Chapter Text
If he's being honest, it doesn't even occur to Akira that something's not quite right until he attempts to punch the man with a gun in the face and his pint-sized fist bounces harmlessly off his stubbled jaw.
Well, okay, he knew something was wrong when he escaped Maruki's Palace and found himself sitting up on a bed in a hotel room he didn't recognise. He was alone and incredibly confused about what went wrong, so Akira did the smart thing and left the unfamiliar room in favour of investigating his whereabouts.
He didn't get far, of course, because the sky was green outside and there were a bunch of coffins lining the streets. Talk about weird.
Akira didn't get to dwell on it, however, because a man's panicked shouts had him sprinting through the unfamiliar, sprawling city streets. He passes by coffins and buildings and through narrow alley ways and arrives just in time to watch a shirtless man with long, white hair pull the trigger on his gun. The bullet hits its target, a young man with a backwards cap. He falls over, but he's not dead and Akira can't stop the gasp that escapes from him.
A terrible thing, too, as the man with the gun turns to Akira. His head cocked in surprise and a smile slowly spread across his lips. Behind him, stood a boy in green and a red-headed girl in an intricate, lace dress. Both let out sounds of annoyance at the sight of Akira, like he was inconveniencing them by witnessing them commit murder.
The joke was on them. Akira loved inconveniencing people.
"Well, well, well," said the white-haired man, lazily pointing his gun in Akira's direction, but not directly at Akira. The man he'd shot was still crying out, but his cries were getting weaker with each passing moment. Akira was running out of time. "What have we here? An interloper?"
Okay, so the man with a gun wanted to banter. Banter... Akira was usually great at banter but right now he was drawing a blank.
Whelp, when your mouth fails it's best to talk the only other way you know how—with your fists.
Akira raced forwards and launched himself at the man. He caught him off guard, knocking the (actually real, not a prop!) gun aside, but when Akira attempted to follow the attack up with a blow to the face, his fist bounced uselessly off the man's face.
His tiny fist, at that. Why the hell was his fist so small? Actually, to add to that, why did this guy seem so tall? Akira hadn't turned into a mouse again, had he?
The man Akira had just attacked seemed to think so, as he grabbed Akira by the neck and effortlessly hauled him off his feet. Akira kicked out, gasping as the hand squeezed his throat and the man laughed wildly.
"Now, that's no way to greet somebody," the man said, his face quirking in delight.
"Agu‐ngh—" Akira choked on his words, clawing at the strange man's hands. He didn't dislodge his grip at all. His struggle only seemed to enrapture the man as he grinned brightly at Akira.
"Is this truly necessary, Takaya?" the girl asked boredly from over the man's shoulder. She peered boredly at Akira before glancing away disinterestedly.
"Why, I am merely defending myself!" The man, Takaya, exclaimed with laughter in his voice. "The child did attack me first, after all."
Child?! Akira didn't have long to dwell on it as darkness began to creep in along the edge of his vision.
"Well, could you hurry it up?" The man with glasses snapped. "We don't have all night, Takaya. The hour is nearly up."
"How unfortunate is it that you're correct Jin," Takaya said mournfully, as his hand began to squeeze harder around Akira's neck. He sighed, but there was a manic look in his eyes as he said, "Very well, then."
Akira couldn't breathe and he was beginning to lose consciousness. He acted on instinct, reaching deep within his soul to grasp hold of that familiar spirit of rebellion within. It was nearly impossible to speak, but somehow he managed to choke out, "Arsène!"
His persona appeared in a whirlwind. Takaya was blasted off of him and his two companions barely remained standing as Arsène stood protectively over Akira.
Akira collapsed to the floor, coughing. He grasped at his throat, gasping for air. God, what the hell?!
Across the alleyway, Takaya was already standing. "A persona user!" he exclaimed delightedly. "And to accomplish the feat without the use of an evoker! My, how magnificent! This must be a gift!"
"Suspicious is what it is," Jin muttered, peering over at Akira. "Doesn't it seem a little too convenient?"
"Perhaps," Takaya said, conceding, "But we would be fools to pass this opportunity up, would we not, Jin?"
Jin grinned crookedly at that. "I guess you're right about that."
Akira glared at the two men. He was struggling to stay conscious. Summoning Arsène had taken a lot out of him. Honestly, he hasn't felt this weak from summoning a persona since the day he awakened his persona for the first time. But there was no way he was gonna let himself faint when these guys were hanging over his head.
At least, that's what he told himself, until time seemed to shift and the green hue surrounding them disappeared. Arsène faded away with the green light and consciousness began to slip from his grasp.
The last thing he saw before he slumped on the cold concrete floor was the unsmiling face of the red-headed girl as she unhurriedly approached him.
Akechi finds that in order to make the police act on the 'protection' aspect of their job, the situation must be very dire indeed.
A bruise or two, some malnourishment, well that was minor. If that's all you've got, you should really just be grateful for the roof over your head and the meals you're lucky enough to get your hands on. In fact, you really deserve further discipline for daring to complain about such fortunate treatment. If your guardian should choose to grace you with a slap or two for disrespecting their authority, then you should smile and say thank you afterwards.
Akechi knew that this was their line of thinking because he had worked alongside such men. Had experienced their disregard first-hand as a foolish child hoping for solace from the supposed pinnacle of society. As long as your mistreatment wasn't life threatening, then there was really no use
At eleven years old, Akechi received one meal a day and was only beaten on the admittedly rare occasion his foster father had a particularly difficult day at the office and required a target to vent his frustrations upon.
Ironically, this was one of his better foster situations.
But Akechi would not settle for better. No, he refused to ever suffer such humiliation again. He would not throw himself on Shido's mercy, but that did not mean he should live on scraps and scars until he was old enough to live on his own.
Ah, but perhaps some context was necessary.
You see, however inexplicably, Akechi Goro was now eleven years old again. This was an incredibly terrible thing to experience. There were worse ages to be—nine had been the worst, and twelve was a close second. Fifteen had its ups and downs, but he was admittedly alright with being a murderer, considering the independence it afforded him.
Eleven afforded no independence, nor protection. It truly was a terrible age to be. This was certainly somehow Akira's fault. Maybe he had made a deal with another god looking to toy with them, or perhaps Maruki had decided to deal them one final blow to sate his damaged ego.
Whatever the reason, Akechi was not willing to play along with whatever scheme he'd fallen victim to. He was finished with being a puppet. With being weak. In order to advance, Akechi would need to first rescue himself from this damned life.
Now, back to the matter at hand. Self-mutilation was not one of his habits, but it was unfortunately a necessary evil at the moment. His current foster father was not a man to resort to such means, but unless Akechi took drastic action, he would be at the man's mercy for another year and a half. He was unwilling to allow himself to be mistreated ever again.
And besides, a little framing never hurt anybody. Prosecutors did it all the time.
It was laughably easy to stab himself in the stomach—just so, so that he wouldn't bleed out or damage anything major, but enough of an injury that even the most incompetent of investigators could not brush it off as mere discipline gone a little too far.
The angle was important as well. Nobody would look too closely at the trajectory of the knife, but Akechi was unwilling to leave the matter to chance. Standing next to his foster father (who had passed out drunk on the floor after a night of heavy drinking and, presumably from how his shoulder smarted and his leg ached, taking out his issues on the unwitting child in his care), Akechi didn't hesitate before driving the knife into his stomach.
He grit his teeth against the pain and yanked out the blade. Yes, yes, never remove a blade from a wound or you could risk bleeding out, but Akechi required the blood to set the scene. He let it drip from his stomach onto the floor, and carelessly flecked the blood on his foster father with his fingers. It would not be believable if the man had stabbed him but was completely clean, after all.
There was no need to wipe his finger prints—Akechi apparently didn't own gloves at the age of eleven, so he'd made do with his sock wrapped around his hand (slipped back onto his foot, afterwards—he wasn't about to leave evidence lying about like an amateur). Then, it was a matter of closing his foster father's hand around the knife to ensure his prints were on the weapon, before he tossed it next to his unconscious form.
He considered injuring his foster father—to give the appearance that he'd fought back as he was stabbed, but Akechi was unwilling to potentially mar his record and afford the man a self-defence plea. The thought was laughable, but it was such a ridiculous notion that Akechi could not doubt its possibility. The legal system was ever so just, after all.
After that, Akechi got onto his stomach and crawled across the floor. Blood was slick underneath him and his head was woozy, but he reached the door in record timing. After that, it was merely a matter of pulling himself up and hobbling over to the unit next door and incessantly pressing the buzzer.
He lost consciousness as the door before him swung open and a shocked gasp rang out, but Akechi congratulated himself on another job well done. Really, he wondered why he'd ever left a life of crime behind. He was ever so good at it, after all.