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Maybe a camera could have done it. Joker’s eyes are frustratingly slow, but a camera could have captured it. The look on Goro Akechi’s face as she cut from the bliss of ignorance and the reality of knowledge that came with Oracle’s over-exuberant declaration.
“Come on, everyone here’s been on the internet, right?” Still held within the safety of her persona, she says, “Even a baby knows what Rule 63 is.”
“I don’t.”
“Me neither.”
“What parts of the internet are you talking about exactly, Oracle?”
“Perhaps there is some greater meaning to be drawn from the numbers used.”
“This isn’t the porn rule, right?”
Crow simply repeats, “Rule 63.”
Something Joker frequently notices about Akechi is the state of her expression. Her face is beautiful shining plasticine with lips eternally curled in the slightest reference toward a smile. Her eyes are held wide, her brows high, all in the effort of insinuating the illusion of interest in what others say. But as Akechi said the number, her forehead creased, her lips thinned, and her smile became a sneer.
Unfortunately, Joker doesn’t carry a camera, so they can’t confirm or deny that their eyes lie to them in their abstracted desire to see Crow exhibit legitimate negative emotion. More than the declarations about grudges, more than the exaltations about justice. For a second, and no more, Goro Akechi had been a petty bitch and unable to hide it.
“Yeap.” It’s a sharp little yap of a thing that buzzes in all their ear pieces.
“Oracle… I still don’t really…” Queen sighs. “Could you just explain what the status effect is doing?”
Joker decides it’s their turn to take one for the team. They’ve seen enough genderbend manga for a lifetime growing up half-insane in the middle of nowhere, awkwardly digging through anything that could have reflected a remote iota of their experience back at them. “It basically means that whoever gets hit has their sex swapped.” Then they shrug. “Or whatever.”
“Oh,” says Queen. Mild mortification cuts into her expression. “Why couldn’t you have just said it like that in the first place?! Oracle!”
“Wait, does that mean…”
“Crow?”
Across the room from the rest, Crow stands, tapping her foot against the ground. Her uniform isn’t remarkably different, but as Joker walks over, the differences are all the more obvious. Most notably—
“Isn’t he usually taller than this?” someone whispers.
The height difference now isn’t staggering, but Crow’s probably lost ten centimeters in the change. She glances up at Joker through bangs and mask. It makes her look cross without her having to move an inch.
They don’t let their gaze shift over her body. What they imagined when Oracle first called out the effect for what it was—a comical shift to a skirt and knee high boots—long hair and longer legs—any other stereotype they’d been exposed to while perusing comics which were obsessed with the shock value over the pull. Crow is Crow. A young woman.
“Aw, he looks almost exactly the same! Talk about boring.”
Even if no one else knows.
“D’you think if Panther got hit, it’d change her outfit around?”
“Well, Crow’s obviously is still fitted to him, so the cognition should make it fit to the wearer…?”
“Are you washboard flat or did it put you in a sports bra or something?”
“You can’t ask questions like that!”
“Man, if I had to be a girl, I’d like to at least have some tits.”
“The shapes of women are diverse. I should only hope were I to change that I would still find comfort in my body.”
“That’s a lovely way of thinking about it! I feel the same way. It feels like this status effect could be a refreshing little change to experience!”
“Yeah, Crow, whaddya think?”
All eyes land on her. Joker’s never left.
“Honestly?” Her laugh is a tinkling porcelain trinket, ready to shatter upon the ground. “I couldn’t tell the difference until Oracle noted it.”
“Really? That’s lame.”
“I figured as much.”
“I dunno, not everyone’s as confident as Crow is! I’m sure it’d be different if it was one of us.”
“So, what, you want to stand around and wait to see if one of us gets hit?”
“Sounds good to me! Experimentation time! Who’s next on the chopping block?”
“We are not wasting our time hoping that another one of us gets attacked by a shadow. It isn’t even normal for a status effect to continue lasting outside of combat! We should really—”
“Please,” interrupts Crow. “Let’s not continue blathering on my account. I’m still fully capable of accessing my Persona, so the most helpful thing we could do at this time would be to continue until we’ve completed the last of today’s missions. Don’t you think?”
Everyone pauses. Joker hasn’t stopped staring at Crow. When no one else speaks up, they take the cue and say, “He’s right. Let’s finish up and head out for tonight. Oracle, handle recording any irregularities. Mona, Crow, Fox, you’re on point with me.”
“But I wanted to try it out…”
“You can’t tell me you actually want to get hit with this thing!”
Crow clears her throat. “I’m happy to tell you that there’s no seeming horror or danger to this effect. Unless I happen to drop dead, at which point I suppose you can gladly say I told you so.”
“I didn’t mean it like that…”
“It’s totes harmless. If every status effect was like this, the Metaverse would be a walk in the park!”
The rest of the trip is uneventful. Crow’s correct; there’s no negative effect, as she summons Robin Hood rather than Maid Marian and maintains her typical sword and laser gun. Questions linger in the back of their mind. Stupid things. Is her hair softer than it had been before or was that the same? Were eyelashes any different with different hormones backing them? Was her body hair suddenly lighter or different? Did her chest hurt, did her body ache? They’d read, fleetingly, articles about hormone therapy, threads of people talking about helpful changes, but how different would it be if it happened all at once?
Was a woman like Goro Akechi someone who would take note of such things?
Not for the first time since it happened, Joker wishes it’d been them who’d been hit. At least then they could have an honest account of what it’s like. Even if it’s just for a moment. Just in case.
As the group leaves Mementos, everyone’s eyes land on Akechi. She fixes the cuffs of her blazer over her gloves before speaking.
“It appears everything has returned to normal,” she says. “As expected of the Metaverse. It does seem to have the strangest qualities.”
The group falls into different camps; immediate disinterest, genuine relief, and hidden disappointment. Akira stands at the back without comment of their own.
“Mona? Mind going home with Futaba? I’ll be back before it gets late.”
Eyes narrowed, Morgana mutters, “It’s about Akechi, isn’t it.”
They shrug. For as much of a non-answer it is, the tiny boy takes it in stride and scampers off to follow Futaba on the next line toward Yongen. The two have long since made a standing order when it comes to Goro Akechi. Akira asks and Morgana looks the other way; even now that the group knew about Akechi’s true intent, that hadn’t changed. They aren’t sure as to whether it’s trust or simply because they’re Joker. For how much control Morgana has over the broad strokes of their day, he’s always ceded his paw for the minutiae.
By the time the group has dispersed, Akechi has been looking at her phone for a full minute. Akira remains propped half-against the wall, hands in their pockets. It’s a game they always enjoy. But tonight, they fold and greet her first.
Walking up to her, they give a simple, “Hey.”
“Oh, good evening, Akira-kun.” Only now does she put away her phone. Akira catches a mere glance of the news article she’d been scrolling through—liable to have been the first link that had shown itself when she opened the search engine. “You don’t seem very tired despite all that work, do you?”
Their head tilts from side to side in a light metronome. “Nah. Just checking in.”
As could be predicted, Akechi presents them a light laugh and little else. “I’m afraid that my little physical digression from before has completely disappeared. If you were curious. Though I may be jumping the gun, as it were. What was on your mind, leader?”
Her words are a thousand red flags thrown in their face. There are days where they wonder if she’s figured out that they’ve discovered her plan. Days where they ask themself if she expects them to discover it. Days where they linger over whether Akechi ever intended for their game to be played fairly or if they’re being blindly sentimental. They could dig into whether jumping the gun is a coincidental phrasing or something meant as a clue for weeks and never come to a satisfying conclusion, they’re sure. What’s on their mind? It is a simple question with a simple answer. So they say:
“You.”
“Me?” she asks. Her eyes flicker the slightest bit wider as she says it, but it’s nothing that could be used as conclusive evidence in a court of law. “So the status effect.”
“Not quite.”
Akira stands only straight enough to start walking. To their private delight, Akechi follows. The two move away from the largest crowds until they’re no longer in the underground, instead standing on November’s cooling sidewalks. The sensation of people around is less intense without the echoing of concrete walls surrounding them on all sides and it’s easier, then, to say what they mean.
“What did you think of it?”
Akechi’s bangs fall in her eyes when she tilts her head. “Pardon?”
“The… effect.” Their lips press together. It’s irritating, but Akechi continues to stare at them, waiting and expecting for them to say what they really mean. Refusing to let them dance around it. But who were they if not a performer? “What did it feel like to be a girl?”
Her expression falls blank. It takes a second before Akira sees the shaking of her shoulders, only evident once one of her hands raises to cover her mouth. It’s laughter, three steps removed from hysterical, five from manic.
“You’re asking me,” she hiccups, “What it felt like—to be a girl?”
The time it takes for her laughter to stop is something shorter than the time it takes for a train to come to a full stop but longer than the time it takes to board. Akira waits till the squeal in the back of their memory ends before saying, “Yeah.”
Akechi steadies herself back into something approaching calm, the corners of her mouth twitching despite what are clearly her best attempts otherwise.
“It’s amusing that even you’re curious about the matter,” she says, mirth still coloring her voice.
“Guess so,” says Akira.
“What did it feel like,” she murmurs, “To be a girl. How should I say this… would it be uncouth to say I truly felt no different?”
There is the image of a pin being taken to a balloon in the back of their head, only lightly pricked. Maintaining the air just to delight in watching it lose all air in the most pathetic way possible. Akira chuckles.
“Guess you weren’t lying,” they say.
“From what I understand, people at times talk about something called gender dysphoria. I assume you might have feared I would experience that considering I was placed in a body that was not my own.” Her plasticine lips do not twist up or down. Akira would know. They’re always watching. “It was simply a momentary interruption. Though I’ll admit, I’ve never been particularly attached to my body in the way that others might.” As though she doesn’t know she’s saying far too much, her fingers come to rest upon her chin. “It’s a useful tool, of course, but I couldn’t say there’s much significance to it either way.” The tips of her shoes adjust as she comes to face them directly. “Or do you think otherwise?”
She once said there is no challenge in simply putting in answers we're already aware of. Maybe that didn’t apply to asking questions she already knew the answers to. Akira could debate her. Could argue the point, the desire to know the difference between the body you have to live in versus the body you could live in, the interest in seeing a form different from your own to see if it gives any kind of meaningful answer as to whether one counts as transgender or not.
“Maybe,” Akira simply disagrees.
Her lips adjust, the corners higher, wider. Akechi doesn’t laugh. “Here I am, rambling on again. I hope that may have answered your question.”
“Not really,” they say. “Guess I was just thinking.”
“Do elaborate. I’m curious.”
Their shoulders raise up, crowding their ears. “It’s all cognition right?” When she nods, they continue, “What if it wasn’t a Rule 63 effect like Futaba said.”
Her eyes narrow, sharp and terrible as they are beautiful. The maroon of her irises shines almost crimson. “Then what would it be?”
“Eh.” Their head tilts back and forth, playing at indecisiveness. “Just wondering if a shadow could force someone’s cognition into reality.”
“You mean to say that I wanted that?” There is a strain, now, a twitch to her lips that they cannot resist. “Or are you speaking more generally?”
Pushing could draw out so much more of that viciousness they can feel simmers beneath the surface. Dueling had shown as much. Did Akechi want that? Was it a question of the body she desired beyond all others? It would be so easy to ask.
But it would also mean breaking the thin boundary that exists between them. The barrier between speaking truth and maintaining the lie that is only recognized through the power of the other. No one knows but them.
So they’ll take what they can get.
“Just a hypothetical.” They pull on a smile of their own, mirroring her in their mutual deceit. “Don’t mind me.”
“I see. Then I must apologize. I’m being surprisingly judgemental. Perhaps if you give me more time to think on it…? Though I suppose we are running low on that with the deadline arriving so soon. Well.” She pauses, playing with the cuffs of her blazer once again. She silently teases them for their own tics, while pretending hers can’t be called out in the same way. They watch all the same. “It is getting late. Unless you wanted to stop by Penguin Sniper for a game?”
“Nah. I should be getting home. Need a massage before I do anything like that.”
She blinks before falling into a light controlled laughter. “You always say the strangest things.”
They feel their lip curl, unavoidably. “See you, Akechi.”
“Until next time, Akira-kun.”
The train home is interminable. When they arrive back at Leblanc, Sojiro’s starting to close up. Morgana’s nowhere to be found. There’s no mirror in the attic to stare into when they pull off their shirt for the night. They could swear their skin already feels smooth, but would it be smoother? They always hear their eyelashes are long, but would they be longer? They know their hair is soft, but would it be softer? If they’d been the one hit, would they have noticed the lack or the additions immediately? What would their body be, if they’d been born with something different. What hormones would ever be the right ones for them.
What would make them happy.
“Wonder if I could get hit with that,” Akira murmurs to themself as they pull on sleep clothes. “... wonder if I’d be disappointed.”
As they laid down.
All they could wonder about was whether Akechi was disappointed when they stepped back into the real world.