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“Thank you, Takemi-sensei, for all you’ve done for him.”
It felt strange to look at this punk of a woman, who had spent the last two years sauntering in and out of Leblanc bleary-eyed and half-drunk from partying the night before, and feel the need to call her “sensei.” Doctor. Sure, Sojiro had long been aware that that was what she was, what she had been all along, but she had always downplayed it. Had hardly looked or acted the part, had waved off attempts at the title, almost seemed to resent and avoid the designation. But tonight, tonight it seemed appropriate to them both.
“It’s my job. Think nothing of it,” she said with a tired smile, zipping shut the duffle bag she had carried her supplies over in. Her shoulders were slumped with exhaustion of a long day turned far longer, her eye makeup smudged and lip stain long faded. A hint of concern still lingered in her gaze as she glanced toward the couch, where Akira lay limp and quiet under a number of quilts. But breathing. But stable. “I owe him and the rest of his little team. It’s the least I could do. And, this night could have ended far worse.”
Sojiro nodded solemnly, unable to forced down the wave of memories of the last twenty-four hours – the growing dread when he realized the kid hadn’t made it home from their last heist, the sheer devastation at the news report stating the leader of the Phantom Thieves was dead, the way his knees nearly gave out in relief when he answered the door to his home to find Sae half-dragging the kid’s still-breathing but barely-lucid body along, only to be followed by the mind-numbing flurry of activity as he and Takemi attended to his injuries.
Those bastards down at the station had not been easy on the kid. They had beaten the shit out of him, drugged him, worn him down to almost nothing. Even now, Sojiro couldn’t shake the sight of that unfocused gaze in the kid’s eyes, the way he whimpered when they accidentally prodded a sore place, his hitched breathing as he fought not to fall apart.
His kid. They did this to his kid.
He let the rush of anger recede and rubbed his face. He was exhausted. They all were. He went to escort Takemi to the door.
“Let me call you a cab home, at least,” he said softly, pulling out his cell. It was late enough that the trains had stopped. But Takemi waved him off.
“Don’t bother. I’m just going to crash at the clinic. Won’t be the first time, won’t be the last.” She gave him a self-deprecating smile. “The clinic is closer to the clubs than my house is.”
Sojiro just scoffed and shook his head. Unbelievable. Sure she wasn’t that old but she wasn’t all that young either.
“Judge me all you want, Boss, but remember, you owe me now.” Now her smile was impish, one to rival Futaba’s, as she stepped down into the genkan to swap out of guest slippers back into those insane three-inch boots she wore in the winter.
“Yeah yeah,” he said with a dismissing wave.
Takemi pulled her winter jacket over her doctor’s coat and paused, face growing more serious again as her eyes darted toward the living room. “And also, that means I’ll be nearby if he needs anything else.”
A knowing smile pulled at Sojiro’s cheek. Takemi had been just as rattled as he’d been by the news reports. For several agonizing hours, she too had thought…
“Take care of yourself, sensei,” he said softly, stepping down to hold the door for her as she hoisted the duffle bag back over her shoulder.
“You too, Boss,” she said with a soft smile, before disappearing into the night.
Sojiro stepped back up into the house and took a moment to breathe. It was so quiet. Akira was completely conked out, and Sojiro was on strict instructions to check on him in regular intervals, but he had a good twenty minutes til his first check and he didn’t feel like hovering. He was tired, but too amped up to get any shut-eye.
Besides, he didn’t have just one kid to check on, after all.
Futaba had been there when Sae arrived with Akira. She’d been partway through shakily explaining what the hell had gone down in Akira’s absence when the doorbell had rung. And after pulling Akira inside and helping Sae carry him to the couch, he’d managed to catch the sight of her horrified, pale face before she vanished upstairs, no doubt fallen victim to a panic attack.
He couldn’t believe all of this was happening. His daughter, Wakaba’s daughter, a notorious hacker and Phantom Thief, taking on literal government agencies. She’s fourteen for fucks sake! And Akira, Akira almost died. Very easily could have died.
“We have just received word that the leader of the Phantom Thieves, who was apprehended by the authorities yesterday, has died in police custody after he overpowered and killed a prison guard before turning the weapon on himself.”
God. He was never going to forget the way his whole body went numb hearing the news. How his knees crumpled beneath him and he only barely caught himself on a stool, just staring at the tv as his entire world came crashing down upon him. The kid… the kid was dead. He was dead! How could he let this happen? What was, what was he going to do? What the hell was he going to tell the kid’s parents?
He forced himself to breathe. It was over. The kid was alive. He was okay. He was home. Safe. Alive. Hurt, but alive.
He paused outside her door to take a few deep, steadying breaths. He really was in over his head here. There was so much at stake and it was now so much more real in a way that only felt nebulous and unclear before. That these kids were in real actual danger, and it’s beyond his ability to stop it or help other than supporting them like he has been. What the hell is he going to do, somehow ground two dimension-hopping superpowered teenagers?! When clearly the world was falling apart and needed them?
Stop. Focus on the here and now , he coached himself. On the immediate needs. We’ll figure out all that other stuff later, first just make sure she’s okay.
One last breath to settle his nerves, and he lifted a hand and rapped his knuckles on the door. “Futaba?” he called out in his gentlest voice. “You doing okay, hun?”
“Go ‘way,” came a muffled response. He was well-versed in The Care And Keeping Of Futaba Sakura now, knew her coping strategies: her voice was not so muffled that it was coming from her closet, so she was likely rolled up in a mountain of blankets somewhere, or hiding under her bed or desk. He guessed the former, since last he knew, her floor was too messy to crawl under any of the furniture.
“No chance. I want to make sure you’re doing okay.”
“I’m fine” she said in a manner that was clearly not fine.
“I’m coming in,” he said, reaching for the doorknob, but was startled as the door swung wide open and Futaba stood before him, face red and streaked with tears, hair a mess, glasses missing. Her legs shook like a newborn foal’s and she gripped the door for dear life. Behind her, a telltale bundle of blankets and stuffed animals made it very clear that he was correct on her hiding place.
She wiped her face with one hand. “What are you doing worrying about me when he is looking like that!” she half-yelled with furrowed eyebrows, painting anger over her grief and failing spectacularly at it. “Just, it’s fine, I’m fine, I don’t need anything this is all my fault and I deserve to feel like this and you shouldn’t be here this is all my fault I don’t deserve–”
“Woah, woah, woah, Futaba. Futaba, breathe.” She was swinging so hard between emotions and thoughts that he worried she’d get whiplash. He moved forward to grasp her carefully by the shoulders, but she just shook her head and then dropped out of his hold to curl up in her signature ball at his feet, hands pressing to her headphones she was always wearing.
“Oh, Futaba,” he said softly, lowering down to his knees beside her and settling a hand on the crown of her head. She gave a hard sob and gripped her hair, rocking a little.
“I, I didn’t know, I didn’t know he’d get so hurt, Sojiro,” she stammered weakly. “I should’ve… cops are such bastards , I knew that, I knew it, I should have known what would happen to him but, but we were all so certain the plan was going to work and I, I…”
Sojiro felt his chest tighten with a mixture of anger and despair. “There was a plan? You guys… he was arrested on purpose?” Futaba nodded her head. “And.. the news reports… about the guard…?”
“It was all Akechi’s doing…” Futaba said softly. “It was how he and his, his employer , whoever they are, how they were going to get away with, with killing Akira, while also framing the Phantom Thieves with the mental shutdown deaths.” She sniffled. “We tricked Akechi at his own game, using the Metaverse. He thinks Akira’s dead, so the news report still went out.”
Sojiro’s head was reeling. Wait, Akechi? That uptight little detective…?
…did that mean Akechi was the one that killed Wakaba…?
And Akira… Futaba and the rest of the kids knew Akira would be targeted like this, knew the cops were going to announce his death as a suicide, and yet…
“Why didn’t you warn me…?” Sojiro breathed before he could stop himself. “Do you have any idea, Futaba, just how…? I thought they killed him… I thought he was….”
Futaba’s sobs escalated. She pulled her arms in, hugging herself and hanging her head so her long red hair touched the floor. “I’m sorry, Sojiro,” she said. “I’m so sorry, we, we couldn’t know who would be watching. We needed to make it seem believable, so they wouldn’t catch on.” She heaved a hard sob, folding so far forward her head was almost resting on the floor. “I’m sorry Sojiro, I’m so sorry.”
Sojiro felt sick to his stomach. He closed his eyes and counted from ten, just forcing himself to breathe, to focus on the feel of her hair under his palm, the wooden planks under his kneecaps, the warmth of the air from the heating.
God he needed a cigarette and a stiff drink.
“I wish you’d told me,” he finally said, once he was sure his voice wouldn’t shake. He ran a hand over her back, frowning at her heaving shoulders as she wept. After taking a second to be conflicted about it, he sighed and reached out, pulling her awkwardly onto his lap and into his arms. She pressed her wet face into his collar and fought to breathe. “But what’s done is done,” he murmured softly, brushing some strands of her hair from her face – they kept sticking to her tears. “I’m so glad no one else was hurt, and that he made it home safe.”
“Th-they were gonna– if they didn’t target us, target Akira, they would’ve targeted someone innocent… we couldn’t let that happen… And Akira… Akira’s such a damn idiot and volunteered…” She rubbed her face into his shirt, as though burrowing in to hide. “I was so scared, Sojiro…” she whispered. “So much depended on me and I, I knew I could do it, but there was always, what if I messed it up, then he wouldn’t…”
He tightened his hold on her, resting his cheek against her head. He couldn’t help but think about her from years ago, when Wakaba was still alive, when Futaba was so much happier, a goofy little 8-year-old with wiry black hair and a hyperfixation on sentai shows, sitting on his lap while babbling on about whatever happened in the show that week. He looked out into her darkened bedroom, at the mess and the green computer monitors and her pile of blankets and plushies. God she was just a kid. And just three months ago, he had begun to lose hope that she would ever overcome her isolation and depression, and here she was, standing up to a corrupt system.
“You’ve grown so much…” he said softly, to himself more than to her.
“Wha?” she muffled into his shirt collar.
“I’m upset at the risks you all are taking, but I’m also so proud of you.” He snorted, and wiped a dumb tear from his eye. Stupid sentimental sap he’s become in his old age. “But god, you kids, try and avoid scaring me like that again. I don’t know if my heart can handle it.”
“No promises…” Futaba grumbled, voice still nasally from crying. She pulled her face away from his shoulder, but settled more comfortably against him, leaning her ear against his chest. “I… we’re not too sure what’s going to happen next… Probably just going to get more crazy before it gets better…” She wiped her face. “But I’ll do everything I can to make sure no one else gets hurt…”
He tightened his hold on her and hummed, trying to calm his own nerves that were still trying to get him to panic. He couldn’t think about what was going to happen tomorrow or the day after. Just one day at a time, one hour at a time even. And right now, in the immediate, he had an emotionally exhausted daughter, an injured and drugged ward, and a desperate need for nicotine.
“Come on,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Let’s grab some ice cream from the freezer and watch over Akira. We can put some shows on if you want.”
“Featherman Turbo X Recharge,” she said immediately, leaping to her feet like she was ready for action. “It was the season premiere last night but I missed it because of all the things.”
He gave a small smile, before getting to his own feet with the painful creak of his joints. He settled an arm around her shoulder and ushered her out the room. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
One day at a time.