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The summer transforms Leblanc’s attic into Ren’s personal hell. The heat from the main cafe area downstairs rises through the floorboards, and the sunlight threatens to burn a hole in his sheets. If he could gather the energy, he would get off his bed and find refuge somewhere less unbearably hot, but he feels glued to his mattress at the moment. Not for the first time, Ren wonders what it would be like if he were living at the Sakuras’ main residence, especially since he knows that they have air conditioning.
He understands why he’s had to set up shop here – if he were Sojiro, he wouldn’t let some convicted delinquent in the same city as his daughter if he could help it, even without the shut-in tendencies and traumatic past. Despite the Phantom Thieves’ earlier concerns, Sojiro is nothing less than a good father. It eases something in Ren’s chest, at the same time that it makes something ugly rise up in his stomach.
Ren lifts his phone up, tapping the screen to check if any new messages have arrived in the two minutes since he last checked. None have. His eyes drift toward the date-and-time display in the center of his lock screen.
14:21. Saturday, August 6.
In a few days, it will have been four months since he arrived in Tokyo.
It’s been the busiest four months of his life, and it seems unlikely that things will let up any time soon. Between visits to the Metaverse, maintaining his relationships with his confidants all over Tokyo, keeping the Phantom Thieves well-armed and well-stocked, a small handful of part-time jobs, and everyday schoolwork, Ren has barely had the time to breathe. And once things are settled with Medjed, the Phantom Thieves will once again be thrust into the spotlight – something that brings Ren equal amounts of pride and worry, though he doesn’t say that to the others.
Ren can’t say he minds the busywork – it keeps his thoughts off the more unpleasant things, like the circumstances of his arrest or the near-unbearable heat wave. If it were up to him, he’d be in the Metaverse now, mapping out the last sections of Futaba’s Palace. At least Futaba’s Palace has air conditioning.
Today, though, everyone’s taking a well-deserved break after four straight days of Palace exploration. They still have two weeks to map out the path to the treasure and send the calling card, so Joker instructed everyone to take a break for the weekend to rest and recover. Even Morgana is out of commission, curled up and fast asleep at the foot of Ren’s bed.
With no shifts scheduled at his part-time jobs, and supplies still plenty, Ren has nothing particular to occupy himself with, so he does as any teenager on summer break does and turns his phone back on.
The last message he received was from Ryuji, announcing in the Phantom Thieves chat that he would be watching the world’s shittiest straight-to-DVD sequel of an old, popular movie. He shoots off a quick reply, asking Ryuji to tell him every cheesy thing that happens. Below that log, there’s his private chat log with Ryuji, and then Ann, and Yusuke, and Makoto. He scrolls down past messages from Mishima and Takemi and Hifumi, skimming the previews of the latest messages exchanged, until he reaches a chat log that hasn’t seen any new messages since April 9th.
I’m with Sakura-san, the preview reads, sent from Ren himself. The sight of the message makes Ren’s grip on his phone tighten. He remembers sending it from here, sitting on this very mattress after clearing up enough space for himself to lie down. There is no response, not that Ren expected one. There are no new messages, either from this contact, or the one directly beneath it labeled Dad.
In a few days, it will have been four months since he last said anything to his parents.
Neither of his parents have messaged Ren since his arrival in Tokyo, have expressed any interest at all in how their only child is doing away from home. He isn’t unused to their apathy, having lived with it for all his sixteen years of life, but something still pricks at his chest when the scent of curry wafts up the stairs and he remembers the caring father who owns this cafe.
Ren sighs, letting his arm drop to his side and taking his phone with it. He isn’t young enough to still harbor fantasies of being adored and praised by his parents the way his other classmates were, but he isn’t old enough yet to mirror their apathy and disinterest. He wishes that they’d ask how he’s doing, but knows that those would just be empty platitudes. He wants them to worry over him, but all he can think about is how they couldn’t even be bothered to drive him to the train station that morning. It frustrates him that he craves their attention, but knows that he’ll never get it. Something like that…
“Would take a miracle,” Ren mutters to himself.
Something nags at him, then – his own words tugging at something in the back of his mind. A miracle, he repeats, a voice in his head that doesn’t quite sound like his own. Something that would never happen, but still… A lilting, playful inflection that’s at odds with how Ren wants to sink further into his mattress. What is a miracle but a rebellion against a cruel reality?
He sits up. He unlocks his phone again, fingers trembling from realization, from apprehension. He thinks he can hear Arsène’s laugh in the back of his mind, but he pays it no mind. Ren’s fingers find the MetaNav app before his eyes can, muscle memory from his countless trips in and out of the Metaverse. He pulls up his keyboard and types in one name, then a second.
Amamiya Hanako. Amamiya Akito.
“Candidates found.”
Ren feels the air squeeze itself out of his lungs, leaving him a little lightheaded. A miracle, he repeats to himself, a voice in his head that he thinks is entirely his own as he clutches at his blanket with sweaty palms. What is a change of heart if not a miracle?
“You okay, Ren?”
Ren startles, then settles his breathing so he can respond to Morgana, “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Morgana peeks over at him from over the edge of his mattress. Ren subtly tilts his phone screen away. Morgana says nothing for a moment longer, then does his best approximation of a shrug in his cat body. “If you say so,” he says, curling back up on the floor. “It’s so hot. I’m… gonna go back to sleep.”
“Night, Mona,” Ren says. His voice sounds distant to his own ears.
—
“Beginning navigation.”
Joker stares resolutely in front of him as the world shifts around him, melting away into the decrepit, iron-stained entrance of Shibuya station. Mementos always has something unsettling drifting in the air, a siren’s call to go deeper, but it feels even more insistent today.
The Phantom Thieves aren’t present, including Morgana, who should still be napping soundly in Leblanc’s attic. He’s alone today, somewhere between Joker and Amamiya Ren as the stale wind tugs at his coat and his hair. He knows that if he asked, the rest of his friends would come running to accompany him, agreeing unanimously and wholeheartedly that his parents’ hearts should be changed – that’s exactly why he didn’t. This is personal, laid out in the cards that he keeps close to his chest, and while he would never begrudge Ryuji or Ann or Yusuke their own catharsis, Joker should know better than to just selfishly change hearts for his own satisfaction.
Joker checks his phone. Marked like a treasure map, the MetaNav app indicates a Shadow on the Path of Kaitul. There is nothing to state who the Shadow belongs to, but there’s no mistaking it as anyone but the sole active request. He steps past the ticket gates and descends into Mementos.
Even without the rest of his team, the uppermost levels of Mementos are a breeze. He keeps Neko Shogun on standby at the front of his mask, ready to summon it at a moment’s notice, but the shadows up here stay clear of his path, and he ignores them in turn. It’s quiet without the usual chatter of his friends, and there’s nothing to do but make his way to the escalators, and think.
He wonders, as he continues down the Path of Aiyatsbus, about how deep Mementos goes, if his parents are in the fourth area. His parents can’t be that far down into humanity’s collective unconscious, he thinks, because Ren’s inherited his insignificance from them. As much as he knows they’ve yearned for prestige and status, they’re still little more than suburban office workers trying to claw up the corporate ladder. Then again, he won’t pretend to understand just how Mementos works in the first place.
Mementos is bleak, as it always is. The eerie silence is punctuated only by the occasional shadow, and the desolate surroundings are broken up only by the spots of vibrant flowers that Joker collects for Jose. It reminds him, oddly enough, of his childhood home – of the cold distance in the house punctuated by his cries for attention, and the backyard he was often sent out to for being a nuisance as his only spot of comfort.
Joker’s foot catches on one of the train rails, and he barely manages to catch himself before he makes a complete fool of himself. Thinking about his parents is starting to make his head pound. He’s sure they’d say the same about him.
He arrives at the station platform and continues down into Chemdah.
Deciding to think about something else for a change, Joker turns his attention to another pressing concern. I wonder what I should have for dinner… There’ll be leftovers in the fridge, but he’s sure he’ll be dead on his feet by the time he returns to Leblanc in the evening. Take out will have to do.
Or, he thinks, hopefully Sojiro made extra. It isn’t so uncommon for Sojiro to leave him an extra serving of curry for dinner, but he’s been busier these days, worrying over Futaba, and Joker doesn’t want to bother him knowing that that’s partially his fault. Despite it, Joker wonders if Sojiro would make him curry if he asked. Sojiro doesn’t owe him anything, has already done so much by taking him in and trusting him as much as you can trust a strange teenager living under your roof, but something warm about him makes Joker think that he probably would.
A seed of jealousy finds its way into Joker’s chest, the childish tantrum of I wish you were my dad that he’s careful to pluck and discard before it can take root. His thoughts have come full circle, and with a wry grin, he presses his fingers to his temple to alleviate the growing ache.
He feels as though he’s been walking for hours by the time he arrives at the station platform descending into Kaitul – he’ll be sure to get Mona some sushi some time, as thanks for driving them around Mementos all the time. Running would be faster, but he hesitates to use up extra stamina, so he continues walking.
For the briefest moment, doubt flickers in Joker’s mind, about whether he’s ready for this confrontation he could never have in reality. A part of him wants to turn back and leave, play the good son he’s always tried to be. That part of him is swiftly squashed by the frustration and anger that begins to bring heat rising to his neck and draws the laughter of his Persona in the back of his mind. This is the path forward; he’s already sent the calling card, after all – an image file sent to both parents with a spare sim card, and ironically the only message he’s sent them in months that they’ve deigned to respond to.
He travels down one, two, three levels with little problem, then feels a shudder run up his spine when he sets foot on the fourth. Even without Mona’s ability to sense Shadows’ locations, Joker knows for certain that his parents’ Shadows are on this level.
It’s as though the distortion is calling to him, directing him through the path of least resistance so it can swallow him whole. In front of the swirling red gate, he clenches his hands into fists, sweaty in his red gloves. Confrontation should not scare him, least of all when it’s between two deadbeat parents and Joker, the leader of the Phantom Thieves. It’s irrational, so calm down, he tells his traitorous, tell-tale heart, to absolutely no avail.
In the back of his head, he thinks he can hear Arsène’s crooning voice, a sort of encouragement, mon voleur, keep going, even though Joker knows that Arsène isn’t part of his mask right now.
In the cognitive Metaverse, he hears the sound of chains rattling. He freezes for a half-second, before forcing the tension out of his body. He doesn’t have the luxury of time here. Mementos is no place for indecision, and Joker quite likes having a body, so he slips his hands into his pockets and steps forward.
Joker can see bits of Amamiya Ren reflected in the two Shadows in front of him – his father’s dark hair that curls like his mother’s, his mother’s gray eyes and his father’s sharp nose. He approaches them with his chin tilted up, unwilling to shrink under their disinterest.
“There’s a little more extra to go around this week, thankfully.”
His father sounds the same as ever, like he couldn’t care less. His golden eyes hold no sense of familiarity or interest. Joker thinks that, if he could, he’d probably be off drinking the night away on their couch and talking shit about his boss.
“Well, it’s to be expected, since that leech isn’t staying here anymore.”
His mother hasn’t changed either, soothing and gentle words directed only to her husband. She doesn’t even look in his direction, only to Amamiya Akito, even though the two remain separated by a meter of space.
“That’s not a very nice thing to call your son,” Joker says, stepping closer. Other Shadows in Mementos would look at him, then, whenever he spoke up to bring to their attention the error of their ways. His parents barely give him a first glance, let alone a second.
“Stay out of it,” his mother snaps. “This is family business. I don’t recall asking a stranger.”
Joker tamps down the growl crawling up his throat. “I don’t need to be family to know that you’re terrible parents,” he bites out. He feels his expression twisting into a scowl, something ugly and unpleasant that neither Joker nor Ren would allow others to see.
His father barks out a laugh. “We’re doing perfectly fine,” he says sharply, a tone of voice from Joker’s childhood that nearly makes him step back in retreat. “We fed him, clothed him, kept a roof over his head… Hell, we’re still paying tuition for that damn private school he’s attending off in Tokyo!” He clicks his tongue. “And all he did was complain and whine. Maybe a stint in jail really would’ve done him some good!”
His mother turns her head to peer at him out of the corner of her eyes. “Until you have kids,” she says, “you don’t understand how hard it is to have them. So just shut up.”
Something in Joker snaps.
“You think I don’t fucking know that?” he hisses. The pounding in his head that began to subside once again flares up, a dull ache behind his eyes. “‘Ren, be patient with your parents. They had you so young, they’re trying their best!’ Like hell you were!” The words spill from his lips as though he’s been hit by Taunt with just the sheer audacity of their words. They’re unbecoming of Joker, unbecoming of Ren, but he spits them out syllable by syllable. “I’m nothing more than a stain on your goddamn shoes, right? You never hit me, but sometimes I wish you fucking did, just so I’d know I actually existed in your world!”
Joker raises his gun and fires.
The bullet slams right into his father’s shoulder. With a shriek, both Shadows melt into black and red, dissolving human forms rebuilding themselves into something else.
“Neko Shogun!” Joker calls, ripping the mask off his face. He barely feels the sting of skin ripping as his Persona manifests beside him, instead pointing at the Isis that stands in the place of his mother’s Shadow. “Psio!”
Isis shrieks in pain, covering her head with golden feathers as she crumples to the ground.
Joker clicks his tongue.
“One more.”
Joker watches with narrowed eyes as Neko Shogun dutifully fires off another Psio, sending Isis a few meters back with the force of the psychic shockwave. She’s breathing, still, chest moving up and down like a human. Joker turns his attention to his father’s Shadow.
It’s a Shadow that Joker hasn’t seen before, but wouldn’t look out of place among the other Egyptian gods in Futaba’s palace. In another world, perhaps, an addition to his compendium, but Joker’s insides protest violently at the sheer notion of taking anything even vaguely resembling his father into his mask.
In the end, it doesn’t matter. “Psio!”
Neko Shogun sends off another attack. His father’s Shadow takes it with a grunt, but continues to stand firm.
“Do not presume to stand beside us, boy,” the Shadow hisses scornfully, like a distorted audio glitch. It casts an arm out, and a burst of dark energy sends Joker reeling. It’s stronger than the Shadows in Futaba’s palace, making Joker’s blood pump harder in his veins.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Joker mutters, readjusting his gloves, then his mask. “Sounds more like a nightmare, really. Naga!”
With a burst of light, Neko Shogun retreats back into the mask, and Naga manifests into existence bearing its shield. “Zionga!”
The stale air fills with the smell of ozone, as a crackle of electricity slams into his father’s Shadow and knocks him down. Joker locks his jaw, and orders, “Again.”
It smells like something burning when Joker withdraws Naga back into his mask and approaches the beaten Shadows’ fallen selves. With each step, the rage pounding in his ears ebbs away, bit by bit, until he’s standing indifferently right above their prone forms with only a faint ache in the back of his head.
They’re breathing, still, and when Joker nudges the unfamiliar Shadow with his foot, they both return to the forms of his parents. Joker meets their eyes for the first time in his memory, face to face with sickly gold. He wonders if this moment is when he would begin to exist in their cognitions at all. He wonders if this moment is when they cease to exist in his own. That part is just wishful thinking.
This close, Joker can see every detail of their faces. Amamiya Hanako and Amamiya Akito are young, barely in their mid-thirties, a tragic tale of high school lovers tied together and forced apart by the same child.
Joker blinks slowly, lips pressed into a line, and raises his gun. He doesn’t hear Arsène’s lilting laugh.
—
“Hey, kid. You good?”
Ren looks up at Sojiro and nods, taking another sip of freshly-brewed coffee. His body is still sore from yesterday’s Mementos trip, so he’s taken to spending time at Leblanc’s bar and sipping coffee.
“Really?” Sojiro raises an eyebrow, looking unconvinced. “I don’t think I’ve seen you blink in the last five minutes. What’s got you so focused? Is it a girl?”
Ren huffs out the faintest laugh, unsure of where Sojiro had ever gotten the idea that he was some secret ladies’ man. He makes a conscious effort to blink moisture back into his eyes, then turns his gaze back to his phone screen. “No,” he says, scanning over the message he received earlier this morning. “Just my parents.”
Sojiro makes a sound of acknowledgement. “Something happen?”
The message stares up at Ren, from his mother’s phone. How are you doing in Tokyo? When would you be free to call soon? Your father and I have some important things to discuss with you. Beneath it, the textbox is empty, demanding Ren’s attention.
He’s changed their hearts, he’s made a miracle happen. They’ll be calling to apologize, he thinks, to maybe try and set things right. It’s his chance to set aside all the messy parts of the past and start something new, something better, something that he deserves.
Ren puts the phone screen-down on the counter. “No,” he repeats. “Just the usual. Nothing to worry about.”