb and slams the whole thing back without making a face. Joker fidgets. The spot where Akechi’s hand had brushed his thigh through the lining of his coat seems to burn. Akechi’s eye glints.

   “One up,” he says, “Joker.” He flashes Crow’s smile.

   Sufficiently rested, Joker packs his things back into his pockets and Crow wipes an invisible smear off the barrel of his pistol. They don’t bother finishing the game. Once they leave the safe room, it’ll probably dematerialise, anyway.

NNW Suite, N Hem., The Arena – North Wall

   “Stop taking my things,” Akechi says, irritated.

   Joker replaces the mask, fresh from a newly gathered Persona, and grins at him. Akechi’s been sighing more dramatically each time Joker recruits another Shadow. In all fairness, it must be a little weird for him: watching Joker tromp around in here, absorbing fragments of consciousness from inside his soul like a Roomba. It’s probably even weirder when Joker flirts with them. “I’ll pay you back.”

   “I was having such a nice time before you came calling,” says Akechi. “This is a real imposition, you know.”

   “Where were you?”

   “Elsewhere,” says Akechi. So there are things he’s determined to keep to himself, still.

   Ren glances at the ceiling. The trek the Thieves had taken had been multiple gruelling days versus what can only have been a few hours here. It’s not so bad, what with Akechi’s comparative ease navigating the odd shortcuts of his own mental landscape and the fact that most of the Shadows are pretty happy to bend to his will. They’ve seen more Wings this time, but only in passing—small mercies Ren will happily take if it means fewer full backstage tours. And Joker’s seen the inside of precious few vents. His knees are grateful.

   It’s longer than the trek out, however, as in the one they’d taken to the courtyard—Akechi had shot Ren a derisive look for mentioning this and asked him if he was really surprised that it took more effort to break in than to break out.

   Ren had retaliated by stealing another Shadow. He’s feeling nebulously spiteful.

   “Watch out,” Akechi says suddenly, and Joker’s startled out of his thoughts by the feeling of his fingers missing a ledge completely. He gasps—falls—

   —then both gasp and fall are cut abruptly off by a black-gloved hand wrapped harshly around his wrist. Joker swallows, trying to recalibrate to the position his lungs occupy in space. Crow is staring down at him, supremely unimpressed.

   “Thanks,” says Joker, scrambling to pull himself back up. “My bad.”

   “Stop worrying about them,” snaps Crow.

   “What?”

   Crow rolls his eyes. “Your Thieves. You’re so in your head about them that you’re slipping. Keep up. I’m not going to drag you all the way to the end when I don’t even want you here in the first place.”

   “Why’d you save me, then?” Joker demands. “Why are you even helping me get back there?”

   “Think of it as an escort,” Crow says in his very smarmiest voice. “As if you would’ve really splatted onto the pavement, had I let you fall. You’d have bounced right back up and made your own merry way back. At least this way I can keep an eye on you.”

   “Thought you said to help myself to the silverware.”

   “You’re like a cockroach,” Akechi mutters. “Fucking impossible to kill. Your friends are, too, I assume, though I haven’t had the pleasure of trying myself. Will you stop tapping your foot? I told you to stop worrying. It’s grating.”

   The dismissiveness in Akechi’s voice finally makes something bubble over which Ren hadn’t even noticed was boiling. “Akechi, shut the fuck up.”

   “Excuse me?”

   “You separated us,” says Joker.

   His voice is shaking. He’s shaking—when did that happen? “You cut off my comms. You heard Futaba panicking without me and you hid me from her.” They’d been surrounded by Shadows when Joker had seen them last. “I have no idea where my team is. If they’re hurt, it’s on us, and you don’t care, so it’s on me.” Ren can feel his hands trembling and he can’t seem to stop them. “You want me to stop worrying? Too bad. That’s what happens when you care about someone. Don’t forget that’s how we beat you in the first place.”

   Crow gapes at him.

   Ren’s starting to feel slightly self-conscious when Akechi makes a strange noise. “You,” he says, “have never told me to shut up before.”

   “Well,” says Ren, mutinous, “you deserved it.”

   The strange noise repeats itself. Ren realises Akechi is laughing.

   “Who knew,” says Crow, snickering. “Even the benevolent Joker has his limits.”

   He turns and crooks his finger in a little come hither motion. “Well? Your team isn’t going to save itself, to hear you tell it. Shall we go?”

   “Uh,” says Ren.

   Somewhat wrong-footed, though thankfully not literally, he follows an amused Crow up the rest of the wall. That’s right—Akechi liked bouldering.

   Akechi glances down at Ren over his shoulder. “Don’t bite my head off again, but they actually will be fine,” he says. “Your friends, I mean.”

   “How d’you know?” If Akechi’s only going to find it funny, Ren’s determined not to lose his temper again. Also, an embarrassing amount of energy is going into keeping pace with Akechi on this stupid wall, since it turns out not even Joker can instantly summon enough grace to match years of rock-climbing experience.

   “I was a hitman,” Akechi calls down. Ren grapples with how strange it is to hear him confess to it so casually. “Not a serial murderer.”

   “Is there a difference?”

   “Of course there is,” Akechi says derisively. “Well, morally, maybe not. Practically, yes. Nobody’s called a hit on your friends, so I don’t have any reason to kill them. I never act without orders, after all—I was a good attack dog.”

   The open bitterness is refreshing, Ren thinks, even as he grapples with this. “Shido didn’t ask you to kill them?”

   “He conceded when I told him it would be pointless,” Akechi says.

   “Why’d you do that?”

   “Because it would have been pointless. Don’t go putting blood in my heart, now.” Akechi laughs. “Anyway, you can rest assured nothing here will be shooting to kill. The Phantom Thieves won’t be assassinated by an errant Shadow of mine.” He wastes the extra energy it takes to crane his neck enough to ensure Joker can see his smirk.

   Ren’s just starting to feel better when Akechi adds, “They might be attacked, of course… but in a straight fight, you trust your team to hold their own without you, don’t you? O Joker?”

   He laughs again. In the silence where Ren tries to re-examine his own complexes, Akechi draws ahead on the wall.

WNW Suite, N. Hem., The Planetarium – South Cove

   They’re not taking a break. It’s a strategic pause. Sometimes, something wearing Akechi’s face gets nasty and you need to regroup—something they both know pretty well by now. The look Crow gives him freezes Joker’s well-meaning hands in place, so he stops trying to apply the bandage to the gash in Akechi’s clavicle and just hands it over.

   “I have antiseptic,” he says. If Akechi notes the way Joker holds the tube gingerly out so that only the tips of his fingers grasp it, so as to minimise the chance that their hands might touch—

   Akechi doesn’t take the antiseptic anyway, barely even glances at it. “I don’t need that.” Bandage goes on, quick and precise. Joker loses any reason to stare at his collarbone and stops. “It only matters that I don’t get blood on the shirt.”

   “Shouldn’t’ve changed out of your gear.” No need to do laundry on the Metaverse stuff.

   Akechi stops checking his shirt to give Ren the stink-eye. “Everyone’s a critic,” he says.

   “No fashion emergency?”

   “Not on my end, at least.” This new Akechi tilts his head like a bird when he smirks. God help Ren, but he likes it. “Ready to go?”

   “What are you going to do when we get back to the VIP Box?”

   “If we go, you’ll find out, won’t you?” Akechi asks back, smarmy as ever. He’s been stalwartly avoiding that question. There could be any number of reasons why. But he’s right. The VIP Box isn’t far at all. They could go now, and Joker could find out the answer.

   “I think I see a mark on your collar,” says Joker. The fabric is crisp and spotless against Akechi’s ragged skin. The mask helps with the poker face; Crow curses and looks again.

   While Akechi examines his stupid Rolph Loren dress shirt for signs of life, Ren sinks to a seated and then to a lying position.

   This Wing is something like a planetarium, and they’re stopped on some kind of dais. What’s performative about a planetarium? Only Akechi could find falsehood in something as pedestrian as a tour guide. Ren hadn’t had much time to examine the poor bastard and figure it out before Akechi had shot it in the face. And here it had been perfectly cooperative, too, so Ren’s no closer to working out what exactly stirs this murder-suicide impulse in Akechi’s head.

   Ren had always been perfectly cooperative, too, he thinks. But then again he’d stood for something intolerable. It’s a little humbling to be sentenced to execution for merely daring to survive, but this too, at least, is one of several things he and Akechi have in common.

   “Tired?” Akechi asks him, staring imperiously down. His collar is half-popped.

   Not taking a break. Just taking a pause. It’s so strategic they hadn't even bothered to find a safe room before crumpling into the first free space they’d come across. Crow had been starting to look a little battered even before that last battle had hit. Neither of them can count admitting weakness as a strength. Joker says, “Just stargazing.”

   Akechi peers up at the starry ceiling. “I’m not all that well-versed in astronomy,” he says. Vaguely shaped constellations swirl languidly by. “I wouldn’t use these stars for navigation.”

   “They’re pretty.”

   “At least they’re good for something.” Akechi seems to teeter on something, then exhales and sits on the floor with him. Ren watches the back of his head. The sweat is making his hair stringy. Better not tell him. “Humanity’s always seen too much in the stars. Making wishes, finding constellations… It’s nice, isn’t it? It’s tempting to keep your faith in something that can’t let you down.”

   “Better to focus on reality,” says Ren.

   “It is,” Akechi agrees. “But what does reality mean to you?”

   Joker wishes that his boots weren’t heeled. He wishes his collar wasn’t a spiked turtleneck. Sweat paints his hair to his forehead, marinating behind his mask. Decidedly unsexy. He drags himself to sitting and peels off his coat. Blessedly cool air hits his damp arms.

   When he looks, Crow’s eyes are skating too-casually over his bare shoulders.

   “The letter d,” says Joker, flopping onto his back again. “Man walks on four legs in the morning. A towel gets wetter the more it dries. I’m too tired for riddles.”

   “Clever,” Crow murmurs. “And disappointing. You’ve obviously exerted yourself beyond your physical limits—” Bastard, like he hadn’t been panting for breath himself not ten minutes ago—“but surely your mind still works?”

   “The raven and the writing desk,” says Joker. “Does reality mean something different to you than the rest of us?”

   “Oh, it must,” Crow says smoothly. “Only one of us is choosing to rewrite it. Say what you will about me, Joker, but I never tried to play god.”

   Joker props himself half on an elbow. “Don’t be a sore loser,” he says, mostly to piss Akechi off.

   But Akechi doesn’t take the bait. He smiles almost demurely back. “Imagine an unpleasant man,” he says.

   “Who needs to imagine?”

   Akechi ignores him. Ren doesn’t like the feeling. “You and the man are fundamentally at odds,” he says. “You can’t see that he adds anything of value to anyone’s life. In your estimation,” he pauses delicately, “the world would be better off without him. So select your method of elimination.”

   Joker remembers he has a pocket square. He fishes it out and flips his mask off. One of his Personae flickers into being behind him, though he can’t recall which one it is.

   Crow’s sweet red eyes are watching it when he says, “Murder.” His lips form the words carefully, deliberately. Ren watches his tongue twist. “Or. Assimilation.”

   Joker swipes the sweat off his forehead.

   “Kill the body,” says Crow. “Kill the spirit. Either way, the man is gone. You’ve got your wish. In one reality, though, you’ve done the deed without getting his guts on your fingers. His bleeding is internal. Only he knows what you’ve done. To the rest of the world, it’s a convenient, almost magical switch. Someone you despise is gone. You’ve robbed him of his volition and made him a puppet. He might as well be dead, but at least he’s awake to know he can’t scream.” He adjusts his glove, cool and casual. “Congratulations.”

   “You can spin it however you like,” says Joker. “You can’t convince me killing someone is right.”

   “Of course it’s not. Do you think I’m stupid?” Crow laughs. The sound is harsh and guttural, and maybe he’s earned his name. “I’m trying to convince you that overwriting someone’s psyche is wrong. They both can be, you know.”

   “You think it would have been better to do nothing?”

   “Is it better to kill a man or maim him? Are you a hero for cutting his vocal cords instead of slitting his throat? The world isn’t split into heroes and villains.” Crow laughs again. “Joker, why didn’t you kill Suguru Kamoshida?”

   “We don’t kill.” Ren doesn’t like how thin it sounds. Who is Goro Akechi, this man who can make a refusal to commit murder into some kind of empty ideal?

   “Yes,” says Crow. “But why not? Do you care what happens to him?”

   “It’s wrong.”

   “But it’s not wrong to force him into a new internal reality,” says Crow, “to crush him into living with the weight of his sins, so miserable he would rather die?”

   “He deserved it,” Joker snaps, suddenly angry again. “He deserved to feel what he’d done.”

   “He,” says Crow softly, “deserves it, I see,” and Ren sees the trap too late. “So it’s not mercy after all that drives the Phantom Thieves from murder. It’s retribution?”

   I just believe, Ann hisses in his ear, there are fates worse than death. In his mind’s eye he sees her hurl the fireball, watches it miss by a hair.

   “What were we meant to do?” Joker is tired. So tired. Not in his feet, not in the sweat running down his neck. Crow’s eyes are lingering on his shoulders again, or maybe the hollow in his throat when he swallows. “Whose heart shouldn’t we have changed? My friends were in danger.”

   “So eliminate the threat,” says Crow. “Nobody’s forcing you to think yourself righteous for it.”

   “Saving people isn’t righteous?”

   “I think you’ll find,” Crow says, “none of my targets ever hurt anyone again, either.” 

   Rescuer, saviour, hero.

   Crow leans forward. Joker leans back. He overbalances and lands flat again. In the low light of the planetarium, Crow’s maskless face is shadowed and leering.

   “So,” he says. “Let’s turn to someone more despicable than Suguru Kamoshida. Someone who’s taken actual lives.”

   Goro Akechi. The world. Theatre.

   “Sakura asked you to change her heart,” says Akechi. “That’s right, isn’t it? But I didn’t. I can only assume that means you don’t consider me to be like her. Rather, you think me more in line with your teacher or Kitagawa’s mentor. Trash to be taken out and never thought of again.”

   Akechi already knows that isn’t the case. There’s no point shaking his head now when Akechi will only use it to drag him into another trap.

   “It must be that,” Akechi continues. “Because the alternative is that you’ve decided I need saving as much as Futaba Sakura did, but unlike her, you didn’t think I deserved to be a part of that conversation. No, you think my heart is your right. Joker knows best. Joker’s reality is true. If I’m not to your taste, you can simply…”

   “Stop,” says Joker. His throat feels like it’s closing. And to his surprise, Akechi inclines his head and does.

   “Months ago,” he says softly instead, “Ren, I asked you something. Suppose there were a machine. If you plugged yourself into it, you would never feel bad again. Everything would be the way you always dreamed it would be. Any trouble you’d ever faced, rewritten. Would you plug yourself into it? And you told me no.”

   “This isn’t like that.”

   “No, you’re right,” Akechi agrees. “So let’s change the question. Imagine there’s a button. If you press it, you’ll steal every heart in the world in one fell swoop. No more Palaces. No more distortions. No pain, no suffering. Everyone’s happy, forever. The Phantom Thieves’ modus operandi, writ large. Nothing changes but the scale. Reality bends to your whim.”

   Joker closes his eyes. He’s too tired for this.

   Akechi’s lilting voice cuts into his brain like it’s butter. Like it’s cheese. The world spins on a lopsided axis and Akechi says softly, “Press the button, Joker.”

   “It’s different,” Joker says.

   His voice is weak, he can hear it, rough and rubbed raw. They’ve been running through Akechi’s mind for hours, but Akechi’s been running through his for months. And he’s too fucking tired for this.

   “Tell me how,” says Akechi. He’s leaned closer while Ren’s had his eyes closed. He sounds closer. He sounds triumphant.

   He sounds wrong. It’s different. It is. Any idiot could tell you, why does Akechi need Ren to tell him? A sexual predator, an opportunistic manipulator. A mob boss. It’s different. The Phantom Thieves changed hearts, they changed lives. They didn’t take them.

   That’s not what Akechi’s asking.

   Here’s the question: who cared if Suguru Kamoshida lived or died? Not Shujin Academy. Not the world at large. It’d be a headline for a news cycle and then it would be gone, and he would be gone. The answer was Ann Takamaki, who wanted her tormentor to suffer. The answer was Ren and Ryuji, who wanted not to be sixteen year old delinquents and murderers to boot.

   Who cared if Ichiryusai Madarame changed or ceased to be? Not the reporters, who’d get their dues either way. Not the art world, who’d suffer no loss. The answer was Yusuke, who wanted to love his father figure, who wanted not to love him, who wanted for that love not to congeal into a unified grief. The answer was the Phantom Thieves, who wanted to swing the axe but not to watch the heads rolling.

   “Do you know where they are now?” Akechi asks him in a sugary voice. “Your victims. Sorry—targets.”

   No, Ren had never followed up. None of them had.

   Joker’s eyes are still closed. In his mind he sees a button. It’s gleaming, it’s red. Press it—change the world. Every heart, every Palace, every Treasure, all at once. No more corruption. No more rot. A thousand twisted minds, a hundred thousand, unknotted in an instant. Okumuras and Kaneshiros rewritten. Sakuras and Akechis reborn.

   Is it different? Joker thinks of the Pyramid. He thinks of the Spaceport. He thinks of sweat and blood. He thinks of the time a Shadow had lunged at them from behind a wall in the Bank and he’d been too dizzy to see it before it ripped bloody shreds through Makoto’s uniform. He thinks of her pained, enraged howl. He thinks of how Ann stopped doing her nails partway through the semester because she kept breaking them on ledges, how he and Ryuji had teased her for her vanity before she’d showed them what a broken nail looked like, bloody and ragged, as she gingerly picked through her lunch. Blood and tears. Palace after Palace, one by one by one. He thinks of Ryuji’s leg, Futaba’s trembling hands. Bandages and coffee and dubious drugs. Maybe it’s penance, somehow. Like the work they do is justified if it’s work. Press a button, change reality—is it different? Phantom Thief, do you plug yourself into the machine? Does it change the answer if you can bleed for it first?

   There’s pressure on his chest. Joker opens his eyes to find Goro Akechi staring down at him with a palm pressed against his heart.

   “Reality over pleasure, you said,” Akechi reminds him. Unblinking red eyes. The contacts have long since been discarded. “No matter how unpalatable. But you’ll rewrite me, won’t you?” The gloved hand squeezes. Joker’s sleeveless turtleneck cinches in his grip. “Carve out the parts of me that bring you no joy? Take my heart, then.”

   Ren finds himself released. His heart is pounding. Akechi sits back, lets his head fall backward, stares into the ersatz sky.

   “Take it,” he says. “Cut me to size, fit the last peg into the last hole. Mould me harmlessly into your image, as you like it, and think yourself a hero when the thing resulting grovels at your feet. Know that in my final moments of being whole, I’ll loathe you for what you’ve done.”

   Press the button, Phantom Thief. Don’t you want to change the world?

???

   For their second approach to the VIP Box, they don’t try the front entrance. Instead, Crow finds a vent.

   “What’s wrong?” he asks sceptically.

   Joker grunts.

   Crow seems to misinterpret his sour expression. “I’m not going to stare at your ass. Go ahead.”

   “I don’t care about that.”

   “Oh?”

   Joker gets into the vent. His knees are going to be a crackly wreck before his twenty-first birthday, but at least he won’t have to look at Crow’s smug face anymore.

   From their new vantage point, Joker gets a pretty solid first glimpse of the inside of the VIP Box. For the most part it matches the aesthetic of the lobby. Unlike the Wings there’s no discrete theme. Red, gold, crystal: your standard opulent theatre, standard nauseating excess. The vent emerges into a high box, probably the titular one, with just a single seat. It’s empty.

   Joker looks at Crow with a question, but Crow says disdainfully, “He’s hardly watching anymore, now, is he?”

   Right.

   The box looks over the stage far below in a sheer drop. There’s no way anyone down there could see them up here, but from here he sees everything. Heavy velvet curtains, long gold tassels. The stage is wide and deep. A hundred Shadows mill about on it, each trying to edge the others’ performances out, not quite sharing the spotlight. Where there should be seats on the floor of the room, there’s nothing—a void sits before the wide stage, as empty as the sky outside.

   A low-hanging crystal chandelier droops over it. Joker sucks in a breath.

   “Told you they’d be alive,” Crow murmurs in his ear. A spark rushes down Joker’s spine.

   Yes, they’re alive, one two three four five six seven. Tied to the chandelier, legs dangling over the yawning pit, hands bound, there are his best friends in the world. Unhurt, but trapped. The ties are intricate. A botched escape attempt would be disastrous: cutting the wrong line would send them all tumbling into the abyss.

   Queen must have pointed this out to them, because even Skull isn’t trying to wriggle out.

   A hand raps his knuckles. Joker glances up at Crow’s stern face and realises he’s gripping the railing so tight his gloves have gone taut. He can’t help it. He’s watching Futaba, hanging listless in her bonds. She could probably operate her HUD hands-free, but the screens are nowhere to be seen.

   If they’re talking, Joker can’t hear them. Morale seems low across the board. Ann’s feet are restless, tapping in the air; Makoto keeps glancing around helplessly like there might be something she’s missed.

   Open pit, certain death. Hanging lights. Trick rope. Broad stage.

   Crow’s fingers keep dancing on his holster. Ren looks at him again. His brow is creased. He lifts a hand to the stage like he’s measuring on his fingers, tilts his head to check the angle, re-measures. Red eyes flick to grey ones.

   Akechi’s smile is rakish. He reminds Joker of himself, which might be why he takes the hand Crow holds out.

   “Do you trust me?” he asks.

   Slowly and steadily as was his way, Ren swam to life.

   There was no paw slapping him in the face. This was uncommon and disconcerting. There was also a good deal more jingling than he was used to. Was Futaba playing something in his room? Muffled voices rang in his ear, anxious and too loud. What time was it? Was he late to school?

   “Joker!” Crow snapped again, and Joker’s eyes shot open.

   Not the attic. Not the morning. Ren’s back hurt, his ribs hurt. His eyes hurt. Coloured lights blinked and flashed. Akechi’s face flickered into view along with the rest of the Casino: his gold-edged high collar, his soft brown hair.

   Ren’s lungs hurt, as though they’d been collapsed a touch too long, and now the Casino’s filtered oxygen burned.

   Blearily, Ren lifted a heavy hand to touch Akechi’s cheek. The red mask must have been discarded somewhere Ren couldn’t see. A softly-lit shape that might have been Robin Hood hovered politely in the background. The blurry voices stuttered to a stop, but Akechi didn’t move at all as Ren touched delirious fingers to his bare skin.

   He was draped, he registered, in Crow’s lap. His torso was being braced by Crow’s crooked arm. That signature ‘A’ belt buckle was digging into his side. Those pesky lights kept winking before his eyes, making Akechi appear shiny and distorted—so maybe they weren’t all from the Casino after all.

   “You must be Prince Charming,” Joker croaked. He caught a breath, surprised at the ragged sound of his own voice.

   Crow didn’t protest when Joker slid himself back down to the carpet to sit up on his own. He glanced around. There was his team, oddly hushed and staring at him.

   “You okay, Joker?” Panther asked him in an oddly gentle voice. She crouched down, as though to meet him at his level. He blinked back at her. “How’re you feeling?”

   He shot her a thumbs up. They were all looking at him like he was recently shattered glass.

   “Sorry,” he said. “How long was I out?”

   “Not out,” said Mona. “Down.”

   Down? Oh.

   For the first time, Ren registered the dull ache in his side as something other than Crow’s belt buckle. His gloved fingers went to the spot automatically and came away looking no different, but feeling distinctly wetter. Ren looked down. His grey waistcoat was dark where his fingers had been.

   Crow was still kneeling beside him, gazing blankly at the wall. He was flexing his fingers the way Mona sometimes did with his paws after casting Samerecarm, though more stiffly, like he wasn’t used to the feeling.

   “Thanks,” Ren said to him.

   “Don’t do that again,” Crow replied.

   “Die?” A black fly in his Chardonnay. A death row pardon two minutes too late. “I’ll try not to.”

   “Die,” said Crow. An edge crept into his voice. “For me.”

   For him?

   Your life was supposed to flash before your eyes in the moment before you died, or so Ren had heard. Well, if it had, he didn’t remember. What he did know was this: in the minutes after you died, and then were brought back, your memories of the before suddenly seemed glazed in plastic, like you were watching through acrylic as someone else lived your life and was drip-feeding it back to you through a tube. Through the screen, Rangda drifted into view. Ren blinked again as though to clear the image.

   Those signature nails had appeared in Joker’s third eye as the thing cast Mudoon. He’d watched them hovering over Crow’s frozen form, which was a ghostly white in Ren’s hazy recollection. Then—

   Then what? Ren remembered diving, he remembered a scream. Then he remembered Crow’s lap.

   Normally it was his team taking hits for him. So this made for sort of a nice change.

   Crow got to his feet.

   “That was reckless,” he said coldly. “You shouldn’t count on being rescued. What if I’d been out of energy and couldn’t bring you back?”

   “You’re welcome,” Joker said, slightly miffed. “We’ve got Mona. We’ve got items.”

   What with being freshly downed, Ren’s reflexes were a little slow. Crow had a fist in his collar before he could even react; dragged to his feet, he found himself slammed against a pillar. He swallowed.

   “Don’t be so blasé,” Akechi hissed. “If you’re so eager to throw your life away, what sort of challenge would it be to take it? Have a little respect for yourself—I won’t allow any rival of mine to fall so easily.”

   “Same to you,” said Joker, still pinned to the wall. “Dodge better next time.”

   Akechi seemed to remember himself. He dropped Joker’s shirt and stepped back. His hair somehow hadn’t shifted.

   “Right,” he said. “Let’s leave it, then.”

   The rest of the team was frozen still.

   Crow turned away. “We should keep moving,” he said. His voice sounded normal again. “I’ll take point if you’re amenable, Joker.”

   “Sure,” said Joker. Crow’s fingers were still flexing.

   Mona’s little paw reached up to tap him as they fell back into formation. “Are you okay?”

   “Yeah,” Joker said. “It just felt like nothing. You guys have all gone down before.” He’d never understood why they wouldn’t let it happen to him in turn, although given November 20^th was fast approaching, maybe it was a good thing to limit him to one brush with the other side. Down wasn’t quite dead, as far as he couldn’t glean from Mona’s increasingly frustrated attempts to explain, but it was close enough. He pressed Mona’s beans. That Mona allowed this meant he probably looked pretty pale.

   Ren thought he was speaking quietly enough that the others wouldn’t hear, but Panther hung back anyway to rub his shoulder.

   “Crow was really freaked out,” she said, almost conversational. “I’ve never heard him scream like that when you collapsed.”

   Like rain on his wedding day. “Probably mad someone else got there first.”

   “You think so?” Ann asked, unconvinced. Ren wondered why her tail wasn’t as animated as Fox’s was. He felt sure it would be twitching now if it could. “Mona didn’t even have time to move, you know. Crow caught you before any of us even realised you were falling.”

   Another memory came through the drip-feed: Crow’s expression as it surfaced through the haze. Unobscured by the mask and shielded from the rest of them, Ren had gotten the full force of it right to the face.

   His thoughts were still sluggish. In a matter of days, Akechi would be meeting him again—this time not with a fistful of healing magic but with a very real, very loaded gun. It honestly shouldn’t even have been worth the effort it took to bring Joker back seeing as they’d be doing an encore soon enough.

   Then again, maybe that was why. Ren had, after all,  gone down in his stead. It was in Akechi’s best interests to play the panicked, caring teammate, especially since—as Ren had pointed out—Mona or one of the others would have been quick to bring him back if Akechi hadn’t. So it played out better this way. Akechi had to know that test audiences would respond best if he got there first.

   But then there was the snap in his façade. Would a worried teammate have growled about the worth of Joker’s life as though it were a piece of treasure to be taken? Slammed him into the wall for the transgression of saving his hide? Would a traitor caught in his role have bothered to fill his eyes with genuine panic, gazing down at the weakly stirring, mostly lifeless body of his beloathed? To hear Panther tell it, Crow had acted as instinctively as if it had been himself who’d gone down. Had Crow ever even used that spell before? If all they’d learned from surveillance was true… a person who had been traversing the Metaverse alone until now would have precious little use for revival magic and no chance to develop an instinct for it. Joker watched through that blurry plastic as the green sparks crackled away from Crow’s white fingers and mused that—despite it all—he didn’t honestly think Akechi was that good an actor.

   There was of course, the other question. In his last moments, when Joker had had no time to think and only time to do—only time to follow his basest instinct—that instinct had been to throw himself in the path of instant death so as to spare the fate for his own murderer.

   Up ahead, Crow drew his pale blue sabre and decapitated a Shadow with a little too much ease. Not for the first time, Joker watched his cool face and wondered: what am I to you?

???

   Whatever cloaking magic Loki’s been using, it’s as effective against the Shadows as it is against his friends. Nobody looks up at the dark shape that hops onto the railing with a black-gloved helping hand; no one notices when it dives and twists in midair, sailing toward the chandelier.

   The Phantom Thieves shriek on impact. The chandelier rattles, but the angle is clean and it doesn’t jolt. It just starts swinging.

   “Joker,” Fox gasps. “You’re alive…”

   “Joker!”

   “Joker!”

   Joker spares a precious second to smirk down at them. Skull whoops, throwing a fist in the air.

   “I fucking knew it!” he shouts. “I knew you weren’t dead!”

   The chandelier pitches back. Joker spins on the cable when the pendulum sways forward again, lets himself drop to the bottom of the fixture to throw his weight around…

   Like a swing set, Crow’s voice mutters. Remember being a child on the playground? You understand, don’t you?

   “Joker,” Mona yowls, “you need to cut us free!”

   “He can’t,” Panther says sharply. “He’s too far down! He can’t reach!”

   Swing back. Swing forth. Swing back. The Thieves catch on and strain, trying to add their own mass to the momentum, but it doesn’t do much. The cable creaks.

   “Joker!”

   Joker steadies himself on his perch, and looks up.

   He can’t see the top box from down here, so it’s probably pure imagination when he spots the wink of the barrel. A shot rings out—Joker hardly sees the little red beam before it slices clean through the central rope and sends the Thieves and the chandelier both tumbling free.

   To the stage, not the abyss. Perfectly timed.

   The Phantom Thieves bellow. Noir shrieks, “What was that?!”

   Below him, Joker hears Oracle gasp, but there’s no time to check on her. He leaps from the falling crystals to skid down a long red curtain; the gold tassel holding it back unspools and the cloth spills out. With a twist he leverages both his momentum and his suspension of disbelief, lets the heavy cognitive fabric billow out, drags it around—

   —sweeps the Thieves into the velvet, breaking their fall. They hit the ground and roll the way they’ve learned to. Joker counts one two three four five six seven and breathes. The chandelier lands with a cacophonous crash beside them. Several crushed Shadows hiss out of corporeality.

   Skull, lying in a panting heap next to his shin, reaches a hand out to slap him on the arm. “Knew you’d come,” he says.

   Joker laughs and bumps the fist he holds out, winks at Panther for grumbling about his dramatics, takes stock of limbs and scrapes and open eyes.

   Oracle is staring out into the void, searching for something.

   In the dark of the curtains, Joker hears the air roiling again in that way it does to herald the arrival of still more Shadows. They’ve been idly allowing their own shows to go on, but here they are beginning to stir—beginning to take notice, it seems of the saviour the Phantom Thieves have yet to question. That they will begin to question any minute. Like this will head them off, Joker says, “Are you guys—?”

   “We’re fine,” Queen assures him. “You saved the day again, Joker.”

   That was a cue if Ren’s ever heard one, and he’s never known their ally in the shadows to miss one of those. Sure enough, only Oracle doesn’t flinch when he emerges, diving from the heights to land gymnast-perfect before them, though Ren does see her eyes snap to him. So he’s still cloaking. So she’s learning to get around to him anyway. A low laugh precedes the glint of the gun as Crow tucks it back into his holster. Still in his daily Detective Prince clothing, the little Crow-style bow he does suits him, though the openly mocking smirk is ill-fitting.

   “Let’s get this over with,” Akechi says smoothly over the top of the team’s stammering. “No, I’m not a Shadow. No, I’m not here to kill him. Or you.”

   “What,” Queen begins.

   “How,” Skull demands.

   “Why?” asks Oracle.

   Joker looks: her goggles are on her head and her eyes are narrow behind their round glasses. Her HUD is up again. Red dots are popping up around them as more and more Shadows gurgle into the space, drawn to their Master now more than ever since he’s proven himself a threat. His clothes weren’t tarred to his skin, he’d said, but Joker blinks and thinks he can see the staticky flicker of the black suit. The gun had still been smoking when Akechi had slipped it away. They’re surrounded by the shattered remnants of the crystal chandelier, and even now the severed cord sways listlessly where it dangles empty from the high ceiling.

   “I hate to point this out, but I’ve already sacrificed myself for you lot once,” he says lightly.

   Joker lets his stance shift as Akechi’s myriad doubles with their glowing yellow eyes start to take notice en masse. The Phantom Thieves unconsciously follow his lead. On Oracle’s HUD, the red dots begin to multiply.

   Ren watches Akechi’s eyes flicker upward. A current seems to carve through the air. He tries his Third Eye and finds one stream of clarity in the noise, right along the path Akechi’s eyes had traced, leading up to a gap in the wall Joker would never have found.

   He blinks it away as Akechi inclines his head and levels his gun at Joker’s temple. “If it’s all the same to you,” he says. Joker doesn’t flinch when he fires, but Noir gasps at the telltale sound of a Shadow dissipating directly behind him.

   The nearest Shadows screech in rage and converge.

   Akechi holds his hand out a second time in an invitation to freedom. Over the top of the Thieves’ building shouts, he continues with a courteous smile, “I’d rather not stage a repeat performance.”

   As the sea of glowing yellow eyes swells, Joker reaches back.

Chapter Text

   “REN!”

   Joker’s eyes snap open in time to see Yusuke’s body shield him from another blow. Around them is a circle of frozen Shadows on sheer, icy ground, spiked out like a crown. Fox grunts with exertion, his hair dripping into his eyes. His soft white tail swishes over Ren’s face a second time.

   Kamu Susano-o shatters a frozen Shadow into shards. Yusuke reaches back to drag Ren to his feet.

   “Are you all right,” he says urgently. “I apologise. I did not have any Alert Capsules—”

   He stops when Joker clasps his hand in both of his own. “Thanks,” says Ren. The sleep is draining from his head to his feet, heavy and thick.

   “Be careful,” Yusuke responds warmly, and sends another freezing blast into the newly advancing horde.

   Awake and almost alert, Joker whips around and takes stock. This is more Shadows than they’ve ever faced in one go. Each of them bears a familiar face. For a moment Ren keeps whirling, searching for the red in the sea of gold. A vicious swipe barely misses his ribs. Ren fumbles to flip the dagger from his waist into his hand, but the Shadow attached to that last attack shrieks into mist a second later.

   The laser blast warms Ren’s face. He looks up to see Crow with the pistol still dangling from his fingers. He lops the arm off a Shadow trying to drag Prometheus down to Earth. Futaba is yelling—yelling even as she rockets back up to the safety of empty space, wordless panic melting back into instructions the more visibility she gets.

   Crow isn’t even looking at him. “Not even you lot can take all these Shadows at once,” he barks harshly. “Get out of here if you don’t want to die. I can’t keep holding them all off.”

   “ARE YOU ADDICTED TO SACRIFICING YOURSELF OR SOMETHING?” Panther bellows at him. “SHUT UP AND HELP US FIND THE TREASURE!”

   “Guys,” Oracle’s voice crackles suddenly. “I found it.”

   “For real?” Skull shouts, followed by a hollow thunk. Joker whips around and sees an armoured Renaissance Faire Shadow go flying. “Where the—”

   “Look up!” Eight heads snap up. “Can you see it? It’s right there, it’s in—”

   It’s vertigo-inducing, the high ceiling; the glimmering bulbs, the relentless gold. Dizzying. Ren closes his eyes and re-opens them in time to dodge. A fencing Shadow again brandishes its blade at his neck, evidently forgetting that you shouldn’t bring a foil to a gun fight. It remembers a moment later, a moment too late.

   “The cage!” Oracle shrieks. “It’s in the cage!”

   Grimacing, Joker opens his Third Eye. He stumbles when the stars burst immediately before his eyes. Oh, that’s worse. He stumbles again, feels himself hit something—then a strong hand wraps firmly around his bicep.

   Through the dizzy haze Joker sees Queen gazing steadily back at him.

   “Pull it together,” she orders. Her grip tightens reassuringly on his arm. “We need you.”

   Joker blinks at her. The lights are beginning to subside.

   She shakes him bracingly. “We need you, Ren,” she repeats.

   A cage. There’s a cage. Joker sucks in a breath, blinks his Third Eye again, Makoto’s fingers digging into his arm, and the lights snap into place.

   Huge and ornate like a birdcage. It’s tarnished like brass and dangling from the ceiling at the top of the stage. Inside it is a shining metallic mass that Joker can’t quite make out.

   Something else. A dark, shadowy shape hanging off the cage door, picking it deftly. A Shadowy shape? No.

   No, that’s not Goro Akechi.

   “Hey,” says Oracle shakily. “Joker, tell me something only the real Joker would know? You’re down there, right?”

   He is. He isn’t. The cage door pops open and a smirking Ren reaches quicksilver red hands inside.

   Bang. Joker whips around to look at Crow, but Crow is focused on the Shadows swarming Skull and Noir.

   Too focused. He’s seen what they’re all seeing, then. And it wasn't his gun that had just gone off.

   Ren can’t even blame him for looking away. He looks up again, but his cognitive self is gone, no trace left but the smoking bullet hole in the curtain. The cage door slams back shut.

   Did he—

   “He’s fine,” says Oracle. “Ducked out of the way. I lost him.”

   Another laser blast trims some of Joker’s split ends. His eyes flicker instinctively over to Crow before he even registers the Shadow dying behind him.

   “Watch yourself,” Crow hisses, somehow bland.

   “He’s back,” Oracle says suddenly, but Ren’s seen already. Draws the eye like a corpse, the figure that cognition cuts.

   His mirror self is at once familiar and unfamiliar in a way that’s actually a little upsetting. Ren’s never worn his hair like this, his bangs swept in a suave swoop to the side. They don’t cover his eyes. Neither does anything else. No mask, his glasses are gone. His eyes are shining.

   Somewhere past him, Ren hears Ann breathe: “Wow…”

   The cognition isn’t dressed as Joker, no matter how much his catlike stretching suggests a Metaversal ease. He’s in a turtleneck, slim and dark, but the resemblance ends there. It’s heist gear. Black and gray and packed with a utility belt. Really almost a bodysuit. The thief tilts its head and its striking red gloves go again for the lock. Another gunshot rings out from somewhere that Ren—the real Ren—can’t see, but the cognition flips away unfazed. Barely a moment passes before it’s back, that coy smile cutting across its face like a new wound.

   He can’t look at himself. It looks just like him. Strikingly so. Uncannily so. It’s a mirror that goes beyond reflection and starts to dig. Dead set on finding only the best of him—magnifying him until he’s no longer quite real, until he’s something Ren can’t believe is still him—and yet he can’t deny: those glittering eyes contain something he’s never seen, something nobody’s ever seen, but that he’s always felt. Something true. Something deep. Something plundered. The cognition is as distorted as the rest of the Palace, exaggerated and gross. It leaves Ren feeling like an exposed nerve. Like his guts are on display, like the inside of something that should never see the light of day. But then, perfect. Too perfect. The cognition is beautiful, unreal and too real. Painful and undeniable: the Ren in Akechi’s mind was something no one could stand to look at for long without feeling bitter—painfully bitter—guts pouring from a hollow pit in your gut as you fell, headlong and helpless, more and more in love.

   Ren can’t look at himself. He can’t look at Akechi.

   “He’s unlocking the Treasure!” Skull shouts. “Man, we really need to get an effin’ grappling hook. We gotta get up there!”

   “What do we even do here?” Mona wails. “I mean, normally we beat the Shadow and grab the Treasure, but—which Shadow? How are we meant to get to it?”

   “Maybe it has to be Joker,” Panther yells. She’s somewhat distracted melting the face off a cabaret dancer. “Like, maybe that’s Crow’s cognition? That Joker can steal his heart?”

   Braced for disdain or even anger, Joker steals a look at Crow. But he’s already looking right back at him, and his face—

   “I can get one of you up there, maybe,” Oracle mutters in their ears, and they hear her typing. “Joker, I think Prometheus could—if you’re cool with tentacles? I can—"

   “Wait,” says Ren.

   Akechi’s expression is unreadable. Even as he slices through a Shadow which had been halfway to skewering Makoto with some kind of javelin, his eyes don’t leave Ren’s. Something about his blank face, that hardened shield, hiding something—lit from the back with artificial stars—with the warm streetlights by the café in Kichijoji, his eyes dark and hopeless as the fifth man in the cave and Ren—

   —it’s like the sound in the Theatre swallows itself, all at once—like the thing he’s just said has dropped a fog on the screaming.

   Joker says again, “Don’t take the Treasure.”

   The room says, “What?”

   Nothing in Akechi’s face changes at all.

   “It has to be unanimous,” says Ren. Something’s scooped out his insides. Maybe they’ve been given to that handsome cognition. “I withdraw my vote. Everyone focus on getting out of here.”

   “WHAT?” screeches Ryuji. “Dude, what the hell are you talking about? It’s right there!”

   “Get out of here,” Joker repeats. He raises his gun and fires once, bang—two Shadows go down, down in a row like bowling pins. “It’s not safe. Retreat. Now.”

   In his peripheral vision the Shadows are still swelling. In his peripheral vision a purple hand touches his wrist.

   “Ren,” Haru says softly.

   He takes her hand. “Go,” he tells her. A Shadow screams, charges, and he releases her. “Noir…”

   She hesitates as she hefts her axe.

   “Joker,” Queen says desperately. “Joker, we can’t just—we won’t get another chance at this.”

   It’s his fault they’re here at all. His idea. His fists that hit the wall. There’s blood dripping from her nose even now and none of them have moved, all still fighting on, and it’s not Joker’s way to bark out that the call to retreat is an order, but he sees another Shadow backhand Yusuke across the face—a pro-wrestler, maybe?—and that exit is still shining in the wall where Akechi had pointed it out. They could go, now. Have to. They’re here for him.

   It’s for you, too, Ann had said. She was right, she always is. Who was it that couldn’t let Akechi go? Whose shaking hands, spilling coffee into the saucer, lunging for the lifeline as soon as the Nav had spoken? Akechi had been ready to disappear, already far away. Even here in the depths of the Theatre, Akechi’s still slapping his thieving hands away from the core of his soul. Bullets at his heels, at his dancing fingers. Take it, then. Ren can’t delude himself any longer. Who are they here for? Someone who can’t lead them out. Who can’t save them now. Because they trust him, love him. Selfish. Petulant. A boy who can’t leave go of a toy, trying to play the hero like a child.

   “Joker,” Mona pleads. He barely even notices the wind swirling around him as Mercurius blows a suite of approaching Shadows away from him. “Joker, come on, you—you have to at least fight.”

   Another laser blast singes his collar. Ren doesn’t even bother looking at the Shadow groaning out of existence behind him. He looks at Akechi, who still hasn’t moved.

   “I won’t do it.” he says. “Not if you don’t want me to. Tell me what you want.”

   “Joker,” Noir shrieks, just as Ren sees Akechi’s eyes go suddenly wide—then registers a soul-rending pain protruding from his side.

   He turns as though hypnotised as a fire-spinner yanks its flaming blade from his skin. It’s still grinning, even as its sludgy remnants are cleaved in two. Noir hefts her axe again. With an enraged howl, she swings it towards him.

   Joker ducks on cue: two more Shadows go down beside him—too late!—something blunt catches him on the side of his head as the weapon’s wielder falls. Ren staggers with the blow, disoriented. He raises one trembling hand; the Shadow had only struck once, but his head is pounding like hammer blows are still raining down.

   His side is burning, burning; he’s moving as though through lava, slow and sluggish and the pain is making him dizzy and he can’t seem to tear his eyes from Akechi’s frozen face even as he sinks to his knees, even as his vision darkens, as it flickers at the edges—

   “Focus,” someone is screaming, “Joker, focus! You have to fight!”

   Fight. Hadn’t he told them all to retreat? Ryuji’s face is puffy. His cheeks are red in a way that tells Ren it’s going to bruise, bad. Fight. He’d said to run, but Futaba is still shouting advice, beaming support; Makoto’s still diving to cover Yusuke’s blind spot where his hair is painted to his face with exertion, blood dripping from her fists. Their real blind spot is him. Their loyalty to Ren isn’t born from Joker's authority. It’s the other way around. His strength, their weakness.

   The world continues to spin. Ren feels a lump raising on his skull. Noir looms over him, axe aloft, and distantly he can see Skull sprinting to join his honour guard.

   “You have to get up,” Futaba whispers in his ear. “Joker, we have to keep going. We can’t stop now.”

   “Don’t take it,” Ren mumbles, dizzy.

   “Okay. We won’t. We’ll leave it to you. But you have to do it.”

   “I won’t,” Ren whispers. Everything hurts, his side, his head, an empty burning in his chest. Which way is up? Which way is right? Is Akechi listening? “It has to be unanimous. I’m not—not going to push you into this.”

   Loki hovers with his molten sword barred across his chest, hesitant and defensive, and then the axe falls into Ren’s eyeline and all he sees is steel.

   “I am,” Noir snaps.

   Like this, lit from above by the Theatre’s relentless lights, she looks like an avenging angel. Some kind of blinding knight sent to protect him. Her face is burning with—not quite fury. Something colder. Steel in her fists, steel in her face, she hefts her axe again.

   “Joker might care what you want,” Noir barks at the still-frozen Akechi. “But I don’t. I care about Joker. I care that if you stay the way you are, you’re going to keep hurting him. Hurting everyone, including you. And I need you to understand that you don’t have to do that anymore.”

   Again she swings; a wide, vicious arc that dissolves the front line. It’s replaced as quickly as it falls, wailing Shadows reaching for Ren’s still body like departed spirits welcoming one of their fellows.

   “We’ve already seen you, Akechi-kun!” Astarte’s skirt opens and guns down another flanking horde as they clamour for Joker’s head. “We’ve seen the worst of you. I’ve seen the worst of you. And we’re here, aren’t we? We still decided you were worth the effort. There’s something inside of you that’s real, and we’re fighting for it. So get it together. And fight for yourself for once!”

   A Shadow breaks from the ranks and sprints for Joker. Ren's hand twitches, useless, but before he can even think about moving, a streak of ice cuts a line between him and his new assailant and spears it in the chest.

   “She's right.” Fox stands, soaked in sweat but proud as ever as the screeching Shadow dissolves around a frosty spike. “Would we go so far for a lost cause? If you’d only heard him, Crow, tortured at the very thought of betraying you.”

   Queen’s voice is ragged but hard. “And we won’t betray him,” she croaks. “We’re not leaving. If you don’t save yourself, he’ll die for you. And I won’t let that happen.”

   Noir kneels. Astarte flickers in again, arms out, and Noir holds her axe out with the flat of the blade facing up, chivalrous.

   “You’ve stolen his heart,” she shouts. Her voice cracks. “I won’t stand by and let you break it, do you understand? It’s precious to us!”

   Ren gazes up at her. She’s beautiful like this, face white with desperate anger. Woozy with blood loss and a probable concussion, he sees her for a moment as she was in the cold outside Leblanc: dirt smearing her leggings and that warm resolve in her eyes as she gazed back at him.

   Akechi is staring at her—the Shadows around him seem frozen too, suddenly repelled by him.

   “So take your own heart back,” she shrieks. “And free him! Free yourself! Free all of us!”

   Ren doesn’t see what comes next. The last wave of Shadows swallows him in a golden swell that not even his friends can hold off. Dimly, he sees the flash of an axe—hears Noir scream, “CROW!” before the world darkens.

   Futaba’s scream splits the air, so loud he can hear it even outside of his comms: “JOKER!”

   Is this it? he wonders. Wild card, trickster, leader—there’s nothing left up his sleeve but his own heart.

   The only one they couldn’t save. He supposes it had to happen eventually. And there are worse ways to go.

   He only hopes she’ll get the rest of them out—trusty old Oracle, bereft of her key item. She’ll light their way…

   Then he hears it again—Futaba’s scream, this time triumphant. “I GOT IT! NOIR, I GOT IT—IT’S RIGHT THERE—CROW, GO!” And there’s a grunt, a sharp shout, and—

   There! An arrow of light cleaves through the shadows, clearing the dark. And Ren, his vision haloed and strange, sees him: glorious and bold, Robin Hood with his bow held high. Besides him, Loki’s curious form flickers into view. And beneath the both of them: Akechi, standing tall, perched on a crossbeam high in the ceiling.

   All at once, just as it must have been with Oracle, Joker’s Third Eye clears once and for all. Right there in plain sight, hovering in the empty space of the VIP box, luminous and pulsing, is the path Crow took to get up to the beams. Launched by Noir’s axe and boosted through the air by Astarte and Prometheus, the little nooks and handholds that would have been invisible to the rest of them. Clear as anything. So obvious it’s hard not to wonder how he missed them. And inches away: that gilded birdcage, the gleaming Treasure within.

   That shining, writhing mass begins to take shape. It morphs as they gape—twists and forms into something huge and metallic, and it’s… Is it…?

   “Masks,” he hears Makoto gasp.

   Not the red, not the black. Ren's seen these masks before, adorning theatres and playbills. Comedic and tragic both with their stretched, uncanny eyes and mouths. The masks’ expressions deform and reform in front of them, molten, unsettled.

   And the cage door springs open.

   Oracle bellows again, wordless and victorious; a wave rolls out from her cry and crushes the nearest Shadows, flattens them back. Ren watches his teammates find their bearings—good, he thinks blearily, they’re going to make it, they’re going to get out of here. His side is screaming, his head is splitting open—the Shadows’ slowed advance isn’t enough to counter the fact that he’s been trampled, crushed to the floor, such a grand little hero is he, but they're going to make it, they're going to live—

   —and with that last thought, he sees Akechi reach in and touch the Treasure.

   As Ren watches through half-closed eyes, the masks shrink rapidly. They fly from the cage and fasten themselves to Akechi’s face, and he doesn’t need Akechi’s strangled scream to tell him they’ve fused to his flesh. Those familiar black gloves fly to his face, pulling and wrenching in agony.

   Ren remembers. The fusion is painful. The removal is worse. And yet there’s only one option.

   He hears the other Thieves crying out in concern even as they resume their own battles; but he's fading, fading fast… his gun hand twitches even as he feels himself sinking into the dark… he can’t save them, not now, not when he can’t even stand…

   Another scream, this time of incandescent fury, and then pink gloves obscure the fog in his vision. Panther reaches into the mob of Shadows overwhelming him and yanks him out, a beautiful rage distorting her sweet features. He can’t do anything but try to breathe, slumped against her shoulder like a damsel in distress as Hecate raises her arms, and Panther cracks her whip and shreds the Shadows into dust.

   “Hey,” he says, and she turns, breathing hard. “Hey, thanks.”

   She blows him a kiss, eyes fixed on Akechi even as she hefts him more securely onto her shoulder.

   “Come on!” she screams. “COME ON!”

   There he is, still twisting on the beam, writhing in pain. Ann’s scream is so harsh her voice cracks. “I know it hurts,” she howls. “But it’ll hurt worse—forever—if you don’t free yourself! It’s now or never, Crow!”

   “She’s right!” Ryuji bellows. “C’mon! You’re strong, remember?! You’re as strong as all of us—if we could do it—”

   “You can’t let him win,” Yusuke cries. “Crow—you’re more than what he made you—what he did to you—!”

   “Fucking get it done!” Futaba shrieks. Ren’s Third Eye blinks and he watches her flood Akechi’s body with energy. “After everything you’ve put me through—I’ll never forgive you if you fail! You owe it to us to find your strength RIGHT NOW!”

   Akechi’s last scream shreds his throat, his lungs, every muscle in Ren’s exhausted body. And every Shadow in the VIP Box stops dead.

   They turn to him in a mass. All at once, they seem to zero in on this new threat, rising, and—

   “Flying?!” Panther squeaks.

   The myriad Shadows amalgamate, bodies melting into something more shadowy and less familiar. The lights in the VIP Box flicker and darken.

   And then from everywhere—from nowhere—from somewhere deep within them, vibrating through Ren’s bones—

   I am thou.

   The voice is deep and androgynous. Ren shudders, full-bodied and involuntary. Ann, still goggling at the ceiling, fumbles in her pockets for something to heal him and then seems to remember Hecate.

   “Is that,” says Mona in a low voice. “Was that?”

   “But,” says Queen, hushed. “How could—?”

   Skull, ever-subtle: “Was that an effin’ Persona?!”

   A shape begins to flicker into view behind Robin Hood and Loki, nebulously humanoid and large enough to fill the room. Futaba makes a vague sound of warning, but Ren’s already heard it: the fluttering alarm of more and still more Shadows beginning to manifest around them.

   Yet—that shape, that voice. Unignorable in a way entirely new to the flashy glitz and glamour of the Theatre. Something hungry, yawning, present.

   Doomed if you do, the voice rumbles almost mournfully. Damned if you don’t. Have you awoken to what I was too late to see? Will you save your mother from grieving you?

   Something stirs weakly in Ren’s memory.

   Will you choose your first fate, or your second?

   Akechi is little more than a bloody heap on the crossbeam, shaking. His clawing fingers are leaving red streaks in the wood. His voice is sparse and cracked, but Ren hears it as though Akechi were murmuring right in his ear.

   “Neither,” he croaks. “I won’t hide myself any longer. And I won’t march to my death.”

   In the back of his throat, Ren tastes something sweet.

   Akechi’s low voice trembles, strengthening. “I avert my fates. Akhilleus.”

   Moments before the Shadows reach him, Akechi tears the masks from his face. An almost improbable spray of blood rains down from the ceiling, splattering his surroundings, soaking his clothes. The Shadows let out a collective agonised wail and plunge into the silvery mass, glowing so bright it hurts to watch. Akechi staggers with the force.

   Unthinking, Joker fingers his own mask.

   Behind Akechi, Robin Hood and Loki have grown almost as luminous. The two of them jerk sharply as though assassinated. Their bodies dissolve and begin to swirl together as an odd blue light fills the room.

   The others are clamouring, but Ren’s seen this show before. The swirling mass fuses, coalesces, and that giant shape takes its form. There’s a collective gasp—Ren feels it: the energy flooding back into all their bones, healing and warm. The screaming in his side dims to a dull roar. His head stops splitting and starts pounding. And the figure’s noble head rises.

   How to describe something so otherworldly? For having had to do it so many times, Ren doesn’t think he’s gotten any better at it. But he tries.

   Gold pours from the Persona’s head and down its back as though its hair were the ocean at sunrise. Across its back is a bow that resembles a harp; strapped to its hip is an evil-looking blade that cuts just to look at. The figure’s metallic armour skirt is also a dancer’s dress, razor-sharp panels in an elegant pleat, as deadly as it is graceful. A proud nose and elegantly cut brow, its lips a pursed bow, it might have been cut from marble—boasting features so fine Ren struggles to identify whether it more closely resembles a man or a woman.

   He remembers the myth all at once: the remote island, a desperate deception to protect a beloved golden child. Ren looks up at the Persona and knows: this is Pyrrha and Achilles in combination, the hidden performer and the brutal warrior, each as doomed as the other, twin fates somehow rejecting both to carve out something new. Something that, in every iteration, yearns to live.

   Behind Akhilleus is another figure, ghostly and barely there. Her dress is a wispy, transparent veil of deep blue light. She hangs over his shoulders, weeping.

   Akechi rises to his feet, shaking. Blood is still dripping from his face. He throws out his arm. As though in a mirror, Akhilleus raises its giant sword.

   “The show’s over,” Akechi croaks.

   In a flash so quick Ren barely sees it, Akhilleus carves the VIP Box in two. There’s a deep shudder in the ground beneath their feet, and Ren realises—not the VIP Box—

   “The planet,” Queen shrieks. “He bisected the whole planet!”

   The Palace begins to rumble.

   “It’s gonna implode!” Mona yowls, scrambling to transform. “Everyone, get in!”

   It’s a mark of how far they’ve come that nobody even blinks. The Thieves sprint for the bus, but—

   “Joker, where’re you going?!”

   —Joker sprints the other way, because Akechi’s wobbled on his perch and collapsed, free-falling through the air. With a dive and a roll, he catches Akechi’s limp form, then dives a second time for the bus—misses—

   —there! Noir snags him by the wrist and hauls him in by the elbow, wild-eyed. He crashes to the floor of the bus with a breathless thanks. Akechi lands on top of him in a heap.

   Fox floors the gas, but Mona howls: “Wait! The whole planet is the Palace! How am I supposed to get to the exit in time?!”

   Queen gasps at the same moment Joker remembers. She fumbles for her pocket and pulls out the Goho-Ms, still safely tucked where she’d placed them at Inokashira Zoo.

   Furniture crunches and creaks around them, those fake diamonds crashing in a glittering shower as the bulbs burst over their heads, the red carpet folding and disintegrating. In a muddy whirl, the Phantom Thieves drive headlong back into the real world as the Theatre implodes into smoke and light.