Chapter Text
Welcome. I’m certain you know how it begins.
Time after time, circumstance finds its way to him. He is well-intentioned, yes, no doubt - but the situation itself is so prone to distortion that no matter what he does, he cannot escape the outcome.
Regardless, I will introduce them to you:
First is the Damsel, arm trapped in a vice grip, she is so awfully far from home. She is distress given form, thrashing and wincing and begging, begging for anybody to listen. Alas. The world remains unhearing. She has requested help from the sharpest of teeth and is now astounded that she has been bit.
Next is the Dragon, eyes gilded over with honey-flame. He roars, spews, and of course he gets what he wants. Like a fibrous growth, he swells with complacency. He has not yet received the consequences advancing on him, and has thus forgotten the feeling of defiance against his skin. It cuts, it bleeds.
Finally, the Fool. The lovely Fool! The Fates’ favourite plaything, they find themselves freshly acquainted with one another. He bears the weight of rebellion like a scythe, feet poised and hand hovering. What a light movement to have caused such an avalanche. If I didn’t know better, I would have suspected it planned. Quite the coincidence, that.
Let’s set the scene, shall we?
Scene 1, outdoor, night. On a street passing through an apartment complex and rural suburbia, we begin in medias res. The Dragon smells of eight shots of tequila, a couple beers and vicious, fetid want. He coerces the Damsel back to the tower. She flails, twists. 'Leave me alone' and 'let me go' litter the block. The Dragon persists. 'Do you know who I am?' he asks, a call to command. An impetus of sorts. 'Stop it,' she pleads. To no avail - the streets are asleep.
Enter: the Fool. Returning from a day out, he is following his path. Hearing the commotion, something stalls him, swerves him as he makes a choice most others would not.
The wheel turns.
Now pardon my omission - there is another.
It had been quite the trouble to construct, but it is done nonetheless. Far within the layers of windows and walls, there sits a room in an apartment complex, with a warm floorlamp and a chestnut dining table. The blinds are closed. Peeking through, we see the camera of an older model cell phone, its gray-black blending into the windowsill. If we were at a closer distance, maybe we could have made out the two camera lenses. But we’re not, so I suppose we see nothing at all.
Our newcomer is a bit of the paranoid type. Perhaps we’d find tape on their front camera, perhaps the door deadbolted. Hearing the roaring and spewing outside, they brace for the worst and start up the recording. When the smoke clears and the sirens bleed out, they call up the police station, say they have evidence. Get to them before the Dragon can.
Now, dear visitor. Surely, you understand what this means.
The Dragon commands deletion, but our spect-actor has already posted the video. They take it down, but the damage is done. Nothing can be fully erased. Within the metadata of the site, the Pressure looms over the Dragon's head.
The Dragon doesn't press charges. Our Fool walks.
The Pressure dies of a heart attack.
… Well. Something like that.
You’ll be seeing the Fool soon. Send him my regards, will you?
His glasses are getting old, Akira thinks, as he fiddles with the screws.
The glass itself is still fine, save for a couple scratches. None of them are in his sightline though, so he's taken to just ignoring them. The frames, however, have been slowly coming apart. The arms are just a little too loose. They remind Akira of those old American country movies, the saloon doors, the way they fall open so suddenly. The screws holding them in place are just small enough that none of the screwdrivers they have fit, so he has to tighten them with his tiny little swiss army knife. It’s kind of fun.
If he's honest, he barely wears them. His vision's fine without. His mother had been insistent lately, with what the doctor said and all, but he's sure she'll forget in due time.
Well... he thinks. Maybe she won't. Things have been tense between them recently, given... everything.
He breathes out, looks up through his window. Watches the night rain bounce off the glass. The heat is off in the house, and Akira's a little cold, but his desklamp paints his hands warm as he works. It's a deep, thoughtful blue outside above the clouds. He can see the moon through their movement, revealing dark beyond layers of gray, tinted almost bronze. He likes to imagine it might be the reflection of the streetlights, tall and blond, soft hue cutting through the indigo of the world.
Part of him misses the chatter of the birds lining up on the telephone wires. They’re probably somewhere warmer now. Huddled together, sharing each others’ presence. It’s not that different from love.
He burrows deeper into his blanket.
It’s been… rough since he got arrested. He supposes it doesn’t help that it was Prof. Kurusu’s kid that ended up in cuffs.
His mother spent maybe an hour lecturing him on how horrible it was that he did that to his father, what a disappointment it was, what big of a mess he’s made. Akira remembers just sitting through it, biting his tongue. What upsets him the most aren’t even the fights or the silence, it’s that no matter what he seems to say, what angle he seems to approach them from, nothing he says is good enough to be heard.
Of course it wasn’t going to be simple, he knew this, but Akira thought that maybe after knowing him his whole life, they’d have considered his words a bit more. Maybe it’s petty, he thinks, but he’s admittedly jealous that the blow to their image got more attention than their kid. No “are you alright”, no “I’m glad you’re safe”. Just straight into ”how could you?”
Akira sighs. The glasses are done. Fiddling with them further won’t get him anywhere, but his hands still aren’t sated. Opening his drawer, he pulls out a Rubik’s cube and messes it up. It comes easy to him. He huffs. His mother would’ve had something to say about that.
Is it really that? Is he not— well, not not worth it, but is he really not… Is good standing really that valuable, that they couldn’t even consider that their son wouldn’t assault someone?
Front, down, anti-front. He feels like a kid, talking about monsters under the bed. Anti-right, anti-down, right. Trying desperately to explain something no one cares to believe. It’s not even that he’s not taken seriously, it’s that no one even considers that he might have something genuine, something true to say. Anti-right, down, right, front; down, down; anti-front. Green-red done. He finds blue-red one side over. It’s infuriating.
He feels like a kid.
His shoulders are so tense, he realizes, forcing them to relax. He’s coming off of another argument with his mother. This one… Akira sighs. This one was bad. He can’t remember the last time he yelled, let alone like that. When he thinks back on it, he feels the raw of his throat, the faultlines in his hands and how horribly, horribly heavy his eyes felt afterwards. There’s a taut pull at his neck, tension flares like a lighter. He stops doing that.
She’d called Rei to come pick him up. Get him off their hands. Rei’d refused, politely, ever so painfully kind. She probably didn’t have time to be a person these days, let alone a sister again. He can’t blame her.
He does miss her. It’s been years since they talked. She hasn’t been calling, or if she has, his parents aren’t putting him through to her. It’s only ever a text during the holidays, or a “happy birthday,” or some other thin remark. She’s been speaking formally with them again. Akira knows that can’t be good.
He wonders if she misses him at all.
He has the cross on the cube now. He lines up the sides, clicks them into place. She really tried to get rid of him. Who knows what she would’ve done if he hadn’t been released. Without that video… Would he be in juvie? On parole? …Would they have even called?
Something ugly grows heavier in his chest the more he thinks about what could have been. Akira takes a deep breath, finishes his cube and sets it down on the table. It’s getting late. Some sleep would do him well.
He might start wearing his glasses, he thinks. He doesn't mind the way they soften his face.
Alone in his room, Akira wishes he could go home.
“Yumiko-” his father says, strained, “you really don’t need to-”
“He doesn’t understand, see, he doesn’t understand,” his mother shakes her head. Akira shifts his weight, “It’s like you don’t even realize that this is your fault.”
“I didn’t even do anything-” Akira starts, but his mother cuts him off.
“Here we go again, with your excuses. If you hadn’t done anything, you wouldn’t have been arrested, for God’s sake! Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Why would I-” he stops himself. Before he can start up again, his mother interrupts.
“Answer me, Akira,” she says, “do you think I’m stupid?”
“No! Why would I think-” he hesitates, wary of saying the word. It might start something new, “- that?”
“You sure have been acting like it.”
“Mom-” he starts. She shakes her head.
“No, I don’t think you understand the weight of your actions-”
“What actions?” he spits. No, he needs to dial back before he says something rash, “I didn’t do anything.”
“Never had any consequences in your life,” she mutters, “we should’ve been harder on you-”
“Yumiko!”
“No, Tooru, we should have!” His father falls back into silence. “Look at what you turned into! Ungrateful, reckless-”
“Someone was being kidnapped, mom, what should I have done? Walk away?”
“Yes! It’s none of your business what other people get up to-”
“Are you serious?-”
“I thought I taught you at least that, but clearly nothing I’ve said has stuck with you.”
“What are you talking about-” he pushes off out of his chair, “you taught me that! You taught me to stand up for people and suddenly I’m in trouble for doing what you said?” His mother takes off her glasses, rubs the bridge of her nose.
“There has to be a certain-” she says, “-a level of everything, Akira. You cant bring down a mountain and say you were looking for coal, there have to be boundaries, there has to be a limit-”
“She would’ve been kidnapped, mom!” He feels the tension pull in his lower eyelids. He lets go of a breath, slowly. “What about her family?” he says, “What if it was Rei?”
“Don’t you bring her into this,” she hisses. His father remains.
“What if it was?” and a quiet descends like fog on the water. “She was 25, maybe 28. They could have been friends.”
“...I don’t think you know what you’re talking about,” his mother threatens, low.
“I’m certain I do,” says Akira, ignoring it. “This is what I mean. You’ve been so vague, I don’t think you understand what actually happened.”
“I don’t think you understand what is happening right now, because-”
“No!” he cuts her off before he can regret it, “just because you haven't been listening to me doesn’t mean I’m wrong, I’ve been telling you I didn't hurt anybody, I didn't hit anybody-”
“Akira-”
“- I didn't do anything!” … “I didn’t do anything.”
And finally a breath. They’re tense in the kitchen, after another silent meal shared between strangers. His father has barely uttered a word during this whole thing, and now he sits, eyes downcast, glasses clouded over. Face still. As always.
His mother is a wildfire, rapidly spread and evenly burning. A constant state of ignition. Her shoulders are tight, posture dangerous. Her hands hold her glasses stiff, the lines from her knuckles drawn to her wrist so sharp and thin. They’re shaking. So is Akira.
“... Get out.”
… What?
“You have 10 minutes. Get out.”
“What?”
“Don’t look at me like a fish, with your mouth open like that, pack your stuff and leave! I never want to see you again!” and she is crying. Hot tears spilling down her chin, his mother is a curling maw.
“Mom-”
“Akira.” It’s his father. This can’t be.
What’s going on? What did he do?
…
Is that it?
Reality sinks its bloody, yellowed teeth into him.
He feels himself step back, back again, feels himself bound off of his heel and out of the living room, and under his feet is cold wooden flooring, almost wet to the touch, feels a deep chill within his chest and between his throat and he’s in his room and suddenly Akira-
Akira stops. Breathes.
And he packs up.
He lifts up his bedframe, sorts through his old backpacks. Finds the biggest, fills it up with the clothes he wears most often. He packs a powerbank, his laptop, chargers, gloves. Slides a small water bottle into the side pocket; a couple snacks, medicine, miscellaneous stuff that he thinks he might need on the way. From behind a couple books on his shelf, he pulls out his savings, slots them into the back pocket of the bag. Makes sure he has his swiss army knife.
He takes the housekey off of his keyring. Makes his bed, lays it gently on the pillow.
Hoists the bag over his thick coat, grabs his toothbrush and toothpaste from the bathroom. Puts on his most comfortable shoes. He leaves the house, walks an hour to Ryuuou Station, Kofu, Yamanashi, and gets on the first train to Tokyo he can find.
And at 23:03 on a school night, Akira runs away.
He dreams shackled. Long steel bars, a cast ball around his ankle. Everything is so excruciatingly blue. The walls keep stretching up, upwards. It makes him lightheaded.
There’s something so surreal about this place, more than just the dreamlike state. The iron bars separating him from the center area waver and wind like a slow revolution of a CD. It feels almost like the surface of the water, viewed from underneath, the movement of distinct shapes in a sort of pattern.
Two pale little girls step in front of the bars in this little alcove he’s locked in. They’re dressed in all blue, prison guard uniforms… or whatever his mind’s come up with, in place of uniform. There are letters on their caps, but Akira can’t quite make them out. The oddest thing, however, is the eyepatch. One on either girl, they stand mirrored to each other, brandishing a decorated, golden “V”.
In unison, they part. In the center of the room sits a strange, balding man, with a large head and a truly incredible nose, as long as a hand. His eyes bulge out of their sockets, gleaming in the darkness. On his face rests a smile, ever present, viciously unsettling. Akira shivers in his striped garb. The man raises his head.
“Trickster,” he says, voice deep and crisp like mountain air, “welcome to my Velvet Room.”
Akira stays silent. He steps forward to the bars, chain clattering at his feet.
“So you’ve come to, inmate,” one of the girls says, her back to him. They’re both so small, coming up to maybe his hip. Her voice is soothing, slow. “The you in reality is currently fast asleep. You are only experiencing this as a dream.”
Before he can question what that could possibly mean, the other pipes up, “You’re in the presence of our master. Stand up straight!”
Experiencing this as a dream? Well of course, what else could this be? He’s dreaming right now, isn’t he?
The man speaks again. When he opens (opens?) his mouth, the whole room resonates. “This place exists within dream and reality, mind and matter. It is a room only those bound by a contract may enter.”
He keeps tapping his fingers on the desk, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, “I am Igor, the master of this place. Remember it well.”
His arms are heavy, held more by clamps than simple cuffs. He feels his wrists twitching under the weight. Pushing against the grit of his throat, he speaks.
“Let me out,” hoarse, but loud enough. He slams his weight against the bars, and-
His veins light up. Something ugly ravages his system, a loud, sharp thing, and in a panic, Akira lets go. It stops.
The small girl has an electric baton. As it seems, the bars are iron.
“Ruin awaits you in the near future,” Igor says. His mouth doesn’t open, Akira confirms. It’s like he speaks through gritted teeth without any audible strain, “Make no mistake. Your only path to freedom comes through a kind of ‘rehabilitation.’ Your actions have made you privy to the distortion of the world. It’s up to you and your resolve to challenge it.”
Akira says nothing. Igor continues.
“Although I will say, it’s quite the surprise. This room is a manifestation of your soul. To think that a prison would appear as such…” he looks around, high to the ceiling, “There must be something troubled within.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he croaks.
“Nor did I. And yet the heart has chosen its cage. There remains nothing for me to amend.”
Something roils in his gut.
“Regardless,” he says, “an early ace in your deck has changed the game.” Something shifts in his unchanging grin, and his eyes seem a little… colder.
“Do not take it for granted, Trickster.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, and the little one slams the bars again.
"Don’t speak so openly to our master, inmate!”
“Fret not, Caroline,” Igor says. Akira feels the energy in the room, like the heat of static, “he speaks not with malice.” He faces Akira now. “This world is not as it should be, nor is the story how it was written. This trick of fate is not one I have called for.”
He’s cold, suddenly, in his thin clothes. He shivers.
“You find yourself on a path you would naturally be directed to. I urge you to follow it. Freedom waits in your search.”
“I will aid you as I may, with a gift of my own,” Igor says, eyes light. The other girl, not Caroline, speaks.
“Ensure that you don’t squander it, inmate.”
And a tempest.
At 5 past midnight, Akira wakes with a jolt, flush against his train seat. He feels a dampness on his back, sweat coating his shirt. Wipes at his eyes. Someone’s speaking.
“-have notified us of a sudden collapse in distant rails, and it is currently inadvisable to continue the journey to Tokyo. Please remain on board until further notice,” a grainy voice hums over the loudspeaker. That must be the conductor. “Thank you for your patience.”
Akira feels an incredible stillness. There is no hum of the engine, no gentle rocking of the car. Everything has truly, completely stopped.
He looks out the window into the dark night.
He feels so small. A little kid in a snowglobe.
Akira wants to go home.