Work Text:
The Metaverse is an unquantifiable quantity—ever-changing in size, space, concept. Hell, sometimes it doesn’t even obey the laws of physics. Cognition is creative like that.
Ren has been diving in and out of it for years, his steadfast partner Sakura Futaba has been studying it for years, teammates have come and gone and all made their own observations and theories but the damn place just remains inscrutable. Even now, pushing thirty (though he doesn’t try to think too hard about that), he never knows what he’s going to find when he goes to “work.”
Which is part of what makes his job fun, Ren thinks.
He’s on a routine scouting mission, poking around on his own in what he’s pretty sure are the outer edges of Metaverse, when he ducks into an area that feels safe for a rest. And that’s when he finds it.
A small camp. A futon, a few duffel bags, piles of books and papers. Unmistakably an actual, human camp, all nestled inside a dark alcove on the outer rim of the collective unconscious.
Ren approaches carefully, though this area is small and it’s not hard to tell that there’s no one around. No one around for a long time, it seems—there’s a can of soda that Ren knows was discontinued years ago, a fine layer of dust covering everything, and—
And a piece of paper resting on top of a pile of books. Homework. Characters on the top of the page, clearly spelling out: Akechi Goro.
Several thoughts occur to Ren at once, in quick succession.
This camp is Akechi Goro’s.
There’s a futon—Akechi slept here.
There’s books, clothes, homework, a small portable stove, a flashlight, non-perishable food, a healthy stock of batteries.
Ren never knew where Akechi lived.
Akechi didn’t live in a high-rise apartment or an old flat—he lived here.
And for the first time in a very long time Ren can see his old rival with perfect clarity. Akechi Goro was here, still exists here—sitting cross-legged on that dusty futon, thumbing through the page of a book. His chestnut hair is falling into his eyes, some strands still tucked away behind an ear. School uniform impeccable as always—collared shirt pressed clean and unwrinkled, striped tie in a perfect knot. Ren hasn’t thought about him in a while, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten.
“I’m not a fan of this author, honestly,” Akechi sighs. “Adults seem to love his works, otherwise I certainly wouldn’t be bothering, but I find his ideas shallow and pedantic.” Akechi closes the book, angles his head toward one of the piles of stuff closest to Ren. “Put on some light, would you?”
Ren blinks, looks down. Ah, and there it is—the flashlight he’d noticed earlier. He carefully picks it up, flicks the switch to turn it on.
It works, which is kind of amazing. Light floods the small alcove. Akechi squints in distaste, holds a hand up to partially cover his eyes. “Over there,” he says, waving his hand at some sort of metal stand.
Ren walks over, careful not to step on anything, and attaches the flashlight to the stand. A little makeshift lamp, perfectly angled to light up the camp—it’s kind of brilliant.
“Of course I am,” Akechi says.
Now that Ren’s eyes have adjusted, there’s almost too much for him to take in at once. He paces back around the edges of the camp, steps practiced, silent and careful. The first thing he confirms: this place is abandoned. It has been for a long time. He shouldn’t have hoped for anything else, of course.
He peers at the books stacked up high near Akechi’s futon—hefty tomes on cognition near the bottom, Featherman manga on the top.
Akechi rolls his eyes. “I’m only eighteen, Ren, of course I enjoy the occasional superhero story.”
There’s a pair of glasses resting on top of the pile that Ren can’t bring himself to touch.
More to look at, more to discover. Everything he finds feels like a revelation and something he’d already known all at once.
Akechi’s diet was terrible, it turns out—seemed to consist entirely of instant noodles, plain rice, and bags of potato chips.
“That’s not everything. I ate most of my meals in trendy restaurants, remember?” Akechi sneers, crossing his arms.
Right.
(He still remembers evenings in Mementos where Akechi stared too eagerly at their stash of snacks, an afternoon at Leblanc when Ren cajoled him into having a free bowl of curry and then felt supremely satisfied with himself after Akechi downed the entire thing in seconds. He wishes now that he’d managed to convince him more than the once.)
There’s a small duffel full of toiletries near the futon. Some jugs of water, one of them half-empty. A pile of clean white shirts and beside them mangled and broken anti-theft tags, the ones found on expensive clothes in expensive stores. Ren can’t help but grin at that.
Crossword puzzle books, math homework, an essay on the morality of capital punishment (he argues against it, which is interesting).
“But is that what I really think, I wonder?” Akechi smirks.
Ren honestly doesn’t know.
He sits on the ground and slides some of the books and papers out of their piles, flipping through them absentmindedly. He’s not sure if he’s looking for clues as to Akechi’s current whereabouts or a reason to stay here for just a little while longer, but he finds neither.
Until he opens a sketchbook. It’s small, just like everything else here. Portable. Wire-bound with a bright yellow cover. Inside Ren is surprised to see a series of life drawings.
They have to be Akechi’s, but he never once saw Akechi draw.
The pages of the sketchbook are yellowed and crisp. Fragile. They’re clearly not meant to last and have to be ten years old now, at least. Simple drawings of buildings, animals, trees. Ren recognizes Inokashira Park, Central Square, a rendering of this very camp. All done with rough pencil lines, marrying chaos and precision in a way that just feels so Akechi. The drawings are surprisingly good—of course they would be.
“I wouldn’t accept anything less,” Akechi says quietly to Ren’s side.
Then Ren flips a page and finds himself.
The only rendering of a person in the entire book. Those are his eyes, his nose, his chin, his own messy haircut. It’s just a portrait—looking off to the side with a neutral expression.
And there’s an explanation for the tiny, scattered circles of water damage on this page, wrinkled spots distorting the sketch paper the slightest bit. There’s an explanation that doesn’t involve Akechi sitting on this floor in this little home he made for himself, all alone, crying over someone he was supposed to hate. But Ren can’t think of one.
“You really thought I didn’t care at all?” Akechi says before Ren can stop him. His breath hitches in a way it never had, not even once. “You were my friend.”
No, wait, Akechi says: “You were my rival.”
That doesn’t feel right either.
He waits for more but Akechi falls silent. Then he disappears entirely.
Ren has looked through everything. There wasn’t much. His time is up.
The camp is still here, will always be here unless Ren does something with it. But he doesn’t know what he should do, or even what he wants to do. There’s no guarantee he’ll ever find this place again—whatever secrets Akechi held about the Metaverse that let him find his way back here every night had vanished with him.
Taking pieces of it, touching any more than he already has doesn’t feel right. It feels like stealing.
Feels like grave-robbing.
Ren stands, walks to Akechi’s makeshift lamp, turns it off. He pulls Akechi’s glove out of his pocket—it’s old, worn, misshapen and wrinkled. Years of being stuffed into various pockets and bags have taken its toll, even though Ren tried to handle it gently.
It would be fitting, he thinks, to leave Akechi’s glove here with the rest of what remains of him. He could place it atop the old futon, or by the rest of Akechi’s clothes, or even next to the little portrait of himself.
He should leave it because it’s been far too long now, and he knows Akechi is gone. He isn’t coming back.
“Don’t underestimate me, Joker.”
…but he still might.
Ren smiles. Puts the glove back in his pocket where it belongs. Takes one last look at Akechi Goro’s home, then continues on his way.
He’s waited all this time for his rival to return. He can afford to wait a little while longer.