Archive of Our Own

Akechi taps his feet, channeling his brimming energy against the concrete. No answer; he knocks again. Restless, he looks down at the bags in his hands, clicking his tongue as he sees the poor plastic on the verge of tearing from the plethora of potato chips it contains — he has to wonder how Futaba maintains her slim figure despite the overconsumption of junk foods. She’ll probably love this, he thinks with inward disrelish.

Feather Parakeet. Check. Feather Hawk. Check. Feather Red. Check. A good sale indeed.

The war flashbacks from the harsh battle with sales-veteran housewives is still fresh in his mind. He may be a novice in this field, but he’s handled crowds of fangirls back in his days as the Charismatic Detective. So naturally, he reigned as a victor in the end, ending the day with a little wink at the sales lady — the special prize was just a bonus.

Wow Akechi, you look dumb! He imagines raillery in the form of Futaba's face. As innoxious as it is, he still hasn’t grown accustomed to Futaba’s goading insults. He figures he’ll eventually get used to it. Much to his surprise, he finds it is somewhat reinvigorating to deal with a personality as crude as the young hacker’s, unlike his less than savory, purely cosmetic fans, business associates, and peers. And maybe he does look dumb with three Phoenix Rangers masks overlapping each other on the side of his head, but he couldn’t care less. Which is strangely unsettling, since the old him would undoubtedly have—

He rings the bell one last time before fishing out the duplicate keys that Sojiro gave him. You’re still her kid and I made a promise, he told him once, and Goro does not dare to say anything else out of respect for Sojiro.

He steps inside, hearing voices coming from upstairs. Futaba and Akira, he thinks. Indistinct words permeate the house; Akechi notes the rampant enthusiasm in their conversation, and Akira’s voice trounced by Futaba’s squeals.

There’s a memory from a distant past, he remembers being six once again. He remembers watching ‘Phoenix Rangers’ as he crammed in the living room with the other orphans. TV time was the sole entertainment in that shithole orphanage — no one in their right mind would ever miss it. He remembers his young mind fed with a fabricated world revolving around good and evil, that if you’re a good kid, good things will happen to you. Someone will adopt you, their caretakers would tell them.

They were empty promises that Akechi clung to as a child. And despite a cruel and unforgiving reality; he believed and hoped like the child that he was. He dreamed to be a hero, just like Feather Hawk.

Because if he’s a hero —even if he’s a cursed, undesirable child whose mother chose death because of his mere existence, whose father remained faceless, even if his life is nothing but another strain in orphanages overflowing with sorry waifs and indolent excuses for overseers— he’s the good guy who will defend the weak from the evil doers, he will stand above everyone else and most of all, he’s the paragon of justice. The people will love him and praise him. Then his existence would finally matter to the world.

Perhaps it is the pipe dream of every young boy, a dream with an expiration date as they grow up to face the harsh reality of the world. Except Goro never grows out of it. And thus the innocence of his childhood dream convolutes, warps, distorts into the hero complex of his teenage years.

Which is why, it was in Shido Masayoshi that he saw the villain he would aim to defeat, aiding in his evil plans to create the ultimate villain that befits the grandest hero of the century. The title that shall only belong to Akechi Goro.

Ah, how fruitless it was even from the beginning. How childish. How pathetic.

He awakes from his reverie as he reaches the end of the stairs, hearing retro game music coupled with fervent fingers mashing the poor buttons of a game console, mingling with shouts of triumph and frustration. If Akechi were to deduce the current standing of their game, considering the context and intensity of their vociferation...

Futaba’s leading, he thinks. Which happens most of the time and she makes sure to flaunt this overt difference in skill.

Nevertheless, Akechi and Akira refuse to back down without a fight. Just like Joker and Crow during their Phantom Thieves days, they would work in tandem to defeat a common enemy — this time, it just happened to be Futaba. And sometimes it worked, but mostly, they’re all futile attempts. It’s hard to win against a foe who has too many strengths and virtually no weakness.

He remembers then, rummaging through the farthest corner of his forgotten childhood, the time when he wished for a younger sibling.  Even if he did not have the capability yet to be as grand as Feather Hawk, he could start with one person. After all, don’t heroes begin their story by striving to protect a person they cherish?

I’ll protect you! He daydreams as a child. He remembers the countless times he’s played alone in his little corner, donning a tattered blanket and a mask constructed from old newspaper, pretending to be the hero he admired, to have an imaginary sibling (he used an old, overused stuffed toy as a substitute) he could protect from the evils of the world. A fun memory, looking back at it. Because back then, it gave him hope that maybe, just maybe, he’s not as alone in the world as he thought.

But it was a short-lived dream, one that he quickly discarded as he aged. Honestly, what was he thinking? A sibling would just be a liability, a hindrance to his grand plans.

And now, by a miraculous twist of fate, against all odds, his asinine childhood wish was granted. A younger sister, the only family he has left in this world: Futaba Sakura.

It was fun —if Goro were to strip off all the layers, if he were to allow himself to feel, to allow himself a smudge of honesty. As peculiar as it was, as he spent more time with Futaba, he relived those memories with nostalgic fondness, that lost fragment of his past resurfacing in her presence. It was definitely something he could look forward to every day, in a future he could no longer see.

But still, he treads through this unknown territory of family carefully, toes tipped for every step he took. Because it terrifies him, how smoothly this arrangement has been so far. There it was tingling at the tips of his fingers, the impending doom that he feared might happen, once the comfort of this family settled into his system. Because at end of the day, he knows that beneath this display of quiet domesticity, there lies his ugly past, his unforgivable sins. It’s not supposed to be like this, it doesn’t make any sense, I don’t deserve any of this.

So he tries. He thinks of it as a responsibility, as a favor for Akira who shoved this arrangement right to his face one day — when Goro had managed to shovel on the last layer of dirt on the truth that was six feet under in his mind, pretending it did not exist in the first place out of respect to the people involved (which coincidentally, were the people who suffered because of his so-called revenge. A fact that Akira seemed to forget.) You deserve this. Do it for yourself. I’ll be here for you two. Akira reassures him and even when Goro thinks they’re all just a shallow bullshit of excuses, he ends up believing and holding onto Akira’s words.

It doesn’t bother him that he’s been inflicted by the Phantom Thieves and their contagious stupidity. What bothers him is that he’s not sure if he minds it anymore.

His steps are silent, utilizing the skills in stealth he gained back in the Metaverse. He prepares  for a surprise attack, exploiting their state of undivided attention towards the game.

Their voices are now reduced to hushed words, secrets shared through their whispers. There are times when he feels envious of this comfortable relationship between Akira and Futaba. A faint murmur at the back of his mind, pricking at him constantly. But he’s learned to accept it and swallow this budding jealousy. And maybe, just maybe, he could be a part of their little world in the future.

“—then we can invite Akechi too.”

He hears Akira mumble. It was a feeble sound, spoken as an afterthought. The words almost slipped by his ears, drowned by the cacophony of their video game. He presses his lips together, pressing down on the welling inside of his chest. I don’t deserve this and yet—

“Futaba?”

A click.

Pause.

Silence.

Goro holds his breath, fingers wrapped around the railings. He stares at the steps ahead.  Sojiro-san should clean them soon, he thinks idly.

“What’s wrong?”

I should go, he thinks and yet he doesn’t move.

Idle fingers are pushing buttons even when the game is paused. A shuffling of clothes. A shoe falls on the floor. Silence. And finally, with the softest voice, Futaba speaks:

“Can it just be the two of us?”

The plastic bags would have slipped off his fingers had he not readjusted his grip firmly, fingers digging through the flimsy plastic, biting into his palm — thankfully, neither Futaba nor Akira heard.

He must leave. Get out of here before everything crumbles on your head, he tells himself. Before you ruin yourself once again. But isn’t he used to this? To be thrown away. To be undesired. To be alone.

“It’s just that...with Akechi? I…...”

He hears hesitance, the words are left hanging on the air and Goro feels like a lifetime had passed.

Nails dig deeper into the handle, carving small, crescent grooves on the wooden surface. His eyes continue staring at the same spot of dust and soot. Unblinking. Uncomprehending. He swallows and the air feels thick. He’s suffocating and it’s crushing him into the ground.

He wants to escape.

”I can’t do it. I don’t wanna do this anymore. It’s just not working,” Futaba whispers. “He will never be a brother to me.”

In Futaba’s voice he hears certainty behind the hesitance, the guilt from the weight of her words, the freedom of finally being spoken out loud. His grip loosens and he breathes once again.

Ah, of course.

Of course it was but a farce. Of course he remains to be unwanted. By a family once again. It does not change for him. A family is just too much.

He doesn’t feel anything. I’m not even surprised, he thinks. But he was a fool to even try. A fool to even think that he’ll gain the family that was robbed from him since the beginning.

In the silence that follows, Goro was able to gather his thoughts. He closes his eyes and sees the hollow forming once again, he welcomes it, allowing himself to be engulfed. A step back and he turns on his heels, soundless steps down the stairs. A few more and he’ll disappear from this place — no one will ever notice.

“You wound me, Futaba.”

Goro stops, against his better judgment. He looks back to see Akira taking something out of his pocket.

“Futaba Sakura’s promise list v.3,” he reads the piece of paper, Futaba flinches visibly.  ”One; Initiate sibling route with Akechi Goro. Get the true end. Two; Call him ‘onii-chan’,’’  She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, pouting. Akira pats her head gently. “You’ve been working hard to fulfill this list. And didn’t you tell me that there’s that third secret promise? That you’ll have to unlock all the CGI events first before you tell me? I’m not asking you to fulfill them right away, but….” He pushes himself up, walking towards Futaba, her eyes simply followed his movements. And when he reached Futaba’s seat, he kneels, taking her hands, holding them gently. Futaba’s eyes wander around the room except Akira’s, but eventually, she submits to his stare.

Akira’s voice is that of a siren. A bait. A scam. A deception. It just lures you in. Opens up the ugliest part of your soul to lay bare in front of him. He dislikes this tone of him the most. Because he’s fallen victim to his stupid lullabies and yet he continues to listen to them, turning them over and over endlessly, like the ebb and flow of the waves in his head. He loses control of himself and he hates it. He is the reason Akechi’s plan failed, too tempted was he by the allure of the Phantom Thieves leader that he became blind to everything else.

“Are you really going to just delete this save file? Even after all the progress you’ve made?”

He steps back, the sole of his shoe almost got caught on the step, and he holds onto the railing. He feels the tremors of his fingers, cold and sweaty. He swallows thickly. There it is once again, bubbling at the pits of his stomach, that acrid taste of raw jealousy threatening to ascend to his throat. We’re over this, he tries to reason himself.

Her brows furrow, her lips forming words but deciding against it, whatever protests she had were drowned by Akira’s stare.

“Okay,” Futaba says, mumbling to herself.  She closes her eyes, breathing in and out, squeezing Akira’s hands. “Okay. I’ll still do it. R-remember my reward okay?”

I’m only doing this for you Akira, is left unsaid.

Akira pats her head, “Of course.”

He walks back to his seat. The whole room is drowned by the sounds of the video game once again.

“So a bro-date to Akihabara tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, Akira. Let’s finish this game first.”

Hah.

Of course, the whole world revolves around Akira Kurusu. With a flick of his finger, everything and everyone follows his lead. Whatever he says, whatever he does, they would do it for Akira.

A charity? A project? An experiment, perhaps? It doesn’t matter anymore. He has woken from this dream, from this illusion that Akira has woven for the two of them. Show’s over, Akira, he thinks. He enjoyed it while it lasted.

Ah, what a waste, he thinks, staring down at the plastic bags in his hands.

Akechi leaves the Sojiro residence silently. He goes to the nearest trashcan and throws it all out.

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Life is no longer eventful for the once up and coming detective. Days of endless talk shows and aiding in his father’s schemes have long since faded, and there is nothing he can wake up to that can distract from the hollow emptiness in his heart. Studying for college entrance exams seems feckless with naught an end goal in sight. He is anchorless, a buoy in the midst of a maelstrom.  

For as long as he could remember, he has been set adrift, helpless in the wake of the ocean’s thrall. He is always fighting — fighting to keep his head above water, fighting to persevere, even if it means drowning others.

He sees a beam of light travelling the seas and slicing through the fog, a star from the distant shore. He hears its call over the eastern horizon, the safe haven for wanderers and fugitives alike. Even now, the lighthouse beckons to him, and he cannot find it in himself to resist.    

Leblanc smelled of mildly sui generis potpourri; a sweet blend of French lavender and rosemary that relaxed as much as it revitalized a weary, downtrodden soul. If he looked up, he’ll see a smile so effortlessly wholesome and heartfelt it hushes the demons lurking within.

But today, it is different. With the knowledge of the other day’s events looming over him, his smile only rouses it. Goro knows this from the way his heart twists and clenches painfully as if to consume him from inside out, and it's taking everything he has to return the smile. Thankfully, the bar provides sufficient cover for his tightly knuckled fists.

“I find it amusing that I never thought to ask until an entire year later — how do you like being a barista?” He asks out of the blue, desperate to break the hold of his jaundiced eye, however temporary it is. He watches as Akira handles the coffee dripper with an ease that only inflames it further. How does everything come so naturally to him? He’s younger by a whole year, and yet...

The only indication that he hears is a low hum as he pours hot water over the ground beans in the filter with slow, spiralling movements, paying heed at how the coffee blooms from his touch. Like magic, Goro absentmindedly wonders, slightly entranced. He has lost count of how long his eyes follow Akira’s movements as he measures the water effusion with a calculated finesse, the beans radiating ochre stardust from his calm ministrations.

“You could say...it’s a little like learning your customers,” his voice suddenly cuts through the air like a razor sharp blade. “Who are they? What are they like? Most of the time, you don’t learn this on your first meeting. You have faith that they’ll return; when they do, that’s when you start learning, little by little. You’re another step closer towards brewing the perfect cup for them. Sometimes it doesn’t matter how many times you see them; there’s always more to learn.” He lets out a breathy chuckle, as if amused by his own words.

“Everyone is different, and so is every single blend. I like trying out different things, adding a little flavor here and there depending on what I think suits them. And when it turns out that they love it? There’s nothing more gratifying than putting a bigger smile on someone’s face. It’s unorthodox, but what’s life without a little risk?” Goro frowns. Does he still think like he’s in the Metaverse?

Then Akira smiles at him, a roguish sheepishness that makes his heart skip a beat against his will, and he hates himself for it. “Uh, mind not telling the boss? He’ll probably grind me worse than the beans if he knows I’m straying from tradition.”

Contrary to popular belief, Goro does not swear religiously by coffee. He appreciates the art and tender care that goes into coffee, yes; but coffee itself is incredibly bitter, and he has a dire sweet tooth that he unfortunately has not grown out of, among other things. And yet when Akira slides a steaming cup that wafted with a soft floral aroma towards him (Goro had already prepared an enthusiastic smile as he quickly appraises the smell. Hibiscus and honeysuckle? How peculiar) he tastes a juicy acidity far from the astringency he had braced himself for —a smooth, crisp, yet mellow backdrop coupled with soothing herbal notes and an underlying buttery walnut taste strangely reminiscent of macadamia.

Nevertheless, he never expected it to become his new favorite drink.

“Colombian nariño,” Akira says, smiling in response to Goro’s befuddled expression. “It’s a new recipe I recently learned. The arabica pairs well with mostly anything. But it can also stand alone, and it’s that unique versatility which makes them so approachable. By the same token, you realize that there are unifying layers of flavor with varying degrees of subtlety that compound a compelling depth with just a single sip, hence the complexity of its taste.”

“I-I see.” Goro stutters for lack of anything better to say, busying himself with another sip. He pretends that the steam from the coffee is the reason for the rising heat on his cheeks.

To the brunette’s embarrassing bewilderment, Akira chuckles. He turns around and takes off his apron before hanging it on the corner — Goro can’t see his face when he says it.

“It’s becoming my favorite, too.”

Before Goro can ponder on it more, Akira’s phone sets off with a loud chime, and Goro nearly lurches out of his seat.

He hears Akira groan quietly as he looks at his phone, and Goro tilts his head, “Is something the matter?”

“No, it’s nothing bad,” Akira says, pocketing his phone and looking at Goro with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but Sojiro asked me to run a quick errand for him. He forgot to restock on curry ingredients, so I’m doing it in his stead before he comes in. Do you mind staying for a while until I get back? It shouldn’t take more than half an hour at most, but if you have somewhere to be, I can—”

“No, it’s fine,” Goro interjects placatingly with a practiced curve of his lips. “I’m in no rush. You can count on me to look after the shop while you’re gone —it’s the least I can do for getting to taste such sublime coffee.”

With an apologetic grin and a promise that he won't take long, he leaves the shop, leaving the bells chiming at his swift departure.

Goro's smile drops as he looks down at his coffee, hands gripping the cup so tight he could feel the blooming heat scalding his palms.

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Futaba grumbles to herself. Not even three dots from Akira. She wraps her arms around her knees, now she has a knee-chest sandwich with her head as the filling. I’m hungry, she thinks. I want my curry, Akira. She just wants to go home, to come back to the chaotic comfort of her room, drown in the endless hole of the internet, binge watch animes and forget about this inevitable confrontation.

Escaping from secret boss battles when you haven’t grinded enough  is a smart move. And Futaba likes to believe she is a smart girl. A genius, if she were to be honest.

So, she chooses the genius move; planning her escape route. She cranes up her neck, emulating a giraffe while balancing herself with her heels afloat.

She peeks inside Leblanc.

Good. The enemy hasn’t noticed her yet. Her heels land on the concrete again, and now, as stealthy as a thief, she creeps towards her house—

A ping.

She pauses, fingers flying to her phone screen.

Three dots.

Three dots.

Futaba thinks a lifetime has passed before she sees a reply.

She deletes her last message. There’s no point trying to negotiate with Akira. Really, she should just retreat and forget about Akira’s curry. He’s forsaken her in this boss battle, even though he was the one who initiated this mission in the first place. ABORT. ABORT. MISSION FAILED..

Are you really going to just delete this save file? Even after all the progress you’ve made? She hears his voice in her head.

She falls into the knee-chest sandwich again. In this position, she can pretend she’s invisible to the whole world. She needs to disappear at this moment. Badly. Maybe curl herself into a  ball and just roll into a hole. She grumbles incoherently. It’s definitely those big and innocent grey eyes that Futaba fails to refuse when he exploits her. He does that on purpose. Or it’s just his natural charisma. Add his voice and his brotherly touches shooting the charm points to the roof. Plus he’s still Joker, Phantom Thieves’ former leader and pillar of the group. So of course she’ll succumb to his pleas right away.

Unfair.

But she understands it, of course she does. Akechi has the tragic back story, and really, if he were a videogame or an anime character, murderer or not, she would fully empathize. If she were merely an audience to watch the struggles of this tragic hero, she’d be drawn to him. Hell. She might even write the longest argumentative paper just to justify his actions and contend with dumbasses online who would talk shit about him for what they believed to be an entirely superficial characterization.

Except this is reality, and someone real was killed. Her mother was murdered. And she suffered for years because of it.

Imagine living the thrilling tale of society’s faceless heroes, pursuing the villains and finally, here comes the Final Boss —not the final Final Boss— so you do your thing and defeat him then suddenly, life decided to pull a Star Wars prank on you, and a molotov cocktail drops on your head in the form of Shido’s last words, ‘I am your father and Akechi Goro is your blood-related brother’.

Well, at least you didn’t get the Luke-Leia sibling trope, she tried to console herself, which did not help at all. Because that trope is just….weird and awful. She can’t even begin to imagine it in her situation. Hell no, she thinks.

And the lightsaber? It’s some godawful foreshadowing.

But really, does she even need another brother when Akira’s more than qualified for that role?

I have a surprise for you. You’ll never see this coming. Akira had messaged her one day. And she was so hopeful, so ecstatic that the only way she could repress her energy was to bury her nose in Morgana’s raven fur amidst his yowling (thankfully, he didn’t smell bad). Maybe it would be that new computer model she’d been indirectly and very subtly talking to him about, or that ¼ Neo Featherman scale she’d always wanted.

The moment she heard Akira’s knock —two short knocks then a long one (it was their secret code because Akira’s the one who buys her special doujinshis for her)— she was all ready to give that biggest bear hug to Akira, probably even tackle him to the ground. When she opened the door, arms stretched, she lunged at him, unintelligible squeaks of greeting lost on his chest but when she looked up, a Goro Akechi came to her view.

“H-hi Futaba-chan,”  he said, appearing too inconvenienced at the moment.

It was the most awkward hug she ever had, and she wanted to dig a hole to escape this embarrassment.

Futaba extricated herself right away, eyes widening, searching for Akira to explain the presence of a dead person here. Akira appeared from behind him, “Surprise?” he said sheepishly.

Top ten anime betrayals, Futaba thought.

Many things were unearthed in that moment, more truths uncovered and lies debunked, and it sent Futaba’s mind reeling. How did he survive? When did he announce his return to Akira? And why did they decide to show up in front of just her? They had only looked at each other, and a very uneasy laugh had escaped from the older one between them, saying that he had something very important to tell her.

That was the beginning of the most awkward third-wheeling of Akira to the futago siblings —as Akira dubbed them (wordplay using an amalgam of their first names that coincidentally meant twins in Japanese; a really awful wordplay).

What? You’d rather be called Shido siblings? Or maybe Shi-blings? Akira asked, much to Futaba’s dawning horror. A resounding ‘NO’ followed right away, which was probably the most brutally honest and domestic moment they ever had.

In Akira’s presence, they could talk, conversing like normal acquaintances forced to interact by virtue of a common friend. And Futaba hates it. She hates the pressing tension when they are left alone.

Oh, you like this show? It seems interesting.

Ah, this manga, I’ve read it and it’s quite impressive.

I was fond of video games before, will you recommend one to me?

He asks while he’s got the ‘charismatic’ smile plastered on his lips. Futaba, mostly with a mix of grumbling, would go along with his requests.

If Futaba was not well-versed with the two-faced Akechi, she would think he was putting real effort on getting to know her better. Akechi is perceptive enough to know that she sees through his mask. She’s not one of those adults he’s used to deal with whose fragile egos are swayed by his sickeningly honeyed words of deception. She’s not the type of person that needs to be pleased, to be pampered. It irks her, that Akechi Goro approaches her the same.

There were times though, she sees the slip of this mask. She sees the boy in him, grinning like an idiot while he plays with her, his eyes would sparkle, putting out his tongue as he concentrates, stomping and standing as he shouted ‘Did you see that?!’ ,’Let’s do that again!’  Futaba is then reminded of Crow fighting alongside the Phantom Thieves, the Crow that they all deemed as a traitor, a threat to their group. There are still pangs of guilt when she remembers those times, they were all too busy trying to outsmart him, too busy to get angry at his actions. Not one of them tried to understand why someone their age was hell-bent to achieving the title of an Edge Lord. It was only Akira who genuinely tried, now that Futaba thought about it.)

But that was it.

None of them would ever try to open up, initiate that serious talk they badly needed. Anything relating to family is the biggest no-no for them. As if Futaba could just simply say, ‘Haha yeah remember when you were our father’s personal assassin, and then he asked you to kill my mom who is coincidentally your mom too? Man, we’ve got the wildest family.’  There were just too many landmines that both of them kept trying to dodge; their relationship would be nothing but frivolous.

God. They both try too hard, and it’s suffocating.

How ironic though, that family is what tied them together.

But still, she tries.

Even when at times, she sees him for his sins, for his past, but she’s way over her ‘I’ll avenge my mom’s death’ phase. She doesn’t know if she can ever bring herself to forgive him — and yet but there’s always a lingering sense of sympathy for him, even empathy to an extent, for the tragic life he suffered. It’s a long process, she knows, but she’s getting there. She can co-exist with Akechi Goro, sure, but acknowledging him as a big brother?

She presses her head deeper onto her knees, hugging herself tighter. Through the strands of her hair, she spares another peek at her phone.

He’s also trying.

For you.

For both of you.

She pouts, grumbling a bit more as she cowers from the world once again. She’s like a puppet, her strings being pulled by Akira. Seriously, who allowed him to have this much power?

Do this for the promise list. Futaba thinks, breathing in and out.

She will finish this mission. She has conquered every route in every otoge, galge and even eroge so this, even if it’s on merciless difficulty, will inevitably be subjugated as well.

So in one fluid movement, she stands tall, chin up, firm resolve swirling in her eyes.

“C’mon Futaba, get inside and increase your sibling affection points.”

She rests her hand on the knob, pushing farthest from her mind the image of Akira, brows furrowed with concern, eyes dimming with gloom and subtle disappointment — for himself, whispering as he pats her head, ‘I’m sorry. I pushed you too much. It was too much for you to handle.’

She pushes the door and the bell dings.

Do it for Akira.

Do it for Mom.

Do it for yourself.

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“Ah, good afternoon, Futaba-chan.” Akechi greets as soon as Futaba steps inside Leblanc.

She wants to sprint away right at that moment. Her Fake Smile Detector is tingling. She witnesses the quick switch of his expression; in the blink of an eye, he goes from an eerie Im-so-dead-inside to your-ever-charming-detective smile. So now, Futaba is wary of him. It reminded her of that time he overshared his tragic past to her and Akira behind the counter, except this one has a bit of that person from the engine room. Not even Inari’s Mabufudyne — or Joker’s Ice Age, for that matter— can compare to the chill of that one-second-stare.

Her hand slides in her pocket, clutching on her phone. Her fingers are itching to dial Akira’s number and try to negotiate once again. They’ve had their moments alone but this, it just feels different. The calm before the storm or the hoard of zombies surrounding the cornucopia of restorative and buff items. She tightens her hold, pretending that her phone is the real Akira to give her moral support.

I-I’ll defeat this Demon Lord Jr., she thinks.

“Yo Akechi,” she says as she pauses on the seat beside him, deciding instead to leap on the seat next to that one; she needs at least one seat apart for her protection. She can feel his eyes on her, watching her. He says nothing. Huh. “Akira said he’ll be late. Too many people where he is.”

Silence.

A sip of coffee.

“Mmm…I see.” He crosses his legs. ”I suppose we’ll just have to wait for him.”

“Yeah.”

And the conversation ends there. They could just mind each other’s business, staying in their own separate worlds while they wait for Akira. It’s better than trying too hard for a small talk. Anyway, any superficial topic would just end with another silence.

She retreats her head to the comfort of her arms, facing Sayuri. She stays the same, radiating the warmth of a loving mother. No wonder Inari would come to Leblanc some days just to sit and take in the Sayuri. For guidance, Inari would say. When my mind is in deep turmoil, I need only to feast my eyes upon her to quell the chaos within.

To think that this painting actually came from a person’s distorted desires. It brings to mind her own Palace; if it were a regular palace with a treasure waiting at the end, what would it be? A picture of her mom, or her herself?

Except she won’t be your real mom because she’s the mom from your cognition. Genius, Futaba. Genius.

She burrows her head. Maybe she can just message Inari and tell him about Akira’s curry so he’ll Naruto run his way here ASAP and they can roast Akechi together. He’s a better companion and much more comfortable to hang out out with anyway. It’s an easy escape, yes. Not exactly what Akira was aiming for them. But Futaba is quite desperate at this moment.

Akira. He’s got an AOE effect of both Burn and Despair. I’m losing my HP and SP stat! I need your curry so bad, and then go to Akiba--

“Oh!” She exclaims, breaking the tranquility of the place. Her hands slam the table, gripping the edge tightly as she swings around, halfway facing Akechi. ”By the way, wanna go to Akiba with us today?”

He does not look at her. He seems to prefer talking to a non-living and probably empty coffee mug in front of him, rather than the talking and human Futaba beside him. She can’t blame him. To be honest, she’d rather talk to a wall or Inari on his creative trance at the moment than beating this proverbial dead horse of a conversation.

He allows strands of his hair to fall, concealing his face, caressing the rim of the mug so lovingly he might as well marry the thing.

“I apologize, but I must refuse for today. I have quite a stack of homework and projects to do tonight. ”

“Oh.”

She sees it on the horizon, something is definitely brewing in the air, and it’s not just Akira’s coffee. Her alarm bells tell her not to push this through, but still….

“Hey, A-Akechi?” she stutters and she feels like melting into a puddle.

She has to try. To at least step one foot beyond her comfort zone. She consoles herself by thinking that after clearing this side quest, Akira will be proud of her. Then she can request for another one of his special skills: stroking her head as a reward.

“You know, I was thinking! I’d really love to play Gun About with you again. I’ve seen your shooting skills as Crow before and it’s cooler seeing it in person.“ She gestures her hands, mimicking a gun. God, she’s never going to make fun of Ann’s acting again. ”Hehe~ Plus! We have a score to settle! Also we can challenge The King if he’s there! Then we’ll venture the whole of Akiba for loot, just like we did in the Metaverse!”

Her hands are everywhere, pumping her fists, waving in the air. They move along the enthusiasm of her words. Her eyes sparkle, because this is Akiba they’re talking about. It’s basically every nerd’s paradise.

”Rare loot! Super extra rare loot on the darkest corners of Akiba that no one is aware of except those of extreme cunning! Your unparalleled wit would definitely be invaluable in getting past the holy barrier to the promise lands this time!” Oh no. She can’t stop talking and her palms are way too clammy and she thinks she might slip and fall flat on her face. “Oh! Oh! We can also go back to that pancake parlor you recommended once. I can already see it; futago duo plus sidekick Akira on a roll-- ”

A clink.

“Futaba-chan, I appreciate the thought, really.” His voice appears calm on the surface, but Futaba hears the slip of anger and frustration beneath. ”But I believe it would be more beneficial for the two of us if we just stop this. Don’t you think?”

Her hands halt their movements mid-air, landing on her thighs with a slap. She doesn’t know if it hurt. She feels numb all of a sudden.

She tries to speak, but her throat feels constricting. She swallows, trying to stabilize her voice, but she fails, the quiver is still palpable.

“Stop….this?” She repeats, and wow, isn’t that the stupidest response ever.

“This.” His fingers are fluid, waving in the air, loosely gesturing him and Futaba. And yet, he does not look at her. ”Our arrangement as siblings. Isn’t it about time we drop this act and be honest once and for all?”

‘He’s also trying’ my ass, Akira. He just trampled on the Guts I worked so hard to gain. Futaba thinks, folding her hands on her lap. She digs her nails deeper into her palms.

”There’s a saying. ‘The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb’. It means the blood shed in battle bonds soldiers more strongly than simple genetics. The bond you have with the others are strong enough that you consider them your family, isn’t that right? You have that and the unconditional acceptance you desire. What more do you want? Why are you trying so hard for someone you don't care about?”

She focuses on the dull ache, and it helps. Because if she does not redirect her attention, if her hands weren’t kept immobile, she would jump from this chair to his. She’ll push and tackle down Goro Akechi to the floor. And that’s where they can continue this dumb argument...or monologue. With her fists and platform boots. And the chair. She’ll make sure to drag the chair with her. And maybe Morgana too. Wherever he is. He won’t be outnumbered because Morgana’s a cat anyway.

Do it for the promise list, she reminds herself.

“Contrary to popular belief, blood isn't thicker than water. Family can and will cross you quicker than strangers. Aren’t Shido and I proof of that already?” A mirthless laugh. ”Don’t worry. I’ll take the responsibility of discussing this decision with Akira. He'll likely disapprove. But this had always been a mistake. We both owe much to him, but I’m sure there are other ways to repay our debt to him than this.”

Just stop it. Stop talking, Akechi. But she remains rooted on her seat. A deer caught in headlights.

“I think you and I both knew from the very beginning that this would be fruitless. The damage I’ve done is permanent and irreversible, but at least we can be at peace knowing that we tried. I highly encourage you to move on from this quickly. As will I, of course.”

She breathes in, do it for Akira. She will be the bigger person here. (Well, maybe not physically, but metaphorically, she has a bigger heart and that’s what matters.) Her throat feels more constricting, her eyes are starting to water. If she cries right now, she’ll be the loser. Shaky and slowly, she breathes out. Do it for Mom.

“It’s the easiest way out of this farcical nuisance. It’s the similar mentality I adapted when I dealt with Shido.”

She hates his voice. It’s clinical. It’s robotic. It’s like he’s the puppet version of Akechi from a year ago. That’s not you anymore. So why? She asks no one. And all this time he’s been staring at the coffee beans. As if he’s been forced to recite this awful script written by an edgy script writer. Everything is too much for her to handle. The world is spinning. She’s mad. Furious.

She’s simply a nuisance to him. Okay. Nothing new. She’s been called a nuisance before by her uncle. She can manage.

Hah.

She feels stupid. She was sincere. She spent the whole night thinking about her conversation with Akira and she came up with the decision to give Akechi a chance. To work this out with him.

And she was prepared, mentally psyching herself that even if it’ll be at a snail’s pace, she’ll have that heart-to-heart sibling talk with him. Then it can be the beginning to accessing the secret promise list: Visit mom’s grave with Akechi. And then….and then...this.

And god, it’s happening again. She’s starting to shake, breath becoming shallow and quick as beads of sweat start rolling down her head. She wants to protest, to shout, but her voice is lodged in her throat, and Akechi just keeps talking and it pisses her off—

“Wakaba-san is but a mere stranger to me. At any rate, I know Shido. He is a silvertongue, adept at manipulating and distorting truth into lies. I wouldn't be surprised if the woman I was told of and the mother you hold so dear are actually very diff—”

And that was it. That was when she jumps down, adrenaline pumping to her system as she single-handedly pushes the chair to the side and takes long, angry strides, stomping towards Akechi.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Akechi —” She yells through gritted teeth. She yanks his shoulder so finally, he’s staring at her. ”Who do you think you are to even — ” How could he even say that? He knows, the evidence is all there! If he wants to play that card, then fine. She jabs his chest with her index finger so hard she’s feels her bones almost breaking. “You never even— ”

You never even had the right to have her as your mother.

The words were there at the tip of her tongue, barely holding on. She knows this is the poison that has been running in her thoughts ever since she knew about their relationship. She knows it’s the reason why she can’t take this sibling bullshit to heart. Wakaba Isshiki is my mother. Not yours. The words keep repeating on her mind.

She can’t help it.

“You’re the one who killed her.”

The words just spilled out from her tongue and she wouldn’t stop them even if she can. But it doesn’t make her feel better, it’s not one of those ‘liberating’ moments. Especially when her clouded thoughts have finally cleared up, and she sees with clearer vision the face of Akechi. In that one second of clarity, she sees the slip of his mask, revealing an Akechi all battered and bruised and tired from the constant battle inside him. And in Futaba’s words, he draws the last straw.

All of her anger shoots down the drain. Regret invades her system, spreading like wildfire.

Now, who’s the bigger asshole here, Futaba.

And then, she breaks down.

.

.

.

He sees it; sees the tears welling up in her eyes, the tremor of her curled up fists —funny, he does that too— the regret expounded by the abrupt exodus of her outburst.

But he feels nothing for her. Nothing at all. No sympathy, no sweet words of solace. Goro thinks he would, if he hadn’t let his guard down too quickly. No, he let her words bleed languorously into his core; the guilt he has long since buried egressing from the depths of his callous, murderous heart with a rush that makes his fists clench in similar fashion, fingernails digging grooves into his hands.

And if they draw blood, what does it matter? Dark crimson has already been inked onto his skin, a mark indelible until death delivers him justice.

A murderer, she has essentially called him. He wants to laugh, but it's stuck in his throat.

It’s not as if he doesn't know it himself. Strange how he’s hearing it out of someone else’s mouth. The daughter of the woman he murdered.

—It was all a lie. Those men I sent to deceive your sister? She wasn’t the first. Your mother didn’t commit suicide, Shido had said, head hung in his arms in the cushy cell. Although that didn't account for what it looked like in reality. She ran and betrayed me, violated our contract. She was going to publicize her research if I let her be, so I had you take care of her in the Metaverse. Oh, why did I—

His own mother.

The wave of vertigo crashes over him like a tsunami, and it's suddenly become exponentially harder for him to breathe.

The apologies come gushing out her mouth like a waterfall, a stuttering deluge of grief and agony, of regret, and god, he's so sick of that word now. What are regrets but the mere luxuries of the common fool with a decadence of time on their hands? It's entirely wasted on him.

“That’s quite alright,” he says, an aggressively bright and pleasant smile adorning his face. “There's no need for you to apologize. Everything you said is true, after all.” So stop staring at me like that.

But still, she looks at him, searches with those watery mauve pools for eyes, looking for all the world like she wants to do something other than assault him, to beat him, to avenge a loved one. Looking like she wanted to —no, no, he can’t take it anymore.

He doesn’t know how long Akira’s been standing there at the door, hovering so silently he might as well be a ghost. And he’s doing that thing again — that naked, genuine concern bearing into Goro’s eyes like a hawk, burnished gunmetal gray in fervid pursuit of unravelling every farce behind Goro’s sub rosa smile.

It’s a little too much like being cornered, invoking the familiar queasiness of a helpless rodent, and it’s rousing memories of the ancient past that he’d rather forsake for good.

He excuses himself, his voice betraying him with awkward syncopation as he makes his way out of this place he doesn’t belong.

Once an outsider, always an outsider. He’s the biggest fool here for ever thinking otherwise. He doesn’t even bid Akira farewell as he pushes past him, desperate to run and leave it all behind.

.

.

.

.

She hears the bell ding. She hears the hasty click of shoes against the floor, and finally, there’s the sound of the door closing. And that’s when her knees just decided to turn to jelly so now she’s crouching on the floor, sobbing her eyes out. She hides into the narrow space between her knees and chest. That’s where she continued her sobbing fest.

Nice Futaba, you have officially fucked it up.

It sucks to live in the real world where choices do not appear if you press X. She doesn’t even know who’s the NPC and who’s the important character here in the outside world. There’s just no guidelines, no tutorial. Everything just happens and she gets forcefully swayed to the harsh waves of reality.

If this were a game, she can just load the game and go back from her previous save point. Then for the second time around, she’ll be able to choose wisely without triggering the Bad End.

She feels awful. Which worsens after realizing that her wailing is actually ricocheting around the whole Leblanc, might as well let the whole world hear her horrible crying. Add that with the fact that her favorite jacket is damp with tears and snot. She tries to stop her crying. Except it only turned to stuttering sobs, furthering the pain in her constricting throat.

“A...kir..ra…”

She tries to speak but god, it’s getting too difficult to breathe. Sojiro’s not here. Akira’s not here. Not even Morgana to at least comfort her with his purrs and rub his fur on her. And now, Akechi has left her for good.

”Aki...Akira— hic— help…..me…”

She’s all alone in Leblanc with her cries as her only companion. And then she’ll lose her voice. And she’ll feel worse. And — Nice. She’s having a panic attack.

”...where...a-are...you. Aki— ”

“Futaba?”

Against her boisterous sobs, against her raging thoughts that cancel all other sensations around her, that voice will always reign and pick her up while she drowns in this chaos.

Without opening her eyes, her arms fly to Akira’s neck, burying her whole face in the comfort of his chest. Which is now the new victim of her gross snot and tears and probably saliva. She doesn’t care if she accidentally chokes him; well, okay she does, but anyway, she’s not stopping. She can’t. Akira’s arms are around her in a moment’s notice. He rubs her back in small circles to soothe her. She feels him lean his cheek on her head, whispering reassurances ‘It’s okay, Futaba’ ‘I’m here’ ‘I won’t leave you.’ And they always help her. His voice is magic that lets her believe that everything will be alright. He’s been that kind of leader to the Phantom Thieves. Less words. Big influence. Which kept the whole team together even at times where they all felt helpless.

After a couple more minutes, the sobs have subsided, her eyes have dried out but they still feel puffy. This is the worst part of crying: the aftermath. But anyway, at least the fog has been lifted in her mind, her thoughts are more organized, more coherent. She feels Akira’s gentle fingers brushing her waist length hair. It feels good. She can stay like this for hours. Calm and contented. She closes her eyes and if she were a cat she’d be purring now under the magical hands of Akira. Five more minutes, she thinks.

“Feeling better now?” he asks.

“Hmmm...not yet. You still gotta make up for abandoning me a while ago,” she replies.

“Fair enough.”

“Akira?”

“Hmm?”

She buries her mouth on his chest, purposely subduing her voice. “Thank you.” A pat on her head, then she feels the vibration of his voice, she hears a muffled ‘no prob’ from him. “You’re still not forgiven though.”

Akira snorts at that. She huffs, withdrawing herself from Akira. He holds out her glasses. No wonder her eyesight was a lot worse.

“I’ll just tell Sojiro I was stung by bees. It’s a better explanation,” she replies, replacing her spectacles.

“Just wear shades and tell him you’re on your rebellious stage already, so it’s your right to change your fashion statement.”

“Good idea. Wear shades too. Then we dress as his bodyguards and follow him everywhere. He’ll be so confused and he’ll grow older by ten years right away.”

“Just imagine him with sunglasses. He’ll definitely pass as yakuza boss. Then we’ll be called the Sunglasses Famiglia of Yongen-jaya.”

Light hearted chuckles erupted from both of them as the image settled on their minds. The whole atmosphere shifted inside Leblanc and it lifts some weight in her heart. She flashes that cheeky grin towards Akira, and he does the same. Really, why can’t it be this easy with Akechi? Just carefree siblings who’s always on the same wavelength.

Because you haven’t racked up enough affection points, she thinks.

A moment of silence, then Akira’s eyes are on her. Now that we’re done with the icebreaker let’s get down to business, they say. Well, that was too quick for a cooldown. Can’t they extend this for ten more minutes or ten more years? It’ll just be the same anyway.

“So...” he drawls. Then there’s that charming tilt of his head that guarantees answers right away. “What’s up?”

“Akechi he— ” she bites her lips, gathering herself tighter until she forms a real ball, “It’s….it’s Game Over, Akira. I’m sorry…...I’m really...sorry...”

“You really think so?” Akira’s eyes are curious, hopeful, trying to bring out the conviction from the depths of her.

But still, Futaba shrugs. It’s the truth. Akechi has said his part, and so did she. Is there even a meaning to this? Is it still worth it? The words they exchanged a while ago, they meant them. They say the truth will set you free, but the truth has only left her miserable, with this metaphorical knife in her heart.

“You wanna talk more about it?”

A sigh escapes her lips. Akira does it again and she simply concedes. She pouts as she nods, staring back at him.

“Curry first?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

That was enough for Futaba to regain her energy, pushing herself up by sheer will. She ignores the dirt that has accumulated on her shorts, trying to jump on the seat right away. Akira stands, taking the overwhelming plastic bags in his hands again. One of them was sticking out like a sore thumb in Futaba’s eyes. She hurries back to Akira’s side, stealing one from his hands.

“AKIRA!!!! YOU DIDN’T TELL ME YOU WENT TO THE NEO FEATHERMAN SALE YESTERDAY!!!!” She yells, hugging the plastic bag to her chest. She begins rummaging through the contents. “All of my faves are here!!!!”

“I found them in the garbage...”

“Hah?! Who would dare— ”

“Probably Akechi.”

“But he— he said he couldn’t go because he’s busy with his class. And yesterday, he didn’t come— ”

Oh.

Oh shit.

Inside her head, little Futabas are running around, running around in endless circles, collectively cursing and shouting. And in the biggest screen inside her mind, there plays the conversation she had with Akira yesterday. Repeating every hurtful word she had said, torturing herself further.

I can’t do it. I don’t wanna do this anymore. It’s just not working. He will never be a brother to me.

It all clicks, like a puzzle coming together..

“He heard us,” she whispers in horror.

“Futaba?”

She feels fingers resting on her shoulder, the concern on his face telling her that she probably looks really upset.

It would be so easy. So easy to let herself be enveloped by the warmth of the living crutch that was Akira. And why wouldn’t she? He’s been there for her at her best and worst. He knows things about her that no one else knows; not even Sojiro. So why is she hesitating? Why does it feel like she’s suddenly drowning. Why does she feel like she’s splitting at the seams? Everything just feels wrong. She realizes that this is guilt. It’s consuming her...

A silhouette flashes across her mind, distant and small. She can barely identify who it is, but she doesn’t need to. That darkness is all too familiar.

A full body shudder rolls through her as she gasps brokenly. Akira comes closer, but she pushes him back.

“No!” Futaba rasps, shaky arms splayed out in front of her like stingers. “Don’t… please.”

He looks at her, his face unreadable as her mind. She stares back at him for a second longer, swallowing harshly.

“I’m sorry. I just… I can’t. I’m not going to rely on you anymore. I want… no, I need to be alone. I’m sorry.” she says as she skirts around him and flees.

He does not follow.

.

.

.

.

Gunshots ring in his ears with every step he takes. Vivid images of her shadow, of unnaturally yellow eyes tinted in an emotion he cared not to fathom at the time.

He crosses into a place he has no right to visit, a lush garden of sepulchre stretching out beyond him. He wonders how many of them he personally helped lay to rest.

It’s not a ghost that haunts him. No, he has learned to chase them away in his early days. But the memories, they cling and stay like a festering blight. He learns the hard way that no matter how many times he casts them off, they return unwearying, unrelenting, so he lets them convey their justice on him whenever they so desire. After all, the past can bind a man as surely as irons. It was a small price to pay for the enactment of his own.

This time, he welcomes it. He reaches out, grasping for something beyond revenge, something greater than despair. Something beyond his reach.

Empowered, their voices rise from the dead. And Goro listens.

Gun cocked against her head, cold and menacing. Another chess piece that had outlived their usefulness.

He sees flowers on the graves, both new and fresh. A sad, wilting tribute to the dead.  

Bright, golden yellow eyes, wide with fear and something he cared not to name.

He’s never been here before, but he traverses the aisles like he’s known them for all his life.

He takes his time pulling his finger on the trigger, slowly but surely. He wasn’t in a rush.

The older graves are a dead giveaway. Their colors are duller, cracked in places where wild vines make their home. Flowers are almost non-existent. Memories of people who are no longer remembered even in the hearts of the living. The true death.

A whisper. “Oh, what has he done to you?”

He doesn’t know how long he weaves his way into the necropolis of names and offerings. Maybe if he walks far enough into verdant morasses, he’ll never find his way out again.

A hand, touching his face. “Goro--”

The wind picks up slightly, almost like a warning. What are you doing? Don’t come any closer. You’re not welcome here. Goro wishes it was stronger, colder. Enough so it could stop him in his tracks.

A pulled trigger.

A flurry of feathers and loud cawing as birds launch into the air from the ground nearby. Crows. The irony is not lost on him.

He didn’t even question how she knew his name, only disgust at how she dared to touch him with her filthy hands, how she dared to call him by his first name.

He can see it. It’s shining a little bit brighter than the rest, a little bit lonelier. He approaches it.

Not even his mother called him that.  

He stops, finally, as the memories stop with him.

Her grave stands in proud defiance to the two years it was erected. Two years. Not too long ago, he supposes. His past self would never have guessed he’d be standing here two years later, for someone he thought was just another target.

In two years, would her hatred of him have dissipated somewhat? Or would it only accumulate? She must be writhing right now, seeing her so— murderer sully her final resting place.

As he stands there, a thought occurs to him. What is he doing there? Was it a dilatory sense of remorse that brought him here? A sad attempt to seek justification from the dead? To seek penance for his sins? He thought sleeping it off was enough. And if that wasn't, well, his Bianchi never ceased to prove a gratifying distraction on his less than cooperative days. However, never did he expect his legs would betray him by carrying him here, of all places.

Every single part of him was traitorous, it seems.  

Wakaba Isshiki, one of his earliest targets, and his very first mental shutdown target a.k.a cognitive murder. Shido had been adamant on her annihilation, claiming her research, if publicized, would “overthrow his meticulous plans”. If he noticed Shido’s uncharacteristic belligerence with his demands, Goro did not remark on it. With a charming, confident smile and a silent analeptic pledge to himself, he went to do his bidding.

The records he was given in regards to her were impersonal and analytical. He had briefly recalled Shido talking about making Wakaba’s acquaintance back when they attended the same university, but details after that were vague at best. It was arbitrary and contributed very little towards his reconnaissance, but it was something he couldn’t help but think of when he had asked Shido if he should go with the “usual” method.

He remembered Shido’s slight pause as he considered Goro’s simple query.

...No, he had said after a while, with a slightly far-off look on his hardened face. Remember what I taught you? Use that. Put her out of her misery.

His eyebrows had raised at that. That was a first. Goro hadn’t been expecting to put his newly honed skills to use so soon —the innocent, rational part of him that still miraculously existed was screaming, you’re only fifteen, fifteen and you’ve been walking the line and teetering; but this is it, do this and you’ll go past the point of no return, you’ll finally be a real mur— and on such an aggravating woman. She would die a martyr. Why bring her more glory when he could simply drive her insane and cause her to compromise the credibility of her own research, so they may plunder it for themselves and ensure that no one else would ever think of staking their own claim?

What was special about this woman that warranted a modus operandi so... horrendously gauche? Goro had always prided himself in operating with maximum efficiency, and up to this point, Shido seemed to share the same idea.

Are you questioning me? Shido’s eyes narrowed dangerously with cold fire.

Goro didn’t question him anymore after that.

A private inquest revealed that she had a daughter, and Goro couldn’t help but scoff in disbelief. What a joke. Compassion and Shido didn’t ever belong in the same sentence, otherwise Goro wouldn’t have gotten himself so deep up shit creek.   

He later found that compassion had been the furthest thing from his mind. Shido had, of course, assembled an entourage of professional actors who wouldn’t think twice of persecuting an innocent child to tell her Wakaba committed suicide because of maternity neurosis —a disease of the conscience, the desire to see their own child, who is a burden and a hindrance to them, dead. An indissoluble product of a loveless marriage.

In other words, she was to be blamed entirely.

Thirteen years was a tender age; young and very much impressionable. No doubt Shido knew what he was doing, the vile bastard. Then again, it was to be expected of him. Goro may not have hesitated to dirty his hands for the sake of his ambitions, but he would never even have considered such a brutal idea. It seemed Goro had been worried for nothing.

“Thought I'd find you here.”

It takes a while for Goro to register the fact that no, it wasn't just another incriminating voice in his head, and that it was perfectly tangible behind him somewhere. Dark and mellow, like no one else can be.

“Akira.” Goro sighs without facing him. For some reason, he can't. “Why are you here?” Of course he’s here. Sometimes even he has to be annoyed by the logistics of fate when it brings Akira Kurusu to him at the most unceremonious of times.

“I think you know why.”

“Well, there's no need.” There's a tight knot coiling in his stomach, and Goro feels it might snap if he lessens his hold by just a fraction. He holds on.  “I'm not some kind of charity case you're obligated to take care of. I’m not one of you. I can take care of myself.”

There is a moment of quiet before he speaks again. “Is that what you think?”

This is how Akira worms his way into people’s hearts, Goro thinks. He probes them, asks people questions that they already know deep inside and have them come to a conclusion about themselves. Then they laud Akira for saving them, for being the messiah that they needed, when in truth all he did was bring out what they already knew in their subconscious. The glut of recognition for something that required such minimal effort. Goro will have none of it.

“I’m afraid I’m not quite interested in wordplay with you right now.” He tries to smile, despite the other boy not seeing it. “I assure you, your concern is misplaced. I am completely fine. How about checking up on Futaba instead? I’m sure she’ll benefit far more from your presence.” He’s pretended all his life, but it seems to take a little more out of him this time to pretend that he really is alright, that he won’t crumble when he looks back at the boy with soft, molten caviar eyes sprinkled with specks of twilight.

“Would she really?” He hears the sound of feet scuffing lightly on the ground. “I’m starting to think otherwise.”

A moment.

“You know, she rejected me.” And it’s because of you.

Before Goro knows it, he whirls around and stalks up to Akira, jaw clenched and dark red narrowed in anger as he jabs a finger at Akira’s chest, wishing it were a javelin to pierce through his heart. “Are you saying it’s my fault? If I recall correctly, I never asked for this. You were the one who insisted that I give this a chance, that I deserved another chance at a family.” He spews the word ‘family’ like spitfire, the very implication a toxin to his soul. “If anything, this is your fault for not knowing better. I warned you! I fucking warned you. I only indulged in this farce at your behest, and now you’re telling me--”

“That’s not what I meant.” His voice is as pacifying as ever, unruffled like the eyes that peer at him. “She rejected me for you.”

Goro takes a step back, bewildered and confused. And still angry. “If you don’t start making sense, Kurusu, I promise--”

“Futaba.” He begins, silencing Goro. “She’s known solitude her whole life. Best friends with it even. After we saved her, everyone started to reach out to her. It helped, somewhat. She started to go out and challenge herself more. She let herself experience emotions outside of her ennui of guilt and self-loathing. She started relying on other people. To be honest, I think she opened up to me the most because I was the closest she had to a brother, since I’m Sojiro’s ward and all. I was fine with that. If I could help her in any way I could, I’d do it in a heartbeat. And she knows that. But yesterday…” He breathes slowly. “It was the first time that she rejected me. Told me that she wanted to be alone, and that she can’t —doesn’t want to rely on me anymore.”

He’s quiet, letting the words permeate the atmosphere around them. Goro doesn’t know how to respond, but he’s saved the trouble when Akira continues.

“For a moment, I thought she was regressing. After everything we went through, she’d just withdraw into her shell, just like that.” He punctuated with a snap of his fingers. “But then she looked at me, and what I saw banished my fears. So I let her go.”

“And pray tell, what was it that made you think she did that for me?” He scoffs in disbelief. Akira has always been a little outlandish, but right now, he’s really reaching too far.

He crosses the distance with a single step, breaching Goro’s safe space in one fell swoop. His anger frozen, he stares wide-eyed as Akira lifts a hand to the side of Goro’s face to place it near his eyes.

“Her eyes were just like yours,” Akira whispers as the wind hushes around them. “Strong-willed and determined. A defiant obstinacy that left no room for quarrel. I knew then there was nothing I could say to faze her.” His touch is feather-light, but Goro could feel the weight of it like a blanket cocooning his face. “I thought to myself, why now? Why did she choose this moment to stand on her own two feet? Was it a coincidence that it happened when it did? And that’s when I put two and two together.” Akira stares at him, and everything else around Goro recedes into the mundane. Something about his gaze forbids Goro from looking away, as much as he wants to. “She’s trying to put herself in your shoes. She wants to understand you.”

“How laughable,” Goro grits out, shaking off his hand. “So basically what you’re telling me is since she doesn’t need you to hold her hand anymore that I’m the next best handshaker, is it? Perish the thought. I’ve lived this long without needing anyone —to hell with family. Preach your pretty idealisms to someone else who actually cares. I don’t need anyone, and especially not a hotshot parvenu like you.” I don’t need anyone.

Family is for the weak, for people who can’t depend on themselves. They shackle themselves, let themselves be weighed down by bonds; it makes you wonder why they name it as such. They allow themselves to shoulder obligations to the parasites that brought them into the world. Parasites who think you owe them something merely for existing. Who in their right mind, wants to be a grazing sheep, requiring the safety of the herd when one could be a snow leopard, alone on the prowl?

His own father never even supported him. His own mother left him for her own selfishness. They’re vain in the worst of ways, investing in children who never asked to be born. He has no reason to believe in family, when family is the sole reason why he turned out with such a warped behavioral conditioning. He has never felt the so-called warmth and fuzziness of a family in a world that thrived on the harsh reality of ‘kill or be killed’. That was the only thing family taught him.

So even if he feels like breaking apart, burning up, or crumbling into ash, he stands stalwart. A murderer like him doesn’t deserve to feel anything other than apathy. A responsibility given to someone who takes lives as easy as smiling primly at other people when they talk. Even if those emotions fester and destroy him from within, it’s fine. He’s handled much worse.

"To be honest, I admire you," Akira begins again, and it's the last thing Goro expects to hear coming from him. "For years, you relied on no one but yourself. You convinced yourself of a single truth and stood by your own brand of justice. I've never met anyone like you — not even within the Phantom Thieves. You're on a whole new league of your own."

"Shut up. Just stop. Stop talking." Why is he listening to this drivel? No more. There's no possible way some flimsy acknowledgement of his raison d'être can make him feel like his chest is about to erupt from the weight of all that he's done. Every fiber of his being that craves sweet validation leaps up to the hollow of his throat, fighting over each other for supremacy, making it hard to breathe. His vision wavers and he blinks. And blinks again. And again. Go away. No one asked for you.

"You've been strong for far too long, Goro." He says. Akira doesn't say it, but the implication is there. "We're all human. We all make mistakes at some time in our lives, some more than others. You're no different. So please... give yourself a chance."

Akira holds the match, and Goro is the paper body set alight, his words a wreath of flames that enkindle the vellum of Goro's everything; his contempt, his resentment, his misery into flecks of fading embers.

"Why are you doing this to me?" He whispers brokenly. What sadistic pleasure he must derive from breaking him down like this. Let him stand. Don't strip him of the last thing he's ever known. How will he—

When Akira comes closer once more, Goro finds he has no energy to step back. Does he even want to? He doesn't even realize his fingernails were gouging into the calloused flesh of his hands until Akira reaches for them, a sinfully tender touch to lift them and unfurl his pale, bone white digits. He hardly feels the sting, his overwrought nerves flushed by the warmth of Akira's hands enclosing his own.

It burns like a human furnace, warming him like a sweater that dispels the biting chill, sapping away everything inside of him until all he can feel is how nice it is to have his hands held.

"I'm selfish." Akira admits gently. "I'm not the chivalrous, perfect leader you envision me to be." He squeezes his hands lightly, gentle as a feather-stroke. "Will you give me a chance?"

Maintaining his steady gaze proves difficult. He's afraid his knees will buckle the longer he looks back into argent cloudburst that beckons and draws him in without fail. He breaks it off, lets his head fall on broad shoulders. So desperate is he to hide the violent quiver of his lips and the tremor of his hands clenching Akira's shirt that he realizes too late the hand that has made its way into his hair, another snaking around his shoulder. Pulling him close. Closer.

Free the chains that bind your heart so.

Even you can set yourself free.

"Let go." Akira murmurs.

And thus, the last fetters of his heart are no more.

Forgive me, Wakaba, he thinks through the sobs wracking his throat, as he burrows deeper into the sanctuary he is deprived of for much too long, emboldened by the tightening embrace in turn. It looks like I’ll be desecrating your grave once more.

Silence is his answer, but he lets himself be fooled to believe that the sky, as incarnadine as its passing blush, and the gleam like drifted gold in summer’s cloudless beam dappling on their features let him know that yes, he can finally let go.

.

.

.

.

“I suppose I must thank you.” he manages.

“What for?”

What was he thankful for? It seems almost unnatural to feel so weightless, an euphoric catharsis in this charnel of somber color and embittered winter. He no longer feels like drowning in the emptiness of his heart. That familiar, endless wasteland seems all but a distant memory now.

He feels it — the rush of blood coursing through his veins, the erratic heartbeat thumping through his chest (he thinks Akira can feel it too) and the gulping of lungs like a man drinking in fresh air for the first time.

“For giving me my life back,” he whispers.

He thinks of the laws of causality,

of predestined connections, of wildcards,

of the boy making the impossible possible; escaping certain death, overthrowing a deity far removed from humanity, erasing the cognitive world, and —

“Resurrecting me.”

He thinks he feels Akira smile knowingly against him, a rumbling vibration like mirth undulating through his body as his arms coil around him tighter still.

.

.

.

.

After what feels like an eternity, he opens his eyes to peer over Akira’s shoulder, and what he sees stuns him. An uneasy trinity of emotions amalgamate on top of his already singed mental capacity — fear (what would she think seeing him like this?), betrayal (was this all planned?), and most of all, guilt (this is the last place I should be).

She stands innocuously a ways away from them; the girl who is now kicking her feet on the pebbled ground and suddenly very interested in the laces of her well-worn boots. Even with things unresolved as they are between them, she has the decency to be respectful and considerate — a knowledge that stirs something not entirely unpleasant in Goro’s gut.

Akira must have sensed the sudden tension in Goro’s shoulders, because he straightens and pulls back, looking at him inquisitively. Goro’s eyes tells him everything he needs to know, and no words are exchanged as they communicate wordlessly; an encouraging nod from Akira as he squeezed the brunette’s shoulder gently —a sinking dread in his gut— and then he is gone.

His departure comes with the realization that Goro is entirely out of place, standing between her and Wakaba’s grave. “My apologies. I—,” he frowns and clears his throat. Curse her timing. “I didn't expect to run into you here. You needn’t worry; I was just about to take my leave.”

He moves with practiced eloquence in his strides; one, two steps. Before long, he passes the petite orange-haired girl who is downcast, a course of action plotted thoroughly in his mind as he does. He'll make himself scarce after this. The easiest way to do it, he supposes, is to cut off ties with its point of origin, the sun of which everything and everyone revolves around without repose, his rays casting light thicker than rain.

The thought of leaving Akira again suddenly makes his lungs constrict, makes the pang in his chest throb a little harder —but for her sake —for his — for everyone around them—

“You’re just like her.”

Her mumble was a little more than a whisper, but it carried in the funereal silence that hung between them, and he came to a stop.

“...Pardon?”

She turns around, long orange hair billowing behind her. How many times has she looked at him like that, now? Those accusing eyes swarming with thinly veiled ire. He’s used to it; after all, the masses were quick to act the same way once he made a false move. She's no different. Just smile and move on.

But he can't seem to push down the anxious trepidation creeping up his windpipe, roiling in his gut. Surely she can't be affecting him this much. A socially inept child is what she is, orphaned by society and a family that beget mental disorders such as psychosis and agoraphobia—never mind the fact that a large part of it was their own father’s doing.

It is with vehemence that he ignores the nagging voice in his head whispering that he could relate, to some extent.

“Stop...stop running away!” She yells, a vicious ball of sunburst orange.

It is the second time he is caught speechless that day, caught in between the throes of her paroxysm and the all-consuming glare in her eyes.

And then it dims as though it never was.

“--That’s what I wish I told her when she was still alive.” She quiets, as if succumbing to the somber nature of her surroundings. She turns back to her mother’s grave. “I think she needed to hear that, the way I did last year. Maybe-- maybe it would have made a difference.”

He approaches her cautiously. “What are you talking about?” He inquires, softer than he intended.

“Mom.” She answers simply. “I still remember. Sometimes when she looks at me, it’s like she’s looking through me. At someone else, if that makes any sense.” She looks at him, and his heart thudded harder. “At first, I thought it was just because of how tired she was. But then there are nights… nights when I can’t sleep. I’d creep out and see the lights to mom’s office still on. I’d knock on her door and tell her to sleep, but not before I hear her mumbling. On and on about the same thing. About how she’s doing it all for ‘him’ and ‘altering his fate’.”

A hole opens up under Goro, and he is falling. He has no voice with which to speak, no eyelids with which to blink. Like he is hit by a thunder reign, shocked and paralyzed, leaving his limbs quaking, his lips shaking, his soul aching.

“Right before she died, she promised we would go out on a trip; even though it only happened because I threw a tantrum in the first place, haha…” she laughs, a sad imitation of her usual cheer. “The next day, she made up her mind. She wanted to take me out somewhere right after she was done with her research. She kept saying how close she was. I could even see how much her eyes sparkled. Like she saw light for the first time.” She looks at Goro finally, her eyes wistful and nose reddening as she draws in bated, shaky breaths. “She told me how she wanted me to meet someone. She even had a list of places we were gonna go… most of them foster homes and orphanages. I took a peek when she wasn’t looking. I remember feeling confused and kind of mad that she was going to adopt some random kid out of nowhere — there was no chance in hell I was going to share her.” She scrunches her eyes shut. “Now that I think back on it...that wasn't the case at all. All those times she neglected me to pursue her research to the very end? That couldn’t have been for some rando. That intense fire I’d see so much in her eyes...it was for someone special.”

They say a bolt of lightning can measure up to three million volts. But no storm can match the power of the words spoken by the small, frail girl in front of him.

You have a brother, he imagines Akira saying to her one day.

Oh, her reply is benign as she continues to type away, eyes glued ever faithful to her monitor. I do?

She had agreed to play family with him so easily. Was it truly just to entertain Akira? Her loneliness gotten the better of her?

He breathes.

You chose this fate.

You created this mess.

The fallen you condemned.

The innocent you slaughtered.

It will always come back to you.

So face the truth.

“And afterwards, that ‘someone’ took her life.” Goro says flatly. “Even if, at the time, he was never told of who she really was.... He still murdered her without remorse. All for the sake of his foolish vengeance.”

He remembers now. Right before she disintegrated before his eyes, and after she was gone, her words reverberated through the room, a hollow ring.

This is my karma.

“You did.” Futaba says, dropping all pretenses of ambiguity. She is not much for patience, it seemed. “It would have been so easy for me to hate you. But it...it’s impossible.”

“Fools, the lot of you.” He sneers. The role of a villain comes as natural as air to him. “Not only did I kill your mother, I also killed your precious teammate’s father, and I tried to murder all of you, simply for getting in my way. It’s only logical that you despise me. Why hesitate?” How can such an efficacious group who claims to steal hearts, let their own bleed so freely? Lady Luck seemed to favor them far too much for letting naïve kindness triumph over the grim will of society.

To his dismay, Futaba pays little heed to the provocation. “You’re really cranking the chaotic evil trope up to eleven, aren’t you?” she remarks dryly. “You were only a tool. A pawn made to act on someone else's bidding. Blaming you would be like blaming a single script kiddie’s PC for hacking into the Phansite instead of the perp who’s employing entire botnets for the sole purpose of DDOS. Do I look dumb to you?”

Goro grits his teeth — he doesn’t need to understand the strange lingo Futaba uses to assimilate her intendment. But he says nothing.

“You remember, right? What I told you back then. Like, way back then. I knew where you were coming from. You were given a unique power to achieve your goals, but with no one else, you only had lies and hate fueling you. You knew it, but you couldn’t help it. You thought it was okay, that it was enough.” She looks over Goro’s shoulder at a distant point on the horizon, a deeply pensive look on her face. “I was the same way. If I didn’t let the Phantom Thieves steal my heart… I don't even wanna think about where I’d be now.” Her fingers fidget, a sign of discomfort highlighted by the jumble of words spilling from her mouth. “But anyways, I kept thinking from then on: what if you had also met Akira a lot earlier? We could have met earlier, if I hadn’t let myself drown in all those lies they told me—”

“That's quite enough.” Goro says. “I said this before, but there’s no use talking in hypotheticals. What’s done is done. And there was nothing you could have done. I was already too far—”

A hand claps over his mouth with a loud slap, and he jolts. “Rude! I'm not even done talking yet!”

The audacity of what she just did sinks in belatedly as he can only stare, struck speechless and a little horrified, but she's not even looking at him. Her face is cast downwards, hidden from sight by her long locks. “Let me finish.”

Shocked, he starts to say something before realizing whatever he’s going to say is just going to end up muffled. She probably wouldn’t even see it anyway. So he manages a hesitant nod, sullen as it is.

Truly, Futaba is a whole different kind of fiend.

“We all run away from our problems. It's the easiest thing to do. I have, for the longest time. Now that I think about it, so did mom.” And when she decided to stop, it was already too late. “Sometimes… it doesn't work out. But you don't know unless you try! Like me right now, for instance.” Her hands move to his arms, furiously gripping the sleeves —another shirt to iron, he thinks absently— and entrapping him. It wouldn’t be hard to break free of her grasp.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry...for everything.” she whispers, nearly inaudible.

“Futaba?” He has a feeling this would be coming, but he’s not ready — she really doesn’t need to —

“What I said yesterday...it was totally uncalled for.” She gulps, and what she says next surprises him. “But what was even worse… I never cared about bonding with you. From the very beginning, all of this was for Akira’s sake.” She laughs like water boiling to the surface. “I mean, seriously? Being all buddy buddy with my estranged brother-slash-killer? Not exactly something I’m eager to put on my promise list.”

“I don’t blame you.” Goro points out, relieved that she started out with the same intentions as he did. That’s one thing they have in common, at least. “I know I was the same way. If it weren’t for him… I doubt I’d be here right now. So as I said before, your apology is unnecessary.”

“But that’s not right!” She shakes her head vigorously. “I thought about it a lot. And I think I know why now. I was… I was just scared. It was never because of who you were. I was just scared of giving you a chance. We… we share the same blood. One day you’re going to leave me too. I’ll lose you, just like I did with mom.”

Loss. Professionally, he understands the sentiment. The loss of someone who still retains a form of value to your cause. Monetary value. Political value. To a lesser extent, entertainment value, though that was more of Shido’s preference. He is no stranger to the feeling of loss, but rarely does it ever affect him emotionally. He has always been clever enough to think several steps ahead to ensure that such loss would not be detrimental to his personal agenda.

Certainly, Shido had expressed his profound sentiments against losing him, his greatest asset. Goro wasn’t big enough of a fool to think that he held any value to his father otherwise. As long as you had value, especially a preternatural talent, you are an invaluable commodity. No one can afford to lose one so prodigious.  

But any value he had prided himself in had vanished along with the Metaverse. He no longer wielded the gift of the wildcard; no Loki, no special powers that set him apart from even Joker. His charismatic Detective Prince persona was an utter sham; the farce behind his brilliant deductions revealed. He couldn’t even claim credit for taking down Shido — he had been lost to a neverending dream, a stasis of the soul until Yaldabaoth’s destruction freed him. As he is now, he is entirely worthless.  

The correct response in this situation would be reassurance. But Goro is tired of lying. He has a feeling he’s not very good at it either, primarily with the Phantom Thieves. “I know you’re smarter than this. You do realize you lost your mother because of me, right?”

“Stop running!” She snaps, and he tries not to flinch. “Even if you do, I’ll find you. I’ll follow you wherever you go. Don’t underestimate my skills!” Then she breathes, slow and steady, as if she had just caught herself. “Look, I never got to say it properly, so let me do it right this time, okay? It doesn’t matter where you start over — it’s never too late. Listen to what your heart wants, for a change.”

A heart? Does someone like him even have one?

He closes his eyes. Of course. What a foolish question. Without a heart, the source of all his anger and malice towards his father, at the world — without his endless lust for power, for love and affection — he would have never been led down the long, dark road with hands tied and bound.

He believes in fate. Truly, he does. He sees them; tremulous skeins of destiny fluttering oh so ethereally around him — but then he feels its embrace is that of steel.

It cuts his heart open, slicing it to bits with its serrated edge until he feels no more.

— At least, that what should have happened. And yet, he could still feel it. Faintly, but surely. For too long has he been a prisoner of his mind that he forgets his maimed heart still beating through the hatred coursing through his veins, beating with a shred of undying hope.

“And you?” Goro asks softly. “What do you want?”

Once, he might have hoped for salvation. Once, he believed that he deserved better. Yet he knew a fleeting fantasy was all that it ever was. Hades has issued his decree. He stands next to Sisyphus, and Tantalus is his brother. Happiness is something he can see but can never reach.

The heart wants what the heart wants.

“I want to start over with you. For real this time.” She wipes at her eyes. “Akira has nothing to do with this. I love him; I really do! But I just… I’ve always wanted a real brother. To try loving him the way mom did. To see her again through him. I just… I just want—!” She curls into herself, a withering flower. Her shoulders shake, miniature earthquakes rocking her small body.

Goro doesn’t know what compels him, but he steps forward. Overcome by an emotion he cannot name —he only knows that he can’t, doesn’t want to resist it— he pulls her into an embrace.

The moment he touches her, it’s like a dam breaking. She sobs, wails, clings to him like he’s a lifeline. He doesn’t flinch; he’s already way too far out of his element. Absently, he wonders if this is how Akira felt when he comforted him earlier. What does it mean to be depended on? To be needed?   

He looks up. The sun has receded into the horizon, painting the sky with shades of brilliant fuchsia. Swirling carnation clouds dissolve; leaving shimmering trails of warm rouge that fused with the periwinkle sky.

It’s breathtaking.

“For my whole life, I’ve only ever cared about myself,” Goro says, almost in a trance as he listens to Futaba cry her heart out. “I didn’t have room in my heart for anyone else. I was alone, after all. And the two years with Shido?” He lets out a small breath. “That was a complete farce. After everything that happened, blood meant nothing to me. In the end, even my own father sought my demise.” He feels the cloth of his shirt dampening, warmed by her tears and proximity. It’s….not unpleasant, but still, “It’s unlikely that I’ll ever warm up to the idea of family.”

“It’s okay,” she babbles, wet and muffled into his shirt. “I won’t leave you in the dark again! We can make it through. Together.”

That last word tugs at his heartstrings, and his heart skips a beat in response. Great, now he’s being disgustingly sentimental again. “But Wakaba-san—”

“Mom,” she corrects angrily. “Mom has always loved you. I know her more than anyone.”

“That’s right.”

The world halts before them, awash in complete and utter silence save for Futaba’s sobbing — and a hauntingly familiar voice flitting by Goro’s ears, a volume that nearly drowns even Futaba. He opens his eyes and blinks rapidly, taking in the flux of time. The sun sets far in the distance before them — liquid golden sunbeam illuminating the horizon, spearing the heavens asunder. It sheds its light on the two of them, casting long dark shadows behind their beings. Then it recedes, basking them in the falling dark, until the splash of coral on the horizon serves as the only indication of the sun's lingering presence. Then his eyes widen, heart lurching in his chest.

He takes a deep breath. “Forgive me for interrupting, Futaba… But I may be feeling rather unwell. Perhaps it might be best to retire for today.” He feels her gaze on him, but he can’t look anywhere else. His eyes are glued, large and fearful.

Futaba turns to follow his gaze and gasps, doing a double take. “...If by ‘unwell’ you mean hallucinating—,” a hiccup. “—then you’re not the only one.” another hiccup, and a sniff. “I’m feeling kind of lightheaded. Maybe that’s why.”

An apparition? Not so. She stands there, hands clasped in front of her, garbed in a sleeveless turtleneck and an ID card hung around her shoulder like it belonged, straight raven hair falling to just above her shoulders, black glasses perched on her nose. Alive and breathing.

Wakaba Isshiki stands before them, looking at them with nothing short of fondness in her dark eyes.

“M-Mom?” Futaba calls out hesitantly, taking a step forward. “This… this doesn’t make sense. Isn’t the Metaverse gone? I’m pretty sure it is. So then how—” she reaches out, hand trembling towards the person of flesh and blood before them—

—But Goro pulls her back. “Careful, Futaba! We don’t know what’s going on.”

Instead of affront, Wakaba’s eyes grows impossibly softer as she looks at him and nods with longing forlornness.

“Goro…”

A searing, throbbing ache flares through his chest as a hand flies to claw at his torso. Like a gunshot wound. Goro. The exact same inflection, the helpless desperation and sorrow and tragedy woven intricately together from right before he pulled the trigger. Goro.

He thinks he hears Futaba cry out his name, his given name, but it is drowned by the vestiges of Wakaba’s voice buried deep under the layers of his subconscious, resonating and overlapping with the voice in front of them.

“I failed to be the mother you deserve. I’m sorry.”

He falls to his knees.

“I’m sorry. I love you so much, Goro. I always have. I always will.”

He grips his hair, pulls at it. Bites his lip hard enough to taste a copper tang. Swallows back a scream. Futaba is crying again. No. He needs to comfort her, he needs—

“Everything I did was for you and Futaba… my sweet, beautiful children. All I’ve wanted was to bring you back. That was my one and only wish, even if it meant neglecting you both. Futaba… Goro… I'm so, so sorry. I was a terrible mother to you. But now, seeing both of you together like this...it is a blessing far greater than someone like me could have hoped for.”

“Why,” he wheezes out, lungs constricting, head pounding and threatening to split down the middle. Why is he surrounded by imbeciles who don’t know when to stop forgiving? To simply hold him in contempt like he should be? He can’t take this anymore. He can’t even forgive himself, let alone receive —

“My dear son…” Her voice is a dulcet reverence, soothing yet firm, no holds barred. “We are one and the same. Ignoble I may be, yet my love for you is boundless evermore. It knows no law, no pity. Wherever you go, it will follow you. Forever and ever, because you will always be my child. I am so proud of you. Of the man you have become. Please...be a good brother to Futaba. I trust you.”

Pain is a concept that he is all too familiar with. The lies he was fed, the abuse he had suffered at the hands of his countless hosts and cohorts, a misstep in someone’s Palace, Shido’s steady manipulation and inherent rejection; he’s experienced it all, and yet the sweet nothings of a mere poltergeist was to be the cause of his latest undoing. What was the point of all this? If she had never associated with someone like Shido — he would never have to be. He would never have to be born, and she would still be alive, happy and lovely.

“Mom,” Futaba weeps, the tumult of emotions palpable on her face. Her glasses fog up, and she shrugs them off, letting them fall and clatter away. “P-please don’t go — the three of us, we —we can start over together! Just like you’ve always wanted! I—”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She tilts her head, looks at her with an emotion nigh indescribable. “Please live. Live for me. I want to see you happy. Futaba, know that I am always watching over you and your brother. And if you would let your mother have one last selfish request...” A blissful smile. “Look after Goro for me, will you? He needs you.”

“I promise! I promise!” Futaba cries out. “So please! Stay with us — we — we need you here. I’ve missed you so — so much!”

“I’ll always be with you. Don’t ever forget that.” she whispers, lilting and soft. “Be brave, Futaba. I know you can do it. I believe in you.” Her form flickers like firelight in the dark.

Sensing her imminent departure, Futaba prepares to launch herself forward. “Wait—”

“Wakaba-san.” Goro has been silent, agonized in the throes of his own madness. But now everything is clearer; he is no longer breathing water, feet scrambling to find purchase on slippery ground. “I don’t know if I will ever begin to understand the compassion you and your daughter have shown me. It is all I have ever desired in a world where my whole existence is nothing but a loathsome burden. But I cannot — no, I will not forget my past. I will never be able to expect forgiveness or forgive myself for the atrocities I committed — to you, most of all. To do so, I would cease to be.” He manages a smile, small and unsure as it may be; he tries. “Even so... I’ll take your words to heart, so that it may never be led astray again. I’ll use my past to bring myself and others hope — to pave the way towards a brighter tomorrow.” He glances at Futaba at his side, who is looking at him with glassy-eyed wonder. “With Futaba at my side.”  

His voice breaks, but he forges on.

“So thank you for everything….mom.”

Wakaba closes her eyes and nods, a picture of true peace and tranquility as she finally dissolves into particles of light blessed with halos of their own, a soft blur of infinite stars fading into the wide expanse of the sky.  

When he looks at Futaba, she’s looking at him like he suddenly grew another head.

He grins at her, a little breathless. “What are you looking at? And here, clean yourself up. It’s bad enough that you got snot all over my clothes, but don’t let it dry on your face.” He reaches for a handkerchief inside his pocket, to which she swipes the instant he hands it to her.

“Of course you carry around a hankie.” She mumbles begrudgingly, looking away as she uses it to blow her nose with immoderate enthusiasm.

As he tries not to wince, he comes to a blooming realization. He’s starting to understand Futaba’s mannerisms — she would default to mockery in a situation of vulnerability. He decides to find it endearing. “What can I say? A detective must always be prepared for everything.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Goro can imagine Futaba rolling her eyes, and he reins in a chuckle at the thought. It is a remarkably peculiar feeling —for so long as he been used to the familiar weight of lead on his chest pressing down on his emotions and tamping them. Now he feels like a loose cannon. “Anyways, what was that all about? I know the Metaverse doesn’t exist anymore. I was there when it crumbled! So then...” she trails off, uncertain.

“I wonder,” Goro hums. “If the Metaverse truly is gone as you say, then there may perhaps be some other supernatural phenomenon taking place. It’s not necessarily hostile, mind you,” he says hurriedly in response to Futaba bristling. “I recall learning about this in one of my senior Japanese Lit. classes.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. If I’m not mistaken, it’s called tasogaredoki, and it comes from the word tasokare, which means the time before sunset. Many cultures believe twilight to be a time when unusual things occur. In English, I believe the closest approximation of the term would be the witching hour. Considering the time—,” Goro looks towards the horizon; the sun has all but completely set, and the lamps around them have flickered to life. “—we may have been treated to quite a stunning phenomenon. Naturally, all of this is merely speculation on my part.” He shakes his head slowly. “We have no way of actually knowing the truth.” He notices a gleaming object at the corner of his vision.

“Ah!” Futaba gasps as she snaps her fingers, too distracted to notice Goro walking away. “I remember Mona talking about this once! Right before he disappeared, he said that the whole world is a product of cognition… not just the Metaverse. Everything can be remade, and that mankind is no longer held captive. He said there’s no such thing as the ‘real’ world, and that reality is shaped by what each person sees and feels.”

“How delightfully abstract.” Goro can’t help the quirk that comes to the corner of his lips. “Then again, I suppose this is the kind of world we live in.” He picks it up and inspects it before sighing in relief — good, it isn’t broken.

“Yeah, I still remember Mona strolling back in two months later like he didn’t just go whoosh! in front of our eyes. We were all so sure he was gone too, and then  — huh? Wait, where did you go? Goro? Man, why is it so blurry...” she mumbles, looking around frantically before she feels something on her face. “Ah!?”

The brunette pretends that his fingers aren’t shaking —he wasn’t expecting Futaba to call him by his given name aside from that one moment— as he gingerly slides her glasses back on her face. “There you go.”

She blinks a few times before she ooohs in awe. “It’s shiny! And clean!”

He can’t help it. “Yes, I must thank you for being considerate enough to leave a dry patch on my clothing that you have so generously used for your own benefit.” He gestures to himself.

“Don’t be snarky.” She jabs his side and he laughs fully, with resonance.

In days bygone, when he was completely alone and too exhausted to deal with anything —his co workers, superiors, businessmen, TV interviews, his father, and most of all, the weight of his own hollow vengeance— he would simply lose himself. Often in the darkness of his own apartment, he would let himself be swallowed by his mattress and the wanderlust of his mind.

It hadn’t gotten better when he discovered the identities of the Phantom Thieves. In fact, it had worsened. Much to his chagrin, he found his thoughts often wandered to superfluous postulations whenever he had a little too much time on his hands. Behind a sip of coffee, train lines, crowded school hallways, and shoulders of fawning fangirls; he would see them in the distance, lost in their own bubble of idealistic camaraderie as they laughed, teased and argued with one another.

There’s no use thinking in useless hypotheticals.

He was fascinated by the intricate tangle of love and duty and resentment that tied them together. The glances they exchanged; the complicated balance of power established over such a short period of time; the games he would never play with rules he would never fully understand. And perhaps that was key: they were such a natural group that they made him feel remarkably singular by comparison. To watch them together was to know strongly, painfully, all that he’d been missing.

They were a ragtag group of misfits looking to change society and defy law like the true rebels they were. They lacked forethought and finesse, shamelessly hunting criminals for the thrill and glory of it. He was too caught up in that knowledge that he failed to see all else, thus it was inevitable that the carpet would be pulled from under his feet.

There’s no use thinking in useless hypotheticals.

He can admit it now. He had been jealous of them. He admired their easy acceptance of each other, their willingness to provide unconditional assistance, and their kindness to a fault. They had each other from the beginning.

Goro had nothing. Nothing but the fumes of his frustration towards the world and his abysmal luck. Sometimes he wonders if things would have turned out differently had comrades stood by him from the very beginning, like Joker. Would they have accepted him? Would they have stopped him from killing people?

Would they have saved him from himself?

He had long since accepted the truth, since the day death nearly embraced his foolishness on that ship, as it should have. It was meant to be. That was how his story should have ended.

There’s no use thinking in useless hypotheticals.

He repeats this to himself over and over again, as a way to convince himself that his way was the only way to achieve his goals, that it was too late to turn back and start over properly. The weight of his sins insured that such a cleanse would never be possible.

How many times has he been proven wrong now? Granted, he was still far from being accepted from the group who had seen him at his ugliest and most vulnerable; not that he ever expected to. But this was more than he ever thought was possible. Akira was an exception — he reached out to everyone and anyone who needed a hand. And now Futaba?

“I don’t know why you and Akira would go this far out of your way for me,” Goro finally admits. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

She makes a shrill, frustrated sound — Goro half expected her to start stomping her feet right then and there. “Okay, you know what? We’re gonna make a deal, whether you like it or not!”

“A deal?” Goro echoes faintly.

“I’m gonna make you a promise list! And the first thing on it will be that you’re gonna stop beating yourself up!” She points an accusing finger at him. “If you get it done, I’ll give you a reward.”

“But—”

“Nu uh! No buts!” She waggles her finger. “Enough of that self-depreciating crap. I’m sick of hearing it. Akira’s too nice to say it out loud, but I know he feels the same way.”

Goro sighs. “I — I know. I’m sorry. I’ll...try not to do it again.”

“Good.” A wide grin adorns her face. “Now that we got that out of the way, why don’t we start heading back? It’s getting late.”

“You’re right. Should I… walk you home?” He asks with a note of hesitance.

“Duh, what do you think? Are you really going to let your sister walk home alone at this late an hour?” She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Wow, and here I thought--”

“Alright, alright, point taken.” Goro laughs for what seems to be the nth time that day. It’s strange; he doesn’t recall it to be this easy. “Allow me to accompany you home, Futaba-chan.”

When Futaba slips her hand in his, he begins to think he wouldn’t mind giving his second life to keep someone other than himself safe.

.

.

.

.

Leblanc’s lights are still on by the time they reach the backstreets of Yongen-jaya, a small beacon in the darkness that envelops the area. Futaba’s curiosity gets the better of her, and the doorbells jingle softly as she enters the cafe.

“Akira? You’re still awake?” Futaba asks, apparently surprised that Akira was still awake at 9pm.

The man in question stands behind in a counter, dressed loosely and cleaning an already sparkly clean glass with a dishrag, his face scrunched in deep concentration. He perks up at the sound of the door opening — when he sees them, he breaks into a smile that looks very much like relief. “Hey! Welcome back.”

She squints. “Wouldn’t Mona have told you to go to sleep by now?”

“Normally he would, yeah. I thought I could stay up for a while longer. And I couldn’t really sleep.” His eyes soften as he looks down and sees where their hands are still connected. “Looks like I was worried for nothing.”

Ah. Goro blinks, a warm flush tingling his skin as he promptly lets go of her hand. He wasn’t aware that they had held hands the entire way home — he had been so caught up in idle conversation with Futaba that the thought of Akira seeing them never even crossed his mind.

“You’re weird.” She replies nonchalantly, stretching her arms over her head as she stifles back a yawn. “Anyways, I’m gonna head back; I’m beat. Say hi to Mona for me.”

“You don’t want to take him? I could wake him up for you.”

“Nah, too lazy. Maybe tomorrow.” She waves, and looks at her companion. “You heading back too, Goro-nii? Trains are still running for a while.”

Goro’s eyebrows shoot up and vanish behind his fringe at the nickname, and he forgets how to speak for a second. He looks at Akira, who’s staring back at him with a mirrored expression. Looking closer, he could make out slight bags like dark rings under his eyes. “Y-Yes, that — that might be best. It’s been a long day for all of us.” He bows his head slightly. “I apologize for keeping you up, Akira.”

He recovers quickly and shakes his head, raven curls swaying with the movement. “It’s completely fine. What matters is that both of you are safe.”

His ears feel a little warm as he walks out with Futaba, who insists against him walking her all the way back to her house since it’s literally only a block away; and besides, he’s right next to the station. Goro finds he is too tired to argue.

He sees her turning the corner after a last wave and he turns to head to the station himself, his mind oddly looking forward to the idea of sinking into his sheets and play over everything that happened that day.

Perhaps after a proper night’s rest.

“Goro!”

He turns at the sound of his name, not quite expecting Akira to catch up to him. “Akira? What are you doing?”

“I nearly forgot,” He chortles breathlessly, his hair tousled and even messier than before. He really didn’t need to run that fast. “Here, this is for you.”

Goro takes the steaming drink in a coffee cup holder into his hands curiously. “Coffee?” He inhales carefully, taking in hints of rose, lavender, honey, and… is that chamomile?

“Not coffee,” Akira corrects with a smile. “Tea. To help you sleep.”

“I’m not entirely sure how fair it is to let you be so good at brewing coffee and tea,” Goro laughs. Admittedly, he didn’t get a wink of sleep the night before, but it is hardly his first all-nighter. “But thank you, really. I appreciate your concern.”

“It’s nothing. If anything, I’m the one who has to thank you,” Akira says, a smirk playing on his lips. “Goro-nii, hm?”

“Shut up.” He shoves him lightly and Akira laughs. At this point, the former detective must have gone beyond his quota of blushing for the day. “It didn’t go as smoothly as you think.”

“I’m sure. She must have given you a hell of a time, huh?”

“Actually, it’s quite the contrary,” Goro shakes his head. “It seems I was more obstinate than she thought. I gave her such a hard time that you could say we even had a sort of divine intervention.”

“Oh?” He laughs as he tilted his head curiously. It reminds Goro of a cat. “How so?”

Goro thinks about telling Akira about Wakaba, but decides against it. It’s a moment between him and Futaba, and he can’t resist the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s nothing.”

He thinks he sees a small pout forming on Akira’s face, but then it breaks into a grin. “If you say so.”

They stand there for a few moments just staring at each other. And Goro swears, for that one spellbinding moment, time stands still, and the pulse of the breathing earth presses its mystery into his living blood. Every living thing around them seemed to hold their breath — for what? Then Goro blinks, shattering the illusion.

Akira’s gaze is a little too intense, a little too profound. It makes Goro awkward in a way that was similar with how he felt with Futaba, but not quite. He’s probably just tired. “A-Anyways, I’ll be taking my leave now. I’ll see you soon.”

“Take care, Goro.” He says as Goro smiles languidly, preparing to bid him farewell when it happens.

Brushing his bangs aside with undue reverence, Akira leans in close —Goro realizes belatedly that the sweet caffeine-laden ambrosia suddenly wafting through his nostrils is coming from him— and he feels lips brushing his forehead deeply, lightly, almost secretly, between the shadow and the soul. He steps back, hand lingering like silk on his skin, and walks away before the brunette has time to process the gesture.

His fingers drift to the ghost of Akira’s touch, blankly staring at the empty spot which he had just occupied.

That’s another to add to the pile of things to think over, he supposes.

[FIN.]