Chapter Text
Goro doesn’t miss the stranger in the corner, but neither does he turn his head to look.
Dark hair and tense shoulders shift in his peripheral vision as the door shuts behind him, guarded by an officer looming in the hall. Though strange, their anomalous presence isn’t half as alarming as the pleased expression on the man that called him in.
Shido’s growing smile has never boded well.
Bracing himself is both a waste of time and a show of weakness. Goro considers the additional company, what he can say with them within earshot, and settles on a neutral prompt. “I came as quickly as I could, Shido-san. Did something happen?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Shido says, smug satisfaction in every word. “I’ve located an assistant for you.”
A what. Why? “That’s… very generous, but I don’t see the need for that,” Goro says, slowly. He tracks the slight flinch in his peripheral and watches Shido’s smirk sharpen on it. “I’m only a high schooler, after all.”
“But that’s not all you are,” Shido says. “The work you’ve done for our cause goes above and beyond mere student responsibilities, Akechi-kun. I commend your dedication to making the most of your power.”
Bitter warmth crawls up Goro’s throat.
“It’s only thanks to you providing me with the opportunity, sir,” he demurs.
“Indeed. Still, I understand how much is being asked of you. Our business will be picking up speed now that election is only four months away, and with your tasks piling up as they are, it wouldn’t do to have you indisposed at an urgent moment. An extra set of hands will ensure that our operations continue smoothly.”
Halfway through biting back his indignation—it’s Shido’s own fault for insisting he take up a real position under a public prosecutor despite already having the SIU director on a leash, but even with that added workload, Goro has never lapsed a deadline—the realization sinks in, and he stills.
Shido wants this person to assist him with wet work. In the Metaverse. No, no, absolutely fucking not. They’ve been over this. It was one of the first things Shido asked of him, in a transparent attempt to replicate his abilities, and Goro had only agreed to try it because he’d already confirmed for himself that it would fail.
Nobody he brought into the Metaverse ever awakened a persona like he did. Neither would the app respond to their inputs. That power belongs to Goro, and Goro alone. That’s why he’s invaluable. That’s his…
Aloud, he says, “I’m more than capable of keeping up with demand, sir. And as I’m sure you remember, anyone I bring with me will be a burden at best.” Or, at worst, a waste of life. Shadows don’t pull their punches, and even the weakest skills rip through anything less than cognitive armor.
But Shido lifts an impatient hand, and the rest of Goro’s argument goes unsaid. “I have reason to believe things will play out differently this time,” he says. Then, to the occupied corner over Goro’s shoulder, “You, boy, come here. Show him your phone.”
Reluctant footsteps shuffle across the floor. Goro finally allows his gaze to stray from his target, turning instead to appraise the approaching figure.
Sharp gray eyes, plain black glasses, likely no older than Goro. Though he meets Goro’s stare, there’s a browbeaten tilt to his lowered chin, reminiscent of any number of people who’ve been steamrolled into submission by Shido’s influence—but no, it’s not quite the same. Something in the way he holds himself, or in the steely set of his jaw, perhaps, strikes out of tune with expectation.
When he holds out his phone, his sleeve rides up his outstretched arm just enough to reveal the discolored splotch of a new bruise forming below the wrist. What sympathy such a display sought to evoke fails to find a foothold in Goro’s steeled nerves, though he’ll take the confirmation that this boy isn’t here of his own free will. That explains the guard posted outside the door.
The phone, which displays a red-eyed app icon that pulsates across the screen as only the Metaverse Navigator can, explains everything else.
Seeing it on someone else’s device is a shock that lands too close to terror to be acceptable. Goro grinds it down to nothing in the span of a single fortifying inhale, and says, “How curious. Would you mind opening that red and black app, the one with a stylized eye?”
The other does so, thumb moving over the screen, and the app obediently pulls up its search bar instead of remaining stubbornly inert.
“I see,” Goro says, and he does. The threat grows clearer by the second: you’re not unique, you’re not indispensable, and you’ll prove it true or prove your loyalty false. Anger sparks in his chest, but he keeps his expression blank, refusing to balk. “Thank you… Ah, pardon me. We haven’t been introduced yet, have we?”
The boy opens his mouth, but not a sound emerges before Shido says over him, “This is Amamiya Ren. He arrived in Tokyo this morning, overheard one of my speeches, and was so moved he simply had to meet with me and offer his services. Much like you did, actually.”
Amamiya drops his head a little further. A dark flicker twists his shadowed features, but fades too quickly to pin down.
He doesn’t try to speak again. At least he’s quick enough on the uptake to know he’s not here to be heard.
How much else does he even understand? Machinations of the United Future Party aside, Amamiya can’t have experience with the Metaverse Navigator if this is his first day in Tokyo. The app only works within the city, and trying to access the other world from outside those bounds results only in fizzling television static and oceanic noise.
While Goro turns the implications and possible impacts over in his head, Shido continues, “I couldn’t ignore the similarities, so I thought of a mutually beneficial arrangement for you both. He’s to assist you in your work however he can, and in return, he won’t have to worry about his… lackluster original lodging, where he would have been woefully neglected. You’ll board him instead. His parents will be pleased to hear he’s being looked after while they’re away on business, in even better conditions than they’d planned.”
No, Goro can’t say. “How thoughtful of you,” he can and does say, pleasant over the tinny scream of his own fury in his ears. How like him, to casually demand Goro play host to his own replacement, to assign him a roommate without consultation.
Well. Why wouldn’t he? Goro may live there with a key of his own, but his name isn’t on the paperwork. Perhaps he ought to count himself fortunate to have been told in person, rather than over the phone or, horrifically, not at all.
A dozen excuses rise in his throat, only to subside unspoken. Shido doesn’t care that Goro has classified files on the dining table, or that he doesn’t have a spare room, or that being spotted with a constant accompaniment will complicate his media appearances—not when the possibility of a second untraceable executioner sits on the other side of the scale.
The solution is simple, then. Shred that possibility and all it promises, and there is no argument.
It mightn’t be difficult. The Metaverse Navigator alone does not inherently promise an awakening, or Goro would not have spend that first tremendous hour unmasked and powerless. Neither does it promise enough strength to surpass him.
Calm seeps back in with a steady exhale. This isn’t a wall. It’s a hurdle, and Goro has been jumping hoops to prove himself worthy for years. He’ll conquer this one as he has all the rest.
With what’s almost a real smile, he nods to Amamiya. “Very well,” he says, and offers a hand. Amamiya blinks at him, then it, and then takes it with obvious wariness. “I look forward to our collaboration, Amamiya-kun. My name is Akechi Goro.”
Amamiya says, “Please take care of me,” in a low tone that clips the last syllable, likely more on reflex than anything else. The warmth of his grip lingers after he lets go.
“You can sort out the details between yourselves,” Shido dismisses, short on patience now that the matter has been dumped into Goro’s lap and his direct oversight is no longer needed. He makes a performative time check, adjusting his watch. “Bring him along your next assignment, Akechi-kun, and report on his progress. I’m sure you won’t disappoint me. He’ll be a deft student, what with his clean record and excellent grades. I’ll send you the details at a later time.”
“Of course,” Goro says, with absolutely no intention of waiting that long. The sooner he clears this hurdle, the better. “I’ll show you the way, Amamiya-kun. Please, follow me.”
//
Amamiya remains reticent as they leave the room, exit the building, and start towards Shibuya. He slouches into every step, hands stuffed in his pockets, playing the role of sulking student suitably well.
Had Goro not kept careful watch over the course of several crossed streets and turned corners, he might’ve even bought it. Under scrutiny, however, Amamiya’s demeanor noticeably shifts bit by bit as the distance between them and the Diet Building grows. The tension that kept his shoulders hiked eases off, and the nervous dread in his gaze fades back to neutrality. He’s even begun to sneak occasional glances at Goro, trying to divine the answer to a question he won’t ask.
For a high schooler whose life had been ripped out from under him with nothing but bruises for his trouble, Amamiya has regained his balance with remarkable speed and managed to land upright. The lowered eyes and visible flinching that were so obvious earlier are nowhere to be seen.
Either he’s better at hiding his uneasiness when there aren’t any adults in the room talking down to him, or he mistakenly believes he’s is less danger now, or… what, he let himself be more easily read on purpose? To what end?
Any one of those options promises trouble.
Before entering the subway proper, where thick crowds and vast halls might tempt a thoughtless impulse, Goro clamps a hand around Amamiya’s wrist.
“Don’t try anything foolish,” he warns in a low murmur.
Amamiya’s stoic expression gives little away, though he blinks a couple times in quick succession. Who, me? he doesn’t say, but Goro reads it off the way his posture straightens.
Goro levels him a close-eyed smile. “You’ve met his mercy once already, haven’t you?” he asks, tightening his grip on Amamiya’s forearm until he gets a short hiss of pain. “If you’d like to do so again, I suppose I can’t stop you. But do remember that he found you the moment you stepped foot in the city, and that wasn’t a fluke.”
Outside of a slight narrowing of his eyes, Amamiya doesn’t respond. His placid, unquestioning obedience does somehow take on a sarcastic air, but the message appears to sink in. At the very least, he doesn’t make a break for it when Goro lets go and proceeds onward, which is good enough.
Whatever Amamiya elects to do, Goro would have to endure the fallout, and if he must, he’d rather get something out of it.
Information, at minimum. He’ll take strengthening his position, too.
The trip concludes without incident, thankfully. Goro herds Amamiya into a secluded stairwell just inside Shibuya station, out of sight from the main thoroughfare but still within earshot of the crowd. Entering the Metaverse from here isn’t always consistent, but it’s faster and easier to slip away unnoticed.
He doesn’t pull out his phone. Instead, he tells Amamiya, “The first step is to open that app.”
Amamiya, who’d been silently taking in their surroundings, abruptly locks eyes with him. “Here?” he says, but does so without further resistance at Goro’s impatient frown. “Okay, now what?”
“Now,” Goro says, intruding into Amamiya’s space to peer at the screen, “type this into the search box: Mementos.”
Watching Amamiya successfully tap a string of characters into the Metaverse Navigator unbalances him more than the world rippling around them. The sounds of nearby foot traffic vanish, indicating the transition from one world to the other—though the discolored lighting and creeping veins would be sufficient evidence on their own.
Blue flame washes over Goro, materializing the familiar dark metal and twisting fabric of his cognitive armor. Amamiya recoils from the burst of warmth, startled, and watches with wide eyes as Goro flexes a clawed gauntlet experimentally.
In the back of his mind, Loki chitters excitedly over Robin’s dimmed light, and he can’t quite stop himself from grinning.
“Much better,” he says, dropping his hand to rest on the hilt of his sword. His senses stretch outward, confirming the presence of several weaklings wandering the tunnels, though none yet close enough to matter. “Well, no listening ears will overhear us now, so I believe it’s time we spoke more frankly. Who are you really, and how did you gain access to the Meta-Nav?”
Amamiya tenses. “Didn’t your boss tell you? Ren Amamiya. And I don’t know, it just showed up.”
More irritated than afraid, and not particularly intimidated despite what must be, to him, an inexplicable transformation. A better actor than he’d first appeared, then. Goro files that away for later, focusing instead on the crack in Amamiya’s impassivity.
Fear isn’t the only way to trick someone into saying more than they intended to.
Goro drawls, “Oh, did it? I’m supposed to believe that you didn’t have any hand in the presence of an irregular app on your own phone?”
“I’m serious, it did. I didn’t have it before I got to Tokyo.”
“Which is to claim that you’ve never used it, I’m sure,” Goro says, affecting sarcasm.
A fist clenches. Short with growing impatience, Amamiya clips out, “I thought it was a virus. Why would I?”
“And you’ve never been here or heard of this before, either.”
“… Shibuya? Of course I’ve—”
“Not the real world. The Metaverse, where we now stand, which can only be entered by way of the Meta-Nav.”
“You said to put ‘Mementos’,” Amamiya says, slowly, as though Goro’s the one who doesn’t understand. “Not ‘Metaverse’.”
With a short laugh, Goro steps back. “He and his researchers really haven’t told you a thing, have they? They’ve left it all to me. I suppose I see the logic in that; the most they’ve done is hypothesize. Practical application is beyond them.
“Well then, Amamiya-kun, allow me to welcome you into the world of cognition. The filthy hearts of every resident in the city populate this part of Metaverse with monsters, and the lower you go, the worse it gets.” Though none worse than the one sneering at Amamiya through the red-tinted lens of his mask.
But Amamiya doesn’t blink. “So why come here at all?” he asks.
“If your imagination is truly so limited that you can’t picture any use for a direct line to someone’s heart, perhaps you’re not fit for this job. Why don’t you find out firsthand?” Goro says, and draws his sword.
A swing of the blood-red blade is what finally prompts Amamiya to back away. Though his eyes dart over Goro’s shoulder to the stairs leading up and out, he wisely doesn’t try to push past him, and instead steps off the edge of the platform and drops to the rails below.
Goro saunters closer, letting the serrated edge of his blade scrape the floor in a screech of metal and a shower of sparks.
In his mind’s eye, the nearest signal pauses, then changes course to drift closer, drawn by the commotion.
Most wandering shadows on the first floor of Mementos flee at the sight of Goro, their distorted masks diminished in the face of his power. He’s used to the pathetic things skittering away in blind panic, squeezing themselves into cracks and crevices to escape his wrath.
But they must also be able to tell when there’s a more vulnerable target in range, because when the lumpy, misshapen form lumbers into view, it doesn’t immediately retreat.
Amamiya, hearing the squelching footsteps at his back, whirls around and sidesteps simultaneously, putting the Shadow in view without losing sight of Goro. The surprise that crosses his face is only half-hidden by an odd glare of light off his glasses.
“Go on,” Goro says, careful not to press any closer in case the shadow spooks at a perceived team-up. “Unless you’re giving up already. Prove yourself capable of more than simply rolling over at the first sign of trouble. Fight.”
“Fight that? With what?” Amamiya demands incredulously.
His raised voice spurs the shadow forward. It lunges at him, too-long arms outstretched, but he only takes a scraping blow as he hops out of the way.
An odd waver in the air follows his movements, like a heat shimmer or a trick of the light. It’s gone too quickly to be certain, but within seconds of Amamiya sidestepping another attack, it flutters into existence again like a stray strip of fabric.
As the shadow pauses to collect itself and reassess, Amamiya shoots Goro a final look of are you serious, to which Goro’s rictus response can only mean oh, deadly so.
Amamiya huffs, shifting to face the shadow fully. “Fine,” he says, something sharp unsheathing in his tone. “I won’t fold.”
He lunges, and a light sparks in his wake for just long enough to glimpse the blue tint of cognitive friction-fire, the very same as what wrapped around Goro earlier. The fluttering grows stronger, outlining something like a dark coat that sputters in and out of existence, snapping dramatically around Amamiya’s lithe legs as he makes a jump for the shadow’s most obvious weak point, grasps its mask by the tip of his fingers, and rips it off.
The shadow shudders, then peels open to reveal the cackling pumpkin grin of a pyro jack, but despite the burning heat of an Agi skill arcing through the air, Goro barely registers the continuing fight.
Amamiya has cognitive armor already—how, why? He doesn’t have a mask, only those mundane glasses. No persona. Goro tore himself into bloody halves before he could manifest some form of protection in the images of justice or truth.
… But to have assumed anything from a sample size of one was rash. Perhaps there’s no trick to Amamiya confusedly patting out sparks between translucent red gloves and black sleeves, still powerless. Maybe he got lucky. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
It wouldn’t be the first time Goro counted himself unlucky.
The pyro jack giggles, diving at Amamiya with more red-hot embers spilling from its lantern in a concentrated attack. Amamiya’s right hand goes to his side, where a sheath occasionally solidifies into being. If he times it correctly, it might stay material enough to arm him, but his fingers keep slipping through formless flame.
For the time being, he’s forced to stay on the defensive. He dodges out of the way again and again, slowly shifting the battle away from the platform and further into the tunnels. Goro moves with them, arms crossed, waiting for the inevitable conclusion.
Though it might not favor the side he does. Despite Amamiya’s clumsy start, slow enough to get clipped here and there by the shadow’s assault, he improves rapidly with every near miss. The pain and exhaustion that should make his movements sloppier strangely smoothes them out instead, galvanizing rather than draining him.
Another small Agi singes Amamiya in the arm, and he audibly growls. Goro watches with open fascination as his other hand drops to his side, doesn’t wait for the hilt to solidify, and twitches through the fading image to pull anyway.
In defiance of expectation, the knife sings free, fully realized and gleaming as it slices through the pyro jack’s hat. The shadow shrieks in surprise and fear, tumbling to the ground in a dizzy spiral, lantern clattering against the tracks.
Amamiya doesn’t give it a chance to recover. With a flourish that matches the sudden smirk splashed across his face, Amamiya drives the unadorned blade through the shadow with enough force to send it up in ash and smoke.
Two hits. Goro’s heart pounds in his ears, a fist white-knuckled around his own weapon, something twisting in his chest. Two hits, maskless—that was—that wasn’t—
“Huh,” Amamiya says, breathless. “That wasn’t so bad.” He squints at the last dissolving specks, then at his dagger, as if finally processing its existence, before making eye contact with Goro. For a brief, strained second, neither moves.
Too late, Goro remembers to control his expression, but at the same time, Amamiya straightens from his crouch, steps on his own coat tail, and slips so disastrously that he lands on his butt with a yelp.
Right. No trick, just luck. The words emerge, snarling, on their own: “You are infuriating,” Goro snaps, all but dripping disdain from the teeth as Amamiya scrambles to his feet. Darkness crowds the edges of his vision, Loki pressing at the brink of his mask, tempted and tempting.
Because it doesn’t matter how impressive Amamiya’s first showing is, actually. What a weakling of a shadow couldn’t accomplish is well within the realm of possibility for Goro. He can still trot out some line about how this random civilian simply couldn’t cut it in the Metaverse. He doesn’t have to yield his place or give up his plans.
All he needs to do is finish the job.
Goro stalks closer. Amamiya takes matching steps backward, maintaining the distance between them. His fingers tighten on his knife.
Cute, but ineffective. “Don’t bother,” Goro says, lifting a hand to his mask. “That won’t be enough to stop me.”
Amamiya bares his teeth. His outfit fizzles, then solidifies, fuzzes over, and sharpens again. Still unstable, but the edge of his knife never dulls. “Why?” he demands, as though he has any right to. “What are you doing, what do you want?”
Laughter ricochets up Goro’s throat, tasting of ash and ozone and the promise of power. What he wants is so tangential to the other boy’s existence that it doesn’t bear explaining. “It has nothing to do with you,” he sneers, and tears his mask free.
Loki howls to the forefront, all stark black and white stripes and grinning madness, sweeping Laevateinn through the blaze of its arrival. At the first glimmer of flame, Amamiya smartly withdraws from reach, leaving the ethereal weapon to swing around and cleave down from overhead with a crack! onto nothing but steel and stone.
The miss comes as no surprise. Goro telegraphed the blow much more obviously than he would’ve in a serious fight, and Amamiya has already proven himself to be quite agile, if unpracticed.
Deft with a knife, too, not that anyone would be able to tell from the way he hesitates to use it in the brief opening when Loki fades back into a mask. Whether it’s because Goro so obviously outmatches him in a way the pyro jack didn’t or because he’s reluctant to raise arms against a real human, he instead takes a more guarded stance, scanning their surroundings for an escape route.
Going all-out against such a pitiful defense should feel a bit gauche, but between the force of Loki chomping at the bit and the emotional knot still tangled in his gut, Goro itches for the searing glare of a Megidolaon.
Overkill is a great way to make a point, waste of stamina be damned.
His hand is already halfway to his mask when he hears it.
It takes a beat to believe, but then, again: chains. The jingle of links clinking against each other, echoing from the way they came. Mementos itself seems to contract, its usual illumination stifled by a swelling dark, glinting red.
A single signal carves through his navigational senses as the rest scatter, heightened and dreadfully familiar.
No. No! Of all times for the Reaper to break the pattern it’s held for months, to make its rounds this early and this high in Mementos—he cranes his head and confirms the crimson glow threatening to turn the corner—it makes a tiny part of him crow in triumph that Amamiya’s pale, bewildered face is destined to die here no matter what, but the rest of him feels… robbed.
This victory should be Goro’s. The thought of leaving it in something else’s hands brings no grim satisfaction, only the wretched urge to scream.
Self-preservation takes too long to wrestle bloodlust into the ground. Goro starts to run at the same time that Amamiya inexplicably lurches closer, their paths colliding to a baffled stop.
“What are you—”
“—about to shoot!” Amamiya interrupts, pushing Goro out of his way.
And Death itself descends on them in bloodstained cloth and looping chain, firing a shot into the air. Nothing lands, but its power spikes in preparation for its next attack, and past experience knows leaving that unchecked spells certain doom.
Goro pulls his mask away and calls, “Loki!”
His persona twirls its sword with a wave of its arm, dragging a debilitating swirl of color through the Reaper’s form and slowing it infinitesimally.
At the same time, Loki impresses on Goro how boring this tactical move is compared to the almighty skill he’d been thinking about, and that his next move ought to invite the Reaper to rampage. Ignore Robin’s muffled opining, he’ll never get a better moment to try it than now, with other prey to throw on the pyre!
Said prey makes a passing go at the Reaper with his knife, brows furrowed with concentration, but barely scratches the thing. What worked on a measly pyro jack won’t cut it here, and poor Amamiya is so wildly and obviously out of his depth that it’s hard to wring any excitement from the thought of amping up the Reaper before it curbstomps him. It’s going to do that anyway.
Better to save Call of Chaos for later, when it’ll actually have an impact. At this point, the fact that even a Megidola’s blast radius is wide enough to hit both targets is far more appealing.
But first, the Reaper points a gun at the ceiling and fires. Golden slips of paper talismans emerge and encircle Amamiya (and only Amamiya, thankfully), flashing brightly enough to burn out the retinas of anyone looking directly at it. Even without being the target of this Hamaon, Loki recoils from the blinding glare, roiling with displeasure in Goro’s mind until he lets Robin’s light-and-justice simmer to the surface instead.
His outfit begins to shift, trying to pale accordingly, but Goro holds fast to the darker colors by force of will. It wouldn’t do to tip off his opponent about his change in affinities; if a Hama skill’s blessed glow turns his way, the beat it takes to dissipate harmlessly against Robin’s presence makes for a useful opening.
Amamiya has no such defense, but when the ringing brilliance dies down, Goro’s lip curls to see him staggering in place. Disoriented, sure, but lucky enough to avoid being immediately felled.
The Reaper raises its second revolver, not quite done, but Goro quickly looses Robin’s Megidola onto the battlefield right before it pulls the trigger again, and—
Pain lances through his shoulder like a real bullet, impacting with enough force to send him sprawling onto the rough, uneven floor, which is bad. Very bad. Getting downed in front of the Reaper is a death sentence, especially with his weaker persona equipped.
In the ensuing scramble to reorient himself, trying not to trip over the warped tracks, Goro distantly hears Amamiya’s pained shout and the shadow’s angry rattling as his almighty detonation envelops them both. Satisfaction doesn’t have time to sink in; the Reaper recovers while Amamiya drops to one knee, and the long barrel of its gun dips level with Goro’s head.
Goro bites out a curse. Robin won’t appear in time, but he goes for his mask anyway because he’s not about to roll over and die here, the same way he refused to on the deck of the fucking cruiser two years ago.
As though summoned by the memory, the fire that caught when he awakened roars to life—but not, bafflingly, from within him. Without him. Outside of him, permeating warmth through his armor and turning the Reaper’s lethal attention away.
Amamiya, half-kneeling, clutches at his head. A voice echoes through the air, resonant and not quite real: ‘So, we meet again,’ it booms. ‘Well? All that remains is imperfect, but will you turn your back on your previous decision? Or will you vow to me this time, and be chained anew?’
If there’s a response, Goro doesn’t hear it over the thrumming pressure weighing heavy in the air, leadening his limbs and stilling even the Reaper in place. His heart makes a concerted effort to break through its cage, and Robin’s quelling curiosity does nothing to loosen the clench of his jaw.
Sourceless wind coils around Amamiya as he stands. A white mask perches where his glasses once sat, and his fingers grasp the edges.
‘I am thou,’ the voice continues as Amamiya yanks, and yanks, and yanks, ‘and thou art I. Thou who art willing to perform all sacrilegious acts for thine on justice, call my name, and release thy rage!’
Skin tears. The iron-tang scent of blood hits the air as Amamiya drops his freed mask, which burns away before it lands.
Through the blood seeping down his face, Amamiya rasps, “Ravage them, Arsène.”
A pillar of fire roars up around him, solidifying his outfit and taking the blood with it as it erupts.
One dark wing curves out from the flames, then another. An experimental flap sends a slew of black feathers to the floor, though they vanish into embers soon after. The persona emerges with a hand extended, and dark energy surges from the floor at its command.
Goro, already on the ground, flinches with a sharp hiss when the attack bites into him. Fucking—of course Amamiya would awaken to a curse-wielding persona when Goro has his curse-weak persona in front.
He shoves a reeling Robin Hood down, tightens his hold on the cackling Loki, and just manages to get back on his feet when Amamiya strikes again.
The Reaper lets out a ghastly scream as Arsène cleaves into it, but doesn’t waver. Even the adrenaline rush of awakening doesn’t provide the power needed to defeat a foe of that caliber.
Not alone, at least.
Loki unfurls and unfolds, long limbs stretching and reaching where Goro wills. Call of Chaos is a dangling sword right over Amamiya’s head, the red and black smoke a beautiful match for his persona as the effect sinks in.
Amamiya gasps. The chains around his heart are thick, bristling things, nearly tangible where they strain and creak under Loki’s dreadful croon, but Goro doesn’t relent, and—like all things met with the ruinous side of his heart—eventually, they crack. They break.
And Arsène hurtles into the Reaper like a gunshot, dropping a curtain of feathers. Its form warps and shifts, but Goro can’t make out the details with Amamiya bursting into laughter, a wild grin on his face and madness alight in his eyes. He flicks his coat with a confident click of his heels, all but bouncing as he spirals into the fray, and the sudden sound and sensation, rebellion and rage, from someone who performed meek and beaten so perfectly before…
Goro can’t look away. Blood sheds when Amamiya doesn’t dodge an errant blow and Loki purrs, and purrs hard, an engine of destruction rumbling with rewarded glee. For once, Robin gives no object.
The Reaper shrills under a battering of attacks, lashing out in retaliation, but the stabbing needle and straw of Mamudoon skates off Amamiya and Goro both.
It’s as good an invitation as any to rejoin the fight. Goro leaps forward, and the next several seconds are a blur of violence and flame, Loki an emboldening force at his back as he drives his blade through the Reaper in alternating strikes at Amamiya’s side, and that awful tangle in his stomach twists in a different, less awful way.
Uncounted moments sing past until the Reaper goes up in smoke to the final swing of a knife, leaving Goro and Amamiya standing in the remains, panting and exhausted. The latter looks a blink from keeling over, fighting back to lucidity as Call of Chaos wears off. He drags a hand over his face, smearing dirt and blood, and Goro’s heart pounds away.
Mementos shudders around them. The lights worsen, but the prickle of attention intensifies, the distortion prying harder at the seams of their armor.
Goro gets the idea. He grabs Amamiya by the scruff and shoves him along. “This way,” he says, and startles at the hoarse edge to his own voice. He doesn’t recall using it enough to scrape this raw. “It won’t be gone long, and we’ve outstayed our welcome. We’ll have to run back the way we came.”
Still bloodied, Amamiya looks at him. The mask hides less than the glasses, gray irises sharp and alert for a half-beat before exhaustion dulls their shine. He nods.
By the time they reach the platform they started from, rattling picks up in the distance again, but Goro simply takes out his phone and brings them back to the isolated stairwell, safely returned to reality.
There, the two of them catch their breaths, staring at each other.
After a protracted silence, Goro says, “Aren’t you going to ask?”
Amamiya shoves his hands deep into his pockets, but not quickly enough to hide their trembling. Without the empowerment of the Metaverse, he must be running on fumes, but there’s still a wry bite to his tone when he says, “Are you going to tell?”
Well. He wasn’t going to, but the presumption that Amamiya has any kind of measure of Goro makes him bristle. Against his better judgment, he opens his mouth.
“That name you called. Arsène, wasn’t it?” he says, without the intonation of a genuine question. “It’s fortunate that you awoke to your persona when you did; the Reaper isn’t a shadow to be trifled with.”
“Neither are you,” Amamiya says, softly.
Goro gives him the same smile he gives interviewers on camera, which makes a delightful little crease of annoyance ripple over Amamiya’s expression. Seems like someone isn’t over the sting of that Megidola. “I had to be sure you were up to the task,” Goro says, chipper. Then, more seriously, “And you held up surprisingly well. In fact, I find your supposed inexperience hard to believe. What was it your persona said? ‘We meet again’, and ‘this time’? Personas don’t lie about things like that. This can’t have been your first time in the Metaverse.”
Amamiya shifts his weight uncomfortably. “I… when I first arrived in Tokyo, I saw something that might’ve been Arsène at the crossing,” he admits. “Not in the Metaverse. On the street, over the crowd.”
“You… saw Arsène,” Goro repeats, picking over the syllables as though that’ll make the meaning any easier to digest. “In the real world. Without activating the Metaverse Navigator app at all?”
“Maybe? It popped up, but I deleted it,” Amamiya says. “I didn’t get a good look.”
“Did you even try?” Goro says, incredulous.
A one-shouldered shrug. “I had somewhere to be. And other things to worry about, once I was detained.”
Of course. Goro would love to shake Amamiya upside down until some actual answers fell out of his pockets, but it’s clear that such convenience isn’t in the cards.
In lieu of strangling the truth from him, Goro settles for a disapproving tut as he checks the time. Visits to the Metaverse consistently take between over an hour to nearly four, no matter the actual time spent, and this excursion is no exception.
“If you continue seeing any anomalies in the real world, do keep me informed,” Goro says, turning to exit the stairwell. “Especially as we leave this station. But if you could elaborate further on what you saw exactly…”
//
Bringing someone else back to the apartment he lives in is a new experience that Goro would have preferred to stay new, but the chance for that has unfortunately come and gone.
With the lock turned and his shoes kicked off—which he did before remembering there’s still eyes on him and subsequently telling himself that Amamiya’s opinion on his behavior is worth nothing to anyone—Goro takes a moment to stop and breathe.
His plans are yet salvageable. If he really wanted, he could even pull Amamiya into a palace today, before he has a chance to recover from awakening, and…
And immediately signal to whoever’s tracking his phone, clear as day, that something suspicious is going on. Right. Not an option. He doesn’t fully understand how they found Amamiya to begin with, but he’s not so naive as to believe a second excursion followed by a mysterious disappearance would go unnoticed and unquestioned.
Goro leaves his keys in his pocket. He tosses a pair of spare house slippers at Amamiya, who keeps any fascinating insights he has regarding the strewn papers and utilitarian pre-provided furniture to himself.
“If you’d like to freshen up, the lavatory’s to your right and the washroom’s across from it,” Goro says. He considers playing gracious host, all make yourself at home and the like, but decides not to bother. Amamiya’s already seen Loki and the shape of his anger. “Don’t touch anything you don’t need, and don’t wander.”
“You make it sound like there’s traps,” Amamiya says, faintly amused, but he accepts the offer with a faint air of relief.
With him out of the way, however briefly, Goro quickly rounds up the case files he’d left out and shuts them away in his briefcase. He also roots around in the closet for spare bedding, which he drops on the living room sofa because he is not giving up his own bedroom and nobody can make him. The sofa’s perfectly serviceable, he’s slept on it himself a couple of times. It’s fine.
The sound of running water jolts him from his thoughts, a mundane sound made jarring by the simple fact that it’s happening without him.
… It also goes on for longer than strictly necessary, but that just means Goro’s free to order food without having to take suggestions. Normally, he wouldn’t bother with more than the instant noodles in his pantry or a bento picked up on his way home, but it’s not exactly a normal day.
He’s just finished checking out when the water squeaks to a stop. Amamiya emerges a moment later, looking around and putting his glasses back on. Before he can get too adventurous with his surroundings, Goro waves him over to the now cleared table.
“First,” he says as Amamiya drops languidly into a seat (and slumps, too, whether from lack of energy or a flair for dramatics), “you’ll have to pardon me for not having a spare key prepared. I’ll procure one soon, but in the meantime, we can make do by staying in contact. Your phone?”
Amamiya slides it across the table. “I don’t think me waiting outside your apartment door for any length of time is a good look,” he says while Goro adds himself to Amamiya’s contacts and Amamiya to his. It’s almost a question; couldn’t I get help escaping if someone notices me standing around uncomfortably?
If only dodging the conspiracy were so easy. “Which is not something either of us want, for a variety of reasons, not least of which being the number of very powerful people who have your personal information on file, and why we’ll have to work together until it’s no longer a problem,” Goro says. He pauses, then adds a couple more numbers—not his, but those who may call Amamiya for one reason or another, and under descriptions rather than names—before passing the phone back. “My schedule does keep me out for much of the day, but some of it will be required of you as well, and I doubt you’ll entirely run out of things to do besides. It’s your first time in Tokyo, correct? Acquaint yourself with the area. Pick up an afterschool club or two, even. Worst comes to worst, there’s a few cafés and diners that are used to students dropping by for hours of study. Do not return to wherever you were previously going to stay.”
“Not even to pick up my stuff?” Amamiya asks. At Goro’s blank look, he elaborates, “Clothes. Toiletries. My phone charger.” When none of this moves Goro, since they’re all easily replaceable, Amamiya sighs. “School uniform? I was going to attend Shujin.”
As a prisoner to what—no, actually, that name does ring a bell. One of those spineless supporters Goro keeps tabs on runs a high school named Shujin, if he isn’t mistaken. It lost most of its prestigious reputability months ago, in an embarrassingly public way.
The supporter’s name was… Kobayakawa, wasn’t it? With that sniveling, pathetic excuse of a shadow, yes. Someone like that would be desperately grateful for a chance to prove his usefulness in the wake of such a scandal, especially as the fallout put a dent in his usual donations. Requisitioning new set of uniforms under the table won’t raise a brow.
Though the topic does raise an interesting question. “Of all the schools in Tokyo you could’ve transferred to at the start of a new semester, why Shujin?” Goro asks. “Quite a few complaints have come up about their teaching staff as of late, and I can’t imagine their image recovered that quickly.”
Amamiya blinks guilelessly at him. “I didn’t get a say in it.”
“You didn’t overhear the rumors?”
A flash of teeth, suggesting a grin. “Didn’t say that.”
Implying his guardians made the decision without consult. Still, that’s more of a deflection than an answer, and something about it rankles. Goro rolls a couple thoughts over his tongue, weighing if intuition or presumption is what bids him dig deeper.
The enigma presented is this: here sits a boy who awakened to the roaring resolve required for a persona with extraordinarily little prompting, who took beautifully to chaos like a wing to air, and yet the throughline of his history is… compliance to authority?
Goro would raise an objection if he weren’t so familiar with the deception. Something about Amamiya Ren is a barefaced lie—but the same could be said of the righteous, sincere detective prince.
How strange, to find an echo of understanding in another. In the one poised to undo his life’s work, no less.
The urge to sink his teeth into whatever other falsehoods Amamiya might bring to bear shrills up his spine. Literal manifestations aside, one persona doesn’t mean only one mask, and the idea that Amamiya has shown all he’s capable of is laughable. There’s room to push, to corner, to see what he’ll do with his back to a wall.
A chime rings through the room, startling Amamiya and breaking the eye contact Goro realizes he’d been holding for perhaps a beat longer than intended.
“Right,” Goro says, and almost kicks his chair out from under himself as he stands. Maybe he ought to adjust the thermostat while he’s up, with how warm the room is. Summer’s first hurrah before spring yields for good. “That’ll be dinner, I expect. Excuse me for just one moment, Amamiya-kun, I’ll be right back.”
Amamiya makes a sound that’s half laugh, half huff. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, propping an elbow on the table and his chin on his hand.
The prickle of his stare follows Goro to the door, though when Goro turns back inside with food in hand, Amamiya has leaned partway out of his seat, tilting weight off two of the legs, to peer into the drawer of a nearby cabinet.
Goro doesn’t keep anything he cares about in anything unlocked, but he affects displeasure anyway and says, “Being nosy, are you?”
The legs of the chair meet the floor again with a delicate tap. “Just curious,” Amamiya says, resettling his weight and shameless about being caught snooping. “Do you actually use any of this furniture?”
“Fortunately for you, no,” Goro says. He sets the takeout containers down, returning to his own seat. “I imagine you’ll be making use of the storage space during your stay here.”
“Thank you for the meal,” Amamiya says. Then, “I can deal without a closet, but I’m not going to hide my existence.”
The disposable chopsticks crack where they’re joined, but Goro pauses before they split entirely. “Interesting distinction, seeing as we just discussed that you will not be making your presence obvious to anyone.”
“Not outside. In here,” Amamiya says, and despite what must be a politely puzzled expression on Goro’s face, he tucks into his beef bowl without looking up or clarifying further.
He doesn’t need to, though, because Goro knows the shape of his meaning. The shadowed memories of a kid no relative wanted to see or hear make it easy. For Amamiya to not only share the sentiment but voice it aloud, an open warning to his own detriment… hm.
“Maintaining a performance behind closed doors is a waste of energy,” Goro says. He snaps his utensils apart. “I won’t ask you to do something so pointless. Instead, why don’t you and I make a deal? This situation is less than favorable for you, and I can’t deny having a few concerns of my own.” Careful. Nothing prevents Amamiya from running his words right to the top to use against him. “But we’re also the only ones with this power, and there’s still mysterious abound in that other world. What say you to pooling our efforts in that regard, at least for now?”
Amamiya hums, nonchalant, tapping his chopsticks against the plastic. “Are you going to keep trying to kill me?”
The lightness in his tone, despite the topic, finds a mirror in Goro’s. “My work is too demanding to lug dead weight around with me,” he says, practical in every respect but for the bite of his smile. He pauses for a mouthful of savory meat, taking his time to enjoy Amamiya’s impatient gesture for him to continue. “I was simply making sure you’re capable of keeping pace.”
“Sure,” Amamiya says. There’s a gleam in his eyes, or maybe that’s just the light on his glasses. “Alright. It’s a deal.”
Now, that’s suspicious. For someone who purports to be ‘not hiding’, Amamiya put up little resistance to Goro sidestepping a promise to spare his life.
But bringing it up this early in the game, without material evidence, only spoils the element of surprise for later. Goro lets it pass, and they spend the rest of the meal and more of the evening outlining the details of their cohabitation, interrupted only when Amamiya moves to clear the table and prompts an abbreviated tour of the apartment.
Eventually, they hash out specific allocations: quarter shelf space in the powder room (“Since you have at least three times the products I do.” “I wouldn’t have thought you used any, with hair that unkempt.” “Hey. It’s curly, not dirty.”), two-thirds in the kitchen (“I cook.” “And? I don’t see why that means you require more than half the fridge and pantry.” “Akechi-san, the kettle and the rice cooker are the only things here that don’t have a layer of dust on them. How’s your microwave?”), and a bedraggled cardboard moving box dragged into a corner of the living room from the depths of Goro’s closet are partitioned for Amamiya’s use.
Once they’ve fetched what spare toiletries exist and reshuffled the area around the sink accordingly, Goro checks his phone and blinks at both the time (nearly midnight) and a text notification (from an unlisted number he knows by heart). It’s a name he doesn’t recognize.
No further instruction. Dealer’s choice, then, with the knowledge that his choices are being watched.
It’s fine. A preference for chaos is—acceptable, in an enthusiastic weapon. As long as he doesn’t let himself appear squeamish about shutdowns, liking breakdowns more is an inoffensive trait.
“Let’s leave things here for tonight,” Goro says. He checks the Meta-Nav. Thankfully, it confirms a match between the name and Mementos, so he won’t be working through the night to obtain separate keywords. He could look up the name anyway, if he’s so inclined. (He doesn’t. He requests Amamiya’s file, and gets it. He’ll spend the night picking it apart and finding nothing.) “Looks like we’ve both got an early morning tomorrow.”
Amamiya looks at him, and whatever thoughts run through his mind remain inscrutable. Warm lamplight cradles the curve of his jaw, and even through his shuttered expression, like the pull of gravity, some unseen hunger yawns wide. Had Goro looked like that, the evening after he sealed his doubled contract? Like the road before him grew claws and fangs, but so too did he and his nerve to use them?
Goro reaches for the lamp, clicking the switch at its base, and plunges the room into darkness. The faint silhouette of Amamiya says, “Good night, then.”
“Good night,” Goro says, “Ren-kun.”
//
ORACLE_ / 4:16 AM
its time its time its time!!!
ORACLE_ / 4:17 AM
time for what you may ask? why ofc its none other than. drumroll please. the long-awaited closed beta launch of Featherman5: The Phantom X! yes thats right! the fangame of the year! the decade! the century! millennia! whats bigger than millennia!
ORACLE_ / 4:17 AM
let me know once you finish the first arc okay i NEED your live reaction pls pls pls pls p
ORACLE_ / 4:18 AM
oops the parental unit is waking up i gotta go before he knows i did this instead of sleeping lol k bye
ORACLE_ / 11:32 AM
are you done yet
ORACLE_ / 1:57 PM
hey are you done yet
ORACLE_ / 3:02 PM
hey
ORACLE_ / 4:09 PM
hey
ORACLE_ / 4:35 PM
hey??
ORACLE_ / 4:36 PM
oh my god you muted me.
ORACLE_ / 4:36 PM
HEY DON’T FORGET TO CHECK IN
ORACLE_ / 4:36 PM
about the game obviously lol lmao rofl
ORACLE_ / 5:00 PM
hey
ORACLE_ / 5:43 PM
hey hotfix patch incoming btw so wrap 👏 it 👏 up 👏
user6969 / 6:19 PM
No need, the game runs great! Pass my compliments to Queen. I like the part where you get your powers back and have a near-death experience, but my favorite is the surprise twist about the big bad’s treasure being a secret tenth ranger!
ORACLE_ / 6:19 PM
what
user6969 / 6:20 PM
It’s a lot of fun! Reminds me of Grey Pigeon, from Seeker.
user6969 / 6:21 PM
oracle?
ORACLE_ / 6:21 PM
yeah haha of course i mean im just surprised that it surprised you
ORACLE_ / 6:22 PM
bc obviously there was so much evidence pointing to it so how could anyone have missed it ahaha. great cool are you okay to keep going?
user6959 / 6:22 PM
Of course. Are you kidding? This is the best it could’ve turned out.
ORACLE_ / 6:23 PM
… i dont see how but okay
ORACLE_ / 6:25 PM
also speaking of queen it was her who approved the hotfix about the script jumping forward a little and it definitely wasnt my idea to start with nope no sirree dont worry ab it
user6969 / 6:25 PM
What?
ORACLE_ / 6:25 PM
i said dont worry about it!