Cop and Robber

by LunaChai

Summary:

Niijima Makoto is tasked to take down the Phantom Thieves. Spoiler alert: She gets her heart stolen. — Police!Makoto. Akira:Makoto.

Chapter 1: RANK 1

Sixty hours.

A sixty-hour stakeout in this stinky backstreet of Yongen-jaya, and they hadn't seen even a hair of their target.

Makoto's lids were heavy, her spine was sore, and the summer heat raging against the half-broken air conditioner wasn't doing any favors. Crumpled McDonalds wrappers decorated the floor at the feet of her current assignment partner, Sakamoto Ryuuji, who was making his presence known through loud consumption of an 8-piece Kentucky Fried Chicken.

"Sakamoto," she said tersely, "clean up after yourself, would you?"

"First time I've eaten all day, Niijima. Give me a break."

Makoto rubbed at her aching temples.

Crunch crunch crunch, went Ryuuji's jaw into the fried chicken.

She grimaced. "Then grab me some coffee when you're done. I need to wake up."

"For the record," said Ryuuji, "I've gotten coffee like... five times for you. Isn't it high time for you to get your own?"

Coffee was the only thing that could keep her going through insufferable cases. This being one such case. "I'm technically on shift and you're technically on break. I shouldn't leave this car."

"I'll cover for you," Ryuuji said. Crunch crunch crunch.

"Sakamoto."

"Seriously, Prissyma. There's a damn café right down the road. I think it's called Leblanc."

Prissyma was a not-so-affectionate nickname that she'd picked up since her days in the Academy. Makoto did her best to ignore it.

"Leblanc?" she said hesitantly.

"Go get a cup. I mean it, Prissyma. Perp hasn't been out in sixty hours. Five minutes more ain't gonna hurt."

She paused and considered her options with a very long sigh.

She left the car.

.

.

.

Leblanc sounded presumptuous because of its French roots. It sounded like a five-star restaurant with pre fixe meals and foie gras and black sesame brûlée, with all fish freshly caught and all vegetables picked that morning.

It wasn't.

The place was cozy, every square space packed with booth seats and tables and equipment according to optimal efficiency. The stained glass lampshades suspended over the lacquered tables looked like they had been acquired from a second-rate thrift shop. Certain parts of the café stood out like a sore thumb, such as the tenderhearted mother painted delicately on a framed canvas.

It was, in a word, an outsider. Makoto liked it very much.

The barista glanced up at the sound of the entry bell. "Welcome to Leblanc," he said placidly, then paused. "Oh."

She stepped to the counter. "Iced Americano, largest size you've got. And a chai tea latte, extra sweet, medium."

"Coming right up. Card, please."

She gave it.

The barista's long, slender fingers gripped the card with surety. The fingers led to a corded forearm that was much too muscular for a full-time coffee brewer. The forearm led to squared shoulders, which led to an angular jaw beneath a head of unkempt dark hair.

Uh oh.

He's cute.

Under a night of proper sleep, Niijima Makoto would never have been fazed. Appearances were appearances. People were people. Appearances changed nothing about people. In fact, more often than not, they were deceptive.

But Niijima Makoto was not under a night of proper sleep. She was under sixty hours of stakeout in a cramped car, living off of nothing but fast food and soft drinks with no shower in sight. She was tired, she was irritable, she was vulnerable.

And this was an exceptionally cute barista.

Self-conscious, she slid the nearest menu in front of her face.

"Need a drink that badly?" said Cute Barista wryly.

It was an alcohol menu.

Well then.

'Don't drink on stakeouts.' That was the most common of common sense in the police world, second to 'Don't point a gun at someone you don't want to shoot.'

But she was already standing out. She couldn't afford to hide her face behind an alcohol menu, only to follow it up with a claim that she wasn't interested in any.

"Um," she said eloquently.

"I'll give you a discount," said Cute Barista. He seemed amused. Vastly amused.

"What?" she blurted. It was a mistake. She was losing her cool in front of an ordinary civilian. She took a moment to still herself. "A discount? Why?"

"Because you're cute," said the damn Cute Barista.

He was playing with her. He knew. Somehow, he knew she couldn't drink.

It didn't stop a blush.

"I really shouldn't spend money on alcohol," she said coolly.

"Then I guess we'll make this one on the house." Still smiling, still amused.

This guy.

Above all, she had to keep cover. "Then I'll take. Hm." She looked at the prices. "The '92 Yamazaki. Bottle, please."

An eyebrow shot up to his hairline. "Oh?"

"Too expensive?" she challenged.

"If I said yes?"

"Then you probably shouldn't have offered a freebie." She was feeling pretty victorious.

"True, true."

Cute Barista was still smiling catlike.

"Never figured you for a whiskey girl."

He was goading her. She'd return the favor. "Are you going to follow through? Because if you don't, I completely understand."

"So, you take advantage of the kindness of strangers?" His words suddenly tinged dark. She nearly flinched at the contrast. "Is that the kind of person you are?"

He looked at her evenly, but his eyes were dark beneath the glint of his spectacles. Makoto had the distinct feeling that she had been walking a dangerous road, skirting between boundaries, and he just forced her to pick a side. A civilian shouldn't have that kind of grip, that dark charisma.

She considered her answer. "I try to show people not to make foolish decisions."

He chuckled softly. "They probably call you uptight. Robotic."

She stiffened.

Cute Barista pressed the bottle into her arms. "Here's the '92 Yamazaki. Your drinks will be out in a minute."

He bustled from behind the counter. Makoto clutched the bottle to her chest. Her gut churned, like the first and only time she'd failed a test in second grade. (It had been Japanese Calligraphy, and they were supposed to copy a simple kanji from the teacher using traditional brush and ink, only Makoto had found it too simple and attempted the complicated kanji of 'hair,' and it had been perfect, she'd known it had been perfect, but her teacher had only scolded her saying that she'd Missed the Point and Failed the Assignment, and from that day forward, Makoto realized that teachers didn't really want to teach, they just wanted to be followed. Not that she was bitter about it. At all.)

The question was: what did she feel like she failed?

She quietly watched Cute Barista work his magic. His movements were crisp, efficient. Either he'd been a barista his whole life, or his dexterity had been honed by other means.

Her sleep-deprived brain fed her all kinds of terrible ideas, ranging from Give him your number to Kidnap him and throw him in the back of your car.

For one, Ryuuji was also in her car.

Kidnap him too.

She really needed some sleep.

Cute Barista turned and slid two cups across the pickup counter. He was smiling, but it was small across his face. It looked polite and contrived, no longer amused.

Makoto felt the distinct urge to apologize, but she didn't even know for what.

"Here you are," said Cute Barista. "Iced Americano. And a chai tea latte, extra sweet."

"Thank you."

She grabbed the drinks and surged to the door. Something was itching under her skin and she wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.

"By the way, my name's Akira," said Cute Barista. "Kurusu Akira."

She paused at the door, an unspoken question on the tip of her tongue.

"I figured I should tell you," answered Kurusu Akira, "because I have the feeling that you'll be coming back."

She left without a word.

.

.

.

| POLL: "Are the Phantom Thieves just?"

YES: 62%, NO: 38%

| CHATBOX

"like legit look at what they do, they get the bad guys"

"They saved my mother. That's all I will say."

"umm yaa lives saved like >9000"

"what their doing is WRONG. dont u guys SEE? they do WHATEVER they WANT. they dont ask PERMISSION. they have a GOD COMPLEX."

"wake the **** up, PT is just a fairytale"

"How would you guys feel if someone forced you to have a change of heart?"

Chapter 2: RANK 2

Notes:

eyyy thanks for the comments yall are encouraging <3

Makoto straightened her uniform in front of the dark cherry door. The gold nameplate next to the entryway read in emblazoned officiation: MUNAKAWA ASAO, Chief Superintendant. She cleared her throat twice and checked the pin emblem on her chest for the fifth time.

Grats, Prissyma, Ryuuji had crowed at the summons notice. Called by the big cheese himself!

She wanted to feel accomplished, but more than anything, she felt overwhelmingly nervous.

Finally, she rapped on the door with shaking fingers. “Sir! Niijima Makoto of Police Squad 29 reporting, sir!”

“Enter,” commanded a gravelly voice, so she did.

The room was polished and eloquent despite its fairly small size. Chief Munakawa was, after all, only the overseer of their particular station, of which there were many in Tokyo. The mahogany furniture was simply carved, and each shelf was tidily organized to the millimeter. The chief kept an immaculate office.

“Close the door,” said the chief.

She closed it. She stood at attention on the other side of the desk, waiting for Chief Munakawa to look up from his leather folder.

“Good work, Niijima,” he said. “Cracked the Yongen-jaya serial armed robbery, I see.”

“Yes sir,” she said smartly.

“Quite accomplished for your age.”

“Thank you sir.”

“You’re young for a squad leader. Unit 29, you said?”

“Yes sir.”

“That’s in the criminal investigation section.”

“Yes sir.”

Chief Munokawa lowered the leather folder to his desk. She kept her gaze straight ahead, not daring to look him in the eye.

“You know,” said the chief superintendant softly, “you remind me of my first wife.”

She felt a prickle up her spine, a warning. She said nothing.

“You seem extremely capable, Niijima. Very bright. I wouldn’t be surprised if the future holds grand things in store.”

His tone was adopting a strange tint. Makoto tightened her jaw.

“I’m in line to recommend a few names to the Superintendant Supervisor next week,” mused Chief Munokawa. “He brings those names directly to the Superintendant-General himself. Someone as bright and beautiful as you should never be kept on the low-down. It’s a waste, I think. Over forty thousand police officers, and only a handful of them are actually competent. Wouldn’t you like your position to finally reflect your potential?”

She did not move.

“Why don't you come by my house tonight,” said the chief, “and I’ll remember your name for the supervisor next week.”

She bit the inside of her cheek until an iron taste filled her mouth. Nausea churned in the pit of her stomach. “That won't be necessary, sir.”

“Oh?” There was a glint in his eye. He was not looking at her face.

“I will return to my work in due diligence.” She bowed and surreptitiously crossed her arms over her chest. “And I will never accept... detours.”

That caught his attention. “Tonight would not be a detour. It’s work hours. You would be paid, overtime.”

A paid whore. She bit the tip of her tongue to stop an acidic response. “I respectfully decline, sir.”

He settled back in his chair. Spindled fingers folded together and his brows knotted, pulling down the tufts of black-silver hair across his balding skull. “And that is your final answer, Niijima Makoto?”

“I am absolutely certain.” She forced a tone that left no room for argument.

The chief’s face darkened. “Dismissed.”

She left the room. She did not vomit.

.

.

.

“Niijima,” said Akechi Gorou solemnly, “if I may ask, what exactly happened at that meeting?”

It had been two days and Makoto had put the incident out of her mind to the best of her ability, but the look on Gorou's face brought it all flooding back. Her heart sank to the floor.

“Why?” she said crisply. “Did something happen?”

“Check your desk,” Gorou said. His eyes were grim.

If Gorou had seen it, most of the bureau had seen it. If most of the bureau had seen it, then that could mean only one thing.

Makoto powered through the entrance to her desk. She noticed the side-eye glances, the murmurs, the rueful smiles of pity. There was a brightly-colored envelope on her desk, saturated red that made her eyes hurt, and even as she slit it open, she knew what it was.

TOKYO METROPOLITAN POLICE DEPARTMENT NOTICE, said the white sheet of paper inside, broad and impersonal. ATTN: Niijima Makoto and Police Squad 29 of Shibuya Station, Criminal Investigation Section. Your unit has been reassigned to the following case:

Her heart sank as her eyes drifted to the block letters at the bottom of the page.

PHANTOM THIEVES [NPD-014374]

A postscriptum offered, “I am open to changing my mind, Officer Niijima.”

“It's a prank or somethin', ain't it?” Ryuuji offered desperately. “Some crazy punk is tryin' to get at us, yeah?”

Makoto folded the note neatly. “I'm going to check in with Records. We'll need the complete case files.”

She strode away, feigning confidence with every step.

“Like hell you are! Niijima! It's a fake, ain't it?! Niijima!”

.

.

.

Makoto walked into Leblanc with the bottle of '92 Yamazaki cradled in her arms. Her hair was combed, her clothes were ironed, and she smelled clean like she'd just showered that morning, because she had. It was a stark difference from when she'd walked into the café one week prior.

“Welcome,” said Kurusu Akira, then a pregnant pause. “Interesting.”

“Interesting meaning?” She tried to read his gaze, but she found nothing. She'd picked her outfit strategically: a navy blouse with a Peter Pan collar, flared jeans, ballet flats, and a patterned canvas handbag. Something that was casual enough, but conveyed the message of I only look like a slob when I haven't showered in sixty hours.

Why she'd wanted to convey that message so urgently? Well, that was a different problem.

“Interesting meaning that you look very nice when you're not on stakeout,” said Akira, “Officer Niijima.”

Makoto's mouth ran dry.

Akira returned to the cash register. “I see you brought back the '92 Yamazaki. Wasn't to your liking?”

“I,” stammered Makoto, and she swallowed and tried again, “I never opened it.”

“What a waste.”

He eased the bottle from her white-knuckled grip and carried it to the storage room. She took the brief moment to gather her nerves.

React now, think later. Revolutionary indeed from Niijima Makoto, but it couldn't be helped.

Kurusu Akira returned with his hands in his pockets and his back in a line that looked really, really good. Makoto conjured up the mental image of the commissioner to stop the dangerous direction of her thoughts. It was extremely effective, but came with the side effect of making her feel sick all over.

“How did you know that I was an officer?” Makoto said.

“I'm psychic,” Akira deadpanned, tipping his glasses.

“Pardon my skepticism.”

“Skepticism pardoned.”

She couldn't help but chuckle at that. Akira smiled in response.

“So, what can I get for you?” Akira said.

“Actually,” said Makoto, “I'm here to buy some alcohol.”

“Like a good law-abiding citizen and not an extortionist this time, I see. What's the order?”

She remembered a balding head of black-silver hair. She sighed wearily. “Something really strong. And a lot of it.”

.

.

.

She was buzzed.

She knew she was buzzed, because everything started feeling floaty and very vague. The booth cushions were very soft, almost like the spongy material was hugging her sides, and the stained glass lamp over her head was starting to look psychedelic. She felt light. Distant from the mountain of troubles that plagued her mundane life.

She wasn't smashed, but she was definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, buzzed.

“Rough day?” asked Kurusu Akira.

She snorted. The alcohol loosened her tongue just a little. “You could say that.”

“Explain.”

“I don't think you'll want me to. Bartenders—wait, you're, you're a barista—get tired of it, don't they? People blabbing their whole life story, complaining over and over...”

“Maybe I'm interested in you,” Akira said patiently.

“Maybe you're interested that I'll leak something,” Makoto said with a broad wave of her hand. “I wouldn't count on it. I take my non-disclosures very seriously. Even when I'm drunk.”

“Or maybe I'm just interested in you.”

She didn't have anything to say to that. She was glad that the alcohol had rid her ability to blush modestly.

“So, what's your age?” said Akira, calm and unruffled.

“Anyone ever tell you that it's rude to ask a woman her age?”

“Are you offended?”

“No.”

“Then.”

She deliberated on what to tell him, then figured that he'd be able to discern a lie. “Twenty-three.”

“Months or years?”

“What,” she said. Then again, “what.”

“I guess that means years,” said Akira solemnly.

“You're,” and she pointed, “you're weird.”

“And you're drunk.”

“I am drunk.” She chuckled. “Very keen observation. You could be a detective. Probably more competent than half the people in my branch.”

“Is that pent-up resentment from the goody two shoes I hear?”

“Perish the thought.”

He paused, then sat across from her. “Gasp. The golden girl has thoughts and feelings of her own?”

“You never know. I could be a hardcore biker under all this propriety.”

He chuckled. It was a warm, gentle sound that amped up the fuzziness from the whiskey.

“I just, wow.” She sighed. She could smell the alcohol in her own breath. “Sometimes I wish that I was understood.”

“You're not alone,” said Akira quietly. “I think everyone wishes that.”

“To people, I'm either a badge, or the little sister of Niijima Sae, or a body with breasts... The higher-ups, that's all they want. Sex. Sheesh.”

“Who asked you for that?”

She grinned. “I'm no fool, Kurusu. Just drunk. I'm not spilling even one letter of a name.”

“It's not non-disclosure.”

“Basically is.” Makoto sat a little taller. “I wish I could prove myself. Through mental acuity, good judgment, integrity. Not because of... anything else.”

“You can,” said Akira.

He sounded so confident, so sure—of her. She suddenly felt teary, which she knew was only because of the alcohol.

“Get my bill,” she said, staring very deeply at her feet. She had the overwhelming urge to run away.

“Sure thing.”

She dug around in her bag. Phone. Keys. Badge. Wallet... wallet... wallet...?

She hissed.

“Something wrong?” said Akira, sliding the receipt across the table.

“I... no.” She dug further, more frantic.

“You sure?” Akira said wryly.

Makoto stared at her bag. Stared at him.

“Um,” she said meekly, “can I... leave this as collateral and come back with my wallet?”

He raised a single brow.

“I mean, I'm a cop. So. There's a limit to how much I can scam you.”

“But that could also be a scam,” deadpanned Kurusu Akira. “You could be a con artist posing as an undercover cop posing as an exceptionally cute woman.”

“I have a badge!”

“It could be forged. Or lifted.”

“T-then... what do you want me to do?”

He shrugged wordlessly.

She looked around. “How about... the dishes? You have those, don't you?” It didn't make much sense to offer dishwashing when she could just pay, but she was indebted to Kurusu Akira, so Kurusu Akira had the right to decide.

“I'm not sure I want a drunk person doing my dishes.”

“I won't drop anything. Promise. I'm not that drunk.”

He looked at her. “Alright.”

.

.

.

It only took half an hour.

Apparently, Leblanc didn't see many customers. The awful location probably had something to do with it. She certainly couldn't find any fault with the staff charm.

She discovered an odd satisfaction in cleaning. Sae had never let her touch the dishes, because if she cut her fingers, she wouldn't be able to study, and if she didn't study, she wouldn't be able to get into a good college, and if she didn't get into a good college, she wouldn't be able to get a well-paying, stable nine-to-five. In theory, Makoto had always known how: dish soap, sponge, hot water, then lots of scrubbing and rinsing. But head knowledge hadn't conveyed the sheer thrill of taking a plate, swiping away all sauce and food particles and nasty, gooey grime, and leaving a surface of perfect porcelain. Head knowledge hadn't provided the same satisfaction.

“You're smiling,” Akira noted as he dried the dishes.

“Not allowed?” she quipped. She felt far less drunk, but around the same level of airy happiness, which she'd take any day of the week.

“It's welcome, but I'm just curious.”

Akira reached and picked another plate. His arm grazed the back of her shoulder blades and his cheek pressed into her hair, just for a moment.

She took a moment to gather her thoughts.

“Cleaning's a lot more fun than I thought it would be,” she said.

“Haven't cleaned before?”

“I have, sort of. When we were required to.”

“But this is different?”

“This is the first time I've really thought about it.” Makoto scrubbed at a particularly stubborn stain. “It's strange, but it feels really nice. You put your hand to it, and... you know that when you're done, it'll be clean.”

Unlike many aspects of the world.

Akira stared at her. His gaze felt warm, somehow, almost tingly. Makoto finished the last plate and hurriedly dried her hands on the nearest towel.

“Guess I'd better go,” she said. “It was nice talking to you again. I hope you have a good day, evening, rest of your life. Um, goodbye.”

She snatched her bag from the counter.

“Sounds like you don't plan on coming back,” Akira said.

“This seems to be a place where I do nothing but regularly embarrass myself,” Makoto said. “If you were me, wouldn't you avoid it too?”

“Then can I meet you outside?”

Every part of her body ground to a halt. Her feet, her hands, the cogs in her head. Screeeeeech, like a subway car forced to brake.

“Uh?” she said.

“If you don't want to come here,” Akira said, “I don't mind meeting you someplace else.”

Her mind whiplashed into a sprint, grasping for rationalization. “You might not want to bother. I don't go easy, even on friends. So if you're trying to form a connection with a cop. Um. That's... well, not me.”

He paused for a long time, then shrugged.

Makoto felt vaguely disappointed. “I guess this is goodbye?” she said.

“If you want it to be,” he said.

It was a very open-ended answer and it made her want more closure. Somehow, she had the feeling that he planned it that way.

She pushed out the door. She didn't plan on coming back.

.

.

.

| POLL: “Do the Phantom Thieves have a good logo?”

YES: 72%, NO: 28%

| CHATBOX

"I'm not a designer but it looks cool"

"needs more chuuni"

"a flaming hat lol like wtf does that even mean"

"O.O"

"I guess they need to if they want anyone to take their calling cards seriously"

"they stole MY Design!!!! I cant believe they made a logo that looks just like mine!!!!!!"

Chapter 3: RANK 2.5

Notes:

so many female social links

"You know what?" said Sakamoto Ryuuji. "I dunno what kind of bull you said, but go right back and apologize for it."

Police Squad 29 was currently scattered around the cushioned chairs of the conference room down the hall. They were supposed to be pouring over the case files of NPD-014374, the Phantom Thieves case, but the morale was somewhere down in the pits of Tartarus. Though the air conditioning was at 18.7 Celsius, the atmosphere felt stuffy and condensed, hard to breathe.

"So I was thinking we could start with a recap," Makoto forged on.

"C'mon, man. You can't seriously think that this is a legit assignment." Ryuuji shook his head. "It's a retaliation. For somethin'. What the hell did you say to Chief?"

"Don't blame her too much. That exchange was leaking misfortune all over the place," said Mifune Chihaya. She was playfully spinning a tarot card in her fingers, but her eyes were knowing beneath her signature black headband. "Denying it was a good choice."

"Says you." Kawakami Sadayo waved around the room, her curly brown hair bouncing into her chin. "Look at this unit. Just look at this damn unit. Police Squad 29, all women. Gawd, they threw us into one big boat. And now we're going to sink because of her."

"I," began Sakamoto Ryuuji, but was interrupted by Suzui Shiho.

"Don't blame the leader, Kawakami," she said. "She's your superior. Show some respect."

"I'm older than her, dammit," Officer Kawakami muttered.

"Yeah, you sure look like it," said Ryuuji with a touch of venom.

"Break up the catfight, girls." Officer Suzui turned to Makoto. "Boss, you were saying?"

Makoto massaged the headache balling near her temples. "Basic recap."

"Want me to handle it?"

"Bless your soul, Suzui."

Officer Suzui rapped a marker against the whiteboard. "The Phantom Thieves Case has been ongoing for seven years. Since then, it's passed under the jurisdiction of several groups and districts."

"Seven years," snorted Ryuuji. "What a joke."

"The case is unusual in many aspects. Primarily, there is no information on the modus operandi. Victims seem to completely change their minds of their own accord. We suspected blackmail or psychological oppression, since there were no signs of physical damage. However, after further perusal of their assets, financial accounts, and states of mind, nothing unusual was found."

"Their brains just did a one-eighty," Officer Kawakami mused. "Conveniently the day after the calling card."

"It's due to the unknown nature of the crimes that the case is still unsolved. End report," concluded Officer Suzui.

"What about some other stuff?" called Ryuuji. "Like, the fact that this damn case is only assigned to people that the bigwigs want to screw over?"

"I've had people patting me on the back all day, saying that they're all sorry, hey, on the bright side, it'll only be a few months, all that crap," Officer Kawakami said.

Makoto ignored both of them. "Mifune, read the profile."

"Because I'm a good profiler, a good reader, or a good fortune teller?" said Officer Mifune.

"Just read it."

Officer Mifune cleared her throat. "Before the sudden turnaround, every victim received a calling card. The calling cards were distributed in an extremely public manner. They were, essentially, public declarations of war. This leads us to believe that the perpetrators are seeking attention likely due to being neglected in the past, whether from peers or family. The calling cards also specifically target alleged or confirmed crimes committed by the victims. Therefore, the perpetrators are strongly propelled by their innate sense of justice. They hold strong moral convictions according to their personal standards. Ergo, we're looking at people with little external influences on their lives such as peer pressure or media. They will tend to keep more to themselves. They may be strong advocates of religion or humanism. The calling cards also indicate that the perpetrators feel comfortable putting themselves in the seat of judgment. This indicates self-righteousness and emotional immaturity. It is very likely that they are juveniles, but they may be young adults."

"Hold up," said Sakamoto Ryuuji. "What?"

"They're judging others for their crimes," explained Mifune Chihaya. "That means that they don't believe they've done anything wrong themselves, or they would feel too guilty to judge. Otherwise, they'd investigate for evidence, but ultimately send it to the police."

"Maybe they just had some crappy experience with the police and they don't trust them anymore," Ryuuji said.

"Unlikely," said Officer Mifune. "They've never posted inflammatory comments against law enforcement or the government."

"Maybe they don't want to sound like terrorists."

"What the hell, Sakamoto," cut in Officer Kawakami. "Are you defending them?"

"I used to hate cops back in the day," said Ryuuji simply. "I'm just saying that I think I understand how these guys feel."

"Well, don't," said Officer Kawakami. "They're criminals."

"Should I keep going on the profiling?" Officer Mifune asked. "That was just the first bullet point. We haven't even gone into the state of the victims after the crime is committed. For example, the nonlethal and purely psychological nature—"

Makoto waved her hands. The commotion obediently died down. She took a moment to turn the information over in her head.

"I think I have an idea. But keep in mind that the Phantom Thieves began seven years ago," said Makoto, "so while they might have started out as juveniles, they will be adults by now. Perhaps some are married."

"So we've got nothing," Ryuuji translated.

"There's a reason that this is called the Case From Hell," Officer Kawakami muttered.

"Stop being so negative," said Officer Mifune. "You're bringing down the feng shui."

"This is the optimal time to be negative," said Tohgou Hifumi. She was playing shogi against herself somewhere in the corner. "It would be far worse to be struck with despair in the middle of a high-speed pursuit."

"That literally never happens," said Officer Kawakami.

"I think it's, 'That figuratively never happens,'" said Officer Suzui.

"In this case, no, it's very literal," said Officer Kawakami.

"THOUSAND DRAGON TEMPEST," Officer Tohgou screeched at her shogi board.

Makoto kneaded her aching temples again. "I suggest that we hit this from a completely different angle," she said.

The team quieted and turned to her.

"Look," said Makoto. "People have tried all the common ways. They haven't worked. So we're going to play a little differently."

"How's that?" said Officer Kawakami.

"Let's predict the next victim," she said.

"They have already tried that. Aside from general debauchery, victim commonalities are scarce," said Officer Tohgou.

She looked evenly at her team.

"We'll succeed," she said, "because for one week, we're going to pretend to be the Phantom Thieves."

.

.

.

From that day forth, Police Squad 29 only messaged each other in code names, deliberated on the best potential target, and went on long monologues about justice and curing Japan of corruption. Makoto thought that it came a little too naturally to everyone.

.

.

.

DRAGONHEART. What is on the agenda for the day?

SKULL. Can we finally get a target? I'm getting really bored.

MISS FORTUNE. One must not prompt Fate before it chooses to move.

QUEEN. I think I've found some potentials, but we'll have to split up and get some recon. You guys ready?

SKULL. Finally! Who we looking at Queen?

QUEEN. One is the executive officer of the department store chain Junes. Another is the famed live drama producer, Itawa Ghamson. And the last is

Queen is typing...

MAID. Can we get an ETA on this name, Queen?

Queen is typing...

QUEEN. Munakawa Asao, Chief Superintendant of the Shibuya Station of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.

SKULL. WTF

.

.

.

| POLL: "Are the Phantom Thieves invincible?"

YES: 52%, NO: 48%

| CHATBOX

"I meaaaaan no ones caught them yet LOL"

"hell no but the police are just ****ing incompetent"

"one of these decades someone will get em amirite"

"ALL THE STEALING"

"PT and PD, lmao the irony"

"MARRY ME PHANTOM THIEVES <3"

Chapter 4: RANK 3

Notes:

comments are my cookies. thank you for giving me diabetes.

Makoto waited at the corner on the opposite side of Shibuya Station. It was a rather nice corner, high traffic with cars and people coming and going in thick rivers. That was the important part. It was easy to blend in with the crowd, which she sorely needed. 

Her mark left precisely on time: eight PM, on the dot. He was wearing a pressed suit and genuine leather shoes. Makoto knew that if she was closer, she'd be able to see the thumb-sized golden nameplate pinned to his chest. 

That nameplate happened to read MUNAKAWA ASAO.

Police Squad 29 had wanted to notify Chief Munakawa directly, because tailing a direct superior behind his back would feel not only awkward, but terrifyingly illegal. Makoto had managed to talk them out of it. Surely none of the previous victims knew that they were being tailed, she pointed out, and in order for this experiment to have any chance of working, they needed to replicate the conditions as closely as possible. 

That included not telling the chief superintendent that they were going to tail him. 

In order to keep a low profile, the team had voted for Chief Munakawa to be a solo assignment. So Makoto had delegated Officer Kawakami and Officer Suzui to the Junes executive officer; Ryuuji, Officer Tohgou, and Officer Mifune to the live drama producer; and herself to the chief superintendent.

It had been oddly fitting in a vindictive sort of way. 

Munakawa Asao flagged down a taxi as he exited the station. Makoto gritted her teeth. One-man car pursuits were almost always discovered. It was easier to pull with two or three cars, each switching off so that they never attracted unwanted attention from the mark. But she had only herself, and only her car. 

She revved the engine, ready to swerve into the street, but the moment Chief Munakawa's taxi rounded the corner, the sky shimmered. 

Her vision pulsed. 

What?

A wave of dizziness pushed her against the car seat. She staggered, clamping her foot against the brake. 

There was another pulse, and she quickly turned off the car. 

She looked up. 

The sky was red. That was her first realization. It looked like a whirlpool of dark ink, foreboding and angry, a depiction of psychosis. Just glancing at it made her feel dizzy and out of place. 

The police station—

—well, it wasn't a police station anymore. 

It was a glamorous, towering structure boasting avant-garde architecture of chrome and glass, accented here and there with primary colors in the decor and the trim. A broad, underlit sign proclaimed MUNAKAWA GAME CENTER in hand-carved letters. 

It was, in some ways, completely foreign, and in others, hauntingly familiar to the Shibuya Station. 

Makoto proceeded past the gate—an electric fence that hummed with around a thousand volts, by her estimate—and continued through an expansive front court populated with neatly-trimmed grass and impeccable shrubbery. She slipped through the front door, feeling very much as if she had wandered into a dream. 

“Stop right there!” commanded a voice. 

Makoto turned. 

A life-sized plastic soldier, skins and clothes in mottled red, marched across the tile floor and pulled to a stop. 

Makoto opened her mouth. 

Makoto closed her mouth.

“Do you have permission to be here?” said the soldier sharply. 

“You're talking,” said Makoto. 

“State your access code,” said the soldier, irritated. 

“I'm either dreaming,” said Makoto, “or you have one heck of a makeup artist.”

“That's it, I'm classifying you as an intruder,” the soldier hissed and—

—and he burst in a liquid firework of red and black, melding into a different form. 

It was a nightmare, tall and dark with translucent sinews, strange, alien whispers leaking from its mouth in harmonies that were perfectly dissonant, as if it was intentionally selecting the worst possible combination of frequencies just for the human ear. Makoto was dry-mouthed and cold inside, just like the first time she'd seen a dead body with her own eyes. 

“What isss thisss disssturbance,” hissed the nightmare. 

Makoto was empty-minded. She drew her gun, cocked, and fired, the motions smooth and refined from years of practice. 

The bullet hissed directly into the gleaming elliptical incision that seemed to be the creature's eye, or, at least, some form of ocular sensor. It writhed with a cacophonous scream that corkscrewed painfully into her eardrum. 

Her nerve was rattled. She fired again, again. One at the other eye, one into a yawning hole that looked like a mouth. 

The creature screamed and dissipated into black dust. 

What the hell was that, said her id. She imagined that it was curled up in a dark corner somewhere, weeping and rocking back and forth. What the hell was that what the hell was that what the hell—

You, cut in her superego, are on some serious LSD.

Question, said her natural voice (which she assumed was her ego), when did I get hit by a truckload of LSD?

The Phantom Thieves sensed that you were tailing them, duh,  supplied her superego. They just had to sneak behind you and jab in a needle.

I would have noticed, she protested. 

They haven't been caught in seven years for a reason, Prissyma, said her superego quite smugly.

Even her own self was calling her Prissyma. 

So that's their modus operandi? Torture their victim psychologically when he's high off his mind? she said. 

What the hell was that what the hell was that what the hell was that—still from the id.

Her superego sighed in the back of her mind. If that was the case, the victims would show signs of psychological damage. Obviously.

Of course. But then how? 

Makoto's thoughts ran blank and she promptly identified the symptoms of cognitive dissonance. Which was, quite frankly, an accomplishment given how high she must be. Stoners were not exactly known for their cognition. 

The victims went through a sudden change of heart, yet showed no signs of physical or psychological damage.

This is a paradox, said her ego helpfully. 

Then maybe they used the drugs for something other than inducing nightmares. Maybe they only made their enemies culpable to imagining monsters, people who were targeting them, people who were threats. Their normal victims might get some other drugs. Drugs to make them more open to influence, suggestible. 

Were drugs specific enough to do that?

Makoto could honestly say that she didn't have enough experience. 

She was fairly certain that strong drugs would come with side effects. 

She was also fairly certain that every person was bound to react to chemicals in different ways, and the Phantom Thieves couldn't have possibly crafted a formula that worked universally for seven years of victims. 

The alternative theory is that you're not high, suggested her superego, and this is not the effect of drugs.

Impossible, she immediately ruled. That creature had not been natural. And this whole setting was clearly—well, it was something.

The alternative alternative theory, said her superego, is that they fed you a sleep drug, and all of this is your own imagination.

You really took the reassignment hard, didn't you, said her id sadly. 

She needed an alternative alternative alternative theory. 

The black dust in front of her suddenly sifted through the air and washed back into the game center. 

And then. 

The ground rocked angrily beneath her feet, and she heard blaring alarms cut in. The game center flashed, red and yellow and blue, sirens wailing—

WE JUST SET OFF AN ALARM WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE, her id screamed. 

WE JUST SET OFF AN ALARM WE'RE ALL GOING TO GET FINED, her superego screamed. 

And the sirens suddenly cut out. The lights dimmed. 

Makoto stood in the shimmering darkness, hearing nothing but the sound of her own breath. Her heart was crashing over and over into her stomach, raising bile to the back of her throat. 

Did we die yet? said her id meekly. 

She waited. She was familiar with this kind of silence. It wasn't the sleeping, peaceful silence that came from decompressing after a long day at work. It was an angry silence, resentful, bubbling under the surface and waiting for just the right moment to strike. 

She kept waiting. 

One moment, she was alone. The next, swivels of black dust rose from the ground, shaping into plasticine-colored soldiers pointing rifles right at her. 

She was completely surrounded. 

“Stop right there!” one yelled. “Drop your weapon!”

“Joker we know, Mona we recognize, but who are you?” said another. 

What is happening, said her superego, dumbfounded. 

Drop weapon now, ask questions later, her id cried. 

“I said, drop your weapon!” screamed the nearest soldier. His fancier helmet made him look like a captain. “Drop it, or we shoot on three!”

Then something moved. 

A shadow flitted behind one soldier. It dissipated soundlessly. This time, the black dust seeped into the pavement without a trace.

“One!” said the captain. 

Another flicker just outside the light. A second soldier vanished. 

“Two!”

The last soldier became smoke, leaving only the captain. 

“Three! Fi—”

A glint of metal, and the captain split in half. Black dust crumbled. The shadow behind it stepped into the light.

It was a man, Makoto thought. He was hard to look at. There wasn't really any other way to put it. His figure was coiled and distorted and kept shimmering in her vision, like he was a heat wave and she was trying very desperately to see him, but there was really nothing to see. Looking at him made her eyes hurt, but she forced herself to. All she could make out was the blinding white mask, strikingly clear in a sea of hypnotic waves. 

“You're,” she stammered, because seven years and there had not been one single picture, “you're a Phantom Thief.”

He grinned beneath his mask. “And you're a police officer.”

She squinted, but only felt dizzy. She fumbled for the recorder in her pocket and pressed it, turning her body so the Phantom Thief wouldn't notice. “What did you put in me?”

“Nothing,” said the Phantom Thief. “This is my first time seeing you here.”

“Don't. Don't lie.” She tightened the grip on her gun. It was shaking. “I s-saw it. That... thing. Those things. All of them. I-it's not. Not natural.”

“Won't argue that one. They're cognitive projections.”

“Cognitive projections.”

“Yes.”

“So...” Her mind was racing to link the pieces. “All of those were, essentially, figments of my imagination. Somehow, we entered a dimension, a dream, call it whatever you want, where the very human psyche is a physical reality. Those monsters are... the depiction of my psychological security. My mental barriers. Perhaps they're the embodiment of fear? Which would explain their abstract nature.”

The Phantom Thief looked at her silently for a long, long moment. 

“Your mind is wasted with the fuzz,” he said. 

She almost smiled. It felt like the highest compliment she could ever receive, even if it was from a criminal. 

“You're almost right, but partially wrong.” He slid his hands into his pockets. The motion seemed strangely familiar to her, but she couldn't put her finger on it. “This isn't your cognition. This is Munakawa Asao's.”

He's a liar, he's a criminal, you should just shoot him before he confuses you anymore, chanted her id. 

Shooting him would involve too much paperwork, argued her superego. 

Her ego ignored both of them. 

“Munakawa Asao,” she repeated. 

“Don't believe me?”

She did. That made it even scarier. 

“Did you notice the security? Before they unmasked themselves and transformed, I mean.” The Phantom Thief tilted his head. “What did they look like?”

She should be threatening him. She should be arresting him. 

She should not be thinking that he seemed remarkably sane. 

“Toy soldiers,” she said. 

It struck her. 

“That's how he sees people. Toys?”

The Phantom Thief's grin broadened. “You were the teacher's pet back in the day, weren't you?”

“He sees everyone as toys, playthings.” Her heart sank. “The women. How many has he—?”

“Why do you believe me?” the Phantom Thief suddenly said. 

She broke off, her train of thought interrupted. “Uh?”

“You, a cop, believe me, a criminal.” 

“Your explanation makes a lot of sense...”

“You're still a cop, and I'm still a criminal.”

She liked to think. She'd always liked to think for herself, even in school, where she learned to put her head down and Follow the Assignment, no questions asked. And she liked to know that what she was doing was right. What other reason was there to become an entry-level police officer?

But she said none of that. She was starting to get the creeping sensation that she should keep her mouth shut. 

The Phantom Thief seemed to be watching her face. His smile faded. 

“Ah,“ he said. “So now we are enemies.”

“Were we ever allies?”

He readjusted his gloves, which were bright, bright crimson. “Generally, that's what you call the relationship of someone saving someone else's life.”

A note of confusion hummed in her head. “Why... Why did you?”

“You are very naive if you think I'm going to answer that, sheltered princess.”

“I-I'm not a princess.”

“My apologies, queen. Your Majesty.”

She tried very hard to clamp down the jolt of shock. He couldn't possibly know about Police Squad 29's immersion exercise. It was just a lucky guess. It had to be a lucky guess. 

“Not fond of the nickname?” the Phantom Thief said dryly. 

She raised her gun, stringing together every ounce of courage left in her body. 

“Come with me to the precinct,” she commanded. “You're under arrest for... phantom thievery. Um. Stealing people's hearts, forcefully changing their minds, unknown measures of trespassing and extortion—”

“I have the right to remain silent, everything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law, et cetera?” His tone was serious, but she had the distinct feeling that she was being mocked. 

“I'm glad that you understand the situation.”

“And if I don't comply, you'll shoot?”

“If you force me too.” She cleared her mind, allowing no room for hesitation. 

The Phantom Thief was silent for a moment. 

“Do you believe,” he said presently, “that guns are the most powerful weapon? The accuracy, the speed, the ability to damage—it's all unmatched by firearms?”

“Stop stalling.”

“Because here... they're just toys.”

She barely blinked and it happened. A harsh wind whipped from nowhere, so strong and fast that it slammed into her hands like a rod of wood. She cried out as the gun flew from her hands and clattered uselessly to the road. 

“Your Majesty, you have no clue how this place works,” said the Phantom Thief softly. “I suggest you leave it to the experts.”

He disappeared in a whirl of cloak. 

.

.

.

| POLL: “Is magic real?”

YES: 4%, NO: 96%

| CHATBOX

"anyone who says yes is trying to sell something"

"Disneyland bitches"

"imagine all the crimes people could commit if it really was a thing"

"Magic is a wonderful idea, but actual implementation would be a disaster."

"BIBBIDI BOBBIDI BOOOO"

"i think it does exist out there somewhere"

Chapter 5: RANK 3.5

Notes:

THANK YOU FOR THE SUPPORT. *blows dva kiss* i love to read your comments. comments are my fuel. i am a very environmentally unfriendly battle tank. putt putt.

“Alright, Joker,” meowed an honest-to-god human rather frantically, “we gotta talk.”

“If you mean that this relationship just doesn't seem to be working out, and it's not me, it's you, then I agree,” Akira deadpanned. He shrugged off his Joker ensemble, which had been sewn in real life after too many close brushes with exiting the Metaverse.

Morgana's cat eyes narrowed. “Seriously, Akira. If that police officer ever comes around Leblanc again, don't talk to her. Make the part timer manage everything. Whatever you do, do not see her again. Yeah? Got it?”

“Calm down, Morgana,” Akira said quietly. “She said she wouldn't be coming back.”

“Hey. She's like, into you.”

Akira perked up. “Really?”

“Dammit, Kurusu, that's not the point! At all!”

Akira glanced away. He stripped off his gloves and shirt, replacing them with his typical white button-down and café apron. The pants swapped out for a pair of nicely ironed trousers, the shoes for stiffer loafers. When all was done, he wrapped the Joker's clothes around his mask, took out the back of his old TV (which had been hollowed out very precisely), and stuffed the clothes inside.

Under the mattress was the first place to look for suspicious goods. Under the floorboards was typical for a drug bust.

In a TV? Less so.

At least, he could hope.

“That officer really means trouble,” said Morgana. He pounced on his favorite perch at Akira's desk and started to daintily lick a paw.

“So I should've let her die?” Akira said.

“Well, no,” said Morgana reluctantly. “She's still an innocent, at least in the cognitive sense. It wouldn't have been good to let her die.”

“She was also upping the alarm level.”

“That's true.” Morgana shook his head in a sudden flurry of fur. “But that doesn't change a thing! She knows your Metaverse identity, Akira! Hanging around her in real life is just asking for trouble!”

“Or could it be a cover if the Joker showed up at the same time?”

“You are the Joker, you idiot, the Joker can't show up at the same time.”

Akira was silent.

“It's going to be hard, you know. From here on out. She's going to bring her squad. Maybe more. Who knows? This is the first time the fuzz has managed to get into the Metaverse.” Morgana started pacing in circles. “Seriously. We're operating in the blind here. How did she even get in?”

“Must've been close enough when we entered.”

“Is that really right? Because in that case why doesn't every civilian within such-and-such radius enter the Metaverse?”

“I thought you would know.”

“I'm an honest-to-god human, not an honest-to-human god! Something is weird about her! Maybe you're a suspect, Akira. Maybe she was assigned as a honeypot!”

Akira sighed.

“And she is really, really smart. Well, for the fuzz. Did you hear how she just pieced together the foundation of the Metaverse with barely any help? She just accepted it! That's dangerous! Denial of the supernatural is one of our best defenses. With that gone, and with Miss Thinker around... Akira, seriously, we need to stay away from her.”

For a long moment, Akira entered a thinking sort of silence.

“Then if she ever comes back,” he finally said, “can you let me do just one last thing?”

“What would that be?”

“Ask her out to the movies.”

“KURUSU I SWEAR—”

.

.

.

| Poll: “Do you like cats?”

YES: 62%, NO: 38%

| CHATBOX

"their from hell but so am i"

"What does this have to do with the Phantom Thieves?"

"is this a joke"

"CATS ARE HILARIOUS XDDD"

"cats >>>> dogs"

"cant we just all be friends"

Chapter 6: RANK 4

Notes:

WHAT. that was a lot of fuel. THANKS.

due to the short chapters, i will be upping the update schedule to 3x a week, mon-wed-fri.

thank you for your support. i am a library. comments are my books.

I suggest you leave it to the experts.

Makoto tipped her pen up and released it. Clink, pa-dut pa-dut as it rolled down her foldable desk.

I suggest you leave it to the experts.

Clink, pa-dut pa-dut.

I suggest you leave it to the experts.

She tipped the pen, but her fingers paused.

I suggest—

“SHUT UP!” she screamed, lurching to her feet.

Silence in her head.

She sank back into her chair. It was a creaky one from the thrift store with a multitude of haphazard rips and scratches, but it had staunchly put up with a great number of tantrums over the past few years. It had earned its place as a staple of her apartment's decor.

Makoto closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The familiar smell of peaches-and-cream air freshener sharpened her mind.

She had to accept it:

She was pissed.

She was really, really pissed.

Correction, piped her id. You are really, really, really pissed.

Can you blame her? grumbled her superego. I mean, could that Phantom Thief have been any more patronizing?

Yes, he could have, said her id.

Her superego conceded this to her id.

“His name,” said Makoto aloud, “is the Joker. At least, I'm pretty sure it is.”

How would you know that? said both id and superego.

“The monsters said it earlier. They knew about two people named ‘Joker’ and ‘Mona.’ I can't imagine those being anything other than Phantom Thief codenames.” Clink, pa-dut pa-dut. “It's partially a hunch. He just looked like a ‘Joker.’”

You couldn't even see him properly, chided her superego. How would you know what he looks like?

Because he had felt like a ‘Joker.’ Maybe it was the aura. Maybe it was the condescending attitude. Maybe it was how easily he could rile her up.

But that wasn't really the problem.

The Phantom Thief had surely been annoying, but he wasn't impossible to deal with. She'd encountered worse folk. Vengeful psychopaths, irrational sue-happy conglomerate directors, self-absorbed celebrities.

No, the problem was that she was completely out of her depth, and she didn't know how to get in her depth.

For one, Joker seemed to be able to control the wind. As in, magic. Magic.

For two, there appeared to exist a dimension where the human psyche took a tangible form.

For three, there appeared to be horrible monsters in this dimension that could easily maim and kill.

For four, there appeared to be many fine intricacies that she didn't understand, like built-in alarms, cognitive projections, and weird shimmering shields that prevented visual recognition.

And to make everything worse, all of her evidence was gone.

Clink, pa-dut pa-dut.

The pinhole camera on this pen came away with nothing but indiscernible noise.

The recorder in her pocket had provided only static.

The backup recorder on her phone didn't even register.

The backup backup recorder in her satchel that linked to her earpiece was completely empty.

Makoto buried her face in her hands.

“Urrrrrrghhhhhhh,” she sighed very loudly.

It wouldn't help the situation, but it did make her feel a tiny bit better. Just a tiny bit.

She had been annoyed when she left the meeting, but not really, really, really pissed. Because she thought that she finally had him. After seven years, the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department could finally get a solid lead on the Phantom Thieves.

And then she'd found out that all of her recording equipment had been botched.

Makoto stood, pressing her fingernails into her palm.

She needed to decompress.

.

.

.

Most cops would have chosen boxing. Maybe martial arts. Something physical and exerting.

Instead, Niijima Makoto found herself standing in front of the humble little café called Leblanc, set on the dirty backstreets of Yongen-jaya. She was in a plain button-down and slacks, but she'd been too annoyed to change.

She breathed deeply and stepped inside.

Kurusu Akira was reading a fairly sizable book at the counter. Given the bright cover, it was a novel. Science fiction, maybe, or adventure. The image fit his round spectacles and lithe frame.

He looked up at the entry bell. She thought she saw a smile pull at his lips before it vanished into a polite nod.

“Officer Niijima,” he said.

Her fingers tightened against the handle of her bag. She suddenly felt glad that there were no other customers around.

“Kurusu Akira,” she greeted.

His lips parted slightly. She cast her mind for a reason.

Was that the first time she said his first name?

“What,” said Akira, and something caught, he cleared his throat—“What can I get for you today?”

Makoto bit her lip and laughed sheepishly. “Do you, um, have any dishes I could do?”

.

.

.

Conveniently, he'd had a large catering order for curry, so there were a lot of dishes to do.

Makoto immersed herself in the work. She rolled up her sleeves and soaped and scrubbed endlessly. She didn't bother wearing gloves. Her hands were rough and callused, her nails clipped short. There was no reason to try to keep them soft and white and feminine like the model hands that showed up in ads. Sometimes, she wondered what it would be like to have a boyfriend. He'd probably have softer hands than her, which would be embarrassing, if she had the luxury of being embarrassed about such things.

“What are you thinking about?” said Kurusu Akira, looking up from his French-press brew. She noticed that he was making two cups.

He probably had callused hands like hers.

She flicked the thought away. “How could you tell that I was thinking?”

“There's a specific look on your face,” said Akira, “and you seem to currently have a personal vendetta with that dish.”

The tight knot in her chest loosened as she laughed. “Tough case recently.”

He was silent, but it was the prompting sort of silence.

“Non-disclosure,” she said.

“Alas, law enforcement.”

She grinned in response.

He stood and toweled off the latest pot. “Can you at least tell me... tough perp, or tough MO?”

“Well look who's using police slang.” She rinsed the final cutting board. “I can't really say. Why don't we talk about you?”

“About me?” said Akira, amused.

She lathered her hands with soap and washed them with steaming water. A strand of hair fell in front of her face. She brushed it behind her ear. “I mean, so far, all I know is that you make coffee. And curry. And you have access to surprisingly expensive alcohol, despite this place's tiny customer base.”

“I sense an underhanded accusation of smuggling,” said Akira. “Is this an investigation, Officer?”

“W-what? No! No—” She turned and saw he was grinning at her. She whipped away, gritting her teeth. “Unless there's something I should be investigating.”

“Come have some coffee,” said Akira. There was a smile in his voice, but it was a peace offering.

She dried her hands and slid onto the bar stool next to him. He was close. If she shifted her elbow, she'd be able to touch his arm.

“Italian roast,” said Akira. He passed a cup to her. “Take sugar or creamer?”

“Both,” she said. She liked her drinks sweet.

He passed the containers to her. “Well... my name's Kurusu Akira, which you know. I'm not originally from around here.”

“How'd you get here?”

“I came to live with a guardian. Sakura Sojiro. He lived just down the road. This place was originally his.”

Akira's words were suddenly punctuated by a very loud feline hiss. Makoto felt pressure against her leg. When she looked down, she saw a slender black cat striped in certain places with sleek white.

“Oh!” she said.

The cat hunkered down with a glare. It tilted its head to the door, almost like it was telling her to leave.

“Ah, right,” said Akira hurriedly.

“Ah, right?” said Makoto.

“I,” said Akira, “I have a cat.”

The cat bristled at this comment.

“He doesn't usually come downstairs,” said Akira.

The cat meowed very loudly. It unsheathed its claws and dug them into the hem of Makoto's pants, pulling her towards the door.

“I don't think your cat likes me,” said Makoto.

“He doesn't like anyone,” said Akira. “He's a cat.”

The cat was still pulling. Akira sighed and stooped, forcibly yanking it away from her.

“Don't be rude,” he said to the cat. “You're going to drive away my customers.”

Rapidfire mewling that, if she listened closely, almost sounded like scolding.

“I can't understand you,” said Akira. “You're a cat.”

He opened the door with his foot and dumped the cat outside, then quickly shut the door.

“Half an hour, okay?” said Akira. “Just half an hour. I'll make it worth your time. Fatty tuna.”

The cat stalked away from the other side of the door pane, looking very indignant. Akira returned to his bar stool with a sigh.

“Did you,” said Makoto, “just strike a bargain with a cat?”

“It happens surprisingly often,” Akira said solemnly.

“What's his name?”

“Morgana.”

“Isn't that a girl's name?”

Hissing and yowling from outside.

“He says that he's a boy and his name is Morgana, so clearly, it's unisex.”

“You speak cat.”

“Something like that.”

She laughed. It bubbled out of her before she could stop it. Kurusu Akira was very weird, and she was starting to like him a little too much.

Her eyes trailed from his warm eyes to his angular nose to the round-rimmed glasses beneath his unkempt hair. The spectacles looked shiny and, somehow, inviting.

“You know,” said Makoto, “I've always wondered how far people can see without their glasses.”

“You have perfect vision, I take it?” said Akira.

“People often hate me for it.”

“Tough life.”

She reached up impulsively and eased the spectacles off of his nose, setting them on the table. Akira was perfectly still.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Makoto asked. She raised her index and middle finger.

Akira squinted. He leaned closer. “Three?”

“Are you kidding? I'm right next to you.”

He stepped down from the bar stool and shifted even closer. His eyes were fixed on her hand, but he still seemed confused. “One. I think.”

“Um. Are you legally blind?”

He looked up. “I'm farsigh—”

His words died away, and so did the teasing smile on her face.

She was pressed against the counter, two fingers still held up, Akira's body slanted just an inch away. Their noses were almost touching and she could feel his gentle breath on her cheek. Her pulse fluttered arrhythmically in the pit of her stomach, pumping thrilling heat to the tips of her fingers and toes. She was tingly in her chest and hazy behind her eyes, almost as if she'd been drinking. If she twitched she could touch his shirt.

“I-if you're farsighted,” Makoto whispered, “then why are you coming closer?”

Akira's face flickered. She had the feeling that he was thinking too many things at once and they were clashing and singing in his head.

She was completely still on the bar stool, frozen by a weight that kept her glued to her chair. She could feel the heat from his body touching her shoulders and neck, she could smell a light cologne, ocean and spice, she could see a strange darkness in his eyes. Her mind shut down until it was blank.

Kiss me, whispered her id. Dammit, Kurusu Akira, just kiss me.

DANGER WARNING UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS, screeched her superego.

Akira reached out. His hand wrapped around her extended fingers. She felt calluses against her inner knuckles, roughness that quietly scraped at her skin. The sensation sent trills up her spine.

“Two,” he whispered.

She swallowed. “Correct.”

If she shifted forward just a hair, she could touch his lips with hers.

And then Akira suddenly released her hand and pushed off the table. He shakily took his glasses. Cold air rushed forward. Makoto shivered and her pulse tripped in her wrists.

Kiss me kiss me kiss me, sobbed her id. Come back, just kiss me—

Oh my god you have never kissed, don't ask when you don't know what it's like, it could be horrible, hissed her superego.

“I,” said Akira, and he trailed off. He looked disoriented. “I, I have curry cooking on the stove. I should check it.”

“Right,” said her mouth as her face struggled not to show any disappointment. “Overcooked curry. Not good for a restaurant to sell.”

He nodded sharply and disappeared behind the counter.

She curled into the bar stool and buried her face in her hands.

Holy crap, said her superego. Holy crap holy crap. Holy. Crap.

Go right back there and kiss him, demanded her id.

Lecher! Voluptuary! Libertine! screeched her superego.

Everything was still flushed and warm, rose-colored in her vision. She kept feeling the imprint of his hands, the heat of his chest.

“Pull yourself together, Makoto,” she muttered. She slapped her cheeks. They stung. “Pull. Yourself. Together.”

She felt young and scared, inexperienced. She’d studied hard in high school, she’d trained hard in the police academy, she’d never given herself time to date. Everyone had proclaimed that she was a total failure in love. What just happened? Was it important? Was she supposed to mention it? Did it happen to most people? Was she just imagining the tension?

“Good news,” said Akira's voice, and his unkempt head poked around the corner. “Curry's not overcooked.”

She blinked, trying to focus. “Is there bad news?”

Akira was silent for a very long moment and he disappeared again.

She felt, in a strange way, like that was an answer.

“I'm...” She cleared her throat. “I'm gonna head out. Have work to do. Fun fun.”

“Okay,” said Akira. “There's something for you. The envelope by the door.”

Something for her?

She plucked the plain envelope on the table by the door and opened it. One thin piece of card stock slid into her hand, bright red and emblazoned with the logo of the local theater.

A movie ticket. The showing was in two days at seven P.M.

Akira came from behind the counter, hand rubbing his neck. Makoto looked at him, mouth dry.

“If,” Akira said, “if you happen to be interested.”

YES OH MY GOD MARRY ME, screamed her id.

NO OH MY GOD YOU HAVE A CASE, screamed her superego. You have an epistemological world to investigate, woman! The calling card could come at any moment!

She grimaced, bracing herself to answer.

“That bad?” said Akira quietly.

“No! I, no!” She flailed for the right words. “I, I'm honored, I'm really... I mean, thank you, but this case, I can't... You know how it is, law enforcement. When you're on a timeline—and this one, this particular one is really urgent, I'm sorry.”

Akira didn't speak for a long moment.

“Okay,” he finally said.

She winced. “Raincheck? Um, maybe in a week or two?”

“Uh,” said Akira.

He totally thinks that you rejected him, said her id sadly.

Her superego nodded sagely. He totally thinks that you're not into him and you're just trying to be polite.

Any ideas on how to rectify the situation? Makoto thought in a wordless scream.

Silence. That was the difficulty in talking with her psyche. They had just as little experience in love as she did.

“The Cake Knight is showing in two weeks, I think,” Makoto stumbled. “Maybe... maybe then?”

Akira looked at his shoes. “Ah,” he said.

HE THINKS YOU'RE FRIENDZONING HIM ABORT ABORT, screeched her superego.

I maintain that we should just walk up and kiss him, muttered her id. Seems pretty hard to misunderstand that.

Her feet were glued to the ground.

“You're cute,” she blurted. “And nice.”

Akira looked surprised. His cheeks seemed faintly red. “Oh.”

She had the distinct feeling that this was a test and she was bombing it. She wanted to sink into the ground.

You are twenty-three years old and a cop, woman, pull yourself together! scolded her superego.

You have zero experience in love, moped her id, and it looks like it's going to stay that way.

“I...” She swallowed. “I'm interested. But it's just... it's just the case. Really.”

Akira looked at her. She wished he would say something, tell her what he was thinking. She couldn't read him.

“Um.” She pushed the movie ticket back into the envelope and placed it on the table. “I... I guess I'll... go.”

Akira looked away. “Uh, have a nice day.”

“You too.”

She sprinted out the door and threw herself into her car, then laid her head on the steering wheel.

That, chimed her id and superego together, was a colossal disaster.

.

.

.

| POLL: “Do you like kissing?”

YES: 64%, NO: 36%

| CHATBOX

"ew cooties"

"lmao just kissing orrrrrr"

"wtf”

"admin are you for real"

"Who doesn't?"

"get rekt virgins"

Chapter 7: RANK 4.5

Notes:

yall are gems i wanna give each of you a hug thank you so much :')

comments are my ocean, i am MOANAAAAAAA

“I told you that she was into you,” Morgana said.

Akira swiveled. The cat's black coat had blended perfectly with the shadows above the café refrigerator.

“When did you get there?” Akira said.

“Just now, when she looked at the tickets.”

Akira breathed, relieved. “How did you get in?”

Morgana looked at him. “I'm a Phantom Thief, you moron.”

“Remind me to reinforce my vents.”

“Remind yourself.”

“You seem to be in an unusually good mood.”

Morgana purred with glee. “I see what you're doing. You were just using the tickets to act as cover. You knew she was busy, you knew she wouldn't be able to accept. You want to make it seem like you can't possibly be the Joker, just in case she gets any funny ideas.”

Akira quietly returned to ladling his curry on a plate.

“I appreciate the genius, Joker, but this really has to be the last time. You're flirting with danger. Kind of literally. Put your part timer on the job, seriously.”

“For one, he's not working today,” said Akira. “What am I supposed to do? Tell her, ‘Sorry, I refuse to serve you, come back when my part timer is here.’”

“Geez, I dunno! You're the Joker, I'm sure you can think of something!”

“I'm also a café owner with bills due.”

“You don't need money. You seriously don't need money, Kurusu Akira. How much did we get from the last run, three million yen?”

“My Yelp ratings will tank.”

Morgana looked at him.

“Hot damn,” said Morgana. “Hot damn.”

“What?”

“You actually like her.”

“I did ask her out to the movies.”

“As a cover. Because that's the same day you plan on sending a calling card.”

Akira shrugged.

“Dear god, man. What is it? A cute face? There's got to be like nine million people better than her in the world. Go make oogly eyes at one of them. Any one of them. You know, someone who's not a Japanese cop at Shibuya Station working on the Phantom Thieves case who happens to be the sister of the famous prosecutor Niijima Sae.”

“But she's cute and smart. And she has manners. And she's altruistic. Altogether makes for a pretty unlikely combination.”

“We cannot seriously be having this conversation right now.”

“We are seriously having this conversation right now.”

Morgana lowered his head to the ground with a loud groan. “I swear, Akira. Seven years of flawless operations and you're going to jeopardize everything for some random chick. Are you serious?”

Akira was silent for a long moment. “I wasn't aware that being a Phantom Thief was akin to making a monastic covenant.”

Morgana flailed angrily. “How many dating Phantom Thieves have you heard of? And I don't mean flings, I mean serious, committed relationships. Oh, right, none. Do you want me to explain why? Because you already know, don't you?”

Akira quietly ate his curry.

“Fine, then. I'll give you a refresher, because right now, your endocrine gland seems to be doing the thinking instead of your brain.” Morgana breathed deeply. “Secrets are strains. Sooner or later, your partner, if she's smart, is going to feel like you're keeping something from her. She's going to want reassurance that you're not cheating on her or doing some shady stuff with the yakuza, so you're going to have to show her the source of your secrets. Now, in the event that she doesn't scream in terror and bolt immediately to the police station, she becomes a pressure point. That's right, she's a liability. Anyone who learns in any vague way that she's related to the Phantom Thieves will go after her. They'll try to kidnap her, torture her, make her life miserable. It's not a fun time. And it'll be even worse for you, because in the back of your head, you'll always be worrying about whether she's safe or not, and whether you need to be around to rescue her. And before you know it, you're not paying attention on missions anymore, and you move too slowly just once, and you end up dying from being bludgeoned to death by shadow pigeon testicles or something equally weird and embarrassing, and I have no partner to drive through Mementos so I become a useless catbus with terrible gas mileage, and everyone is unhappy. Liability, Joker! L-I-A-B-I-L-I-T-Y.”

Akira stopped eating his curry. He looked at Morgana.

“Don't worry,” he said quietly. “I'm just teasing you. I won't see her again.”

“You're seriously going to ignore everything I said and just—wait. What did you say?”

Akira looked away. “I said, I won't see her again.”

This struck the honest-to-god human into dumbfounded silence for a while.

“Huh?” said Morgana.

Akira continued eating. Morgana's expression dawned.

“No way,” he said. “You had a moment?”

Akira turned. His cheeks tinged a delicate shade of pink, which looked very unusual on the face of a Phantom Thief.

“No way,” said Morgana. He repeated, “no way.”

Akira's knuckles whitened against his spoon.

“How far did you go? Did you like... kiss? Hardcore make out? Say you loved her?”

“We looked at each other.”

Morgana stared. “You looked.”

Akira nodded.

“I,” said Morgana, “really don't understand you.”

“You had to be there,” said Akira, then added hurriedly, “but I was glad you weren't.”

“How the hell was that a ‘moment?’ People look at each other all the time! Geez, Kurusu, I thought you kissed her or something!”

“I almost did,” Akira muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Morgana's tail flicked. “Well, at any rate, this is a good thing. Now you know how dangerous it is. How easy it is to fall in love. Stop it while you can. Unless you want very unwelcome parties barging down her door, peeling off her fingernails one by one until she spills the beans about the Joker.”

“This is starting to sound like the plot of a terrible soap opera.”

“Don't fall in love and it won't be.” Morgana whipped around. “Come on. You owe me some fatty tuna.”

.

.

.

| POLL: “Are the Phantom Thieves human?”

YES: 39%, NO: 61%

| CHATBOX

"theyve been untouchable for seven years"

"I bet they're from Mars"

"if their not human than what are they"

"BACTERIA"

"calling it now, they're vengeful ghosts"

"evolved ver of homo sapien sapien"

Chapter 8: RANK 5

Notes:

HELLO COPPER ROBBERS. thank you for your beautiful and amusing words. i adore seeing people's predictions. or, you know. just general enjoyment. BE ENTERTAINED.

comments are my ice cream and i have a sweet tooth. no, really, i do.)

“Nothing to report,” sighed Officer Suzui. “The mark's been going about his usual day. He seems to have some shady extortion going on, but nothing we can catch. And there's no sign of the Phantom Thieves.”

Police Squad 29 nodded solemnly. Paired with the fact that they were sitting in a circle of partially broken folding chairs, they looked remarkably similar to an Alcoholic's Anonymous meeting.

“Same here,” said Ryuuji. “Not even a sniff. Our mark's just working at his drama.”

Makoto tapped her pen against the manila folder. She'd scoured the case files, but there hadn't been even a peep of a strange cognitive world. Seven years, and she was the only officer to see it.

How?

Why?

There had been geniuses set on this case. People with nearly double her IQ. Brilliant people, daring people, risky people. It simply didn't make since that she would be the first to see the cognitive world.

“What about you, Niijima?” said Ryuuji.

Makoto blinked. “Hm?”

“You're still an officer. You need to make a report.” Ryuuji sighed. “Bet nothin' happened, right?”

Makoto opened her mouth. There's been a development, she almost said.

Wait, said her superego, we really need to think about this.

She had no clue how this alternate dimension worked. She didn't know how to enter or exit, and she didn't even know how dangerous it was. Bringing a squad unprepared just seemed like a terrible idea. It was one possible casualty versus six.

“Nothing yet,” she said. “But we're not wasting our time. Don't worry. Something is about to change.”

.

.

.

She uncovered her physics lab notebook from high school.

The cover was black and white. Centered was a cartoon depiction of a stick figure in a lab coat holding up a beaker. STAND BACK, I'M GOING TO ATTEMPT SCIENCE shouted the bold caption below the image.

Niijima Makoto thought that it would be rather appropriate for this occasion.

She flipped to the first empty page, around halfway in the notebook. March 8, she wrote. Sunny. Tokyo, Japan. Shibuya Station.

She paused and tapped her pen.

Control test: No activity. Observation only.

She closed the notebook and stuffed it in her satchel.

.

.

.

She camped on the same street corner. The cognitive world was ushered in shortly after lunch break, hailed by the same shimmer of nauseating black-and-crimson. She lurched, but this time, she was expecting it.

There was no sign of Joker.

This time, she stayed at a distance, pen ready and waiting over her lab notebook.

“Stand back,” she murmured to herself. “I'm going to attempt science.”

Thirty minutes passed with no activity. The game center was silent, the Phantom Thieves invisible.

Then suddenly, the alarms blared, then died as quickly as they had risen.

There was the sound of shattering glass in the distance.

Makoto raced around the building. One of the side windows was completely obliterated, glass fragments spewing all over the lawn, and a shadow was sprinting to the fenced perimeter. Five toy soldiers bounded out of the hole in the window.

Makoto crouched, heart racing. She peered over the edge.

The shadow was, quite obviously, Joker. She could pinpoint the brilliant white mask from around his fluttering black cloak. He stopped at the edge and turned. Blue smoke flared behind him, and the toy soldiers' helmets melted. They burst at the seams and became griffins, sirens, shadows, odd fantastical creatures that she'd only seen in middle school literature.

Joker moved. His face was a blur of angular white and his figure was wreathed in haze. Makoto saw too many things she couldn't describe: dark blades falling from the sky, glaciers forming around figures, jettisons of fire spewing in wheels of wrath. One by one, the creatures vaporized with agonized screams.

Makoto knew very little about this world, but she knew one thing: Joker was astoundingly powerful. Just watching him made goosebumps gather on her arms.

Wind, fire, ice, lighting, something dark and something bright. What exactly were his capabilities?

What kind of damage was he wreaking on Chief Munakawa's mind?

Joker came to a halt after the last enemy, dusting off his gloves. After seven years, he suddenly seemed so close, so easy to catch.

Makoto saw her opportunity and seized it.

She drew her gun and fired.

Sorry, control test.

The bullet sliced at Joker's coat. He whipped around, but it clipped the back of his shoulder blades. He hissed, clamping a hand on the wound. Droplets of blood sprayed over the pavement.

“Don't move,” Makoto said icily. She kept the gun leveled at him.

Joker looked at her for a long time. She couldn't tell if he was angry, or just surprised to see her.

“That stung,” he finally said in clipped tones.

“Much less than if it had hit you clean through,” said Makoto. “Trust me.”

“I saved your life, and this is your repayment?”

“Come with me to the precinct, and I'll dress it for you,” she said flatly.

“You're dead set on that arrest.”

“Seven year case. Can you blame me?”

His lips parted in a sneer. “It'd make for a pretty promotion, wouldn't it, Your Majesty?”

That was a sore blow, but she tried to hide it. He wouldn't believe her if she said otherwise, anyway.

“For all you know, I could be the key to keeping this world from falling apart,” continued Joker. Blood was still dripping to the ground. “You're acting in ignorance. You know that you know nothing, and yet you shoot. You don't understand the consequences of your actions.”

“Then enlighten me,” said Makoto.

“Why should I?”

“Because I know this world exists,” said Makoto, “and I've gotten closer to the Phantom Thieves than any fed in seven years.”

“And I know that if you really wanted to arrest me, you would've brought your squad. Your common sense is not completely beyond redemption, Niijima Makoto.”

That rocked her. “Have you gone into my head?”

“Don't flatter yourself, Majesty. You have no palace,” said Joker. “I just happen to know your name.”

Have no palace? What does that even mean?

“Well,” said Makoto. She licked her lips, which were dry from nerves. “Well, tell me. What's so bad that happens if you leave this world and come with me, right now?”

Joker sneered. “Munakawa Asao gets away scot-free for sexually harassing every female subordinate he can get his paws on.”

Makoto was struck wordless for a second.

“Why?” snapped Joker. “You think the police will handle this? Law enforcement will bring justice? You think that Munakawa Asao doesn't have leverage in higher places, people covering his tracks, people looking out for him? You think that if you make a report to Internal Affairs, he'll get a fair hearing, ultimately be found guilty, and be sent to prison for his crimes?”

Her tongue was tied, but Joker was raging on, black fire mixed with blood.

“Seven years. You know what the police see when they look at seven years? They see shame and embarrassment. There goes a high-profile criminal doing whatever he wants, and they can't even catch him. So they go on a publicity stunt. They advertise to colleges and publish posters and hold press conferences. You know what they don't do? They don't wonder why a random person off the street found the need to do what they should be doing. They don't think, even for one second, that maybe if they get rid of the cause for the Phantom Thieves to be around, the Phantom Thieves will disappear.”

“Stop it,” Makoto said.

“Meanwhile, Munakawa Asao—well. Meanwhile. Do you know what's in his mind? Because I can tell you. I've been through most of the rooms in his filthy little brain, so let me tell you. There's a room full of Barbie dolls. They're half-dressed in transparent uniform-colored lingerie. I won't even tell you what they're doing, because I'm sure you can imagine it. You know what else he has? A shrine room is starting to build up. It's small. They always start small. A few candles, weird dolls. Photographs. A woman with soft, short brown hair, piercing red eyes. She looks beautiful, but more than that, she has an innocence that would be thrilling to break in bed. He wants to make her a fallen angel. How can he do that? How can he get her to beg? He gets a fantastic idea. Hey, maybe he can put some pressure on Niijima Sae, this woman's older sister. Maybe he can pull some strings, make Sae's work full of obstacles. Maybe that's the way to get to Niijima Makoto.”

Bile swam up Makoto's throat. She clenched the trigger. “You're lying.”

“I can take you to that shrine room.” Joker straightened. The blood had stopped somehow, as if the wound had closed in just minutes. “Or are you too scared that I'm telling the truth?”

“You can't be. I, I only met him once.”

“He especially likes the ones who resist,” said Joker. His voice was cold and even.

“You're,” she shrieked, and she suddenly felt like her badge was nothing but dust and spit, worthless in her pocket, “you're no different! The Phantom Thieves, they have no checks and balances. The moment they decide to do whatever they want, it'll be anarchy.”

“So what will you take, Niijima?” said Joker softly. “A group that might corrupt in the future, or a group that already has?”

She clamped her hands on her pistol, but they were shaking uncontrollably. Tears were beading on the corners of her eyes. She hated them. She hated feeling weak. She hated feeling uncertain, like she was no longer sure which way was up and which was down, and she no longer knew that what she was doing was right.

“Then I'll be taking my leave,” said Joker quietly. He stepped away.

“Stop!” she barked, but it felt desperate, and she knew she was grasping at straws, she knew she was up against something she couldn't handle. “Stop in—in the name of the law! Don't you believe in justice? Why won't you submit to it?”

“I do submit to justice,” said Joker's voice distantly. “So come back once you actually have access to some.”

There was a faint breezy sound and she knew he was gone.

.

.

.

| POLL: "Are the police just?"

YES: 38%, NO: 62%

| CHATBOX

"are you kidding me"

"There are good people, but they get tied up in bureaucracy."

"SAVE US PHANTOM THIEVES"

"their the best weve got"

"put the phantom thieves in charge and they will be"

"No one is just. We're all screwed."

Chapter 9: RANK 6

Notes:

HNGG thank you darlings so much?!

comments are my git commits and i am an open source program. beep boop.

Niijima Makoto stared at the ceiling.

It was a very typical ceiling, white and fairly bumpy, with patterns you could find if you looked both very closely and very distantly at once.

What if the ceiling was the floor, she wondered. What if everything you thought was opposite to reality.

What if all these years, when you thought you were fighting for what was right, you were only committing greater wrongs.

She turned over and stuffed her head in her pillow.

She was directionless.

Maybe it was just a psychological play from the Joker. He could just be sowing seeds of doubt into her, throwing her off his case. I can bring you to the shrine, he'd said, and maybe he would have, to a room that he'd already prepared.

But he seemed genuine, her id said softly.

And the objections he had made a lot of sense, her superego added.

She wished he had been stark raving mad. Then she would know that she could ignore everything he said. She would know that he was wrong, even if he did a few things that were right.

Makoto sat up and threw on her coat. She needed to clear her head.

.

.

.

She entered Leblanc cautiously. After her previous encounter, she wasn't certain what to expect. What was supposed to happen? What was she supposed to say? He'd asked her out, and she'd rejected him, but she hadn't meant it as a rejection. She felt like she'd returned to high school where everyone was following rules that only she couldn't see.

As it turned out, she didn't have to worry. It wasn't Kurusu Akira working the counter, but a different young man with a lanky build and clean-cut blue hair.

“Oh,” she said.

The man looked up. He seemed surprised to see a customer. “Welcome,” he said.

“Hi,” she said hesitantly.

She stepped to the counter. The plate on the man's chest read MISHIMA YUUKI.

“I didn't realize this place had other employees,” she said.

“It does,” said Mishima Yuuki. “Well, one other employee. Just me, a part timer. Aside from the boss.”

“Kurusu Akira?”

“Yep.” Yuuki glanced at the register. “Niijima Makoto, right? He said you like your drinks sweet. What do you need, chai latte? Hot cocoa?”

Mishima Yuuki, a part timer, recognized her.

Something smelled fishy.

“So you usually work on Thursdays?” she said.

“Er, yeah,” said Mishima Yuuki.

“Interesting,” she said, “because the first time I met your boss, it was a Thursday.”

Yuuki's eyes wavered. “Uh. That. I had a sick day.”

He was either a terrible liar, or a great one pretending to be terrible.

She slammed a hand on the counter, rattling dishware and the small pastry case—a rather useful technique from the interrogation room. Mishima Yuuki flinched visibly.

“Where,” she hissed, “is Kurusu Akira.”

“He, he's taking a rest day,” stammered Yuuki.

“A rest day?”

“He, um,” said Mishima Yuuki, “threw out his back.”

Makoto stared.

“True story,” said Yuuki.

“He's, what, in his early twenties?”

“He's infirmed. Dropped on his head at birth.”

“That gave him a bad back?”

Yuuki paused. “It was an unusual drop.”

Makoto leaned forward. Mishima Yuuki leaned back.

“I,” she said clearly, “am a goddamn cop. I can tell when a part timer is lying to me.”

Mishima Yuuki gulped.

“Tell your boss,” said Makoto, very loudly and in the general direction of the upstairs attic, “that it's fine if he doesn't want to see me, and I get it, but he shouldn't make stupid excuses. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.”

Mishima Yuuki yelled up the stairs. “Hear that, boss? It's fine if you don't want to see her, and she gets it, but don't make any—”

A loud thud from the attic. Mishima Yuuki winced.

“He wants you to hurry up and order,” he said haltingly, “and then leave.”

She was not in the mood to play around. “And what happens if I storm up there and throttle him by the neck?”

“That... would be bad for his back,” Yuuki said weakly.

Makoto smiled dangerously. “Then ask him for me. Why he's avoiding me. He might not owe me anything, but it'd be nice to know.”

Mishima Yuuki turned to the stairs. “Boss, she at least wants to know why you're avoiding her.”

Two thumps and a long slide.

Mishima Yuuki paused. “So, does that mean I can ask her out?”

A long series of fierce thumps.

“Make up your mind,” Yuuki muttered. He sighed. “Boss says that he's avoiding you for confidential reasons that he can't divulge at the moment, and you should understand that more than anyone else because you're in law enforcement.”

“You got all that from thumping?” Makoto said skeptically.

“We've been working together for seven years,” said Yuuki with a long-suffering sigh.

Makoto raised a brow. “And you're only part time?”

“The pay's good,” said Yuuki with a shrug. “The pay's really good.”

That didn't make sense given the café's location and decidedly absent customer base, but Makoto chose not to push the issue.

“So what's the problem?” asked Yuuki. “Why do you need to see the boss so badly?”

Makoto thought of a sneering mask and a world full of magic. She thought of a cold voice that whispered in her head, I do submit to justice, so come back once you actually have access to some. She thought about gravity and the laws of physics, how they always seemed right and fixed in place.

“Because...” Her voice broke a little. She took a moment to steady it. “Because I could really use a friend right about now.”

Mishima Yuuki looked at her.

“Hear that, boss?” he called.

Silence.

“I'm sending her up,” said Yuuki.

Silence.

“Go on ahead,” said Yuuki. “He's secretly glad to see you.”

.

.

.

The café's attic was tidy, surprisingly so. Any clutter was neatly organized in columns and rows on the metal shelves that flanked the walls. A work desk in the corner bore several scattered hand tools, though she saw no materials.

Akira was sitting on the couch, a book in his hand. It was the first time that she saw him out of a café apron—instead, he was in a large hoodie and jeans, looking casually flawless.

He had far too much charm for a full-time barista.

“My cat said that I'm not supposed to talk to you,” Akira said quietly. He placed down his book.

She choked out a laugh. “So that's why you've been avoiding me?”

He smiled, but there was very little humor to it. “It's a little more complicated than that.”

She looked away. “Tell me that it's not what I think.”

“That would depend on what you're thinking.”

“You're avoiding me because I'm a cop,” she said, “and you have some skeletons in the closet that you don't want law enforcement to know about.”

Kurusu Akira blinked.

“That wasn't what I was expecting,” he said.

“Then what were you expecting?”

“Something socially dramatic.”

Ah, yes, that horribly awkward exchange that she wanted to put out of her mind forever. “I figured that we're more mature than that. A situation like that doesn't exactly warrant avoidance.”

“Well,” said Akira. He blinked again. “Well.”

“Am I wrong?” she said. Her voice was a little pleading. “Is it just social drama?”

Akira was quiet for a moment. “The thing is, even if it were true, I couldn't exactly tell you.”

Her hands turned cold. “So it is. Because if it wasn't, you could deny it.”

Akira shook his head. “Not necessarily. Because it's possible that I'm planning to do something in the future, but not now, and if you find that I'm innocent now, then in the future, you'll leave me alone with my plausible deniability, since in the past, it really was nothing.”

“You,” said Makoto, “are dodging the question, and don't think that I can't see that.”

Akira looked at her. His eyes felt mysterious behind his shiny, round spectacles.

“Makoto,” he said softly. The name warmed her chest. “Why are you really here?”

She wanted to serve up some acerbic reply and unbalance him. He was still dodging her question, and she was becoming more and more frightened that her hunch was right.

But she didn't want another target. She wanted a friend.

“I'm confused,” she admitted.

“About?”

“Right and wrong,” she said. “Ethics, morals, responsibility.”

Akira was silent.

“It's heavy, I know,” she said.

“It's one of the few things that's actually interesting to talk about,” said Akira.

She sank into the opposite side of the couch. The cushions were soft, well broken in.

“Akira,” she said. The name sounded strange from her lips. Akira twitched a little. “What do you think of the police?”

Akira leaned back. “My answer is probably not the one you want to hear.”

“There's no right or wrong answer.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I just... I need to make a decision.”

She felt Akira's eyes on her. He began slowly, his voice low and rumbling.

“I was in high school. Decent student. Didn't cause trouble, just kept my head down and went with the flow.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “On my way back home one night, I heard a woman screaming in a back alley. There was a man in a suit grabbing her arms. It looked bad. No, it didn't just look bad, it was bad.”

He trailed off. Makoto's stomach churned. She started to think that she knew the ending to this story.

“And... you stopped him?” she said.

Akira nodded shortly. “It was kind of a blur. I just pushed him lightly to give the woman some space. But I think he was really smashed. He toppled over, just like that. He hit the ground hard. Bled a little from the front of his head.”

The sick feeling began to rise. Makoto bit her lip.

“There wasn't any real injury,” said Akira. “Nothing internal, not even much external, just a minor skin abrasion. But he sued. And he won.”

“No,” she blurted, “self defense, self defense should have—”

“The woman testified that I'd shoved the ‘nice man’ and tried to beat him to a pulp.” Akira shrugged. “No CCTVs, no other witnesses. What was the court supposed to do?”

Makoto reeled. “I don't understand. The witness lied? After you helped her?”

Akira looked right at her. “The man was influential. He had something on her. Threatened it if she testified truthfully. So she lied, and I was expelled, and from that moment on, I was a juvenile criminal. And he got away with exploiting his power for sexual favors.”

Got away.

Exploited his power for sexual favors.

That woman had turned on him, testified against him.

And Niijima Makoto, who'd almost been exploited for sexual favors by an influential man in a suit—

—she'd shot the man who saved her life.

There was nothing different about her.

She was another rotting cog in a machine that spat out trash after trash.

Makoto clenched her fists against her knees. “Akira. I'm... I'm so sorry.”

Akira shrugged. There was no bitterness in his voice. How? How could there be no bitterness? “It's not your fault, you know. I'm over it.”

“I apologize,” Makoto whispered. She turned. She bowed her head to him, removed her hat. “I apologize on behalf of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. That, that was unfair. You didn't deserve that. You did what was right, and...” And she didn't. She never had.

“Raise your head,” Akira said, alarmed.

“I refuse.” She swallowed. “This was a wrong committed by the justice system.”

Akira touched her shoulder gently. “It happened for the best. Really.”

She didn't move. He hesitantly tipped her chin up. She wasn't sure what he saw, but it made him shift away, surprise lining his face.

“You're really upset,” Akira said.

She lowered her head again. “The police,” she mumbled. “What are they? What the hell does it mean to be wearing this uniform?”

Akira looked away. “I guess it means you try your best to do what's right.”

“And if you make a mistake?”

“Fix it to the best of your ability.”

“Nothing can give back the time of an innocent man.” And there were innocent men locked up in the prisons, she just knew it. Just like she knew there were guilty men sitting in luxurious chairs and eating from bountiful platters.

The world was so unjust.

And she had helped it.

Akira slid forward. One arm wrapped around her waist; the other lowered her head to his shoulder. His fingers rested there, idly brushing through her hair. The warmth of his body was comforting, gentle on her nerves. Maybe she should've been embarrassed or bashful—but she felt that the touch was a human one, platonic, without ulterior motive.

“You're a good woman,” Akira said quietly. “You give the police a good name.”

She crumpled her fingers into the hem of his shirt.

More than anything, she wanted him to be telling the truth.

“Heads or tails,” she murmured into the crook of his neck. “Choose one. For my decision.”

“Which one means which?” said Akira.

“One means I keep at my job. And the other.” She swallowed. “The other means aiding and abetting a criminal.”

Akira's hand stilled. His chest rose and fell, steady. She heard the beat of his heart against her palm.

“Keep at your job,” he murmured. “The world needs at least one good police officer.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “That's not the answer I wanted.”

“I know,” he said.

She felt an impression on the top of her head, almost like he'd nuzzled his nose into her hair. But he wouldn't do that. Would he?

“I know,” he repeated.

.

.

.

| POLL: “When you argue with a friend, do you usually apologize first?”

YES: 55%, NO: 45%

| CHATBOX

"it sure feels like I'm always apologizing first"

"GROVEL BEFORE ME PLEB"

"Pride should never get in the way of friendship."

"I can't hold grudges it makes me feel nauseous"

"cri"

"no because im always right"

Chapter 10: RANK 6.5

Notes:

whAT. i've been notified that this story has made it to the tv tropes fanfic recs page. MOM. MOM GET THE CAMERA. MOM I'VE FINALLY MADE IT IN LIFE. I'M DONE THAT'S IT /micdrop

*gives a long and teary award speech with the level of feels of leonardo dicaprio getting an oscar*

SKULL. Yo guys. Is it just me or has Queen been like super out of it?

SETTER. It's not just you. I'm worried about her.

MAID. Worried? I'm pissed. We're working our asses off here and she's slacking.

MISS FORTUNE. She is definitely not slacking. I see a great fork in the path before her. She is deliberating on which to take.

MAID. Yeah, well, deliberating isn't the same as tailing or write-ups or reports. Where's her hours clocked?

DRAGONHEART. Silence, Maid. Her character is stalwart and trustworthy.

SKULL. Soooooo like, what are we gonna do?

MISS FORTUNE. DO NOTHING. The slightest interference could send her on a path to destruction! She must make this choice of her own accord.

SKULL. You guys are **** teammates.

SKULL. Holy **** this app has a censor?

DRAGONHEART. Wash that filthy mouth of yours, Skull.

SETTER. Back on topic, guys. Skull is right. Queen's a fellow squad member. We should be looking out for her.

MAID. You mean a fellow Phantom Thief, right?

SETTER. You know what I meant. Has she clocked in today?

DRAGONHEART. The office was empty when I set foot inside.

SKULL. Didn't see her all day.

SETTER. When was the last time that anyone last saw her?

MAID. Yesterday morning at the team meet, right? Anyone after that?

Miss Fortune is typing...

MAID. With physical eyes, Miss Fortune, not in the cards or whatever.

Miss Fortune stopped typing.

SKULL. HOLY ****!!!

SETTER. Skull, professionalism please.

SKULL. I'M A **** PHANTOM THIEF DON'T TELL ME WHAT I CAN AND CAN'T SAY

SKULL. GUYS. CHECK THE NEWS. RIGHT NOW.

Setter is typing...

Setter is typing...

SETTER. Oh.

MAID. Well ****.

SETTER. Professionalism please, Maid.

MAID. Are you serious? There's a calling card, Setter. On Munakawa.

DRAGONHEART. Hm. Interesting choices of placement. All around the police station. Apparently posted by a cat. Is it truly possible to train a cat with such specifics?

SKULL. Can you guys at least try to act more surprised?

MISS FORTUNE. How can I be? I saw it this morning in the cards.

SETTER. A calling card on Chief Munakawa?

MISS FORTUNE. A threat of great magnitude against a figure of great influence.

MAID. That's so vague that it could literally be anything.

SETTER. Actually, I think it's, “That's so vague that it could figuratively be anything.”

MAID. Dammit, Setter, at least we can agree that it's really **** vague.

SKULL. Alright, now we really gotta check in with Queen. She's the only one on Munakawa.

DRAGONHEART. I agree. This is a huge development. We need her observations.

SETTER. More than that. We need to find out if she's still alive. She's been missing for over twenty-four hours, and a calling card was just issued. That's really bad.

SKULL. “Munakawa Asao. The victims of your depraved licentiousness and abuse of power have called out in one voice. We shall purge every last bit of darkness from your heart and invoke a wretched confession from your own twisted lips. Prepare as you desire. It will be futile either way.”

SKULL. Hot damn. Is it just me, guys, or do they sound way more pissed that usual?

MAID. I don't know, do you keep all seven years of calling cards memorized?

SETTER. Come on, guys. Find Queen. This is now priority number one. I'll go to her apartment. Skull, cover the station. Miss Fortune, scout around Shinjuku, and Maid, you grab Yongen-jaya—she's been heading there often. Dragonheart, look into her expenses and phone records. Until she answers a call or text, I declare Queen as Missing in Action. And if there's someone responsible for it, we're gonna give him hell to pay.

.

.

.

| POLL: Is the recent calling card too strongly worded?

YES: 21%, NO: 79%

| CHATBOX

"i thought the phantom thieves were supposed to be the good guys"

"SLAYYYYY QUEENS SLAYYYYY"

"Munakawa sounds like a twisted bastard. Bury him, PT."

"what the hell it sounds like he's raped every girl in the station"

"ooooh this gun be gud"

"They've gone for worse people than Munakawa. Wonder if they have a personal grudge."

.

.

.

! THIS IS A HEIST ALERT.

Next week,
two chapters will be released per update
for a total of six chapters.

The week after,
we return to our regular airing schedule.

The Phantom Thieves are coming.

Chapter 11: RANK 7, STAGE 1

Notes:

maybe around now is when i should mention that i've taken extensive creative liberties with the workings of the Japanese police system in this story, as i have never worked for them personally.

WE ARE NOW AT THE FIRST HEIST.

A double wall of police officers surrounded Shibuya Station, riot shields at the ready. Outside, a crowd was gathering, raising picket signs with angry slogans and icons scrawled over the surface. Some bore the logo of the Phantom Thieves. A clamor of voices pounded the station, one after the other.

“We want justice, not excuses!”

“We will not be silent!”

“Investigate the investigators!”

On the second floor of Shibuya Station standing just behind the protective glass windows, Akechi Gorou kneaded at his temples. “This is actually quite concerning,” he mused. “I've never seen them so heated.”

“The Phantom Thieves are escalating,” said Takemi Tae calmly. Her high-heeled gladiator sandals tapped against the linoleum floor as she thumbed through her forensics clipboard. “Just look at the calling card. And if the Phantom Thieves escalate, the public escalates.”

Gorou shook his head in disbelief. “Since when was their influence so vast?”

“Since the People lost faith in the government,” said Tae. “This battle's long been lost.”

She strutted down the hall and into the forensics lab. Gorou looked over the parking lot with a long sigh.

.

.

.

“This is gonna be a tough one,” said Morgana. “One slip in the escape route, and we'll find ourselves surrounded by dozens of riot shields.”

Akira slid an ocean-blue ticket into his hand. Kujikawa Rise, Live at Shibuya Center, it roared in bright letters. “We'll be in and out.”

“You know, whenever you say that,” said Morgana, “I get really, really nervous.”

.

.

.

Niijima Makoto woke in her apartment and switched on her phone.

A pile of communications leapt on the lock screen. 45 text messages, 30 missed calls, 139 group messages.

Queen, where the hell are you?!

Officer Niijima, respond immediately.

We've reported you as missing, you lunatic.

She switched off her phone and strapped her service pistol to her thigh.

.

.

.

“Niijima spent five hundred yen yesterday morning at a business registered in Yongen-jaya,” said Officer Tohgou, sliding the papers to Officer Suzui. “Leblanc, owned by one Kurusu Akira. Previously belonged to Sakura Sojiro.”

“Could have been a stolen card,” Officer Suzui murmured. “It's in a backstreet.”

“I do not believe so, Acting High General. There have been similar transactions to the same business over the past month. Was there no luck with her apartment?”

Officer Suzui shook her head. “If she was home, she didn't answer the door. Send Skull to Leblanc. I mean, Officer Sakamoto. Have him bring a photo and make an official inquiry.”

.

.

.

“Sir,” said an officer. “Chief Munakawa has requested your presence for the next twenty-four hours.”

Akechi Gorou turned from the window. “He denied protective custody?”

“He believes that his office is the safest place.”

Gorou paused.

“I'll be right there,” he said at last.

.

.

.

“Did you read the calling card? How could this be considered anything but a public threat?” Niijima Sae hissed.

“Prosecutor Niijima, I understand your concerns,” said the calm voice over the phone, “but rest assured that we have everything more than handled at Shibuya Station.”

“You'd better. Because I'm heading over there right now.”

“Prosecutor, I understand that you're worried about your sister, but—”

“Good day, Inspector Akechi,” Niijima Sae said shortly. She cut the call and revved the engine of her sleek BMW.

.

.

.

“Squad 29,” yelled Officer Kawakami frantically, “I just got the news that Prosecutor Niijima Sae is on her way.”

Officer Mifune dropped her cards. Officer Suzui winced.

“She's going to beat the living hell out of us if she finds out that Queen is missing,” continued Officer Kawakami.

“Let us make haste,” said Officer Tohgou. “She will have no one to question if none of us are here.”

They scrambled out of the station.

.

.

.

“So,” said Mishima Yuuki hesitatingly to a glowering Sakamoto Ryuuji, “he has a sick day today, avian flu, really nasty...”

.

.

.

“No taxation without representation!”

“Remember the fifth of November!”

“Down with the government!”

Akechi Gorou shook his head. “I'm not even sure what they're getting at anymore, sir.”

Chief Superintendent Munakawa Asao was sweating in big drops that rolled down his cheekbones to his jawline. He pulled out his thousand-thread handkerchief and dabbed at his temples. “Mob psychology, Akechi. Soon no one will remember why they're there.”

“Will they disperse?”

“One can hope.”

“Hope,” Gorou echoed. His hands clamped on his handgun.

.

.

.

Niijima Makoto waited in the shadows of a side alley, surveying the station surrounded by screaming civilians and picket signs.

The sky rippled.

She gripped her weapon and strode into the game center.

.

.

.

“This is crazy,” said Phantom Thief Mona. “Did you see that racket outside? How did this happen?”

Joker shrugged and vaulted up the side of the building. “People are people.”

“You keeping tabs on Miss Cop? What if she recognizes you?”

“She won't.”

“And you're sure because?”

“Trust me. She won't.”

Mona sighed. “Fine. What if she tries to shoot you again?”

“She won't,” said Joker.

“Will you stop saying that?”

“Not if it's true.”

Mona looked at Joker for a long moment. “It's way less distinctive than you think, just so you know.”

Joker paused. “What's way less distinctive?”

“Your behavior as Joker and your behavior as Akira,” said Mona.

“Don't you have someplace to be?”

“You think that they're worlds apart, but they're not. You think that you crafted a perfect character to make a perfect phantom thief, but you didn't. You're just being you, maybe with a slightly different mood, and she's gonna pick up on that.”

Joker shook his head. “I wouldn't worry about it. She's blinded herself.”

“With what?”

Joker slipped into the darkness and disappeared. Mona flicked his tail in annoyance, then sped away.

.

.

.

The door to Munakawa Asao's office flung open. Chief Munakawa stiffened and whimpered. In less than a second, Akechi Gorou's gun zoomed out of his holster, gleaming harshly beneath the fluorescent light.

Then Gorou faltered.

Niijima Sae stood at the entryway with her arms folded.

“Where,” she said sharply, “is Police Squad 29?”

.

.

.

“It is not looking favorable,” reported Officer Tohgou. “The protesters are becoming more restless. They seek a direct address from Munakawa himself. If this keeps up, the situation might get violent.”

Officer Suzui kept her hands on the wheel and her eyes on the road. “Any word from Skull about Queen?”

“Not since his last text,” said Officer Kawakami. “He just keeps saying that the part timer is acting really weird.”

“Tell him we're on our way, and we'll meet him on the main street.”

“Already did.”

“And tell him that Niijima Sae is probably around thirty minutes behind us.”

“No thanks. Don't make me the bringer of bad news, Suzui.”

Officer Suzui kept driving.

.

.

.

The moment Ryuuji departed to meet up with his team, Mishima Yuuki sprinted down the road and stuffed a crumpled note in the end cap of a bench at the Yongen-jaya subway station:

Feds watching Leblanc. Return with caution.

.

.

.

Makoto mashed the end of her pistol beneath the siren's jaw.

“I'm not going to ask again,” she said coldly. “This so-called Treasure Room. Where is it?”

“Okay! I'll talk! I'll talk!” The siren flailed an arm. “Down the hall! Right, left, right again! The Joker has already opened the way! Just follow him!”

“Thank you,” said Makoto.

She fired. The siren screamed and vanished into black dust.

Makoto flipped the cover of STAND BACK, I'M GOING TO ATTEMPT SCIENCE and scrawled a note:

Forcefully unmask from behind = no alarm raised (!)

By now, the page was full of notes. Notes about “cognition,” “shadows,” “Treasure,” “Palace.”

She sighed and rubbed her arms. “Last solo investigation, Squad 29,” she mumbled. “I promise. I'll bring you next time.”

.

.

.

Police Squad 29 disembarked the van. Ryuuji jogged to meet them, thumbing towards the backstreet over his shoulder.

“The café's down there,” he said. “Owner ain't home. There's a part timer, but he's not telling me anythin'. Can't tell if he's lying or just terrified of the cops.”

“Or if he kidnapped her himself,” muttered Officer Kawakami.

Officer Suzui sighed. “With how complicated everything has been recently... it might be all three.” She cricked her neck. “Let's go. Niijima Sae will be here in less than an hour.”

“Niijima Sae?!” Ryuuji yelled. “When did she get involved?!”

“Probably when her little sister stopped answering the phone forty-eight hours ago and a public threat from the Phantom Thieves was issued to Shibuya Station,” said Officer Suzui calmly. “Come on. Mishima Yuuki, is it?”

.

.

.

Makoto stepped into the Treasure room. It was a giant gallery filled with glass displays. Ornate shelves were lined with brand-new electronic consoles, action figures, porcelain dolls, limited edition board games.

Of course, something else begged her attention in the room.

At the center, a hideous creature with a disproportionate number of limbs contorted, wailed on by rapidfire bolts of light. Joker's knife carved dexterously through its flesh. He was a whirlwind, pivoting and diving through the air, an eagle with slicing wings.

It seemed like it was supposed to be a battle, but turned out as a one-sided punishment.

Makoto stood blank-minded for a moment. She could feel the aura of the shredding light, even from her distance—pulsing, blazing, spiking her skin. She swallowed, unnerved.

Joker landed like a falcon alighting.

The hideous monster bulged and exploded. At its center lay Chief Munakawa, crumpled inward on his hands and knees.

This was not the real Munakawa, a particularly terrified devil had explained, but Shadow Munakawa. A manifestation of Munakawa's perception of himself, the ruler of the Palace.

Joker raised his gun and leveled it at Shadow Munakawa's head. Fear stabbed at Makoto and she strode further into the room.

“You shouldn't do this,” said Makoto shakily. “It's a federal crime.”

Joker jerked slightly, turning his head to look at her through his periphery. “Still mindlessly following orders, Your Majesty?”

“You're changing the essence of who someone is,” said Makoto. Slowly, she drew her gun and pointed it at him. It was useless, she knew it was useless, but the firing stance gave her a vague sense of comfort. “You're forcing them to make a decision they wouldn't usually make.”

“I'm doing nothing of the sort,” said Joker patiently. “I'm weeding out the corruption in their heart. Whatever they do afterward is a result of that.”

She faltered.

When he put it that way, it sounded like an awfully good thing.

It sounded like something that everyone should go through.

She swallowed. “When there's no order, no government, when everyone does whatever they want—it comes with consequences. Free will comes with consequences.”

“So we should all lie low and take whatever the authorities dish out?” said Joker.

“Well...” Makoto bit her lip. “I'm just saying. If people do whatever they want, it's another kind of corruption. There'd be killing and stealing and every kind of crime, all without consequences. Humanity can't live like that.”

Joker smiled. “But isn't that precisely what we are doing? The government is committing crimes against the people, and answers to no one. So what consequences do they face?”

“The government is flawed,” Makoto admitted, “but they're chosen by the people, by a majority, by democracy. And vigilantes like you, you only choose yourselves, and you ask no one else.”

“That does not answer my question.”

“You're not answering mine, either.”

Joker raised a brow. “Then I'd ask you something. Is it alright to let evil do whatever it wants?”

Makoto's mouth was dry. “No,” she said, “but it's dangerous to let one human be in charge of deciding what's good and what's evil.”

His smile broadened. “You've been thinking about my words.”

She said nothing.

A hint of movement caught her eye. Shadow Munakawa's hand was trailing to his thigh, where she saw the telltale bump of a hidden knife.

She opened her mouth.

Joker turned.

Shadow Munakawa lunged at Joker, swinging his newfound weapon in a large crescent.

Niijima Makoto whipped her gun to Shadow Munakawa and fired.

Joker's eyes widened. “No!”

He slid in front of Shadow Munakawa.

The knife crashed into his back.

The bullet tore through his shoulder.

Joker screamed.

.

.

.

Munakawa Asao suddenly slumped into his chair. Akechi Gorou pulled out his walkie talkie and barked.

“The Phantom Thieves are here! Extend the perimeter by three blocks! Don't let them escape!

A helicopter took to the air and sirens wailed down the street. The mob of protesters outside the gates cheered and started to chant for the Phantom Thieves.

.

.

.

Joker was on the ground, blood was pooling beneath him, everything was wrong.

Why did he take the bullet? Why did he take the bullet? Why did he take the bullet?

Shadow Munakawa raised his knife again.

“Stop!” Makoto screeched.

She wanted to fire again, but there was a horrible feeling in the back of her head, like she'd only end up hurting the Joker again.

Shadow Munakawa halted at the sound of her voice. He straightened and stepped away from Joker.

“That's strange,” he mused. “Why are there two of you?”

And then there was her.

Another her with a strange dark aura, barely dressed, walking out from the shadows.

“Oh, good,” said Shadow Munakawa. “You wouldn't believe how stressful this job gets. I was wondering where you went.” He leered at not-her. “One of you was quite pleasant, but I'll take two of you any day.”

Not-her blushed and turned to hide herself. Makoto gritted her teeth.

“Now strip,” commanded Shadow Munakawa.

“No!” gasped not-her. “Anything but that!”

“Then I'll do it for you,” purred Shadow Munakawa.

Makoto tasted vomit in her throat. She knew what to do, but the finger on her trigger faltered.

It's a cognition, it's not real, it won't affect you, went the mantra in her head.

Makoto turned her gun and fired. Not-her screamed. She expected blood, horrible and real like Joker's body, but not-her only crumbled to dust.

“You,” said Makoto, and her tongue felt thick and heavy, “are sick.”

Shadow Munakawa only grinned. “I dreamed of you yesterday. And oh, were you a hidden vixen, Niijima Makoto. Exceeded all expectations. You deserve a promotion with every... minute.”

Makoto screamed and slammed her foot into his face with a deadly roundhouse. Shadow Munakawa crumpled.

.

.

.

“I'll ask one more time, and then we stop playing nice,” said Officer Suzui coldly. She gripped the unfortunate part timer by the collar and shook him. “Where is Officer Niijima Makoto.”

“Why me,” Mishima Yuuki groaned.

.

.

.

“The Treasure,” came Joker's faint voice.

His coat was soaked in the sickening smell of blood. Makoto rushed to him, tearing the sleeve from her shirt. She raised her knife to cut through his coat, but his hand suddenly clamped on hers.

“Give me a moment,” he said hoarsely. “I'll be fine.”

“You were shot and stabbed,” she said flatly. “If I don't tourniquet the wounds right here, you'll die.”

He chuckled raspily and then did the impossible.

He sat up.

It was slow and labored, but he sat up. He pulled his coat down one shoulder, opened the top buttons of his shirt, and showed her.

Flawless skin with no sign of bullet entry or exit.

“I said I'll be fine,” he whispered.

Makoto's brain stuttered.

“You, you're immortal,” she said.

“First time I've been called that.” Joker shrugged his coat back on.

“Your injuries. They healed. Already.”

“I healed them.” He stood gingerly. “Another kind of magic, Your Majesty.”

“I'm sorry,” she said.

Joker paused. “For what?”

He didn't know? That being injured and healing, reinjured and rehealing—that was agonizing, that was basically torture. How much pain did he experience in a day?

She looked at the ground.

“I'm sorry for this,” she said.

Handcuffs clamped around the Joker's wrists.

“Phantom Thief Joker,” she said, “for doing what was right in the wrong way... I have to put you under arrest. You have the right to remain silence. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

.

.

.

Niijima Sae flung open the door of Leblanc.

Mishima Yuuki and five police officers were sitting calmly around a table, drinking tea. If she looked closely, Yuuki looked awfully nervous for someone sitting at a table and drinking tea, as if someone had threatened him terribly if he didn't behave, but Niijima Sae wasn't looking closely at Yuuki. She was looking right at Suzui Shiho.

“How long has she been missing?” Sae demanded.

Officer Suzui looked away. “She's still alive.”

“And you know that for sure?” Sae's voice began to rise. She clamped on it out of willpower. “Because if she passed just like my father—”

“She has to be alive,” cried Officer Suzui. She faltered. “I really do think that she's alive.”

Niijima Sae looked at her.

“At least Mishima saw her twenty-four hours ago,” Officer Suzui said. “That makes her MIA for only twenty-four hours, not forty-eight.”

Sae slumped against the nearest chair.

“Makoto,” she whispered, “please be alright.”

.

.

.

Joker was sitting amicably in the corner with his hands cuffed behind his back.

“The Treasure is that chevron pin he's holding,” he said casually. “It's the manifestation of his distorted emotions. Probably one of the principal causes.”

Makoto stepped towards the stirring Shadow Munakawa, but Joker cleared his throat.

“Wait. There's something you should know. When you take the Treasure, the Palace no longer has anything holding it up. It'll start to crumble. Imagine a huge earthquake, shaking everything down. Are you ready to run from that?”

“If I wasn't,” said Makoto, “I wouldn't be here.”

Joker's teeth glinted. “You're a brave little queen.”

Makoto turned back to the not-chief-superintendent. His eyes fluttered open as he staggered upward.

He was grinning.

“You've shown your hand, Joker,” he said. “You can't kill me. Is that what keeps you as a Phantom Thief and saves you from being a murderer? You don't kill.”

Joker looked silently at Shadow Munakawa.

Niijima Makoto stepped forward with a cold smile.

“You're right,” she said quietly. “We won't kill you. But I can make you wish we would.”

Shadow Munakawa's face shifted. He stumbled back.

“I can break you starting with your hand,” said Makoto in a pleasant, demure tone. “There are twenty-seven bones in one hand. Did you know that? Carpals and metacarpals, phalanges. They each hurt like hell when you snap them in two. Don't worry, I won't break the skin. I won't let you bleed. But would you like to know something interesting? Breaking bones isn't the only thing that can hurt. You can rip off the fingernails, one by one. You can contort the wrist. Maybe there's more, who knows? I wonder how many other ways I can damage a hand without making it bleed. Give me time. I'm creative enough, and we have all we need in this place.”

Joker was looking at her with newfound appreciation.

Shadow Munakawa was looking at her with newfound horror.

“W-what do I need to do?” he whispered.

“Even now, you're just thinking of ways to save your pathetic life.” She smiled gently. “Don't you think that should change?”

Shadow Munakawa stuttered incomprehensibly.

Makoto plucked the gleaming chevron pin from his chest.

Shadow Munakawa whimpered. “I'm sorry. What I was doing to my subordinates. It was wrong. I, I was just tired. Life was so mundane. And then. People kept saying, I was ugly. I, I would never be able to get a girl. Since high school. I showed them. I wanted to show them.”

She threw the pin at his face. The edge cut at his cheek. He screamed.

“All this for an ego trip from high school?” Her voice was shaking. “Give me your hand.”

“No!” Shadow Munakawa cried. “I'll—I'll confess everything! Blackmailing my subordinates, accepting bribes—! Please! Please, don't hurt me!”

Makoto felt the strong urge to kick him. She managed to restrain it.

“Go,” she said. “Call off the station lockdown. Don't waste time.”

Shadow Munakawa sobbed and faded into nothingness.

“Well done,” said Joker softly.

Makoto turned. Joker was standing just behind her, hands resting idly in his pockets. She recoiled.

“How did you get out of the cuffs?”

Joker dangled a lockpick. “Please, Majesty,” he said dryly.

She sighed and picked up the chevron pin.

What was the point in trying to catch him? He could control the wind, make fire and ice out of nothing, heal gunshots and stab wounds. She had... handcuffs. Which he could pick.

And after seeing the inside of Munakawa's mind, she didn't even know if catching him was the right thing.

“Well,” she murmured, “what do we do now?”

The ground shook. Joker took her hand. His gloves rubbed roughly against her palm.

“Now,” he said, “we run.”

Chapter 12: RANK 7, STAGE 2

Notes:

this is part of a double update. if you came from email notifications, you may wish to start from the previous chapter.

comments are my treasures, i am a phantom thief. no report pls.

Above Shibuya Station, a helicopter levitated. The mob of protestors was getting antsy in the midday heat. Some began to push toward the police line, but they were stopped by the double row of riot shields.

Akechi Gorou feared that the tense peace wouldn't last.

“Units one through ten, status report!” Gorou commanded in his walkie-talkie.

One by one, they reported. No sightings. No unusual happenings. Certainly nothing to do with the Phantom Thieves.

Gorou swore through his teeth and glanced at the stirring Chief Munakawa out of the corner of his eye. “How,” he hissed, “can they commit a crime completely invisible?!”

“They are called the Phantom Thieves,” said Takemi Tae dryly. “Maybe they're. You know. Phantoms.”

“That's not—” Possible? Clearly, it was. Gorou paused. “That's not fair!”

Tae looked dryly at him.

It sounded rather childish when he put it that way.

.

.

.

In a humble café at Yongen-jaya, Niijima Sae answered her phone.

“Niijima,” she said bluntly. She paused. “Understood. Yes. I'm with Police Squad 29. Yes.”

A moment of silence.

Niijima Sae surged to her feet.

“WHAT? No, of course don't let him out! Bar the door if you have to! He's ready to confess? We have to analyze his psyche! If the Phantom Thieves just succeeded, we have to glean everything we can!”

She switched off the phone and looked at Police Squad 29, eyes ablaze.

“Shibuya Station,” Sae said. “One of the senior officers called in. Munakawa wants to confess.”

They raced out of the café. Officer Suzui flicked her card at Mishima Yuuki on her way out.

“In case you spontaneously remember anything,” she said curtly.

.

.

.

The world was crumbling.

Makoto staggered as the staircase before her fell and shattered to bits of colored glass. The ground swam a dizzying six storeys below. For one precarious moment, she tipped on the edge, but Joker's grip on her hand tightened. He pulled and she fell back against the wall.

“Thank—”

“Later.”

Joker's eyes cut across the room. She could see his mind forging a path, running calculation after calculation. He vaulted up on the nearest window ledge and disappeared outside.

She followed him.

.

.

.

Mishima Yuuki fidgeted under Ryuuji's glare.

“Tea?” he offered weakly.

“Hell no,” said Ryuuji. “You trying to feed me laxatives?”

Yuuki shrunk. “I know you're upset because the rest of your squad left and they made you stay here to babysit the café—”

“I'm not upset.”

“—but why don't we at least make the arrangement as, you know, least unpleasant as possible?”

Ryuuji kept glowering.

“Maybe a card game,” said Mishima Yuuki brightly. “Speed, or poker, or—”

“I hate cards.”

Yuuki paused.

“I can tell that you're in a generally disagreeable mood, so I'll leave you alone.”

Ryuuji only snorted and turned to the window. “Case after case,” he muttered. “Always the goddamn babysitter. Somebody shoot me.”

Mishima glanced at the Phan-site, which was exploding with comments.

“Be careful, Joker,” he murmured.

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.

.

“Inspector Akechi,” said Munakawa Asao clearly. “I will ask you for the last time. Please step away and let me address the crowd.”

“Chief Superintendent, sir,” said Akechi Gorou, “with all due respect, the department is placing you under protective custody for forty-eight hours. We believe that your mental state has been influenced, sir.”

“No, Inspector,” said Chief Munakawa. “You don't understand. I'm seeing clearer than I ever have in my life. I know what I must do.”

“You don't, sir,” said Gorou. “You really don't.”

“Look me in the eye, Inspector,” said Chief Munakawa. Gorou did. “I am no raving madman. I am myself. I'm telling you with my own mouth, Inspector, that I am doing this on my own accord.”

“You're doing this ‘of your own accord’ the day after a criminal group targeted you,” Gorou said. “You are not of sound mind to be making judgments.”

“That's not for you to decide,” came Niijima Sae's voice.

She strode into the office, followed by a small entourage of lab coats clutching clipboards.

“Prosecutor Niijima,” said Gorou sharply. “Since when did you have access to be here?”

Sae looked at him cuttingly. “Is that really the problem right now?”

Gorou was calm, but icy. “It will be if you keep cutting protocol.”

Sae jerked her head towards her accompaniment. “These are medical professionals previously registered with the department. One is doctor, one is a psychiatrist, one is a therapist, one is an academic psychologist. They'd like a look at Chief Munakawa.”

“Let them,” said Munakawa Asao. “They will see that I am sane.”

Gorou looked at Chief Munakawa. He looked back at Niijima Sae.

“Seven years,” he said.

“It ends now,” Sae replied.

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.

.

Joker leapt down the outer ledges of the collapsing game center, lithe as a panther. Makoto tumbled after him. She'd been the most nimble in the Academy obstacle course, but this was way out of her depth: strange handholds, asymmetrical architecture, steel and glass crumbling beneath her feet. Sometimes she stepped where she expected solid ground, only to flail through emptiness.

They finally reached the first floor of the building. The entire structure was coming apart at the seams, walls and pillars crashing to dust.

Makoto raced to the entrance on Joker's heels. The surrounding fence was wreathed in blue sparks, electrical currents forking through the chain links. It groaned as its foundations shook, racked by tectonic pressure.

“The fence is going to collapse,” she gasped.

Joker only seized her arm and pushed faster. The gait of his long legs outpaced her sprint. She started to stumble, arm throbbing painfully from the pressure of his gloves.

She didn't bother telling him to slow down. She wanted to live, and so did he.

Debris rained around them, large hailstones of metal and wood. They neared the gate, which was wide open, welcoming them to freedom.

The earth rattled.

Makoto was wrenched away from Joker and thrown to the ground. She skidded, the skin on her arms tearing at the impact. She lay there, winded, vision spinning.

Above her, the fence tipped.

Oh, she thought.

She heard the crackle of electricity.

The chain links loomed towards her.

Her bleeding arms raised feebly, as if they'd stop her from getting crushed, as if they'd stop her skin from charring over.

The electric fence fell.

“YOSHITSUNE!” Joker roared.

Blue smoke writhed around him and in the blink of an eye, he was in front of her.

“No!” Makoto cried.

The fence crashed on Joker's back. He grunted, bucking at the impact.

Sparks, blinding and barbed, wound around his arms and torso. She felt the power of the current, the heat that pressed into the air. She expected to smell burning flesh. She expected an excruciating scream.

But the Joker was standing there, steadfast, holding up the fence as if he'd been living and breathing electricity his whole life.

What, her mind stammered.

“What are you doing?” Joker snapped. “Get up!”

She rolled away and leapt to her feet. She sprinted back, five paces, ten.

Joker released the fence.

The metal slammed into the grass. Electric sparks stabbed at the greenery, and the beginnings of a fire spat to life in the roots.

Joker winced and stumbled away. “Cybele,” he murmured. He glowed again, hazy with blue smoke. He pressed a hand to his back, and after a brief moment, sighed in relief.

“Who, who are you,” Makoto whispered.

“Joker. Phantom Thief. Nice to meet you,” said Joker the Phantom Thief.

“The fence,” said Makoto hesitantly. “Are you... are you okay?”

“Not good for my back,” he said dryly, “but I'll live.”

A note of confusion raised in the back of her head, as if she recognized this phrase, but she had no time to address it.

They slipped away from the entrance, pausing at the edge of the distortion. The Palace's strength was diminishing. Makoto wasn't sure how, but she could sense it—the twisted power ebbing away quietly. She estimated half an hour before they returned to reality.

She waited until they ducked into the nearest shelter, an empty room stripped of paint and flooring in the nearest back alley. Joker leaned against the wall, regaining his breath. Makoto had the impression that he hadn't gotten injured in a long time.

Both instances were her fault.

“Why?” she said. “I don't understand. I'm a cop. You're a Phantom Thief. I cuffed you, shot you twice. But you saved my life.”

Joker looked up.

There was a long silence.

“Use your head, Your Majesty,” said Joker. She expected his tone to be condescending, but it was strangely gentle. “To a criminal, nothing is more useful than a blood debt from a fed.”

She thought about how quickly he'd reacted to the fence—split second, snap judgment, no time to think.

“No,” she said. “No, that's wrong.”

“Wrong?” said Joker.

She looked, but she couldn't read past his mask.

“It doesn't make sense,” she said. “Overall, when you sum everything up, life is easier for you if I'm dead.”

The silence built up, pressurized.

She blinked. “You wouldn't have to worry about someone chasing you down or arresting you or screwing up your heists. Why gather a blood debt when you can just let your worries die? There's no reason why you shouldn't just sit back and—”

Joker's lips slanted over hers.

.

.

.

“Reports?” said Officer Suzui.

“Let's be real,” said Officer Kawakami. “None of us have heard from Niijima yet, or we would've said so.”

“I raise that we simply inject her with a tracker,” said Officer Tohgou.

“We did,” said Officer Kawakami. “It's called a phone GPS. You know the problem? It only works when her phone is on.”

“We should all be injected with trackers,” said Officer Tohgou. “Fog of War is one of the greatest disadvantages in any strategy game. Imagine shogi where you must scout the pieces.”

“I'm clairvoyant,” offered Officer Mifune.

“The only thing you could divine was that Niijima was still in Japan,” Officer Kawakami snapped. “Really helpful. Thanks. A lot.”

“It eliminated the possibility of overseas travel and stowing away on a spaceship to Mars,” Officer Mifune pointed out.

Officer Suzui looked at them very wearily.

“I'm,” she said, “I'm going to go over the CCTVs one last time.”

.

.

.

Warmth.

Niijima Makoto felt a gloved hand tilting her jaw, cupping her face. Two of the knuckles stroked her cheek tenderly, as if she was a precious thing that should never be broken.

An arm had snaked around her waist and pulled her close. She was flush against Joker's coat, palms pressed to his chest.

She smelled drying blood.

Joker's lips were soft on hers. She thought they should be chapped and roughened, something that mirrored his personality, but they weren't. They were velvety against her mouth, a strange sensation that sent lightning down her spine and made her knees buckle.

She felt a startled noise in the back of her throat. Joker's hold tightened, pressing her closer.

As if he'd been waiting for this.

Woman, screeched her superego, I seriously cannot. Do you realize who you're kissing?

A good kisser, said her id dreamily.

Her superego growled. Niijima, you are kissing a damn criminal. Not only that. A criminal TO WHOM YOU ARE ASSIGNED. You might as well go kiss Munakawa Asao!

That's not true, said her id defensively. This is very different.

As if, said her superego crossly.

For one, continued her id, these lips feel like they belong to a very hot guy.

Oh my god, said her superego. Then again. Oh my god.

Joker's lips moved on hers and her mind went a little fuzzy for a second, registering nothing but the feeling of his mouth and the texture of his gloves and the gentle press of his hand on the small of her back.

It's our first kiss, pouted her id. Just let us enjoy this.

YOU ARE KISSING A CRIMINAL, screamed her ego. He is purposely manipulating your emotions! He is turning you into an Accomplice! You promised! You promised Kurusu Akira that you would stay a cop, that you wouldn't aid and abet a criminal!

Akira, Makoto realized, and she shoved Joker away.

He stumbled back at the sudden force.

She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, wishing that her lips would stop tingling. Her eyes stayed on Joker. She expected to see a snide grin, or at the very least, a smug look.

There was neither. There wasn't really anything. Joker's face was enigmatic, hidden.

“What,” she whispered.

“Oh,” said Joker, as if he just realized what he'd done.

She opened her mouth, searching for words.

None came.

Joker turned his back to her. “Sorry. I felt the sudden urge to make your mouth stop saying moronic things.”

That sparked her irritation.

“You ass,” she hissed. “I, I was saving that.”

Joker looked surprised. “Saving what?”

She stewed in silence.

Joker's face split into a grin. “Don't tell me. Your first smooch, Majesty?”

“Shut your mouth.”

“Twenty-three years without a kiss? Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I said, shut it.”

“I've stolen many things over seven years, but I must say that I never thought of that.”

“You didn't deserve to take it,” she cried, and it sounded so childish, so juvenile, but she couldn't help it. “I, I wanted someone else to—”

Joker's smile faded. Makoto promptly shut her mouth.

“Someone else?” he said.

The Phantom Thieves were supposed to be just.

The Phantom Thieves were supposed to be just, but she felt a sudden knife of fear.

She couldn't implicate Akira.

“Don't expect me to give you a name.” She lifted her chin. “Who knows what you'd do to him. Thief.”

His jaw twitched. She felt like somehow, she'd hit a sore spot. She expected to feel victorious, but she didn't; she just felt guilty and sad, like she'd kicked a downed puppy. A downed puppy that could call down fire and blizzard and tornado and heal wounds in the blink of an eye.

“Should I pay him a visit?” said Joker mildly. “That gentle barista in Yongen-jaya. What was his name? Kurusu?”

She was winded, socked in the gut, but threw everything she had into keeping a blank face. “He's nice, I guess. Not really my type,” she lied.

“You look frightened for him,” said Joker. His voice was soft and deadly.

She thought of the innocent barista, his quiet snark, the humor and warmth in his words.

“Don't do this,” she said, matching his gaze. “Show me what it means to be a Phantom Thief. Aren't you a good man?”

“Seven years, and you still expect the worst.” Joker's mouth tweaked into a grim smile. “Shows that one can never earn goodwill.”

She felt a prickle of guilt. “I didn't mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

She bit her lip. “Please. Don't hurt innocent people. You, you don't even really like me. Don't think I don't know that.”

Joker tilted his head. “Am I the kind of person to kiss for no reason?”

“It wasn't for no reason, was it?” She looked at him evenly. “You were trying to get into my head. Not through a Palace, but more natural means. Then I'd be disoriented, and I might even drop your case.”

He stepped forward. She instinctively shuffled back and reached for her gun, but his hand clamped over hers.

“It was a way to tell you that you were wrong,” said Joker. The rumble in his voice swept over her nose and cheeks. “It was a way to tell you, Majesty, that you have greater value to me alive than dead.”

Her mind ran blank for a second.

“But,” she said, “that doesn't make any sense. Are you, are you talking about a blood debt? Because there's no guarantee I'll abide by one.”

He reached out and pulled her hat over her eyes.

“Stealing hearts is a funny business,” came the Joker's voice. “Sometimes it backfires.”

Makoto gripped the brim of her hat and pulled it back up.

Joker was gone, and so was the distortion.

The sky was blue. The ground was whole.

“Navigation complete,” said a mechanical voice from her phone.

.

.

.

“Inspector Akechi,” said a voice over the phone. “This is a direct order from the Superintendent General. Strengthen the perimeter. Public transportation within Shibuya is to be under lockdown for five hours. Disperse the protest as they have not acquired a permit.”

“Understood,” said Akechi Gorou faintly.

“The time has come, Inspector Akechi,” said the voice. “Utilize all resources. Today is the day we catch the Phantom Thieves.”

Chapter 13: RANK 7, STAGE 3

Akira wove down the backstreets of Shibuya: left, right, left, into an empty concrete room. His senses barely registered reality, still half-stuck in the past.

The soft face in his gloved hand, the subtle press of a body, the tiny, muffled moan, the tenuous lips under his.

“Overall, when you sum everything up, life is easier for you if I'm dead.”

He shook it away, setting his jaw.

A black-and-white cat was waiting for him, perched in the shadows on a small outcropping.

“Good call staying in normal clothes,” said Morgana. “This place is swarming with the fuzz. Miss Cop didn't see you transform, right?”

“What do you take me for?” said Akira in a plaid shirt, jeans, and brown Vans.

“A lovesick idiot,” said Morgana.

“I'm not lovesick.”

“Give yourself time.”

Akira cut his eyes to the cat. “And the preparations are ready?”

“Yes,” said Morgana. He stood and brushed a roll of glossy paper off of the outcropping.

Akira caught it deftly and unfurled it. Kujikawa Rise was surrounded in billows of blue-and-green chiffon on the matte finish poster. At the bottom was a loopy celebrity signature in fresh silver Sharpie, accompanied with a note: Akira, thanks for the love! Best wishes for your café!

“And the boy took the compensation?”

“All fifty thousand yen.” Morgana's face looked smug. For a cat. “And no trail. The username ‘Zorro’ was deleted.”

“Good work.”

Morgana's ears flicked. “You know, I wonder who's the genius who came up with the idea of using Metaverse travel to smuggle goods. He deserves an ample helping of fatty tuna, don't you think?”

Akira snorted.

“And your part,” continued Morgana. “The infiltration was clean, right? You probably beat Munakawa with your eyes closed.”

“The results will speak for themselves.”

Morgana tilted his head. “Huh. Not a direct answer, Joker.”

Akira shrugged. “You haven't chaperoned me in three years. You know that I can take care of myself.”

Morgana was quiet for a long, long moment.

“Joker,” he said.

Akira looked away.

“How bad was it,” Morgana said flatly.

“I'm untouched. As you can see.”

“After two Diarahans. Right?”

Akira silently pulled the unused ocean-blue Kujikawa Rise, Live at Shibuya Center ticket out of his pocket.

Morgana shook his head. It was strangely resigned.

“That cop is going to be the death of you, Akira. You really need to break it off while you can.”

“What if...” Akira tore the ticket stub. “What if I don't really want to?”

“Then we're relocating to Canada.”

“Canada doesn't take yen.”

“Global exchange, dammit.”

Akira jerked his head at the door. “Come on. Time to get back to the café.”

Morgana leapt in his path and sat on his haunches.

“You enjoy it, don't you?” Morgana said. “You're addicted to the danger. It's like a game. That's why you don't want to let her go. You literally met her, what, a few weeks ago, and you're acting like her damn husband. Joker, you're brilliant in some ways, but you're dumb as a newborn tot in others.”

Akira's eyes wavered. “But I like her,” he said in a strangely small voice.

“Yes, you like her because she is physically attractive and has at least half a hemisphere of a brain, I get it. This is why you were supposed to fall in love when you were in high school, because the later you put it off, the more stuffed up you feel, and the more stuffed up you feel, the more likely it is that when you do fall in love, everything breaks out like a dam and your hormones turn from a leaky faucet to a 5.8 tsunami that drowns you alive! But you didn't fall in love in high school, so just don't. Ever.”

“I'm not in love,” said Akira.

Morgana stared at him.

“This is bad,” the cat whispered. “Oh, man, this is really, really bad.”

“It's not out of control like you say.”

“I think I'll be the judge of that.” The cat hunkered down with a piercing glare. “The more you talk, the more I see it. She is the perfect trap for you, Joker. The ultimate femme fatale.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“She's cute. There's your visual weakness. She's smart. There's your intellectual weakness. She seems nice. There's your moral weakness. She's a cop. There's your tantalizing sense of danger. And she's the only fed who's ever entered the Metaverse and seen the Joker, so she's the only one who understands you.” The cat began to pace frantically. “Akira, I'm sorry. I didn't realize just how bad this was before.”

“Our window of time is closing, you know.”

“We need to talk about this right now. Before it gets any worse. Who knows, you might run into her again on the way back.” The cat stopped. “Alright, Joker, look here. She doesn't feel nearly as strongly for you as you do for her. Why? Because seeing her in both the Metaverse and reality is messing with your head. Finally, there's someone with a shared experience. There's someone who gets it. Someone who understands you besides a cat. But all she sees is a criminal and an unrelated nice barista. She's not mixed up, not like you.”

Akira was quiet.

“You're falling too fast,” said Morgana. “I thought that you were the logical type. The professional type. You know, someone who can keep his act together. But all these situations, these coincidences, they're making you tank like a rock. You're going to reach the point of no return soon, Akira, and she'll have the power to ruin you with the snap of her fingers. Or she'll become your pressure point.”

“It's not that serious,” Akira said. “I'm not that serious. Why can't I just casually like someone?”

Morgana looked at him, a little sadly. “Since when have you done anything casually?”

.

.

.

The door to the office of the Chief Superintendent of Shibuya Station cracked open. Five lab coats strode into the hallway.

Niijima Sae stood.

“Where's Inspector Akechi?” said the head doctor. “Isn't he the acting chief superintendent?”

“Inspector Akechi is directing the perimeter,” said Niijima Sae. “Orders from on high. You can report to me.”

The doctor looked uneasily at her. “You're a prosecutor.”

“Do you trust any of the other inspectors?”

The head doctor sighed.

“He's completely lucid,” he said. “Nothing wrong with him, so far as we can tell. Just like the others. A little sluggish on some of the reactionary tests, but it seems to be typical grogginess.”

So, with the door to the office locked and the station completely surrounded by personnel, the Phantom Thieves had managed to steal another heart.

Niijima Sae gritted her teeth.

“Prosecutor Niijima, one more thing,” said the doctor. He paused. “He... keeps begging to speak to the public and apologize for crimes of workplace sexual harassment, as well as accepting bribes.”

Niijima Sae closed the office door and locked it.

“He is not setting foot outside this room until Inspector Akechi or higher give a direct command,” she said. “Is that understood?”

The lab coats nodded.

She had them barricade the door from the outside for good measure.

.

.

.

A rap came on the edge of Suzui Shiho's cubicle. She looked up wearily from the personnel lists of NPD-014374, and specifically, any notes of officers who went missing in action. There had been none.

Officer Tohgou leaned against the cubicle, the charm in her hair swaying gently.

“Acting High General Suzui Shiho,” she said solemnly. “I bear remarkable tidings.”

“I don't have the patience right now, Hifumi,” Officer Suzui said shortly.

Officer Tohgou's voice lost a great deal of grandeur. “You asked me to look into CCTV footage at Yongen-jaya. Any ones around the backstreet where that café was.”

Officer Suzui looked up.

“I found something,” said Officer Tohgou simply. “And you're not going to believe it.”

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.

.

Morgana toed across the fence that overlooked the six-block perimeter. The Shibuya streets were stuffed with cars across every square inch. Irritable drivers swore liberally as officers waved the vehicles through a makeshift gateway.

Morgana clicked his tongue. “They're wasting their time,” he mused. “They don't even have a facial composite. What's a perimeter going to do?”

He neared the perimeter and stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, cataloguing the paperwork.

“Official ID, brief conversation with the patrol, license plate check,” he said. “Done and done. And back to—”

A bag suddenly swooped over his head. All was darkness.

.

.

.

Akira finished the last noodle of his ramen bowl, but there was no satisfaction in the meal. His eyes were fixed on the window, waiting for a glimpse of telltale black fur.

He checked his phone. Thirty minutes.

It was highly plausible that something had happened to Morgana.

And if something happened to Morgana, that meant he had to keep moving.

A hint of nerves bubbled in the pit of his stomach. It had been a long time since something had gone wrong during an infiltration. They'd pulled off missions on officials of higher rank than Munakawa Asao, but in those missions—

—well, in those missions, there hadn't been a wild card.

There hadn't been a police officer who could travel to the Metaverse.

There hadn't been anyone with a tie to Leblanc.

There hadn't been any reason for the police department to look in the direction of Yongen-jaya.

With Niijima Makoto, all that changed.

Akira paid for his ramen with cash and slipped out the door.

There was nothing for it. With the subways on lockdown and no other Palace in sight, he had to take a taxi.

.

.

.

“Are you seriously insinuating,” said Niijima Sae, “that we take in a cat for questioning?”

Akechi Gorou lifted something by the scruff of its neck.

“This cat,” he said, “shows up on all eight security footages we have of calling card distribution over the years. We believe that it's been posting the cards.”

“Inspector Akechi,” said Sae. “Have you gone mad?”

The cat, dangling from Gorou's grip, meowed.

“Something interesting,” said Akechi Gorou. “This cat also shows up quite often on a few CCTVs in a specific region. Officer Tohgou Hifumi recognized it when she cross-referenced the footage with the original case files.”

The cat's tail twitched. Sae suddenly looked much more alert.

“Where were these CCTVs?” she said.

“Yongen-jaya,” said Gorou. “In a backstreet with multiple small business. Laundromat, secondhand shop, batting cages—”

“And a café called Leblanc,” said Sae.

Gorou raised a brow.

“There's a part timer acting suspiciously,” Sae said. “The owner is gone, and Niijima Makoto's card lists several transactions there in the past few weeks. It was also the last place she was seen before she disappeared.”

“Well. Sounds like something is coming together.”

“My sister's disappearance led to the first real lead of the Phantom Thieves case,” said Sae. “Think about it. The man who switched her squad to the case was targeted just days later. That's a bit much to be a coincidence, don't you think?”

“I quite agree,” said Gorou mildly. “And she conveniently disappeared just before the calling card was issued.”

Niijima Sae looked at him sharply. “Watch what you say, Inspector.”

“I simply point out the obvious,” said Gorou. “Niijima Makoto was called to the chief superintendent's office, and shortly thereafter, reassigned to the Phantom Thieves case. And then, as you said, the chief superintendent was marked by the Phantom Thieves just days later, during which Niijima Makoto was notably absent. And of what was the chief superintendent accused? Workplace sexual harrassment. Remarkable, don't you think?”

“Makoto,” Sae ground out, “is not a Phantom Thief, nor could she be allied with them in any way.”

“Yet after seven years of this case filtering through genius minds and capable hands with not one scrap of evidence, we suddenly find a clear lead,” said Gorou. “Ah, thanks to your sister, of course. As you have stated.”

Sae's gaze was burning, but her expression was controlled as she swiveled on one heel. “I'm heading to Yongen-jaya, Inspector. I assume you must stay here to supervise the perimeter.”

“Indeed. Duty calls.”

“You will regret your baseless accusations.”

“I hope so, Prosecutor Niijima. I truly do. Would you like the cat?”

Niijima Sae glared, but common sense overruled her pride. “Please bring it to the parking lot. I will be taking a squad in a van.”

She strode down the hallway with clicking shoes.

Gorou looked at the cat.

“I don't know how exactly you became a superintelligent cat,” said Gorou mildly, “but today is the day we catch your master.”

The cat meowed as if it was simply an honest-to-god cat.

.

.

.

“ID?” asked the guard at the perimeter.

Akira handed it through the open window of the taxi.

The guard narrowed his eyes. Akira kept himself calm. He knew that he matched the Phantom Thief profile to a tee: unassuming-looking young adult male with strong physical capabilities, traveling alone and with little burden. But so did a lot of other citizens.

The guard ran Akira's ID through a scanner. Information scrolled up his tablet. He tilted it so that Akira couldn't read.

“Kurusu Akira,” he read. “What was your business here?”

“To join the protest,” Akira said wryly. “Justice for all. Yea, verily, yea.”

The guard opened the door and kicked at the rolled-up glossy poster.

“Sure you're not just a closet Kujikawa fanboy?” he said with a hint of triumph.

Akira lowered his head and kept silent. Let them win a battle, and they would believe they'd won the war.

“Where are you heading back to?” said the guard. He was smirking.

“Yongen-jaya.”

“For?”

“I own a café. We specialize in coffee and curry. I put a part timer in charge for the day so I could... you know. The poster. But the part timer needs to leave at dinner time, so I need to make it back by then. Otherwise no server at the café. Makes for bad customer service not to have a server, you know. Down with the Yelp ratings.”

The guard looked at him.

“You're unusually calm,” the guard said.

Akira blinked.

Ah. Normal people would be nervous at checkpoints, even if they hadn't done anything wrong.

“I have a delinquent record,” Akira said. “I've had experiences with the cops.”

The guard raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn't that make you more nervous?”

“I'm the delinquent,” said Akira, “not you. But since then, I've reformed my erroneous ways, and now I'm a productive member of society. Probably.”

The guard was silent.

Akira knew that he'd done well by mentioning his criminal record. The police usually liked to know that they were dealing with someone honest.

Of course, the police were usually corrupt.

“I'll have to pat you down,” said the guard. “Step out of the car. Anything you'd like to declare?”

“I have one million yen under the front seat,” Akira said dryly.

“Smartmouthing won't help you, civilian,” the guard said irritably. “We already searched the car. Stupid claims aren't going to stop a physical exam.”

“You didn't search under the front seat.”

“Raise your arms and turn around.”

Akira shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Pride would get in the way of the guard's discovery of one million yen under the front seat.

.

.

.

“Drive fast,” said Niijima Sae as she settled into the backseat.

“Traffic is really bad because of the perimeter, Prosecutor,” the driver said.

“Drive fast anyway.”

.

.

.

SETTER. Skull, how are you holding up?

SKULL. It's boring.

MAID. Then think of it as paid vacation time.

SKULL. I can't when there's exciting stuff at the station! Why couldn't I be there and like Mifune be here??

MISS FORTUNE. Please don't resent me. I am making myself useful in the station.

SKULL. Doing what? Passing out rock salt?

MISS FORTUNE. Budget regulation forms and reconciling accounting.

SKULL. Oh.

Skull is typing...

SKULL. That IS useful.

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.

.

Akira tipped the taxi well and slipped into the subway station. He casually leaned against the wall, popping the endcap off of a bench with one hand.

A note was crumpled inside.

He unfolded it and pushed the endcap back into place.

Feds watching Leblanc. Return with caution, said Mishima Yuuki's scrawl.

Akira tore the note and tossed half in the trash and half on the rails.

The situation was not good. Morgana was missing. The feds were watching Leblanc and likely poking around Yongen-jaya. Akira wouldn't be surprised to have a welcome party waiting in the café, maybe with warrants. At this point, who knew how much the situation had escalated?

He needed a hard reset. Just a temporary one, something to get the momentum back.

Akira moved from the station to the back alley. He checked for CCTVs before extracting a flip phone from his bag. It was an old model, something that could only send and receive text messages and calls. No images, no web browsing, no location functions.

Nothing worth hacking, and no tracking unless he provided an active signal by calling.

Akira pulled up the phone's contacts. There were exactly two.

1. ORACLE.
2. FOX.

He selected the first one and typed on the 12-key pad.

JOKER. Did you fulfill the request?

It was barely two seconds before he received a reply.

ORACLE. With my eyes closed. What am I now, a phone book? This was a joke of an assignment.

JOKER. Thanks.

ORACLE. Here's the number you wanted.

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.

.

“Mwehehehe,” said a voice from a petite orange-haired head. She was less than a block away from Kurusu Akira.

Not that she knew it.

Only he did.

.

.

.

Akira pulled out his smartphone and entered the number from Oracle. He cradled it against his ear with his shoulder, slipping the flip phone back into his bag.

The call rang three times, then picked up.

“Hey,” said Akira haltingly. “It's... Akira. Kurusu Akira.”

There was a long beat.

“Oh,” said Niijima Makoto. “How did you get this number?”

“You're a customer,” Akira said.

“Last I checked, card information only provides a legal name, not a phone number,” Makoto said keenly.

Akira stumbled. “Um, you're right.”

A brief moment of silence.

Akira injected just the right amount of bashfulness and hesitation into his voice. “Maybe... maybe you can, er, not ask?”

“That embarrassing?”

He paused strategically.

“No,” he said.

He heard a smile in her voice. “Liar.”

Her tone was warm. He remembered her small frame pressed against his coat, the gentle line of her jaw. He touched his lips absently.

“I saw the report on TV,” he said. “Shibuya Station. That's where you work, isn't it?”

“How do you know that?” Makoto said.

He bit his tongue. “Are you... are you okay?”

She was quiet for a moment.

“Yeah,” she said, sounding dazed. “Thanks for checking up on me.”

“It looks pretty bad over there.”

“Yeah.”

He picked his next words carefully. Place the idea in her head. “There's probably a lot of people worried about you.”

A moment of silence.

“Oh, crap,” said Makoto.

She'd thought about her team.

Mission successful.

“I have to go,” said Makoto hurriedly. “Akira, is this your number?”

He paused.

Morgana would scold the hell out of him.

“Yes,” he said.

“Can I,” she said, “can I save it?”

No, yelled the Morgana in his head. She certainly cannot! Joker, what if she tracks your phone? That's your real phone, you idiot, you do not give out your real number, why did you even call her from your real phone, why didn't you use the disposable one, WHERE IS YOUR PROFESSIONALISM AND WHY WAS I STUCK WITH A MORON DRIVER—

“Yes,” said Akira. “Can I save yours?”

The Morgana in his head screamed incoherently.

“Apparently, you already uncovered it by some mildly shady means,” said Makoto. “For the safety of our society, please do.”

He grinned.

She ended the call.

He added her number: Cute Cop.

.

.

.

Makoto was smiling as she added the number: Barista Charming.

BAD IDEA, screamed her superego.

Oh, hush, said her id smugly. You can't always win.

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.

.

Ryuuji answered his phone with a jump.

“Niijima Prissy Makoto!” he roared. “Where the hell have you been? We thought you were dead!”

Mishima Yuuki squeaked.

An indistinct voice hummed over the phone.

“Nuh-uh,” snapped Ryuuji. “Before we gather, you owe us a goddamn explanation.”

He waited.

His face paled.

“The hell did you say? Where is he? What did he look like?”

A brief moment, and then the call ended.

“Prissyma! Prissyma, you better not end the call—dammit! Prissyma, you and your damn cliffhangers!”

He snatched up his jacket and sprinted out the door.

The café was left unattended.

.

.

.

Can I just state for the record, said Makoto's id, that we have absolutely no clue what we're doing and it's probably a terrible idea to bring more people in the Metaverse?

Can I also state, said her superego rather crossly, that as an officer of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, we don't exactly have a choice?

Both solemnly agreed.

.

.

.

Akira waited five minutes after he ended the call. Exactly three hundred seconds.

Then he darted down the back alleys and out to the main street.

He slowed to a casual stroll when he reached the familiar intersection, then turned into his café. He made sure that the CCTV caught his relaxed arrival.

“Yuuki,” he called as he entered the café.

Mishima Yuuki ran to meet him, his face a pale sheet. “Boss! You're back!”

“Cops came?” Akira said shortly.

“Yes! I... I don't know how they knew! But they have eyes on this place.” Mishima Yuuki gestured at the door. “You got the message, didn't you? Officer Sakamoto was literally just here. He's been watching this place all day like a dog.”

“You did well, Yuuki,” said Akira simply.

“Does that mean I can go home?” Yuuki said weakly.

Akira considered this.

Yuuki was something of a coin flip. He was earnest and well-meaning, but he also was a terrible liar. And easily intimidated by police.

Akira expected a lot of police to be showing up.

But at the same time, sending Yuuki home was a dangerous message that he wasn't sure he could afford.

“Sorry,” he said. “You'll need to stay around. It'll look suspicious if we do a sudden staff shift. Like we're hiding something.”

“We are hiding something,” Yuuki groaned.

“The moment that the police step through that door,” Akira said, “we're not hiding anything.”

Chapter 14: RANK 7, STAGE 4

Notes:

this is a double update. if you came here from email notifications, you may wish to start at the previous chapter.

comments are my paper, i am a termite.

Makoto walked into the conference room to see all of Police Squad 29 standing with hands raised in salute. Officer Tohgou was humming Pomp and Circumstance by Sir Edward Elgar more or less in tune, and as Makoto passed, Officer Mifune pulled a party popper. Confetti dashed over the carpet.

Makoto recoiled. “What's the meaning of this?”

“We were getting ready to commemorate your funeral, Niijima,” said Officer Mifune solemnly.

“We welcome you back from the gates of Tartarus,” Officer Tohgou said with equal gravity.

“You’ve got no clue,” said Sakamoto Ryuuji, “how hard I'm holdin' back from givin' you a good sock in the face.”

“I second that,” said Officer Kawakami.

Officer Suzui stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Makoto.

“We're just glad you're alive, boss,” she said.

“Now,” said Officer Tohgou, “lead us to victory.”

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.

.

The doors to Leblanc flung open. Mishima Yuuki and Kurusu Akira looked up in unison from the pot of curry.

Niijima Sae strode through the door. Behind her were four officers dressed in crisp police blue. Her red eyes cut across the room, searching. Her lips pulled down.

“Where is Officer Sakamoto?” Sae demanded.

“I don't even know who that is,” Akira said, and looked at Yuuki.

“He yelled something about Niijima Makoto returning,” said Yuuki, “and bolted out the door.”

Sae stepped back. Her eye twitched. She pulled out her phone and dialed quickly.

“Niijima speaking,” she said. “Officer Suzui, I need—”

She cut off abruptly.

“I see,” she said.

She ended the call and looked at Kurusu Akira.

He met her gaze calmly. “Is there a reason why you placed my café under police supervision?” he said. “If we've been accused of tax evasion, I can show you our records.”

“Sakamoto Ryuuji was supposed to stay here until backup arrived,” Sae said, her tone polite but pointed. “Yet conveniently, he received a call that Officer Niijima Makoto had returned after going missing for over forty-eight hours.”

“Your little sister coming back is just ‘convenient?’” said Akira. “That seems cold, Prosecutor.”

Sae's eyes narrowed. “You know about our relationship?”

“She seems to be proud of her sister,” said Akira.

This rocked Sae, but she refused to show it. “Of course, her arrival was more than just ‘convenient’ to me. But I'm talking about you, Kurusu Akira.”

“I do appear to be the hot topic of law enforcement recently,” Akira conceded. “You wouldn't believe how many customers I've been getting from Shibuya Station.”

Sae chose to blitz on. “Officer Sakamoto was overseeing the café. After he received the call from Niijima Makoto, he left. There was a fifteen minute period from his exit until the arrival of the next law enforcement authorities. You happened to return to the café within that fifteen minute period, no sooner, no later.”

“You’re correct,” Akira admitted. “I’d planned on returning much earlier, but apparently, rush hour kills in Shibuya.”

“That will happen when there’s been a significant crime,” said Sae.

Akira snapped his fingers. “Oh, right, the chief superintendent of Shibuya Station turned out to be a sex offender. That does seem to be a pretty significant crime.”

He was too unflappable for a normal citizen.

Sae was flexible. She liked to pride herself on her flexibility. If one approach wasn’t working, it was time to switch.

“It's pretty interesting,” said Sae, “that the moment Officer Niijima returned, you also returned to the café.”

Akira nodded. “The soulmate effect,” he said.

Sae’s brow furrowed. “Soulmate.”

“We have chemistry. At least, that’s what it seems like.”

Sae’s irritation flared. “That’s nonsense.”

“Why do you think she’s been dropping by this backwater café? For the coffee? Or even the house special curry? I don’t think it’s worth the drive, do you?”

“She’s been dropping by,” Sae said coldly, “to investigate.”

“The staff, apparently, for good boyfriend material.”

How dare he slander her precious little sister.

“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?” said Sae.

“I would,” admitted Akira.

She gritted her teeth. This approach wasn’t working, either. She needed to keep moving.

“How did you come here from Shibuya?” she said.

“Taxi,” said Akira.

“Do you know the driver who can verify that?”

“I have the full legal name.”

“And why were you in Shibuya?”

Akira hesitated.

Ah, finally. A foothold.

“Shopping,” Akira said tersely.

Sae drove forward. She finally had a nail in her hand. She just had to hammer it in. “Shopping for what?”

“Stuff,” said Akira.

“Descriptive. Where are the receipts?”

Akira was silent.

“You wouldn’t have driven to Shibuya to buy groceries, I assume. So what did you buy?”

“Will you arrest me if I refuse to respond?”

Gorou should be compiling the evidence even as she spoke. “We have due reason to.”

Akira evaluated her for a long moment, then sighed. “Fine.”

Sae felt a spark of alarm. Surely it couldn’t be that easy.

Akira reluctantly withdrew behind the counter and pulled out a glossy roll of paper. He set it on the chair, staring at his feet.

“Um,” he said hesitantly.

He was embarrassed, penitent. But the change had happened too fast.

Sae didn't trust it.

A normal cop might have gotten cocky. They would've thought that they had broken through Kurusu Akira's bravado. They would've been blinded with the temporary triumph, the self-satisfied attitude that they had won over a cocky civilian.

Sae was not a normal cop. Sae was a prosecutor.

So when Akira unfurled the roll and Kujikawa's Rise's chiffon dress shimmered across the matte poster, Sae's face was stoic, even as the rest of her unit murmured in dismay.

“So,” Akira stammered, still looking at the ground, “this is why.”

It was a solid cover story.

Sae snatched the poster and searched the bottom. Sure enough, there was a silver scribble in Kujikawa Rise's penmanship: Akira, thanks for the love! Best wishes for your café!

She sniffed cautiously.

The Sharpie was fresh, written just that morning.

“Oh, and, um, the ticket,” said Akira. He fumbled in his pocket and passed it.

The torn ticket stub was for a VIP seat in a concert that morning. Kujikawa Rise, Live at Shibuya Center.

She ran a quick search.

The poster that Akira had gotten was an exclusive limited edition, sold specifically for this three-day tour. It had a gold foil stamp of authenticity in the corner.

It was bulletproof evidence.

As if he'd known what they'd be chasing him for, and he'd prepared the perfect cover.

“Boss,” gasped Mishima Yuuki. “You're a closet fanboy of Kujikawa Rise?!”

Akira shuffled quietly.

Sae looked up from the poster. “Was anyone with you? Someone who can verify your presence?”

“He's a closet fan,” said Yuuki bemusedly. “No way he would've brought a friend. Even, you know. His ever-loyal buddy who covers his café when he plays hooky to chase pop stars.”

The excuse was airtight.

“Cheating on Niijima Makoto already?” Sae said dryly.

A spark of irritation flickered in Akira's eyes. Sae was surprised to see it, but she obediently filed it in the back of her head. Of all the barbs she'd haphazardly thrown out, she hadn't expected that one to land.

“Naturally,” she said, “someone who was the Phantom Thief could have purchased the poster by paying off the dealer, then forging her handwriting in silver Sharpie.”

Akira's eyes widened. Too big, too surprised.

“Really,” he said in awe. “No way. That's brilliant.”

“I don't suppose you'd be alright with taking this in for handwriting analysis.”

Akira looked at her evenly. “Be my guest. She wrote it herself.”

It was ridiculous, really, that the only thing they had on him was a cat.

Sae didn't want to reveal that particular trump card. Not just yet.

“I assume you won’t come to the precinct,” said Sae.

“I might,” said Akira mildly. “But do you have a warrant? Or, for that matter, a crime?”

Sae decided to go out on a limb. Hit bold. “The change of Munakawa Akira’s heart.”

Akira’s eyebrows shot up. “You really think that I’m a Phantom Thief? I’m flattered.”

Not even a reaction. She had to change approaches, again.

She'd make this time the last.

Niijima Sae turned to the part timer who had pressed himself into the corner, trying to become as invisible as possible.

“Mishima Yuuki,” she said sharply.

Mishima Yuuki made a sound that went something like meep.

“You’re under arrest for obstruction of justice,” she said. “You deceived an officer of the law.”

“S-sorry?” Mishima Yuuki blurted. “How?”

Sae smiled. “Your boss clearly does not have the avian flu.”

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.

.

Makoto stood in the center of the conference room. Police Squad 29 was seated obediently at the long table before her, waiting.

“This begins my official report,” said Makoto. “On the 8th of March, while conducting surveillance of Munakawa Asao, Chief Superintendent of Shibuya Station, I, Niijima Makoto, met a Phantom Thief.”

She paused to breathe, and that was when her mind suddenly flared in an argument.

Hold on, said her superego, because we need to think this through.

I thought that's all we've been doing, her id said tiredly.

You remember what Joker said about not understanding the ramifications of what you're doing? continued her superego. Well, we're about to make a Big Decision, and we haven't even properly thought about it yet.

As an officer of law enforcement, keeping the Metaverse hidden was willfully impeding an investigation.

But revealing the Metaverse was essentially putting an end to the Phantom Thieves for good.

They wouldn't be able to operate if Palaces were surrounded by the SWAT team.

With their modus operandi known, the changes of heart would cease.

And that was only if they decided to stay Good.

If they decided that the end justified the means, if they became fed up with being marked by the police when there were traffickers and sex offenders and murderers running free—

They could take out the entire police department in the blink of an eye.

Alright, said her id faintly, maybe it was good that we thought about this one last time.

The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department had no way to fight magic. They couldn't call down knives of darkness or breathe electricity or close up bullet wounds.

Makoto's eyes turned to the files.

Seven years.

If she showed them the Metaverse, the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department would become heady with excitement. They wouldn't think things through, not like she had, and they certainly wouldn't listen to anything she said. They would just want to send a few crack teams to the Metaverse the moment the next calling card came.

And then one of two things would happen:

Either the Phantom Thieves would wipe the crack teams, or the criminal they were guarding would get away without a change of heart.

The whole ordeal was rather backwards when she thought about it.

Can we just accept, said her superego, that there is no good solution to this problem, just a bunch of bad ones in ranging severity?

And your job, added her id, is to find the one least likely to lead to world destruction.

Makoto tried to think of a clever solution, but she came up empty.

The problem was that, when it came down to it, she really only had two options, and there was no in-between or clever loophole:

Speak, or remain silent.

“Prissyma?” said Ryuuji impatiently. “Any era now.”

“I think that this is just the dramatic pause before the Grand Reveal,” said Officer Mifune.

Makoto tried to think faster.

The root of the problem was that she didn't trust the higher-ups to make the right decision.

Technically, it wasn't her problem to make the judgment call for them. She was a lowly foot soldier. It was her problem to report the problems, and then the government would make the final decision, and whatever happened wasn't her responsibility, because her responsibility was just to report and obey.

But she wasn't that kind of person.

She would know, deep inside, that she bore some of the burden.

Makoto felt dizzy.

If she spoke out, everything would change.

If she said nothing, everything would stay the same.

Neither option seemed particularly attractive.

“It's possible that she was kidnapped these past two days,” Officer Suzui said.

“She needs a psych eval,” Officer Kawakami agreed.

Then an idea hit Niijima Makoto.

Was it possible—even by the slightest chance—that she could somehow fix both parties?

Maybe she could stop the Phantom Thieves and try to weed out the corruption of the police department.

NO, screamed her superego. That is way too ambitious and you'll burn yourself out in five seconds flat. There is no way that one person could instigate that much change.

And she knew her superego was right. If there was one person who could weed out corruption, it was Joker.

That was the ironic thing. In a different situation, she could totally imagine being a Phantom Thief herself.

“I think she broke,” said Officer Mifune.

“Blue screen of death,” said Officer Tohgou solemnly. “Somebody call customer support.”

“They don't think, even for one second, that maybe if they get rid of the cause for the Phantom Thieves to be around, the Phantom Thieves will disappear,” Joker had said.

Was that the ultimate solution? To take out corruption, and have the Phantom Thieves retire—not forcibly, but because there was no longer a reason for them to exist?

The idea felt a bit simplistic.

Technically, they were vigilantes. Unauthorized law enforcement that were officially criminals. They were to be tried in a court of law to answer for their crimes.

“I do submit to justice. So come back once you actually have access to some,” Joker had said.

What if she took him up on his offer?

What if the police department became just?

But she couldn't see a way. Not when the depravity ran so deep. She had no doubt that reports would be hidden, evidence would disappear, files would come back altered.

Yet maybe—

—just maybe, the Joker would help her.

He didn't seem to like his own methods. Maybe he'd give them up in lieu of cold, hard investigation. Maybe they could use the Metaverse to gather evidence, but bring the corrupters to justice without influencing the human psyche.

She had to try.

And then arrest him once she was certain the trial would be truly, honestly fair.

“Everyone,” she said finally, “what do you think of reforming law enforcement?”

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.

.

“WHAT,” Mishima Yuuki cried.

“Obstruction of justice?” said Akira. He looked very baffled.

“Officer Sakamoto made an inquiry when he first came to this café,” said Niijima Sae. “When he asked into the owner’s whereabouts, Mishima Yuuki claimed that he was absent due to a strain of the avian flu.”

Akira shot a dour glare in Yuuki’s direction. Yuuki made a meeping sound again.

“I didn’t know where the boss was going,” Yuuki said. “What was I supposed to say?”

“For one, you weren’t supposed to lie,” Akira muttered. “That’s a very bad habit of yours.”

“Feds give me the jitters,” Yuuki mumbled.

Akira considered his options.

The attack on Mishima Yuuki was clearly an indirect strike at him. Nijiima Sae would be watching him carefully, studying his reactions for any incriminating signs. How would he behave in the face of a friend’s arrest? Would he act like a typical civilian, or would he demonstrate symptoms of sociopathy or a similar psychosis?

The first-level move in this game was to act like a typical civilian, to evade suspicion.

The second-level move was to act like a sociopath, because someone who was as clever as the Phantom Thieves, someone who would have evaded arrest for seven years, would have acted as a typical civilian to evade suspicion.

The third-level move was to act like a typical civilian, because Niijima Sae would know that the Phantom Thieves were clever, and she would expect them to act like sociopaths and not like typical civilians.

The fourth-level move was—

Well, the fourth-level move was to act like Kurusu Akira, because it just made things less complicated.

So Kurusu Akira sighed and looked Niijima Sae in the eye. “Please don’t arrest my friend. He’s somewhat impulsive and can occasionally be subject to fits of idiocy, but he’s a very nice and law-abiding member of society.”

Niijima Sae seemed somewhat surprised at this answer.

It was symptomatic of neither sociopathy nor a typical civilian.

“You know,” continued Akira, “it feels like you’re just trying to pick a fight. Is that a law enforcement thing, or just a prosecutor thing?”

Sae looked at him in silence. Then she gestured to an officer in the back.

The officer came forward with a blue-and-white pet carrier.

Morgana’s eyes glinted at him from within the container.

Akira was stricken by the sudden urge to giggle.

“Shut up,” Morgana hissed.

Niijima Sae opened the door and reached inside, hoisting Morgana by the scruff of his neck.

“Do you recognize this cat?” said Sae.

“Code CR-8,” Morgana said.

They'd developed short-speak for these kinds of situations, situations where a cat meowing for long periods of time would look suspicious.

Code CR. A cover story code, officially named “Cover-Reactionary.” Number 8: feign ignorance and non-affiliation.

Unfortunately, that wasn't actually a possibility.

There was a wild card named Niijima Makoto.

He'd told her that Morgana was his cat.

If Makoto was brought in to identify Morgana, she would certainly recognize him. She'd wonder why Akira had suddenly changed his claim. She'd wonder if there was something more to the innocent barista than coffee and curry.

She'd wonder if he really was related to the Phantom Thieves.

And it would all start with lying about his cat.

“I do,” said Akira. “He's my cat.”

“So you officially claim ownership of this cat.”

“His name is Morgana.”

Sae raised a brow. “Isn't that a girl's name?”

Morgana twitched. “Sisters,” he muttered.

“What does my cat have anything to do with this?” said Akira calmly.

Sae's aura shifted. Her lips pulled into a thin line and she suddenly seemed colder, more angular. A new steel entered her voice.

“We have footage of eight instances where the distribution of the Phantom Thieves' calling cards is captured,” she said, “and every one of them features this particular cat.”

Alright.

This was a problem.

“Why,” growled Morgana, “did you claim association.”

Akira shut out Morgana. He shut out Sae.

He had to think, and he had to think fast, because Sae was counting every second until he replied.

It's hopeless, groaned his inner Morgana. We're done. We're so done that our grandchildren are done. We are the most done human beings in the history of done-ness.

Not yet, said his inner Makoto. This evidence isn't incontrovertible. Not by a long shot.

Where had she come from?

It looks bad, because you claimed the cat that's been posting the calling cards, continued his inner Makoto. Since you can no longer vindicate yourself, you have to vindicate the cat.

How can he do that when there's direct footage? his inner Morgana snapped.

The greatest advantage he has right now, replied his inner Makoto, is that you are a cat.

The idea hit Akira.

He had no more time to think of a better one. So he seized it.

“Dammit, Morgana,” he said irritably. “What did I say about paper hygiene?”

Morgana's jaw fell in shock. Niijima Sae's face flickered.

“What,” said Sae.

Akira gave a long-suffering sigh. “This isn't the first time he's done something like this,” he said dejectedly. “He's always had a poster fetish.”

That, said his inner Morgana very crossly, is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.

“That,” said the real Morgana very crossly, “is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”

“Every calling card footage,” Sae began, then cut herself off.

There was an advantage to only having eight recordings in seven years.

“He's somewhat drawn to the color red,” said Akira. “I think it's linked to his love of fatty tuna.”

It was a ridiculous cover, but Niijima Sae couldn't possibly do anything about it. That was the advantage in defending a cat.

Niijima Sae paused. Her face was perfectly calm, but Akira could sense the cogs whirling in her brain.

“We'd like to put a tracking bracelet on your cat,” said Niijima Sae. “Just until the next heist. I ask for your cooperation in this.”

Refusing her was as good as admitting that he was a Phantom Thief.

“Suit yourself,” said Akira. He gave a nonchalant shrug.

We're screwed, bemoaned his inner Morgana. How are we supposed to distribute the cards now? How are we gonna pull off an infiltration with the feds breathing down our necks?

We get smarter, said his inner Makoto.

At a certain point, outsmarting just isn't possible, said his inner Morgana. They're going to put a GPS tracker on me. That thing is gonna fizzle out the moment I enter the Metaverse, you know what happens to electronics. So I literally will never be able to enter the Metaverse while this thing is on me. And don't forget, they're gonna be closely watching Leblanc for Akira's every entry and exit.

The solution is simple, said his inner Makoto. You stay out of the Metaverse until they take that tracker off. And Akira uses the Metaverse to travel undetected.

How do you propose we do that? said his inner Morgana. He was trying to sound pissed, but seemed secretly intrigued.

Inner Makoto smiled. We turn Leblanc into a Palace. Using Akira's growing feelings for me.

.

.

.

Earlier that week, a high school boy responded to a marginally shady job listing online.

This high school boy gained a free VIP ticket to Kujikawa Rise's concert.

(Those tickets were supposedly sold out months in advance, but anything could be bought off of its previous owners if the price was right.)

On the day of the concert, all he had to do was purchase one of the exclusive posters and get it signed at the VIP after-meeting. He would say that his name was Akira, and he was trying to be a young entrepreneur by managing his father's café. He would ask for well wishes on the endeavor.

So Kujikawa Rise would sign the poster with a nice message addressed to Akira.

The boy would then head to the men's bathroom, where a cat with a pouch was waiting.

The pouch would be bulky, stuffed with clean-pressed stacks of yen. If the boy counted it out, he would find fifty thousand.

The boy and the cat would make an exchange: pouch for signed poster.

The cat would leap out of the building and disappear into the Metaverse, smuggling the poster to the assigned rendezvous point until Joker arrived to take it.

The whole scheme wasn't particularly clever or deceptive, but it was clean: the advantage of being able to blow money whenever necessary.

Most importantly, it worked.

.

.

.

BARISTA CHARMING. Hey.

CUTE COP. Oh, hi.

Cute Cop is typing...

CUTE COP. By the way... are we ever gonna talk about what happened that one day?

CUTE COP. You know, with the movie tickets and stuff.

BARISTA CHARMING. Ah.

CUTE COP. Because I really appreciate your friendship. And I don't want things to get awkward.

BARISTA CHARMING. It's fine, Officer Niijima, I can take a hint. I'm not hurt. Like you said, we can handle this maturely.

BARISTA CHARMING. So how did your day go? Shibuya Station calm yet?

CUTE COP. I feel like you're trying to change the subject.

BARISTA CHARMING. You would be correct.

CUTE COP. Okay, at least let me get something off my chest before it goes misunderstood for ten years.

CUTE COP. With the movie tickets, I

Cute Cop is typing...

Cute Cop is typing...

Cute Cop is typing...

BARISTA CHARMING. My cat got your tongue?

CUTE COP. Sorry, I think I changed my mind.

(That was a good choice, said Makoto's superego approvingly. You can't afford to confess. This is a crazy case to crack, and besides, the Joker is still a total wild card. You don't know what he'd do to Akira to get to you.)

(This, said her id sadly, is a trope disaster. Now you'll go forever misunderstood with tragic romantic tension between you two that could be explained away with one proper conversation.)

BARISTA CHARMING. Better to be misunderstood for ten years?

Cute Cop is typing...

CUTE COP. I think so. In this case, if I say certain things, people could get hurt. Really hurt.

BARISTA CHARMING. I can take it.

CUTE COP. I don't mean emotionally.

BARISTA CHARMING. Oh.

BARISTA CHARMING. Then I probably can't take it.

CUTE COP. Not that much of a fighter?

BARISTA CHARMING. I broke a coffee cup over a burglar's head once. That's basically the extent of my self-defense capabilities.

CUTE COP. Maybe you should fix that.

BARISTA CHARMING. Will you teach me?

Cute Cop is typing...

Cute Cop is typing...

BARISTA CHARMING. Sorry. I should probably stop saying things like that.

CUTE COP. I'll ask one of my colleagues to teach you.

BARISTA CHARMING. Are they as cute as you?

Cute Cop is typing...

BARISTA CHARMING. Sorry.

CUTE COP. You're making it difficult to stay misunderstood.

BARISTA CHARMING. I've always believed noble idiocy to be overrated, Ma

BARISTA CHARMING. koto.

CUTE COP. That's too bad. I even had a monologue prepared and everything.

BARISTA CHARMING. Sonnets worthy of Shakespeare?

CUTE COP. Expect no less.

CUTE COP. Which monologue do you want? The scripted one, or the honest one?

BARISTA CHARMING. Scripted, please.

CUTE COP. Alright. Prepare yourself.

CUTE COP. “You're a mediocre barista. I'm going to get coffee from someplace else. Don't look for me.”

BARISTA CHARMING. Ouch. The blows to my ego.

CUTE COP. Do you want to hear the honest one now?

Barista Charming is typing...

Barista Charming is typing...

BARISTA CHARMING. I think I can wait on that.

CUTE COP. Huh?

BARISTA CHARMING. When can you safely say it?

BARISTA CHARMING. You know, when can you stop being a noble idiot?

CUTE COP. Oh.

CUTE COP. After this case.

BARISTA CHARMING. Is that a guarantee, or will there always be more cases?

CUTE COP. It's because this particular case has

Cute Cop is typing...

CUTE COP. Actually, I think you have a point. Maybe I should just become a nun.

BARISTA CHARMING. That would be a real shame.

(Is he, said Makoto's superego, aghast, flirting?!)

(And she's flirting back. Our baby is growing up so fast, sniffed her id.)

(I thought that this was exactly what we were supposed to avoid! hissed her superego venomously.)

(Plans change, said her id smugly.)

BARISTA CHARMING. Well, whatever you decide, Officer, I'll be here. Making mediocre coffee.

CUTE COP. Stop it. You know you make good coffee.

BARISTA CHARMING. Not enough for you to come again, apparently.

Cute Cop is typing...

CUTE COP. I never came for the coffee.

Barista Charming is typing...

Barista Charming is typing...

Barista Charming is typing...

Barista Charming is typing...

CUTE COP. Gotta go. Work.

Barista Charming is typing...

BARISTA CHARMING. Have a good day.

.

.

.

Dammit, thought Kurusu Akira. She is way too cute.

I hate you, said his inner Morgana. Go die.

.

.

.

| POLL: “Did you attend the protest?”

YES: 21%, NO: 79%

| CHATBOX

"look how many liars here lmao"

"protests are a waste of time, nothing actually changes"

"HELL YA"

"Complaining is one of the few things at which this generation excels.”

"fuzz dont give a damn about us"

"No pepper spray, not worth"

Chapter 15: RANK 7.33

“Can I just point out,” said Morgana, “that we would be having no problems if you had simply denied any involvement with me.”

The honest-to-god human had been returned to Akira with a tracking collar and a clear warning as to what would happen if Akira tried to detach it: namely, many legal unpleasantries.

“I told you,” said Akira. “If they brought in Makoto, she would've seen through that lie in an instant.”

Morgana shook his head. “See. Already. Weak spot. Pressure point.”

“Technically,” Akira snapped, “you were the weak point. They used you.”

Morgana's tone was patient. “They would've never found out about my connection to the café, my connection to you, without Niijima Makoto writing a bright neon LOOK AT ME sign to Yongen-jaya. I could have been any cat in Japan before they had a cross reference.”

Akira gritted his teeth.

Morgana waited.

“Alright,” Akira said finally. “Fine, you're right. So it's a mess. Because of me. Now I have to do something about it.”

“Well,” said Morgana, “first of all, we should lay low. Do you feel this heat? The Phantom Thieves need to ease up for a little while. It wouldn't be the first time.”

“We can't afford that,” said Akira. “The fuzz puts a handicap on us, and at the same time, the Phantom Thieves lay low? We need to strike. Regular schedule, no faster, no slower. Another Treasure within seven days. Otherwise we might as well turn ourselves in.”

“In case you haven't noticed,” said Morgana, a hint of anger to his voice, “I'm grounded, and Leblanc is under watch. Just what do you want the Phantom Thieves to do when both of them are crippled?”

“You're grounded,” said Akira, “but I'm not.”

“They're going to be watching for whenever you leave Leblanc,” said Morgana.

“So we use a Palace. Travel using the Metaverse.”

“There isn't a Palace around here anymore, as I recall telling you, and as I recall the both of us complaining about on more than one occasion.”

“So we make one,” said Akira.

Morgana stared in horror.

“From a leaky faucet to a 5.8 tsunami, was it?” Akira said. “Throw in a past of resentment against cops, disillusionment with the government, and ostracization from society and friendship. It's an angst drama waiting to happen.”

“You,” said Morgana in a deadly whisper, “do not play around with Palaces. They're the human psyche. Controlling one is like trying to control Hurricane Katrina. It's a total catastrophe waiting to happen, and it will obliterate you in the process.”

“Then we'll have to turn ourselves in,” said Akira. “You know it's just a matter of time.”

“It will consume you,” Morgana said, his voice edging into a shriek. “It will spiral out of control because you're purposely trying to make yourself a psychological basket case, and by the way, I think you know that I can't beat your shadow if it does get out of hand.”

“Then have someone shoot me in reality,” said Akira. “I can't do a thing outside of the Metaverse.”

“Miss Cop doesn't understand me.”

“Because she hadn't seen your Metaverse form yet? Then I'll write a backup letter. Keep it in a hidden place until the situation goes south, and then deliver it to her.” Akira looked at Morgana. “It's either this, or turn ourselves in for seven years of criminal activity and leave the corrupt officials where they are.”

“Or, if a problem happens in your Palace, you could become psychotic in reality and travel to the Metaverse and level all of psychological Japan to the ground.”

“Morgana, I promise. If things start to go wrong, then we'll reconvene and change the approach. Maybe the situation will improve by then. But isn't it worth a try?”

Morgana sat on his paws and mulled it over.

“Worth a try? Right now, it's our only option. Fine, Joker. Let's find a way to build you a Palace.”

.

.

.

“I met the barista at Leblanc,” said Niijima Sae.

Makoto's chopsticks paused over the roll of hamachi sushi. “Is that why you finally invited me to dinner?” she said with a tinge of coldness.

Sae's face was calm. “He's very unusual, Makoto. You weren't there to see it, but he knows things. He can read people. His mind thinks on a different level than a normal civilian. Talking with him wasn't like talking with a barista, it was like talking with a chess grandmaster.”

“That happens to someone who's been screwed over by the cops,” said Makoto.

Sae kept her gaze even. “Don't trust him, Makoto.”

Makoto lowered her chopsticks. “Then who is there to trust, Sae?”

Sae gave a long pause. “If not me, then your team. They've met him.”

“Not you?” Makoto's voice started to sound scratchy. “Not you, you say. So I guess you are aware of it, at least in some way.”

Sae looked away. “I'm aware that it's been a while.”

Makoto's jaw twitched.

“A long while,” Sae amended.

“I didn't see you once,” Makoto said.

“I'm sorry.”

“Not my birthdays. Not the holidays. Not even any of my graduations.”

“Someone had to put food on the table and a roof over your head. And pay tuition.”

“I know.” Makoto continued eating, ducking her head to hide her watering eyes. “But here's the interesting thing about missing people, Niijima Sae. When you first start missing them, it hurts. You think of them. You want to see their smile, hold their hand, watch dumb movies and hike together in the morning. Then it gets worse. You feel overwhelmed, like you have to see them or you'll suffocate. Where did they go? Was it something you said, something you did? You probably deserved it. And then suddenly, it dies. I don't mean that it goes away. I mean that it dies. You feel it shrivel up, and it becomes a hole that's yawning in your chest. You learn to live with it, but it's emptiness that doesn't go away. And the next time you see that person, the next time they contact you after twelve years of silence, they feel like a complete stranger.”

“Makoto,” Sae whispered.

“I'm sorry. I wish I could take your words at face value and not trust the barista at Leblanc. But I can't help but think that you're just fishing for info on him.” She straightened. “I'm grateful that you provided for me. I am, honest. I have some minor idea of the financial burden it placed on you, so you can bet that I'll be paying it back over the next few years.”

“That's not necessary,” said Sae desperately.

“I think this is the bill for my part of the sushi,” said Makoto. She slid a handful of cash across the table. “Thanks for inviting me, but I should go. Let's eat again when we can enjoy it like normal people, not in an investigation.”

She left the restaurant. Sae's tongue unfroze.

“That's what I wanted. Makoto. Makoto—”

.

.

.

| POLL: “Family.”

YES: 43%, NO: 57%

| CHATBOX

"the hell does this even mean"

"????"

"As in, do we have a family?"

"admin pls clarify"

"tbh i hate my family"

"godfather.jpg"

Chapter 16: RANK 7.67

Notes:

this is a double update. you may wish to check the previous chapter if you came from email.

comments are 440 hertz concert a, i am an orchestra.

“Thank you for cooperating, Officer Niijima.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Let's begin with the last time you were seen. Leblanc, the café in Yongen-jaya.” Inspector Akechi Gorou, the acting chief superintendent of Shibuya Station, set his long, slender hands on his laptop keyboard. “Mishima Yuuki, the part timer, stated that you arrived in uniform two days ago. What was your purpose?”

Makoto's body was relaxed, but her mind stayed alert. “I wanted to speak to the manager.”

“For what reason?”

Because she'd had a world-shattering conversation with a Phantom Thief and needed to talk out her existential crisis with a friend.

“We ended up befriending each other when I started frequenting the café,” she said. "Common interests.”

Gorou looked sharply at her. “At that point in time, you were out of contact with your team for twenty-four hours. Why did you prioritize this person over your department? Why did you neglect your case at a vital stage?”

Because her department was in law enforcement, and she'd felt strangled by the corruption that lay around every corner.

“I would never abandon my duty,” she said calmly. “The visit lasted for one hour, which I took as my lunch break. Then I returned to work.”

“And you didn't choose to contact your squad instead?”

“We were busy tailing our respective assignments. There was no team meeting that morning.”

“And you worked alone.”

“To keep a low profile, we agreed to have only one person supervise Chief Munakawa. That happened to be me.”

Gorou's voice hardened. “After he called you to his office.”

Makoto was silent.

“What was your motive in picking Chief Munakawa?” said Gorou.

“I didn't pick, Inspector. We all voted on splitting the assignments together.”

Gorou rebounded easily. “And why did you enter the Leblanc café in uniform?”

Makoto looked at him. “You're not asking me what the chief said when I went to his office?”

Gorou's fingers stopped over his keyboard.

Makoto's brow flickered. “Interesting choice, Inspector. I thought that this was a debrief to shed some light on the validity of the Phantom Thieves' accusations against Chief Munakawa, not an interrogation into me.”

“You ignored all department correspondence for forty-eight hours, Niijima Makoto. That's more serious than you might think.”

“Munakawa blackmailed and essentially raped an estimate of fifteen women employed in law enforcement over the course of his career. That seems to be more serious than you might think, too.”

Gorou stared at her.

Makoto stared back.

“Fine,” said Gorou. “What did he say when you entered his office?”

“That I looked like his first wife. And that he was in the position to recommend a few names to the Superintendent Supervisor, and it'd be a shame if I was stuck where I was. I just had to—come by his house that night.”

Gorou wrote it down clinically. “Did you accept?”

Makoto's jaw twitched. “Why do you think I was assigned to the Phantom Thieves case?”

Gorou stared at her.

Makoto stared back.

Gorou closed the lid of his laptop and folded his hands. “I'll speak to you plainly, Officer Niijima. You're considered one of this station's brightest and best. It would be a great shame if you veered from that path.”

Makoto waited.

“I cannot help but notice that you were absent during the entirety of the Phantom Thieves' heist against Munakawa Asao,” he said. “I also cannot help but notice that you have more than ample reason to... begrudge him. And finally, I cannot help but think that for a group of organized crime to go undetected by law enforcement for so long—well, perhaps they had some help. An insider in the police department.”

Or maybe they were able to travel through an invisible dimension, rendering them essentially invincible.

But Makoto kept her mouth shut.

“What would you do in my position, Officer Niijima?” said Gorou softly, but his eyes were cold and calculating.

Makoto paused. “I would suspect the officer in charge and set a tail on her until she proves herself innocent.”

“Interesting,” said Gorou. “Would that Shibuya Station had the budget.”

Makoto met his gaze. “It is interesting,” she said, “that we have an inspector for an acting chief superintendent, not a section superintendent.”

Gorou laughed. “I believe I am hearing an accusation.”

Makoto said nothing.

“Rest assured, Officer Niijima, that I was just as bewildered as you. But between the two of us, if the higher-ups were corrupt, they would have instituted a section superintendent instead of me. Don't you think?”

Makoto looked at him calmly.

Gorou sighed. “So you will stick to your affidavit, I presume. The testimony on your whereabouts during the calling card and the heist.”

“I was in pursuit of someone believed to be a Phantom Thief,” she said.

“And he led you astray.”

“He disappeared. Before my eyes.”

Gorou's face flickered. “Like a phantom.”

“There's something strange to them, Inspector. Something beyond us.” Makoto pushed her tone to carry a tint of fear, something Gorou would surely catch. He didn't have to know that she was only revealing half of the truth. “They can vanish from reality, turn invisible. I've never seen anything like it.”

“What did he look like?”

Ideally, the feds would never see him, because the feds would never enter the Metaverse.

“He wore a white mask, a long triple-tailed coat, and red gloves,” said Makoto. “And he calls himself the Joker.”

.

.

.

“Alright, Joker. I spent all night working on this masterpiece, so you'd better appreciate me.”

“What should we do first? A knighting ceremony? A feast in your honor?”

“I prefer a gold-plated statue, thanks. So here's the diagram.”

“Neat.”

“Thanks. I drew it myself. So, first order of business. We've yet to see an overlap between someone who has a Persona and someone who has a Palace.”

“We only know two Persona users, Mona.”

“Mi et tu, I know. But let's take a step back and think for a moment. You know, that thing you haven't been doing lately.”

“Beautiful mask.”

“Thanks. I drew it myself. So, a Palace is the manifestation of distorted emotions that are a discrepancy from reality.”

“Cognitive dissonance.”

“Exactly! Hey, you can be useful. A Palace basically happens when the heart is divided, but a Persona can only be contracted when the heart is synthesized. In other words, a Palace is ruled by a shadow, but contracting a Persona requires the acceptance of one's shadow. So, under this theory, it's probably not possible for a normal Persona user to form a new Palace. But for you, we still have a chance.”

“Because multiple Personas.”

“Right. You can, for some reason, contract multiple Personas. Which suggests that you, for some reason, have the ability to manage multiple cognitions of self-identity. Which means that, even if you have a heart that contracts a Persona, you can have a different heart that has a Palace. Maybe you could even have multiple Palaces. Geez, that's a scary thought.”

“So... we're covered, right?”

“Totally covered. Probably. We'll find out.”

“How reassuring.”

“Alright. Now, the plan. The idea is that your psyche is already a mess waiting to happen. Unfortunately, you've gone so long controlling it that you can't just willfully switch off your barriers. They're subconscious. You have an ironclad defense. So we need a strong, quick impetus, kind of like gunpowder or a spark for a gas stove, and then everything will successfully crumble to bits. Enter Miss Cop.”

“Charming wedding dress.”

“Thanks. I drew it myself. So Miss Cop here is going to act as that impetus. Her sole job is to wear down the control of your subconscious. She doesn't need to do it single-handedly, but just enough to get you started, like a domino effect. So really, all we need to do is use your crush on her to kickstart that delicious, drama-worthy inner conflict of Oh damn, I'm in love with her, but I can't love her. That should be enough to put a crack in your shields.”

“Nice hearts.”

“Thanks. I drew them myself. So, Miss Cop triggers the angst typhoon. Your subconscious wears down and goes on strike. The rest of your inner typical brooding teenager flares to life, and voila, you should have a Palace. Now, in the case that it's not strong enough and you only show up in Mementos, we should just have to rachet up the romance. No need to go into your whole anti-government sentiments and long-seated family resentment. At that point, everything should be one big messy hairball, clamped together, so affecting one will affect the others, and romance is the easiest to mess with.”

“Perfect rendition of a hairball.”

“That's supposed to be a rendition of your family.”

“I don’t have a family anymore.”

“Yeah, because they ditched you the moment you were pinned as a delinquent, they never believed in you, blah blah, teenage angst, I get it. But you're over it, more or less. It’s one of the big keys to your crippling loneliness, by the way. In case you didn’t know.”

“I’m not lonely.”

“And I’m not a cat.”

“You’re an honest-to-god human.”

Morgana shook his head. “I never thought I'd hear you say that.”

.

.

.

BARISTA CHARMING. You up?

CUTE COP. Studying a case. Kind of in trouble with the bigwigs.

CUTE COP. My sister says that she met you.

BARISTA CHARMING. Oh? What’d she say?

CUTE COP. All good things.

BARISTA CHARMING. That I highly doubt.

CUTE COP. Then... All bad things.

BARISTA CHARMING. That’s more like it.

Barista Charming is typing...

BARISTA CHARMING. Hey, are you free tomorrow?

CUTE COP. Unfortunately, I have a lot of work to catch up on. Why do you ask?

Barista Charming is typing...

Barista Charming is typing...

BARISTA CHARMING. I wanted to see you.

(“CRINGE,” screamed Morgana. “I’m cringing. I’m cringing so hard, just bury me. You. You play the role of a drama hero way too well.”)

(“I’m a quick study,” said Akira dryly.)

Cute Cop is typing...

Cute Cop is typing...

CUTE COP. Oh. I’m kinda surprised you said that.

(She’s probably blushing very adorably, hummed Akira’s inner Sakura Sojiro.)

(I am not! protested his inner Makoto, blushing very adorably.)

BARISTA CHARMING. I know we just had a conversation about... noble idiocy and all that. So if you want to, you can just say no.

(“No, she can’t!” Morgana yelped. “We need your Palace up and running as soon as possible!”)

Cute Cop is typing...

CUTE COP. I’ll get some stuff done at the office and bring some work to the café. Tomorrow afternoon?

CUTE COP. Actually scratch that. Can we meet outside?

BARISTA CHARMING. Where at?

CUTE COP. I don’t know, to be honest.

BARISTA CHARMING. I think I know a place. Tomorrow afternoon, Shibuya? Assuming that the traffic dies down.

CUTE COP. It should be. Sounds good.

BARISTA CHARMING. See you then.

.

.

.

| POLL: “Texting > talking?”

YES: 51%, NO: 49%

| CHATBOX

“dude I text my friends even when we’re in the same room”

“cant beat the face-to-face mang”

“You miss all the nonverbal communication.”

“talk is awk”

“:<”

“snail mail where”

.

.

.

! THIS CONCLUDES THE HEIST.

We return to our regular airing schedule
of one chapter per Mon, Wed, and Fri.

Thank you for participating.

Chapter 17: RANK 8

Notes:

THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR LOVELY KIND WORDS AND AMUSING PREDICTIONS IT IS A HUGE ENCOURAGEMENT. i am excited to make my babies miserable in this fanfic. i mean. happy. of course.

i am going to steal from the fabulous GrimReaperJr1232's review from ff.net and say: "Comments are my flux capacitors, i am a Delorean time machine" because it makes me sound much more intelligent than a high school dropout and neet living with her parents.

Akira rose bright and early. He buttoned on a navy dress shirt, pulled up a smooth pair of black slacks, and attempted to comb out his stubborn hair without any success.

”Looking good, lover boy,” crowed Morgana with a lazy yawn. He flicked at the tracking collar around his neck. “Hot date?”

“Very,” Akira said dryly.

“You make me sick.”

“Don't puke over my nice floor.”

Morgana leapt down from the bed. “This is Operation Seduce Miss Cop Before Realizing That It's A Terrible Idea, right?”

“I thought it was Operation Leblanc Palace.”

“You're so unoriginal.”

Akira experimented with a black tie before deciding that it made him look too stuffy.

“By the way, I'm chaperoning you,” Morgana said evenly.

Akira stopped and looked at him.

“What,” said Akira.

Morgana's teeth glinted. “No making purple,” he said.

“I,” said Akira, “will turn you into cat jerky.”

.

.

.

Makoto arrived right on time, armed with several select files and her trusty notebook of STAND BACK, I'M GOING TO ATTEMPT SCIENCE.

She'd changed before she came. Her boring blue polo and uniform pants had been swapped out in favor of dark leggings, flexible loafers, and a loose A-line dress cinched around the waist with an elegant black belt.

She looked like date material. At least, that was the idea.

She'd requested the location change in an attempt to keep Akechi Gorou's eyes off of Leblanc. His interrogation had been unnerving, to say the least, and the last thing she wanted to do was draw attention to an innocent civilian—especially one who'd just been under fire.

But there had been another reason to ask Akira to meet outside.

Makoto needed a conference with the Joker.

She didn't know the next target. She didn't even fully know how to get into the Metaverse. The shadows she'd interrogated had claimed that you needed a name, a location, and a distortion to put into the strange app that had appeared on her phone—but she needed something more. She needed the Joker's mark, or she could be tripping through the Metaverse without running into him once.

And apparently, the best way to provoke the Joker was to spend time with Kurusu Akira.

It was a risk, but she was hoping that striking a partnership with the Joker would prevent any moves on Akira. All she had to do was keep him safe for this one day.

“Psst,” came a breath behind her ear.

She turned.

Kurusu Akira was smiling warmly and there was probably a choir singing somewhere in the distance. A dark shirt rested on his shoulders just right, the sleeves rolled up his toned forearms.

I think, said her id, that it is literally criminal to have so much charm. Does he do it on purpose?

(He did, in fact, take medicinal baths on Mondays and Thursdays specifically for that purpose. Not that she had to know.)

“Hey,” she said. Her mouth was automatically moving to fulfill pleasantries. “Glad you found me in this crowd.”

“Wasn't hard,” Akira said. “You said you had to catch up on work, right?”

“I don't want you to worry about that.”

Akira shrugged. “It's fine. I need to reconcile my transactions anyway. I thought we could work together, you know, like a study group. Diner?”

He was considerate, and it touched her dangerously. “Sure,” she said.

He proffered his arm. It was very old-fashioned and gentlemanly and completely out of style and one hundred percent Kurusu Akira.

She took it.

.

.

.

Well, Niijima sure cleans up nicely, said Akira’s inner Sakura Sojiro.

Don't be a lewd old man, scolded his inner Morgana.

I like compliments, defended his inner Makoto.

Akira looked over the table, over his nostalgic steak, to where Makoto was leaning over a spread of papers. She was currently scribbling something, her arm carefully shielding the text from his line of vision. She brushed her hair over her ear and bit her lip in concentration. The motions made her look young and innocent, as if she was a grad student working on her thesis, not a police officer trying to solve a seven-year crime. The line of her dress offered a subtle, sweet accent to her figure, and her cheeks looked soft. Akira fought the urge to touch her face.

Nice clothes, makeup, a little perfume, noted his inner Sojiro. Is this a date? Are the two of you officially dating?

Just because I accepted this meeting doesn't mean that I see him romantically, said his inner Makoto.

Oh, come on. Anyone who reads your text messages would see that both of you were flirting like there was no tomorrow, said his inner Sojiro.

He did most of the flirting, Makoto pointed out.

And you strongly reacted to Joker's threat against Kurusu Akira, Sojiro continued.

I am a cop, said his inner Makoto. Threats against civilians will naturally concern me.

Hot damn, I can't take this any longer, cried his inner Morgana. SHE SAID SHE WAS SAVING HER FIRST KISS FOR YOU. SHE SAID SHE WAS BEING A NOBLE IDIOT FOR YOUR SAKE. SHE SAID THAT SHE NEVER CAME TO THIS CAFÉ FOR THE COFFEE. What more do you want, writing in the sky?!

His inner Yuuki quailed. But why would she like me?

BECAUSE YOU HAVE CHARM LITERALLY UP TO THE MAX, roared his inner Morgana, and women are always staring at you!

He's right, offered his inner Makoto. I only like you for your looks.

Akira frowned.

That didn't sound quite right.

Niijima Makoto looked up, and he looked away. His pen was idle over the transaction records of Leblanc’s incomes and expenses. They had long been finished, thanks to the sheer amount—or rather, lack of—Leblanc’s customers. He peered at her from the corner of his eye.

She wasn’t staring at him; she was staring at the door.

Her eyes roved from the door to the windows and she craned her head, almost as if—

—as if she was searching for someone.

“Makoto?” Akira said.

Makoto blinked and turned to him. “Yes?”

“What're you looking at?”

She paused. “Not looking at. Looking out.”

“For?”

She gnawed on her lower lip again, which was incredibly distracting. “Any danger. Remember, there's a reason that I wanted to be a noble idiot.”

She's lying, said his inner Morgana.

I'm lying, agreed his inner Makoto.

She is a very convincing liar, said his inner Yuuki rather morosely, and all of her flirting could also have been a lie.

Akira paused.

Come to think of it, why had she agreed to a date? Or whatever this was?

Makoto was industrious, she was diligent, she was easily bent by guilt, and she was likely suffering the consequences of being absent for the Phantom Thieves’ most recent heist. Even if she found a barista attractive, she wouldn’t ditch her line of work, even for just three hours.

Technically, said his inner Makoto, I’m not ditching anything, because I’m working right now.

She is the only cop in existence who can access the Metaverse, and you think that she’s happy to settle for paperwork? his inner Morgana said, aghast.

I don’t know where Joker will strike next, said his inner Makoto. What else am I supposed to do?

Akira blinked.

She didn’t know where Joker would strike next.

She would want to know where the Joker would strike next.

Could she possibly... be trying to provoke Joker? Using him?

It would explain, said his inner Makoto, why I dressed up to make this look like a date.

But no one would be that adventurous. No one would see unparalleled magical power in the Metaverse and decide to willingly provoke it.

I have a notebook that says “STAND BACK, I’M GOING TO ATTEMPT SCIENCE,” said his inner Makoto. How adventurous do you think I am?

The Niijima Makoto sitting across from him turned away from the door and met his eyes. She appeared to sense his uncertainty, beause she smiled, smiled a gentle smile that was probably meant to calm his mind and ease his nerves, but just left him feeling unbalanced.

All the voices in his head dissolved into one agreement:

Pretty.

.

.

.

There was no sign of the Joker.

Makoto kept her eyes on her papers, but she was distracted by the uneasiness in the back of her head.

Where was Joker?

His true intentions were still a mystery, but it had been obvious that he'd been watching her—carefully. Had he stopped? Had he only tailed her because he was planning on infiltrating Shibuya Station?

Then why? Why had he kissed her? Why had he threatened Kurusu Akira?

Was it really just for Shibuya Station?

If that was the case... well, she couldn't exactly do anything about it.

“Akira?” she said. “I think I've finished for now. Want to head out?”

“Sure,” said Akira.

.

.

.

Well, hooray, said his inner Morgana. We spent our very first date staring at paper and not learning a single new thing about Niijima that could help us fall terribly, madly, irrevocably in love and turn our café into a Palace.

Pretty, said his inner Sojiro.

.

.

.

The air was warm. Niijima Makoto stepped into it with a small sigh, checking her surroundings just one more time.

Still nothing.

Kurusu Akira stepped next to her. He'd been silent for almost the whole time, which had both been welcome and concerning. Was he annoyed with her for basically ignoring him? Had he gotten caught up in his own work and forgotten that she was there? Did he consider this as a date?

Half of the time she was with him, she didn't even have a hint of what he was thinking.

A hand suddenly tapped her shoulder.

“Officer Niijima? Officer Niijima Makoto?”

Makoto turned. A woman in a casual black shirt and flared jeans fluttered a business card in two fingers. She smiled politely, which didn’t match the severity of her haircut.

“Sorry,” Makoto said hesitantly. “Who are...?”

“Name’s Ohya Ichiko. Write for the papers.” She tilted the orange sunglasses fixed on her head. “I read Shibuya Station’s press release this morning. You’re currently in charge of the Phantom Thieves case?”

A feeling of foreboding bubbled in Makoto’s stomach. Akechi Gorou, you asshat.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” continued Ohya Ichiko crisply.

“If you’re looking for an official statement, please inquire at the precinct,” said Makoto.

“The cop in charge is taking a leisurely stroll with her boyfriend just two days after the incident,” said Ohya Ichiko. “Well, damn. One has to wonder whether the police care about this case at all. Or any others.”

That hit her.

I’m not like them, I do care, this is all to provoke the Joker so that I can make a deal with him so that we can weed out the corruption of the police department so that we can arrest the Phantom Thieves and bring justice to all—and it is a convoluted plan but really, I do care—

She was working hard, so hard, to not be like everybody else.

“This case has been ongoing for seven years,” she began, but Ohya Ichiko cut her off.

“Ah, yes, seven years. Because it’s been ongoing for seven years and everyone else has failed, it’s hopeless and you shouldn’t even bother. Even though the culprits are still at large and still making victims.”

Makoto's throat closed. “You’re clearly not looking for answers, just aggression. Please direct any further requests to the acting chief superintendent of Shibuya Station. Good day.”

She turned to leave, but Ohya Ichiko stepped in front of Akira, pushing her handheld radio microphone in his face.

“Sir? Have any comment for the papers? What do you think of your girlfriend’s lax attitude?”

Makoto felt a flutter of panic. No, not Akira. He already had doubts about the police. Would he be disappointed? Would he scorn her?

Akira’s face was tightly controlled. She couldn’t read his thoughts, and from the looks of it, neither could Ohya Ichiko.

“I think,” he said mildly, “that the press is pretty judgmental, considering that they've never caught a criminal themselves.”

Makoto's breath caught. It was a surprising answer.

“The press writes stories, stories reveal truth, and truth leads to the perpetrators getting caught,” Ohya Ichiko said evenly.

“Yup,” said Akira, “look at all the Phantom Thieves that are behind bars thanks to you.”

Ohya Ichiko looked at him.

Then she shook her head.

“It’s because of people like you that Japan is rotting,” she said resignedly. “The stench of complacency. What a tragedy.”

She turned and disappeared down the street.

.

.

.

Akira looked at Makoto.

His gut was burning. It hadn't been fair, the things Ohya Ichiko said to her. It was funny, because he'd thought Ichiko's exact words himself, once upon a time—but he knew Makoto and he knew that she might be the only cop in all of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department who actually cared.

“Makoto?” he said.

Makoto blinked. “I’m sorry,” she said distantly. “I, I should go. Work on the case.”

Akira seized her hand as she pulled away. It was small in his, the back of it soft in his palm.

“You really don’t have to,” he said quietly.

“You heard what she said. I’m, I’m being idle. Meanwhile, corruption is everywhere.” Makoto seemed lost, her gaze wandering. “I shouldn't be... well... whatever this is.”

He released her hand, mouth dry.

Alarm sparked in her eyes. “I mean, I had a really pleasant time! I really enjoyed it. I... you're... Well, you know what I mean, right?”

Say it aloud, his inner Yuuki begged. Say it, because I don't know for sure.

It doesn't matter whether she says it or not, said his inner Morgana furiously. You can't just date her like a normal person!

“I'm sorry that she pulled you into that mess,” Makoto continued. “It probably made you uncomfortable, the whole... boyfriend-girlfriend thing.”

But she didn't deny it, whispered his inner Sojiro.

And neither did you, agreed his inner Makoto.

“It's fine,” Akira said. He added, “I didn't mind.”

She blushed a little and pushed her hair behind her ear. It seemed like a nervous habit. “I'm sorry. Thanks for inviting me out, but I've got to get to the station.”

He extended his arms, giving her a questioning look.

She hesitated.

You know, if she rejects this, you're going to feel really embarrassed, said his inner Morgana.

Then.

Makoto stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. He smelled peaches and felt her hands against his back. Her lips pressed into his cheek, soft and pliant.

Before he could react, she stepped away.

“Thank you see you gotta go bye.”

She slipped into the crowd.

Akira placed a hand against his cheek.

Writing in the sky, said his inner Morgana.

.

.

.

| POLL: “Would the Phantom Thieves be suave in their love lives?

YES: 68%, NO: 32%

| CHATBOX

"HELL YA"

"too busy reforming the country gg"

"MARRY ME <3 i bet they're super hot!!!"

"Come on they can't be good at literally everything"

"prob got girls lined up for days tbh"

"Not as suave as me."

Chapter 18: RANK 8.5

Notes:

01000011 01101111 01101101 01101101 01100101 01101110 01110100 01110011 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101

Niijima Sae leaned back, tapping her pen against her calendar.

The Phantom Thieves struck every seven to fifteen days.

When they first started, the timeline had been longer—once every two months. But little by little, as the Phantom Thieves garnered experience, the gaps shortened. Two months became six weeks, six weeks became four, four became three, three became two.

And now it was anywhere from seven to fifteen days.

Sae had called in a favor at the Tokyo headquarters, gotten some privileges. Currently, she was privy to monitoring the GPS in the collar of Kurusu Akira's cat, as well as access to the street CCTV that overlooked Leblanc's entrance.

If Kurusu Akira was a Phantom Thief, she would know.

Anywhere from five to thirteen days from now.

.

.

.

Morgana popped out of his bag as Akira settled back into the attic of Leblanc.

“What was that,” he said flatly.

“A date. I think. I think it was a date?”

“No,” said Morgana. “It was a failure. You did nothing. Miss Cop barely made it redeemable at the end.”

Akira's face flamed. He touched his cheek.

“Geez, you are actually hopeless,” said Morgana. “How could you not do one single thing? You're never going to properly fall in love at this rate.”

“I'm not in love.”

“Stop saying that. Stop denying it. See, that's your problem. You're blocking it out. Joker, repeat after me: ‘I am in love with Niijima Makoto.’”

Silence.

“Say it, Kurusu.”

“I am...” Akira blinked. His pulse fluttered. “I am in love with Niijima Makoto.”

“Good. Speak it, and it'll eventually become true. Now: ‘I love how much she cares for people.’”

“I... love how much she cares for people.”

“‘I love how she's smart and observant and fearless.’”

Akira repeated this slowly.

“‘She looks so bright and pretty, and I want to kiss her senseless.’”

“I'm—I'm not saying that.”

“Why not? You've thought it.”

Akira choked.

“Fine, if you're not going to say that, then say something else. ‘It turns me on how she threatens to break all twenty-seven carpals and metacarpals and phalanges of a man's hand.’”

“Mona!”

“Pick one.”

“I...” He looked away and mumbled. “I want to kiss her.”

“Senseless.”

Akira stubbornly locked his jaw.

Morgana sighed. “Just let yourself fall in love, Joker. It's your job right now. We need that Palace.”

“It doesn't feel right. Falling in love for a Palace.”

Morgana buried his face in his paws. “I don't get it. How can you say stuff like that and not be embarrassed? You are a professional. Work is work. Or do you want to get caught when the Phantom Thieves are conspicuously silent?”

Akira paused. “It doesn't feel like work. It feels personal.”

Morgana shrugged. “That's what happens with the human psyche.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Let's wait on this,” Akira said in a croak. “I don't think I can do it. Not yet.”

Morgana nodded in sympathy. “Alright. But time's ticking.”

.

.

.

“I officially call into meeting the Niijima Makoto Investigation Society,” said Officer Tohgou Hifumi. Her face was solemn as she banged a rubber gavel against the conference table. It emitted an anticlimactic boink.

“Officer Suzui has abstained from the meeting,” said Officer Mifune with sadness.

“It is only to be expected. Now. We are here to discuss three things. The first is the questionable sanity of Police Squad 29's venerable leader, Niijima Makoto. The second is the questionable sanity of her proposal. And the final is our response to her proposal and the potentially questionable sanity thereof.”

Officer Tohgou flipped to a page in her notebook. Sakamoto Ryuuji sat upright and Officer Kawakami Sadayo straightened.

“First order of business,” said Officer Tohgou. “Officer Niijima Makoto. She postulates the following: that she has seen a Phantom Thief; that she was in pursuit of the Phantom Thief during the infamous Period of Silence; and that the Phantom Thief escaped her via spontaneous immaterialization. Unfortunately, she was unable to secure evidence for any of the three claims.”

“I think we can all agree that she damn well didn't lie,” said Ryuuji. “Just read her face and listen to her voice.”

“Hence why the argument is not that Officer Niijima is a liar, but clinically insane,” said Officer Tohgou. “People do not simply vanish out of being. And even if the Phantom Thieves could, then why on earth would they ever show themselves in the first place? Why not stay invisible forever?”

“I think we should avoid such topics,” said Officer Mifune, “given how little we know about the Phantom Thieves.”

“I will concede that point,” said Officer Tohgou. “I will plainly ask for a vote. How many believe that Officer Niijima is in her right and correct mind with no alteration?”

Ryuuji and Officer Mifune raised their hands.

“She seems fine to me,” said Ryuuji. “Her story's wild, but she's always been good to the team.”

“I sense no change in her aura,” said Officer Mifune. “Her mind remained untainted.”

“And those believing that Officer Niijima may be suffering from a temporary or permanent form of psychosis?”

Officer Kawakami raised her hand, and so did Officer Tohgou herself.

“We've never had a case where people disappear,” said Officer Kawakami. “There's people who hide bodies and people who misdirect officers, but never people who vanish into thin air. Not victims, not perps. Never.”

“And do you all understand the implications of an entire human being vanishing out of existence in several key physics principles, including energy conservation?” Officer Tohgou added.

“The worst thing is that she legit believes herself,” said Officer Kawakami. “She just stands up and says that someone vanished in front of her eyes and they're uncatchable, oh, but it's okay because we have a bigger fish to find, the entire goddamn police force, and she says it all with two hundred percent sincerity like she's believed it since she was born.”

Ryuuji shrugged. “I think she has a point. The police force is screwed up, and we all know it.”

“Yeah, but one tiny police squad isn't gonna change a thing,” said Officer Kawakami. “We'll just get ourselves arrested. Or maybe even sentenced to capital.”

“And then every fuzz says that, and then nothin’ ever changes.”

“This,” said Officer Tohgou rather fearfully, “is extending outside the scope of the discussion.”

Ryuuji stood. “Why? You scared that the higher-ups are gonna go after us? Ask for a screw, like that greasy bastard asked Niijima?”

“I am,” said Officer Tohgou, “as you should be. As we all should be. There are battles good to fight, and there are battles that ought not happen. Sun Tsu’s Art of War holds countless precepts that reinforce this principle. ‘Victorious winners win first, and then go to war;’ ‘If your enemy is superior in strength, avoid him;’ ‘Subdue the enemy without fighting;’ ‘He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight;’ ‘The greatest victory is that which requires no battle.’ Do you see a pattern?”

Ryuuji’s eye twitched. “Sure, poet. Say all you want. But poets don’t change the world.”

“Sun Tsu was a man of great wisdom,” said Officer Tohgou angrily.

“Calm your spirits, everyone,” said Officer Mifune worriedly. “There’s some very bad juju coming into the room.”

“First tarot, then feng shui, then juju,” snapped Officer Kawakami. “Just pick one, woman!”

“This is outside the scope of the meeting,” Officer Tohgou screeched.

Officer Mifune’s eyes flashed. She vaulted onto the conference table in a surprisingly agile handspring. Her hair flew around her face as her voice boomed, and the temperature seemed to drop by five degrees.

“HEAR ME, YOU MORTALS,” she bellowed. “YOU CONCERN YOURSELVES WITH TRIVIALTIES.”

The room fell into sudden shocked silence.

“YOU HAVE ONLY ONE DECISION TO MAKE REGARDING THE OFFICER KNOWN AS NIIJIMA MAKOTO,” Officer Mifune continued in a very echoey, resonant roar that made the lights flicker. “BICKER ALL YOU WISH ON HER SANITY OR THE SANITY OF HER PROPOSITION. YOUR ONLY TRUE DECISION IS THUS: DO YOU FOLLOW HER, OR DO YOU FOLLOW THE WILL OF THE GOVERNMENT?”

Still silence.

“NOW MAKE YOUR CHOICE,” blustered Officer Mifune, “AND LET IT BE WISE.”

.

.

.

JOKER. Got a job for you.

ORACLE. How much does it pay?

JOKER. You know where the café by your house is? The one that your old man owned? Loop the CCTVs that look over the backstreet. Just for tomorrow night.

ORACLE. How much does it pay?

JOKER. Can you do it or not?

ORACLE. How much does it freaking pay?

JOKER. Five hundred grand.

ORACLE. Eight hundred.

JOKER. You drive a hard bargain.

ORACLE. Sucks to be you.

JOKER. You’ll receive half tomorrow morning and half when the job is done.

ORACLE. Good.

ORACLE. By the way, what happened with that chick’s number? She seems cute. She your type?

JOKER. I asked her on a date.

ORACLE. And?

JOKER. She shot me.

ORACLE. There’s a keeper.

.

.

.

Makoto woke to her apartment’s doorbell.

A package wrapped in brown paper and tied with neat strings was waiting on her welcome mat. It had no writing—no sender’s address, no stamp, just a simple “NIIJIMA M.” in cursive lettering.

She opened it.

A box lay inside, also brown, but this time, unmarked.

She opened it, and another smaller box lay inside.

She gritted her teeth.

Matryoshka boxes, said her superego exasperatedly. Any bets on who sent this?

Makoto had to open three more boxes before she finally arrived at a bright pink slip of paper folded three times. She straightened it, reading the plain monotype font printed on its surface.

TOMORROW NIGHT. I WILL COME FOR HIM.

Her heart stopped.

She swore.

.

.

Akechi Gorou descended the apartment stairwell, now lighter one brown paper package.

There had to be a reason why Makoto constantly visited the café. And even if she refused to tell him anything directly, he could always probe in other ways.

Namely, an anonymous, vaguely threatening note, folded amidst matryoshka boxes.

If she was hiding anything that she didn’t want to divulge, she’d react to that note. If there was anyone who was secretly threatening her, she’d react to that note. If there was anyone who she secretly wanted to protect, she’d react to that note.

Now, all he had to do was set someone to watch her tomorrow night.

He slipped into his car and punched a number into his phone.

“Officer Sakamoto Ryuuji,” he said briskly. “This is your acting chief supervisor, Inspector Akechi Gorou. This is a bit sudden, but I have a small request of you...”

.

.

.

“You’re sure about this one?” said Morgana doubtfully.

Akira flipped through his small, matchbox-sized notebook, which was currently full of names. “I want to get out there, have some initial infiltration done. We can’t afford to fall behind on something with this tight of a schedule. Oracle will have the CCTVs covered for tomorrow night, so they won’t even know that I left.”

“They’ll catch you if you keep hacking the cams.”

“That’s why it’s just happening once. When we get the Palace up and running, we won’t have to worry about it again.”

Morgana looked away. “I can’t go with you.”

Akira smiled. “I’ll be careful.”

.

.

.

CUTE COP. Akira, I’m going to ask something that’s going to sound really strange, but can you try to accept it at face value without jumping to conclusions?

BARISTA CHARMING. Now I’m kind of scared.

CUTE COP. Can I stay at your place tomorrow night?

Barista Charming is typing...

Barista Charming is typing...

Barista Charming is typing...

BARISTA CHARMING. That’s the only night I’m busy. Sorry.

CUTE COP. Where will you be?

Barista Charming is typing...

BARISTA CHARMING. Out.

Cute Cop is typing...

Cute Cop is typing...

CUTE COP. I’m sorry. I really don’t want to scare you, but there’s been a new development in the case and I’m really concerned for your safety.

CUTE COP. Please. Let me keep an eye on you.

BARISTA CHARMING. I’ll be okay.

CUTE COP. The criminal that I’m trying to catch is very dangerous.

BARISTA CHARMING. Is he?

CUTE COP. Yes.

BARISTA CHARMING. That’s unfortunate.

CUTE COP. Very.

Cute Cop is typing...

CUTE COP. It’s not really my business to ask, but where are you going, anyway? The forecast tomorrow night is a huge thunderstorm.

BARISTA CHARMING. Out.

CUTE COP. Drug deal?

BARISTA CHARMING. Even if it was, do you think I’d tell you?

CUTE COP. Okay, fine. Don’t let me inside the café. Don’t tell me where you’re going. But I’m worried, so I’m going to sit outside and keep watch.

CUTE COP. All night.

CUTE COP. In the rain.

CUTE COP. And the lightning.

CUTE COP. I’ll probably catch pneumonia.

CUTE COP. Or get electrocuted.

Barista Charming is typing...

BARISTA CHARMING. You really don’t fight fair.

CUTE COP. Sorry. I value your safety.

BARISTA CHARMING. I’ll see you at dinner.

.

.

.

| POLL: “Do you like the rain?

YES: 56%, NO: 46%

| CHATBOX

“depends am i inside or outside”

“I love the sound of the rain especially with jazz music.”

“ITS TOO WET”

“ew”

“I love the rain <3”

“It always smells like decomposing corpses afterwards”

Chapter 19: RANK 9, STAGE 1

Notes:

comments are my barbara manatee, i am larry the cucumber

Rain was already pouring on Leblanc’s tiles by the time Makoto arrived, drizzling small waterfalls down the edges of the building. She collapsed her umbrella and shook off a torrent of water, but her hand paused before the door.

It’s still not too late, said her superego tremulously. We can call for backup. Who knows what Joker will do?

There was a risk. The risk of the unknown. She had no idea what to expect, and she hardly expected her handgun to stop Joker for long. Especially if she wasn’t willing to shoot him in any really damaging places.

But calling for backup meant explanations.

Calling for backup meant explaining just why Kurusu Akira, of all people, would be targeted.

Calling for backup meant a lot of things that she couldn't afford.

She was especially banking on the advantages of her guarding Akira and no one else. If she was around, there wouldn't be grenades or bombs, there wouldn't be grand magical strikes, there wouldn't be anything that threatened collateral damage.

Because—

Because Joker wouldn’t harm her.

She didn't know how she knew it, but she did.

He'd saved her from a group of shadows, he'd pulled her from the edge of a long drop, he'd taken an electrical fence for her.

He might be dangerous, a tinge of wild, but he had some aversion to her getting hurt.

Makoto breathed. The smell of city rain coated her throat.

She opened the door.

Indoors was warm and it hugged her body as she leaned her umbrella against the wall. She could smell curry cooking on the stove, and a cup of tea was brewing on the counter.

Tea?

Her eyes traveled. Kurusu Akira was sitting at the farthest booth seat.

She flushed hot, remembering her lips on his cheek—but then alarm chased the nerves away.

Something was wrong.

Akira was leaning against the window, which rattled as rain struck the panes. His posture looked sunken and dry, as if the blood had been sucked out of him. He looked up and smiled wanly.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was scratchy and hoarse.

She quickly strode to the table. “What's wrong? You sound awful.”

“Seems I got sick,” said Akira. He shook his head. “Sorry. Hurts to talk.”

He coughed. She snatched the steeping tea from the counter and hurried to the kitchen, digging through the drawers and cupboards. It didn't take long to locate a lemon, a root of ginger, and a small bottle of honey.

“What are you doing?” Akira rasped.

“Don't talk,” said Makoto. “I know some basic sign language. Maybe use that? Or write?”

Akira fell silent.

She deftly halved the lemon and squeezed the juice into the tea. A few flakes of ginger and a spoonful of honey later, the tea was in front of Akira.

“This should help your throat,” said Makoto.

His hands moved.

She didn't expect the fluid motions: flawless sign language that looked like it'd been crafted from years and years of practice.

It worked out, because her knowledge of sign language was actually quite beyond basic. There'd been a time in her childhood when she'd been unable to talk, after all.

Thanks, signed Akira. You didn't have to do this. His motions were bashful, uncertain.

It's my pleasure, she signed back. It would feel strange to speak while he was signing. You're sick. Someone should be taking care of you.

Akira faltered, his eyes wide and mouth agape.

She shuffled, self-conscious. Did I say something strange?

Akira's hands were a flurry. No. I just can't remember the last time someone took care of me.

Probably your parents, right? When you were sick? Makoto signed with a smile.

Akira stopped. His hands lowered.

Makoto felt a pinch of foreboding. Well, anyway, it's good to have someone around, she signed.

Won't I be a liability if that dangerous criminal is coming around? Akira replied.

I'll protect you, she signed with more pride and confidence than she felt. In a way, it's actually better, because you'll be in one spot and I'll know exactly where you are.

Akira quickly sipped his tea. She couldn't see his face behind the cup, but she got the strong impression that he was grinning.

I'm not helpless, she signed indignantly. I AM a cop, you know.

I know, he said.

You totally don't trust me, she predicted.

He sipped again and lowered the cup. I trust you with my life.

Now you just sound sarcastic, she said.

This tea is very good, Akira said innocently.

Makoto sighed and stepped forward. She reached her wrist to his forehead. Akira dodged her arm with surprising agility for a horribly sick man.

What are you doing? flailed his hands.

She blinked. Taking your temperature.

Don't, he blustered. You might get sick.

She huffed. She gripped his skull with one hand and pressed her wrist against his forehead with the other.

It was... normal. Not even slightly warm.

She frowned. “Hey...”

Akira exploded in a horrific, rasping coughing fit, throwing her hand away.

“Are you really sick?” she said.

Akira glared. Of course I'm sick. My throat is killing me. I feel lightheaded. I've been vomiting. My stomach hurts. My nose is stuffy. My eyes feel hazy. I'm very, very sick, so sick that I needed to go to bed, but instead I stayed up until you came because it was raining and I was afraid that the door would lock or something and you'd be stuck outside until you got electrocuted or contracted pneumonia.

She blushed deeply and turned away, hiding her face. “I'm sorry. Thanks for waiting.”

Then she realized that he couldn't sign if she wasn't looking. She reluctantly turned, knowing that her cheeks were blazing pink.

Akira paused.

“Oh,” he said.

His voice sounded quite normal.

“Oh?” she prompted.

Cute, fluttered Akira's hands.

She frowned. “What?”

Nothing, he said. I need to go to bed. And rest. Sleep the sickness off.

“Text me if you need anything,” she said. “Even a glass of water.”

He pushed off of the table and stumbled towards the staircase like a feeble old man. The sight was somewhat comedic, but Makoto quickly took his arm to guide him.

“I'll be your cane for now, gramps,” she teased.

Akira jerked at the contact.

She almost blushed again, but reminded herself that this was an infirmed person. “Come on. Don't be prideful. I'll help you up the stairs.”

Let go, flew Akira's hands. I'm young and healthy, I'm not a decrepit old man.

“You,” she said, “act very childish when you get sick.”

Do I? he signed.

“Well, maybe it's just normal pride,” she conceded. “Is that normal? You know, accepting the reality you only want to accept, like a reality where you're perfectly healthy, and denying the reality that actually exists, like the reality where you're sick? Do you just block it out with sheer denial?”

Akira stared at her, agape.

She waited.

I don't know, he finally signed.

“Maybe you should try to know it. Eventually, at least,” said Makoto.

He was still staring at her.

She cleared her throat. “Um. I think we're here.”

He paused.

He slipped into his room and closed the door. She heard the click of a lock.

She frowned. “Did you just lock me out?”

Morse code rapped through the door.

Sorry. I like my privacy.”

How did he know Morse code?

Makoto shook the thought away. “Well, I can get that. Remember, text me if you need anything.”

There was silence for a moment.

Thanks for taking care of me, doc.

Another pause.

It made me happy.

.

.

.

ORACLE. And we're in business.

Joker, suddenly neither sick nor coughing, vaulted out the window, the billow of his cloak melting with the shadows. He landed in a crouch and darted into the alley.

.

.

.

The thunder began to rumble and the storm clouds rolled in.

Makoto stumbled away from the stairwell.

She switched on every lamp and scooped some curry on a plate. She attempted to eat casually, a manga book propped in her hands—as if it was just an ordinary night in Yongen-jaya, as if the rain was an illusion, as if nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.

Thunder rolled in the distance.

Her hands began to sweat.

The trial had begun.

Chapter 20: RANK 9, STAGE 2

Notes:

before you ask. yes. i am aware of the differences. /points to AU sign /makes AU sign bigger THIS IS AN AU THIS IS AN AU THIS IS AN AU.

this particular chapter's rating is closer to M. be forewarned.

comments are my calling cards, i am a psychopathic serial killer.

The wind tore outside, slamming rain against the windows like a battering ram. Thunder heralded cracks of lightning that sizzled through the sky. Leblanc groaned as if it was about to rip off of its foundations.

It had been three hours, and the storm was steadily getting worse.

In a strange way, it was actually fortunate. Since the storm had slowly intensified, Makoto was able to acclimatize to it—the best she could, at least. She had every light on in the café, she was eating curry, she was keeping an eye out for the Joker, everything was more or less normal.

The sick Akira resting upstairs was relying on her.

Water began to drip from a leak by the windows. Makoto located a bowl to catch it and settled back into her seat.

CRACK.

The sky pulsed with white fire, and—

—the café went pitch black.

Makoto froze.

She fumbled in the darkness for the nearest switch, flipping it frantically.

Nothing. The power was dead.

“No,” she mumbled. “No...”

She activated the flashlight on her phone, but the small beam winking through the gloom wasn't even close to enough.

C-CRACK.

Makoto instinctively pushed herself beneath the nearest table and huddled her knees to her chest. Without the shield of light, the rain felt deafening, pulverizing the rooftop like hail. The wind screeched laughter as it skinned the walls. The darkness was pressing in on her throat. Her hands wobbled, even clasped together. She could feel the sweat beading on her brow, the clamminess in between her fingers.

“You're twenty-three,” whimpered Makoto, a mantra accelerating in its frenzy. “You're twenty-three. You're not five. You're twenty-three. You're not five. You're twenty-three, you're not five, this is Leblanc, in Yongen-jaya—”

C-CRACK.

Shadows flashed on the furniture—the shapes of three men, large and wearing pale clown masks.

“No,” she said, her voice rising, “you're not real, you're an illusion, you're—”

She heard deep voices and waddled out to the hall, grumpy and groggy.

Outdoors, the storm raged.

Her father was at the door, speaking with three men eclipsed in shadow.

“We warned you,” said one with a long-suffering sigh. “We warned the hell out of you, Niijima. And you still kept poking your nose where it didn't belong.”

One of the men swiveled something black and gleaming to her father's chest. A rifle.

Her father faltered. “If you do this, you could be discovered. Shooting me in my own house leaves much more evidence than disposing of me in an alley.”

“Yeah,” snorted the man, “like we give a damn.”

Something exploded. Her father fell.

The café flashed and thunder vibrated through the floor.

Makoto hugged herself, pressing her sweat-drenched forehead to her knees.

“You're safe, you can protect yourself, you have a gun, you, you're not helpless—”

She was stricken by an empty, cold darkness, a deep warning somewhere in her bones that screamed, HIDE.

She opened the nearest cupboard, something with shutters in the door, and clambered inside.

Through the cracks, she could see the men file into the house.

Lightning struck. She saw clown masks, scarlet lips on white faces, leering down at her bloody, malformed father.

“Spread out,” snapped one of the men. “Check for any family, wife or kids.”

Makoto's breathing sharpened. The air wasn't enough for her lungs. Her heart struck her ribcage painfully, over and over again.

She crushed herself further into the cupboard, covering her mouth with her tiny hands.

The men approached in the darkness, their shoes heavy.

One stopped in front of her hiding place.

He pivoted, slowly.

The rain torrented, the wind screamed, thunder bellowed.

“Stop right there!” came a shrill voice.

Twelve-year-old Niijima Sae stood further down the hall, haloed by fading lightning.

Thunder boomed and light flared outside the window.

Makoto's vision was hazy. Her hands flailed for a foundation, but they slipped off of the wall, moist with sweat.

“Save me, sis,” she whispered. “Save me, please, save me sis save me sis save me—”

The lightning blitzed again. Makoto crumpled inward, cradling her head in her arms beneath the café table.

The black-clad man stalked to Niijima Sae and gripped her roughly by the shoulders.

Niijima Sae stood firm, chin lifted and eyes blazing.

The man tore her shirt from top to bottom in one motion.

He reached out—

Makoto screamed.

And then—

—she felt a gentle touch on her shoulder.

She turned. A figure was standing in the dark, nothing recognizable in the shadow except for black shoes that peeked into the window's light.

She didn't hesitate.

She sprung from beneath the table, rushed to him, and buried her face in the crook of his neck, gripping his shirt with white fingers.

“Save my sis,” she gasped. “Save my sis, save her—”

A warm, sturdy hand caressed her hair. Gentle, rhythmic. A cloaked arm pressed at the small of her back.

She felt the edge of a coat. She lifted it and squeezed herself closer to the man, wrapping the coat around her. Her nose nuzzled against his jaw.

His breath caught.

Thunder rocketed outdoors. Makoto was warm, surrounded by blankets. She heard Sae's voice, melodic and soft every day after the incident: Go to sleep, Makoto. I'm here.

“Who is this,” she murmured sleepily. “Akira?”

The man was completely still.

She knew it was him. Her cheek was against his pulse point, and she could hear his heartbeat stumbling in his chest. She felt the line of his torso against her arms, a familiar angle. She reached out, searching for his hands. One was hovering in midair, hesitating, helpless. She laced her fingers with his. The pads were callused.

“Akira,” she confirmed.

“Makoto,” Akira whispered.

She nuzzled her nose in the juncture of his neck and cradled his hand.

“I,” she murmured, “I didn't know you had a coat.”

She heard Akira swallow. He seemed speechless.

“Are you feeling better?” His voice was a low rumble on her temple.

“A little,” she said.

He started to pull away. She felt the slightest draft of cold air brush her neck. Panic flared, and she quickly wrapped her arms around his waist.

A noise came from Akira's throat.

“Please,” she mumbled. “Until the storm is over.”

“That,” said Akira, and he faltered. “That could be a long time.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, taking in the shield of warmth.

“Please,” she whispered.

Akira paused. He moved slowly, settling into the nearest booth seat. She huddled in his lap. He pulled his coat around her with a quiet sigh.

Makoto listened to the beat of his heart until she drifted away.

.

.

.

The man tore Niijima Sae's shirt from top to bottom in one motion.

Sae swung.

The tazer in her hand sparked to life as it crescented through the air and jabbed directly at the man's heart. His muscles jerked like a puppet dance and he crumpled.

Sae raised her arm.

She was standing half-naked in the middle of the living room. In her hand gleamed the large, swelled-up shell of a concussion grenade.

Lightning flashed outside.

“Get out,” she said in a cold, clear voice, “or I'm blowing us all to hell.”

.

.

.

Akira returned to his room and shrugged off the Joker's coat. He pulled off his mask and dropped it inside the hollowed-out television.

Morgana stirred on the corner of his bed, but did not wake.

Akira hunched on his bed.

Three hours. That was, in his best estimate, how long it had taken before Niijima Makoto had breathed deep and full and her body had completely stilled and her mind had finally taken to dreams.

And—

—he'd liked it.

He'd liked holding her, feeling her breath on his collarbone, taking in how her lithe weight settled in the crook of his arm, flush against his chest.

He'd liked it so much that it was frightening.

Seeing her all vulnerable and cuddly had—

—well, it had made him feel strange.

What was it?

He stood and started to pace.

He'd wanted to keep sitting there. He'd wanted to sit there until morning, sit until he fell asleep and his head rested against hers and their arms tangled together. He'd wanted to sit until the sun came up, wake next to her, watch her blush scarlet and stumble over excuses. Or maybe she'd be quietly happy, maybe she'd kiss him on the cheek and thank him.

But if the sun had come up and Makoto had opened her eyes, she wouldn't have smiled at him.

She would have seen a white mask, a long double-tailed coat, crimson gloves hanging from a clip at his waist, barely stripped in time.

She would have seen Joker.

Hurt would have crashed over her face. She'd gasp and push him away, leveling her pistol at his temple. She'd report to Shibuya Station, and everything would be over. He'd be taken away, and Morgana would too, and they would be separated and he would be stuck in the highest-security prison, maybe in solitary confinement.

Alone.

Who knew, maybe his family would come to gloat.

Akira felt something prodding him open, fragile and frail.

If he concentrated, if he pushed it away and thought about other things, things like Sakura Sojiro taking him out to the amusement park despite grumbling all the way, things like camping in front of the arcade with Mishima Yuuki to get in on opening day, things like exchanging witty banter with Niijima Makoto over sweet coffee, he could shut it down.

If he concentrated, he could regain control.

But he didn't concentrate.

Akira let it flow.

He thought of Sakura Sojiro cradled in the hospital bed, skin and bones in acute myeloid leukemia, bequeathing his café to an ex-delinquent named Kurusu Akira. He thought of the terror on Mishima Yuuki's face when he was cornered by a leering, lustful high school gym teacher named Kamoshida Suguru. He thought about Niijima Makoto, the softness of her lips, a painfully honeyed lure to the two bullets that had burned like fire through his skin.

A shrill scream. “I can't believe that I birthed a criminal!”

An angry roar. “Pack your bags and get out!”

A single phone number written on a wrinkled scrap of paper, connecting him with a stranger named Sakura Sojiro.

“Remember,” said the rumble on the other end of the phone, “the moment you cause any trouble, you're outta here.”

Akira crumpled against the wall.

It had always been like that.

One problem, and he was out.

People didn't stay next to him. They sojourned as long as it was convenient. If they got something out of him, like a trip through Mementos, or knowing a Phantom Thief in person to boost the credibility of their website, they kept the connection intact. But the moment he became the slightest liability, just a little bit inconvenient, they cut him loose.

And Niijima Makoto—

—she was bound to be the same.

She might not have come for evidence or for an investigation, she might have come of her own volition, but the moment something arose or she saw the mask of the Joker—

She'd cut him loose.

He'd just be a Phantom Thief, a criminal.

Akira groaned. The cold air pressed on him as rain poured in sleets on the window. His lungs were tight, clamped in an invisible straitjacket.

There was no point.

Seven years, and corruption was still rampant, breaking out of the shadows like weeds.

The government, military, law enforcement.

And when old corruption was defeated, new ones would simply rise to take its place.

Cut down Kamoshida, cut down Madarame, cut down Kaneshiro, cut down Okumura, cut down Shidou.

Ambitious newcomers who had eyed an opportunity for a rise in power would seize the vacancies.

Perhaps they'd be worse than their predecessors.

There was, in short, no point.

A horrible stabbing pain rocketed through Akira's skull, as if an awl had punctured his forehead. Whimpering tore out of his throat as he shielded his head with his arms. The agony was consuming, burning from his temples to the tips of his fingers. He was ablaze.

it's all for naught

you shall never have a place

He was at the witness stand in the center of a courtroom, hearing the verdict.

An outsider, a delinquent.

A man in a suit leered at him, and a mousy women stared at her feet, hiding her tears of remorse.

“GUILTY.”

Anger.

Resentment.

Above all, a crushing loneliness.

Akira screamed.

.

.

.

Morgana jerked awake at a shrill cry.

Something thrummed heavily beneath his fur, a rushing current that pushed out his claws. He hissed and leapt to the ground, his eyes cutting through the darkness.

Akira was balled up in the shadows.

Morgana hesitated. He walked slowly, the pads of his paws silent.

“Morgana,” Akira whispered. He pressed his palms to his cheeks. They came away wet.

“What?” said Morgana gently.

“I, I think the Palace is here.”

Morgana pressed his head to Akira’s arm, silently present.

Akira swore. “It hurts. Damn... it really hurts.”

He curled in his bed. Morgana settled on his shoulder, brushing a tail comfortingly over his temple.

Akira slept restlessly.

Chapter 21: RANK 9, STAGE 3

Notes:

waa i really appreciate the support, both short comments and mini-essays ;_;

comments are my medication, i am chronically sleep-deprived.

Sakamoto Ryuuji sat in his car, watching the entrance of the café. He felt battered by the storm, even sheltered in the protective shell of his vehicle.

“Inspector, this storm is nuts,” he said into his phone. “Seriously nuts.”

“Have you seen anything?” came Akechi Gorou's voice. It crackled with interference.

“I can't see crap in this rain,” said Ryuuji. “Someone could book right by me, and if they stuck to the shadows, I wouldn't even know.”

“So, Niijima Makoto has not left her apartment?” Akechi Gorou said.

Ryuuji paused.

The police force was corrupt.

Niijima Makoto had the bravery to face it, to ask for change. It sounds crazy, but change begins with us, she said, and if we refuse, then change will begin with the Phantom Thieves instead. Which will you pick?

He hadn't joined the cops so that more boys like him would be pushed around or unfairly arrested or expelled.

He'd joined to institute change.

Ryuuji swallowed.

“She did,” he said. “Came back with groceries. Can't I go inside and grab a bite? I think she's making ramen.”

Gorou's voice was exasperated. “You're on stakeout. You can't ask food from your mark. Report to me if any changes are made. The assignment will finish in the morning.”

He had such a little opinion of Ryuuji's intelligence that he hadn't questioned the pause.

Ryuuji smiled.

This was the beginning of his stand.

.

.

.

Morning rose.

Sunlight cracked through Makoto's eyelids. She blearily sat up. She was curled on a booth seat, tucked tenderly into a warm fleece blanket.

Fear lanced through her.

“Akira,” she whispered. She vaulted to her feet. “Akira—”

She flung herself to the stairs, but stopped short.

Kurusu Akira was standing at the stove, stirring a ladle through a pot of curry.

The fear eased into relief. She slumped against the wall.

He was alive.

She'd been debilitated, she'd fallen asleep, but the Joker hadn't killed him. Despite her shortcomings, he was safe.

Makoto inched closer, peering at Akira's back.

Psst, whispered her id. Remember what happened last night?

She winced as she thought of images: embracing him, shrouding herself in his coat, sleeping as he held her. It had been a dream, hadn't it? Surely it had. She couldn't imagine being so childish in reality, losing all sense of control.

Please let it be a dream please let it be a dream I don't know if I could live with myself otherwise.

Her id coughed. Even if it was, you do realize that you dreamed about Kurusu Akira embracing you rather intimately, hm?

Lewd, accused her superego.

She shut them up with a shake of her head and cleared her throat.

“Morning,” she said hesitantly.

Akira froze, the ladle idle in his hand.

“Are you feeling any better?” she asked.

Akira turned. He was smiling, but it was vague and not entirely genuine. “Right as rain.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“And you?” He turned back to the curry.

She blinked. “Me?”

“You didn't seem to like the storm.”

Heat crept up her neck to her ears. “Why? Did something happen last night? Did I... um, do something?”

His smile broadened and it started to look authentic.

“I, I can't remember all that well,” she stammered. “I had some kind of dream, except, I'm not sure it was a dream. I think it was. But... maybe it wasn't. Is that why?”

“It wasn't a dream,” said Akira casually.

“Oh, good,” she said.

She paused.

“Wait. WHAT.”

Akira switched off the stove and ladled the curry on a plate.

“You mean—um—I, I hugged you—?”

“And fell asleep in my lap,” said Akira.

She squeaked.

Akira laughed. It was warm and pleasant and annoying, so she hit him on the shoulder.

“How can you be calm about that?” she muttered. “It was totally inappropriate.”

“Because I rather enjoyed it.”

She clapped her hands on his cheeks and forced him to look at her. “S-stop saying things like that.”

He was quiet for a moment, and his eyes darted down to her lips.

Her mouth ran dry.

Then—

—he suddenly shoved her away, unmitigated terror washing over his face.

She caught herself easily, long-trained balance and reflexes serving her well, but the confusion was dizzying. She'd never felt something like that from Akira—aggression, horror, fear.

Like he was scared of her.

“Akira?” she said.

Akira blinked, startled. “What... what did...”

“Are you okay?”

He stared at his hands. He looked lost. “I'm sorry. I... I don't understand.”

“Maybe you're still not feeling well,” Makoto said. She stepped forward, reaching a hand to his forehead.

Akira shuffled back and lifted his arm, as if he was defending himself from a strike.

She stopped.

Akira immediately lowered his arm, but it was shaky, like he was forcing his body to do something that it didn't want to do.

“Akira?” she said.

“I don't...” His face was unusually helpless. “Makoto, I... I think something broke.”

The uncertainty in his voice was palpable. It struck Makoto, all at once.

Of course.

Joker didn't have to come in the physical world.

He had other ways.

“Give me one second,” said Makoto.

She sprinted outside of Leblanc and ripped out her phone. She jabbed at the red-eyed application, whispering fervently.

“Kurusu Akira. Leblanc café.”

“Searching,” said the voice.

And then something she never wanted to hear.

“Location detected.”

.

.

.

“We're done. We're so done that our grandchildren are done. We are the most done human beings in the history of done-ness,” bemoaned Morgana.

It was an eerily familiar lamentation.

Akira shook his head, trying to clear his brain. “I don't get it. Nothing like this has happened before.”

Morgana groaned again. “I should've seen this coming,” he said. “We've thought about the Palace, but not the change of heart.”

“Change of heart?” He thought of the pained surprise on Makoto's face. His chest pinched.

“Think of it this way,” said Morgana. “When we steal the Treasure from a Palace, we're stealing the distorted desires of the owner, thereby prompting a genuine change of heart, right?”

“Right.”

Akira paused.

“Oh.”

“Yes. We're dolts. Your psyche didn't naturally build a Palace over time from preestablished corruption in Mementos. By rushing it, we artificially forced its creation. We artificially forced the instatement of a Treasure. We artificially forced... an opposite change of heart.”

Akira opened his mouth.

Akira closed his mouth.

“That doesn't sound good,” he said.

“It is very not good. And it's unpredictable, unprecedented. Right now, there's unintended changes in your behavior. Definite disconnects between how you want to act versus how you actually end up acting. If the Palace is up for too long, maybe it'll even change your thoughts like a real change of heart—which, might just be me, but I don't really wanna stick around and find out, you know?”

Akira ran his hand through his hair. “So our timeline just got more urgent.”

“Well, why do you think your body is acting up? What's the distorted emotion?”

“I don't know, but... but I think my mind is afraid that Makoto will hurt me.”

Morgana laughed.

Then stopped.

“Oh, you're serious,” he said.

Akira nodded gravely.

“How could she ever hurt you?” Morgana said. “Even without magic, your reflexes are honed by seven years of hardcore combat. And she's not willing to shoot you. What will she do, stub your toe?”

Akira hesitated.

Morgana looked at him.

“Oh,” he said softly.

Akira shifted his gaze.

“You know,” said Morgana, “it must really suck to have such a terrible backstory.”

Akira swallowed. “It does.”

.

.

.

| POLL: “Do you feel lonely?”

YES: 86%; NO: 14%

| CHATBOX

"who doesnt tbh"

"I feel lonely even when I'm surrounded by people"

"JUST MAKE IMAGINARY FRIENDS"

"hello darkness my old friend"

"money is my waifu"

"cri"

Chapter 22: RANK 9.5

Notes:

bleh blurg blarb

“Castle.”

“Conditions have not been met.”

“Bank.”

“Conditions have not been met.”

“Marketplace.”

“Conditions have not been met.”

“Amusement park. Factory. Garden.”

“Conditio—conditio—conditions have not been met.”

Niijima Makoto sighed in frustration, twirling her phone in her fingers.

What was it? What was the corruption?

What had Joker done to Kurusu Akira?

“Kitchen. Restaurant. Hotel.”

“Conditio—conditio—conditions have not been met.”

She'd been trying words for nearly an hour, and nothing had started the navigation. She'd tried food-related terms, money-related terms, business-related terms, anything that came into her mind.

Nothing was successful.

Makoto jammed her phone into her pocket, fury boiling in her stomach.

Joker would pay, and he would pay dearly.

.

.

.

“Nothing so far?” Niijima Sae demanded.

The officer shook his head. “Nothing unusual. The collar stays within the Yongen-jaya neighborhood. CCTV footage shows occasional hunting and, um, poster-gathering.”

“Poster-gathering,” Sae repeated skeptically.

“Yes. It finds a poster it likes, scours the city for copies of every similar poster, and throws them around someplace.”

It matched with Kurusu Akira's claim, which Sae did not wish to hear. “That's littering. Negligent owner.”

“Er, Prosecutor, there's one more thing.”

“What's that?”

“Well, yesterday, the posters were arranged in an... interesting manner. If flipped backwards and turned upside-down, they read as a short phrase.”

“What phrase would that be?”

“‘GINGERBREAD MAN.’”

Sae blinked. “As in... ‘You'll never catch me, I'm the gingerbread man?’”

The officer scratched his head. “Or it's just a funny coincidence. It's a cat, after all.”

Sae sighed. “You're right. It's just a cat.”

.

.

.

Morgana snickered.

.

.

.

Akechi Gorou settled back in his chair and examined the board once more.

Niijima Makoto, according to Sakamoto Ryuuji, hadn't reacted to his anonymous note. She had proceeded throughout her day in an ordinary fashion without any concerns. She hadn't been disturbed at the threat. She hadn't worried about a potential enemy. She hadn't thought of protecting anyone.

Perhaps she was merely confused, thinking that the message was a prank.

Akechi Gorou tapped his pen against his notebook.

Where had he gone wrong? His reasoning was, up to this point, quite solid—or so he wanted to believe. Niijima Makoto's story was certainly suspicious, as was her relationship to Munakawa Asao. She was caught up in too many situations for it to be a coincidence.

Perhaps his method had been too indirect, too weak.

Gorou would give it one more try. He'd go back to the drawing board, find a good, reasonable solution. He'd bait her one last time.

If she still proved to be innocent, he would finally accept failure.

If she did not...

Seven years of victims would have a lot to say.

.

.

.

The Niijima Makoto Investigation Society had somehow morphed into the Niijima Makoto Protection Society.

Every member of Police Squad 29 had picked to stand with her, 'til death do them part.

The winds of change were stirring.

.

.

.

“The mark is bread and butter,” said Akira. “Yakuza mid-rank, oversees a smuggling ring using a tattoo parlor as a front. It'll be a simple infiltration, but not too low-profile. Don't want the feds to think the Phantom Thieves are pulling any punches.”

Morgana nodded. “Good luck, Joker.”

“I hit the Treasure in one night,” said Akira. “His Palace is pretty simple, straightforward. Just have to wait a few days before posting the calling card. We can't send it too soon.”

“How will you post it?”

“The nice thing about aiming for the yakuza is that there are barely any CCTVs where they are,” said Akira. “I'll just do it myself. Good old-fashioned method.”

“And got a plan for when you inevitably run into Miss Cop?”

Akira smiled, somewhat self-satisfied. “I don't think we'll have any trouble.”

“Oh?”

“She was looking for Joker,” said Akira, “by using a date with me. I think she's thought about it long and hard, and she wants to make a deal.”

“So she won't shoot you? For once?”

“I think,” he said, “that she'll be happy to see me.”

.

.

.

Makoto fired a round at the practice range. The bullet holes were compact, close together.

A sneer pulled at her lips.

She would be very happy to see the Joker.

.

.

.

Four days later, the calling card against Taku Tan was found on doors of the Parrot Tattoo Parlor.

.

.

.

| POLL: “Would you ever get a tattoo?”

YES: 39%; NO: 61%

| CHATBOX

"it looks painful"

"I would get a dragon wreathed in a thousand fires!"

"on my dead body"

"They look cool I guess"

"only scary people have tattoos"

"I'll get one for every person I've killed."

Chapter 23: RANK 10

Notes:

BWEE BWEE BWEE

“How is it?” asked Morgana as Akira pulled on Joker's coat.

“Convenient,” said Akira.

Morgana looked at him dryly. “Does it disturb you, seeing your own cognitive distortions?”

Akira shrugged.

“What is it like?” said Morgana. “How do you see your Palace? How do you see people?”

“What do you think?”

“I'm guessing it's your prison,” said Morgana, “and people are inmates.”

Akira laughed softly.

.

.

.

“Skull in position.”

“Dragonheart in position.”

“Miss Fortune in position.”

“Maid in position.”

“Setter in position.”

Makoto smiled at her walkie-talkie. “We're going to be using the Phantom Thieves' card to knock out some corruption. Taku Tan is suspected to be linked with Superintendent Ozawa at Shinjuku Station. Check for his reactions. He's going to want to protect himself when he hears about the calling card. If he's been taking bribes from Taku Tan like we suspect, he'll show it. Queen over and out.”

“Copy that, Queen.”

Makoto disappeared into the Shinjuku side alley and pulled out her phone.

“Taku Tan. Parrot Tattoo Parlor. Um... given the personality in his file... studio? No... factory?”

The air shimmered and she disappeared.

.

.

.

By the time Makoto reached the Treasure room, Shadow Taku Tan was already groveling on the ground before Joker's pistol. Apparently, the fight hadn't been particularly challenging.

“Go,” came the Joker's voice, low and powerful. “Atone for your wrongdoings. Make right what you have tainted.”

Shadow Taku Tan dissolved away with a distant sigh.

Seeing Joker brought back the shock on Akira's face, the fear in his eyes. Fury sizzled through Makoto as she raised her gun.

Joker turned, but he stopped when he saw Makoto standing in the entryway.

“Guns, again?” he said.

The anger bubbled in her chest.

“You're rather trigger-happy,” said Joker.

She fired a warning shot that veered wide by three feet.

Joker was unfazed. “Is this going to become a regular thing with you, Majesty?” he said calmly.

Makoto's grip tightened. “It's the least I can do after what you did to my—the barista at Leblanc.”

Surprise flitted over Joker's face. “Kurusu Akira?”

“Don't you dare play dumb.” She twitched her wrist and fired. The bullet whisked by, barely nicking his ear. He hissed, cupping the side of his head with his hand. “You. You changed him somehow. Don't pretend you didn't. You threatened him, you came for him by using the Metaverse, and now—”

She started to choke.

An innocent had suffered, and she didn't know if she could bring him back.

“He's afraid, he's so afraid, and all he did was help me, all he did was be kind and smart and sweet and—TAKE BACK WHATEVER YOU DID OR I'LL KILL YOU—”

Joker stared at her, aghast.

“They never go back, none of the victims, once they change, they change forever, and you've done something to Akira, something that's irreversible, and he, he was there for me, when I really needed someone—”

She fired again. Joker raised up his hand, but the aura around him fizzled. Panic flooded his face as her bullet pierced his leg. He screamed, hands clutching the wound.

“So you can bleed,” said Makoto. “I was wondering. Shouldn't you be catching these bullets? Don't you have magic?”

“STOP IT, MAKOTO, YOU'RE MAKING IT WORSE!”

The cry was desperate, pleading, ripped out of his throat in agony. Makoto stepped back in shock.

“What?” she whispered.

“Why,” said Joker brokenly. “Why do you always fire at me? Nothing I do is enough. You never believe me. You never trust me. You don't even ask questions. I... I wanted you to understand...”

The voice did not sound like it belonged to the same confident, sometimes callous Phantom Thief that she was used to. It was small, lost, genuine. Makoto stumbled back.

“You—you didn't do anything to him?” she whispered. “But... he has a Palace... and... there's no way he had one before... and the threat... you said you'd come for him...”

“That threat was obviously not from me,” Joker snapped. “Do you think I have the luxury to waste time on a random civilian barista? For what? You? Are you convinced that you're actually special to me?”

No, of course she wasn't. Joker had his own reasons, but surely they wouldn't be something like infatuation for a cop.

Makoto gasped.

She'd shot someone for a crime they hadn't committed.

She sheathed her gun and scrambled towards Joker. He tried to scoot away from her, but cried out in pain.

She tore at his pant leg. The gun wound was still angry and bleeding.

“Why aren't you healing it?” she said desperately. “The Palace is going to start collapsing at any moment!”

“How quickly you change,” Joker whispered.

She glared at him. “Now's not the time to be cryptic and mysterious, it's the time to heal your leg and run.”

He lowered his head. “What's the point to it all,” he murmured. “Seven years, and nothing has changed. Corruption still leads the country. Good people pay for the wrongs of the wicked. Everyone is driven by greed and ambition. And you... you, Niijima Makoto, never trust me, even though I told the truth and saved your life and kept you safe.”

The ground started to vibrate beneath them. Joker screamed, hands covering his leg.

Makoto's heart quieted. She slid her arms over Joker's shoulders, pulling his head to rest against her neck.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm so sorry. You're right. I'm sorry.”

He did not move.

“Please, heal your leg,” she begged. “Don't die here. You, you need to live.”

“Why,” he said. His voice broke.

Small debris was starting to shower on their heads. “There's someone waiting for you,” she said. “Someone who loves you, who wants you to come back. Parents, siblings, a best friend.”

A sound between a sob and a laugh. “There's no one waiting for me.”

She cupped his face. “The other Phantom Thieves.”

“Do you think,” he said hoarsely, “that the Phantom Thieves is some long-established group with branches and countless operatives? Because, behold!” He flung out his arms, laughing. “Behold the greatness! There's just two people, and one of them is grounded!”

A two-person operation.

Makoto knew that they had to be a small group—Joker was the only one she'd met, after all, so she'd thought he was the leader—but two people? Seven years? Countless changes of heart?

It was incredible.

“Live for the other Phantom Thief, then,” she said, staring at him. “Live, because if you die here, you'll leave them utterly alone.”

The roof shook.

“Your words are pretty, Majesty, but that's all,” said Joker. “Go now. Unless you wish to become a police pancake.”

She gritted her teeth. “This isn't the time for jokes.”

“Why not? Die laughing, isn't that the greatest privilege?”

“Why are you so—so stubborn?” she snapped. “You've done incredible things for seven years, and now you're just going to give it all up?”

“Incredible things that will land me a life sentence in the highest security prison,” said Joker dryly. “Grand indeed. One might say I've had a change of heart.”

Makoto's brow furrowed.

Something was wrong.

Joker had changed.

It wasn't a personality transplant—there were no differences in speech and tone, no wild changes in behavior—but she could sense it. Something deep in him had uprooted. His mind had changed direction.

Makoto set her jaw.

She stooped in front of Joker and slung his body over her back.

“What are you doing?” came Joker's baffled voice.

She stood.

He was heavy. There was considerable bulk to his frame and clothes.

But she took one step.

Then another.

Slowly, broke into a stroll.

“Give it up, Majesty,” said Joker. “Your twiggy arms aren't meant to support my weight.”

“Glad to see you've healed your leg,” she said curtly.

“The only thing more inconvenient than living is suffering pain.”

“Alright, Edgar Allen Poe, no need to be such a ball of sunshine.” The shaking was getting worse. She almost stumbled.

“Where are we going?” said Joker. “The precinct? Getting that promotion?”

She ground her teeth. “No.”

“Well, then that's treason. Aiding and abetting a criminal.”

He was so annoying when he was depressed. “Then don't report me.”

“You're a conscientious cop. Why wouldn't you arrest me?”

“Because the trial wouldn't be fair. Not now.”

Joker fell into stunned silence.

“I want it to be fair,” Makoto said. “I want everything to be fair.”

Joker was quiet.

“Will you help me?” she said. “I... I can't do it without the Phantom Thieves.”

Joker suddenly slid off her back. He landed steadily on his feet, even as the floor churned beneath them.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

She held out a hand. “Allies?”

For now, until the corruption was squared away. And then she'd have to arrest him.

Joker grinned devilishly. “Seal it with a kiss.”

He pulled her in and kissed her.

.

.

.

“Prosecutor,” said the officer, “a calling card addressed to Taku Tan was issued yesterday night.”

Niijima Sae leapt to her feet. “That can't be possible. The tracker hasn't moved. And there's nothing in the CCTVs.”

The officer shrugged helplessly.

Sae considered this for a moment.

“I'm going to drop by the café,” she said. “Half an hour.”

.

.

.

Makoto bumped against Joker's chest. His lips softly brushed hers.

She ignored the spike of heat in her chest and reacted quickly: a knee in the gut, a hold on his collar, a spin and a duck.

He was flung over her back.

He flowed with the motion, springing off his hands and back on his feet, but he seemed impressed.

“You're quicker,” he said.

She glared at him.

“I rather think,” said Joker, “that I'm going to enjoy working together.”

“You do that one more time, and I'll break your fingers.”

“Ah, all twenty-seven carpals and metacarpals and phalanges?”

“That's just one of your hands.”

He laughed. “Don't tell me that you don't feel any chemistry, Niijima Makoto.”

She folded her arms, resolute. “Physical chemistry doesn't matter. What matters is who I choose to be committed to.”

“And you have chosen Kurusu Akira?”

She flushed. “That's none of your concern.”

“I think it is.”

She straightened. He wanted to play that way? Fine. “Yes. Kurusu Akira. I like him.”

Joker stepped closer. “And there's no chance that I might steal you away.”

“None.” She looked challengingly at him. “In fact, being hugged by him is ten times better than your kisses.”

Bright red flushed over Joker's cheeks. He seemed speechless.

Makoto smiled triumphantly. She must have made him angry. For once.

“T-that good?” said Joker.

She added a pinch of dreaminess in her voice. “I could stay in his arms forever.”

A moment of silence passed.

Then Joker's face split into a blinding grin.

“Well, glad to know that,” he said with a soft laugh.

Makoto was startled. “What?”

“How could I possibly contest such a wonderful hugger?” said Joker.

Makoto felt like she'd made a misstep. “You... you can't! That's the point!”

“Unmatchable?”

“Y-yes!”

“Award-winning?”

She felt unbalanced, embarrassed. “What does it matter to you?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Joker. “I'm just glad to know that if I had to be beaten by anyone, it was the best.”

He was definitely mocking her, and she didn't know why.

The earth shook violently as if hit by a missile. Joker reached out and took her hand.

“Come, Your Majesty,” he said. “It's time to make our great escape.”

He laced their fingers as they ran.

Chapter 24: RANK 10.5

Notes:

NAAAAAAAANTS INGONYAAAAAAAMA BAGIIITHI BABA.

things have been really stressful for me recently and i haven't had the emotional bandwidth or mental acuity to respond to comments, but i do read every single one and i really appreciate you all :'D

ok anyway SITHI UHHMM INGONYAMAAA

Niijima Sae strutted into Leblanc and glared at Mishima Yuuki, who cowered behind the counter.

“You again?” she said. “Are you really part time? I see you operate this café more than Kurusu Akira.”

“He's sick today,” said Yuuki.

She leaned forward. He leaned back. “That's awfully convenient.”

“I'm serious this time,” said Yuuki solemnly. “I just checked on him this morning.”

There was no stammering, no excuses, just sincerity. She could hear it in his voice.

“I just need to see where he is,” Sae said. “Five seconds. He doesn't even have to be awake.”

She headed to the staircase, but Yuuki stepped in front of her and held his arms out. Every muscle in his body was corded, and his mouth was set in a firm line.

“No,” he said. “Akira was vomiting out his guts this morning, and now he's finally getting some sleep. He needs uninterrupted rest.”

“I'm just going to look.”

“He wakes up the moment anyone steps into his room. He's a very light sleeper.”

The determination was earnest in his voice. Sae softened.

“Then let me talk to him when he wakes up,” she says. “I can wait.”

Yuuki considered this, then nodded curtly. “I'll send him a text.”

.

.

.

“What are we gonna do about Yuuki?” said Morgana as Akira retrieved his phone. “He's never had pressure like this. He'll crumble.”

“Easy,” said Akira. “We make it so he doesn't have to lie.”

Morgana looked at him for a moment, then grinned catlike. “Polished up your illness act?”

“No clue what you're talking about. I've been sick the whole day,” said Akira solemnly.

.

.

.

From Shinjuku to Yongen-jaya took 25 minutes by car and one and a half hours by walking.

Joker ran fast.

.

.

.

Makoto's phone trilled frantically the moment she was out of the Metaverse.

“Queen, Superintendent Ozawa's on the move!” crowed Ryuuji.

“Follow him by alternating cars every four intersections,” Makoto commanded. “He'll be heading to another residence, probably registered under the name of a mistress. It should hold either hard cash or rare goods. Queen over and out.”

“Day of reckoning, sucker!” Ryuuji whooped and hung up the call.

.

.

.

Forty-five minutes passed until Mishima Yuuki's phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen, then nodded at Sae.

“Boss just woke up,” he said. “Can't talk because his throat hurts something awful, but he can text through me.”

“That won't be necessary,” said Sae. “I just need to verify his presence with my own eyes.”

She walked up the stairs at Yuuki's guidance and opened the door. A black-and-white cat with a gleaming GPS collar surveyed her passively from his perch on the top bookshelf. Her eyes immediately traveled to the bed by the window.

Kurusu Akira was curled in the comforters, dressed in loose pajamas. Even from her distance, she could see that his skin was coated with sweat. A vomit bucket was waiting on the floor by his pillow. His gaze was hazy, and he seemed to be looking past her rather than at her.

Sae closed the door and descended the staircase. She punched a number into her phone.

“The CCTVs on the Yongen-jaya back alley,” she said. “Has there been any activity around the Leblanc café, particularly the second storey window?”

The officer on the other end of the line said that nothing had happened. No one had entered or exited the alley, and certainly not Akira.

“And no sign of tampering, such as hacking or looping?”

The broadcast seemed untouched.

Sae ended the call.

Apparently, she'd been wrong, and she'd had her eyes on the wrong people.

“Tell your boss that I'm removing the GPS collar from his cat,” she said.

Her intuition had told her one thing.

The evidence proved another.

.

.

.

“Freedom, my dear, dear friend,” Morgana squealed. He bounded around the room, now collar-free.

Akira sat up. “Congrats.”

Morgana's tail flicked in pleasure. “We dodged a bullet. Seems like the feds are off our case for good.”

“For now,” Akira agreed, “but we still need to lay low.”

“Yep.” Morgana paused. “Can you really keep the Palace up and running? How's your mental state?”

Akira paused.

“It hasn't been bad,” he said.

Morgana's eyes narrowed. “That sounds very bad.”

Akira was silent.

“What happened.”

Akira looked away.

Morgana hissed. “Fine. Then answer with nods, or shake your head. Was it because of Miss Cop?”

A pause, then a nod.

“Did she shoot you?”

A longer pause.

“Joker. Answer me. Did. She. Shoot. You.”

A slow nod.

“You said she wouldn't.”

“I misjudged.” He winced. “She noticed that my behavior changed. As Kurusu Akira. She thought that the Joker did something to him. Um, me.”

Morgana rubbed his head. “What.”

“Yeah.”

“This is getting too complicated.”

“Yeah.”

“So she got really pissed, wanted you to change ‘Akira’ back, and shot you. That triggered your internal disaster of always getting betrayed and abandoned.”

Akira nodded reluctantly.

Morgana tilted his head. “Well, maybe this is a good sign. Even with a direct trigger, you didn't become catatonic. You still successfully finished the mission and escaped. Maybe your Palace isn't as bad as we feared.”

Akira hesitated.

Morgana stared.

“Oh, you've gotta be kidding me—”

.

.

.

Superintendent Ozawa was arrested under charges of embezzlement and bribery.

Police Squad 29, also known as the Niijima Makoto Protection Society, cheered.

Journalist Ohya Ichiko wrote an exposé on the affair with an exclusive interview from Suzui Shiho and published it for all of Japan to see.

If Superintendent Ozawa's investigation fell through the cracks or his charges were dismissed, the public would be the first to know.

And thus, hints of change began.

.

.

.

| POLL: “Is Police Squad 29 trustworthy?

YES: 28%; NO: 72%

| CHATBOX

"I like em, they're photogenic"

"they don't seem as corrupt as the rest of the police"

"NO ONE CAN BEAT THE PHANTOM THIEVES"

"they caught one guy but who knows, it could be a power struggle and they could be corrupt too"

"#imwithphandom"

"THIS MEANS WAR"

Chapter 25: RANK 11

Notes:

Confession: I am not L.C. Li. I'm her brother (RampantPoultry). She's gone for the weekend, so I'm uploading for her. If there are wonky formatting issues (and there WILL be), blame me. She can fix them herself. Later. Maybe.

Thanks for reading, and please leave her some nice comments/reviews/whatever else, because she is a delicate artist and needs the encouragement. I am not a delicate artist, so if the formatting problems or impersonating of my sister bother you, flame me to your heart's content, because I literally couldn't care less.

Have fun!

Morgana paced to the left.

Morgana paced to the right.

Morgana stopped.

“Alright,” he said, “it's convenient to have a Palace here, no doubt about that, but given that you had an emotional shutdown in the field, it's not worth the risk.”

“Maybe there's a way to control it.”

Morgana's fur puffed. “No. No, we're not in a position to experiment with your psyche. We need to shut this Palace down, stat.”

“If there was a way to control it,” Akira pressed, “what would it be?”

“I mean, if you really had to, then the key would be reining in the distorted emotion. You'd have to balance between keeping it mild enough to not go stark raving mad, but distinctive enough so your Palace won't fade. It's a really tenuous balance, and the consequences really aren't worth the benefits considering that you could destroy all of Japan.”

“I really can't be seen exiting Leblanc every time there's a heist, and looping the CCTVs with Oracle will get discovered.”

“Do you not understand the idea of world destruction?”

“But suppose we get rid of my Palace,” argued Akira. “I'll never be able to get it back again. My heart will change for good.”

Morgana was quiet for a moment.

“Then what do you suggest?” he meowed. “How can you possibly keep your own psyche under control?”

Akira buried his head in his hands. After one blissful moment of rest, the pressure was returning. “I don't know.”

.

.

.

HER MAJESTY. I have a request.

JOKER. Sorry, I don't play 80's rock.

HER MAJESTY. You're so corny.

HER MAJESTY. Look... can we maybe please help Kurusu Akira next? Find out what caused his Palace and get rid of it?

JOKER. Asking me to help a nemesis? That's rather cruel of you.

HER MAJESTY. He's innocent and he's hurting. Please.

JOKER. No.

HER MAJESTY. I'll do anything.

HER MAJESTY. Almost anything.

JOKER. That's some half-hearted incentive, Ma

JOKER. jesty.

HER MAJESTY. What do you want?

JOKER. Shall I say "your love?"

HER MAJESTY. You don't actually want that. You're just trying to mess with me.

JOKER. Did it work?

HER MAJESTY. No. I told you. I'm not a wishy-washy kind of person.

JOKER. You haven't even known him that long. You aren't even dating. What inspires such loyalty?

HER MAJESTY. He's a person worth protecting.

HER MAJESTY. So, will you help me?

HER MAJESTY. Joker?

HER MAJESTY. What do you want, money?

HER MAJESTY. Joker!

HER MAJESTY. JOKER!

.

.

.

Makoto pushed open Leblanc's door. She stepped hesitantly, her muscles coiled and uncertain. Kurusu Akira was brewing coffee at the counter with a distant look on his face. He didn't even glance up at the door's entry bell.

“Akira?” she said tentatively.

His motions slowed. He looked away.

“Good afternoon,” she said. She tried to sound casual, but her voice cracked.

She didn't know why he had a Palace.

She didn't know what was in his Palace.

She couldn't tell him anything.

He was scared and alone, and she couldn't help. She couldn't even offer comfort, because he couldn't possibly know anything about Palaces and Metaverses and other such fairytale featurettes.

“What can I get for you today?” Akira said politely.

Makoto searched for words. None came. “Um...”

“Chai latte, extra sweet?”

“I...”

“Coming right up.”

She strode over and gripped his wrist. He flinched away from her.

“Why are you trying to get me out of the café,” she said flatly.

Akira looked at her. His eyes were hollow. “I can't stop it,” he said quietly. “This... reaction, whenever you come close. I thought it would hurt you, staying around me. You'd feel like I was treating you like a monster.”

She stepped around the counter, slow and deliberate. “Why?” she said gently. “Why do you get that—that reaction?”

He stared at her, then laughed easily.

It was completely insincere.

“Who knows?“ he said. “Maybe some childhood trauma of cooties. Maybe I'm a closet germaphobe.”

Joker had refused to help her.

She would have to face this challenge on her own.

Maybe the Palace was started by artificial means, maybe it wasn't, but either way, it was linked to the human psyche.

The human psyche was natural.

The human psyche could be affected by natural means.

Makoto stepped a little closer and waited. The smile died on Akira's face.

“Makoto?” he said tenuously.

“I'm not leaving,” she said simply.

Something broke across his face. His jaw twitched and his eyes flinched.

“Tell me,” Makoto whispered. “What's wrong?”

Akira swallowed. “It, it doesn't make sense. When you come close, I suddenly feel... afraid. That you'll hurt me, shoot me, stab me in the back. I don't get it. I'm scared of you.”

She stepped forward and reached out, gingerly, like she was reaching for an injured animal. His breath quickened and he backed away.

“Akira,” she said softly.

She stepped forward again. This time, Akira was still, but the cords in his neck stood out and his arms braced against the counters.

Makoto cupped his face. His cheeks were smooth against the calluses in her fingers.

“I won't hurt you,” she whispered.

She tiptoed and pressed her lips to his forehead.

Akira stiffened, but stayed in place.

Makoto drew back, looking him in the eye. She brushed her thumb tenderly over his jaw.

“I won't hurt you,” she repeated.

She removed his spectacles, folded them on the table, and kissed his nose.

He eased into her touch. His cheek pressed ever so slightly against her palm.

“I won't hurt you,” said Makoto.

She paused, a twinge of nervousness in her stomach.

Then her lips met his, gentle and chaste.

Akira's eyes fluttered shut.

She slid her hands down his shoulders, down his forearms, lacing her fingers with his. His mouth was soft and yielding. She kissed him again, again.

I won't hurt you, I won't hurt you, I will never, ever hurt you.

His hands broke away from hers. She flailed for a second, but then his arms crushed at her waist, pressing her to his chest. She felt his roaring heartbeat echo like a drum as his hands brushed the small of her back. He groaned.

“Makoto.”

His fingers caressed her jaw and his lips crashed fiercely into hers, sending haze shuddering behind her eyelids. Two knuckles stroked her cheek and a soft pressure built in the back of her throat, extracting a little moan.

He was kissing her.

Kurusu Akira was kissing her.

It was dumb, it was shallow, it was childish, but the barista who was sensible and funny and gentle and daring and mysterious was kissing her back and she was dumbly and shallowly and childishly ecstatic and—

Warmth.

Niijima Makoto felt a gloved hand tilting her jaw, cupping her face. Two of the knuckles stroked her cheek tenderly, as if she was a precious thing that should never be broken.

An arm had snaked around her waist and pulled her close. She was flush against Joker's coat, palms pressed to his chest.

Makoto gasped against Akira's mouth. He squeezed her tighter. His lips moved on hers.

Just like Joker's.

Pause, said her superego. It doesn't seem to be very good of you to be thinking of another guy while you're kissing.

Her id was somewhere in the distance making happy cooing noises, completely oblivious and very unhelpful.

Makoto fought to think past the pleasant fog in her head.

Maybe kissing always felt the exact same, no matter who you picked?

Maybe all lips reacted the same way and moved the same way?

She hadn't kissed enough people to provide an adequate sample size.

A bubble of anger swelled in her. Joker had stolen a precious experience from her, tainted her first kiss with Kurusu Akira.

Jerk, she thought venomously. A new ally, perhaps, but still a jerk.

Then Akira kissed her again.

She melted into him, linked her hands around his neck—

—and desperately tried not to think that kissing him felt the exact same as kissing Joker.

.

.

.

Morgana looked sadly upon Akira's Palace.

“Well,” he mused, “I don't think anyone could have guessed that it'd be this.”

Suddenly, the ground crashed beneath his feet. Morgana braced himself and turned from the entrance, scouring the perimeter.

The edge of the distortion was shrinking.

Like a tide of water, the undulating purple-and-red atmosphere was pushing inward. Verdant grass turned into the plain, beaten cement of Yongen-jaya. Even the sky looked paler and the walls less steady, as if all of Leblanc had become a safe room.

Morgana stared.

“What?” he said, baffled.

He shook himself and darted away from the Palace.

He had to tell Joker.

.

.

.

| POLL: “Sugar and spice and everything nice?”

YES: 41%; NO: 59%

| CHATBOX

"actually girls are made of backstabbing and gossip and the kitchen faucet"

"I'm happy to be a girl"

"oh you guys have met actual girls? I've only met walking mannequins made out of concealer and fake eyelashes"

"@LC go back to your hunting and war chants"

"the salt in this poll is real"

"admin wants to start a civil war"

Chapter 26: RANK 11.5

Notes:

I HAVE RETURNED from disarming a weapon of mass destruction in an undisclosed location that may or may not be russia

in a crazy miraculous turn of events, over the weekend i joined a team that is going to anime expo, and i have 25 days to learn a dance, attend team training sessions, and make a cosplay. this may affect release schedule because wHAT IS TIME

anyway thank you so much for your comments ;_; RP will probably continue to reply to most of them but I love reading them <3

“Inspector Akechi,” said Niijima Sae. “Pleasant surprise to see you here.”

Akechi Gorou settled in the cushioned chair opposite of her desk. “For the matter of which I would like to speak, utmost privacy is a priority. The courthouse offers more of this than the precinct.”

Sae raised an aristocratic brow. “What kind of matter might that be?”

“A date, perhaps?” said Gorou.

Sae looked at him coldly. “Why, because you can't have my little sister?”

Pink dusted across Gorou's cheeks, but he otherwise maintained his composure. “I apologize. It was meant to be a jest, but I see that it was done in poor taste.”

Sae leaned forward, her aura darkening. “But you do have an interest in her.”

“This is irrelevant to our discussion.”

“If you like her so much, then why are you convinced that she's a Phantom Thief?”

“About that—I think I may have an idea on how to catch them.”

Sae paused. “Which is?”

Gorou withdrew a notebook and flipped to a page filled with a tidy, lined scrawl. “Up to this point, we have been very passive, very reactionary.”

“Because we had nothing to go off of,” Sae said.

“Precisely. But now... we do.”

Gorou stood and grabbed an erasable marker, writing in neat letters on the whiteboard pinned to Sae's wall.

“I admit that my initial hypothesis held a grave error,” he said. “I believed that Niijima Makoto was involved with the Phantom Thieves herself. However, recent events have shown this to not be completely accurate.”

Sae's gaze hardened. “But you still think that she's related.”

“Fear not, it's in a different way. A way you won't mind, I reckon.”

Sae watched him cautiously.

“Here is my revised hypothesis.” Now Gorou was drawing arrows. “Niijima Makoto was called into Munakawa Asao's office. I've confirmed with her that he requested sexual favors in return for a promotion.”

Sae's fingers tightened on the desk. “I'm going to castrate that old bastard.”

“At ease, Prosecutor. Officer Niijima refused, naturally, and was officially reassigned to the Phantom Thieves. Just days later, Munakawa Asao received a calling card for sexual exploits. And during the according infiltration, Officer Niijima was conspicuously absent.”

“We've been over this, Inspector, and apparently, your suspicions were incorrect.”

“That I will concede. I was operating on the assumption that Officer Niijima was the culprit because of the strong motive. But there is another possibility. If the Phantom Thieves are seeking to protect her, for example, then they could have targeted Munakawa Asao on their own.”

Sae's brows shot up. “Protect Makoto? Why?”

“I admit I don't fully know. But other pieces of evidence lend credibility to the idea. Officer Niijima's whereabouts up until the calling card's distribution are easily accounted for, and her absences before the forty-eight hour disappearance are not lengthy enough to accommodate for criminal activity. Furthermore, she has alibis during far too many past heists to be a Phantom Thief herself, unless she was set in the police department as a sleeper agent. Which, given her accomplishments, I quite doubt, don't you?”

“So you think,” said Sae flatly, “that the Phantom Thieves are playing daddy long legs to Niijima Makoto.”

“I think,” said Gorou, “that they are hiding some terrible and twisted use for her, for which they need her alive. I fear for her future, as should you. Anyone who becomes the fixation of a criminal group is in grave danger.”

This alarmed Sae. “Do we have any proof of this?”

“None,” said Gorou, “but we have proof of the contrary—that she is not a Phantom Thief herself.”

Sae considered this for a moment. “What's your proposal?”

Gorou breathed quietly, looking at the whiteboard.

“Inspector.”

“Bait,” said Gorou suddenly. “Use Niijima Makoto as bait.”

Sae slammed her hands on her desk. “No. That girl has been through too much.”

“And certainly, she could have been safe for the rest of her life. She could have studied medicine or engineering or liberal arts.” Gorou's eyes fixed on Sae's, piercing. “But she did not, Prosecutor. She picked the police academy. If she loved justice and wanted to be safe, she could have picked law, she could have picked forensic sciences, but she did not. She picked the life of a cop.”

“Inspector,” said Sae desperately, “we can't put her in danger.”

“You cannot, of course. But I can.” Gorou smiled ruefully. “Who can say, Prosecutor Niijima? Perhaps this hypothesis is also wrong.”

Gorou stood and turned toward the door. His stature was prim and proper, straight-spined in his double-breasted coat.

Sae gritted her teeth. “Do you really harbor feelings for her, Inspector? Why don't you care about her wellbeing?”

“I do,” said Gorou quietly. “But the voice of Lady Justice overrules my sentiments.”

“Then how much do you like her?”

Gorou chuckled softly. “Enough to know that I have no chance.”

.

.

.

“I'm telling you, Joker, your Palace shrank.”

“That's never happened before.”

“Well, something happened to your psyche that weakened the whole distortion. That's my working theory. It makes sense, if you think about it. If something softens up your feelings of loneliness, the twisted lens through which you see the world will lose some power. So what happened? Hey. Hey, Joker, you even listening?”

“Huh?” blurted Akira.

Morgana shook his head. “Where is your mind today? The moon? I feel like I'm talking to a brick wall.”

“Sorry,” said Akira.

“So. What happened that shrank down your Palace?”

Akira flushed. “Makoto... kissed me.”

“Yeah, that's gonna do nothing for your psyche,” said Morgana, “just your hormones. Your Palace won't shrink just because she kissed you.”

“It... it was a very nice kiss.”

“Sensual qualifiers are also useless. You should've been worrying that she'd stab you in the back while you were kissing.”

Akira buried his face in his knees. “I can't believe I'm having this discussion with you.”

“Unlike some people,” said Morgana rather crossly, “I am a professional. I can talk about embarrassing things all day if it's for work purposes. So. What did she do that helped your psyche?”

Akira was silent for a long moment.

This time, Morgana waited.

“I tried to get her to leave, and she said she wouldn't,” Akira said quietly. “So... I explained it. You know. Me being scared that she'd hurt me. And... she told me, over and over, that she wouldn't hurt me.”

“And you just believed her?”

Akira flushed deeper. “It was very convincing.”

“Note to self. Kurusu Akira will believe anything a girl says if she follows it up with lots and lots of smooches.”

“It's not about the kissing, Morgana, when you fall in love, you'll understand,” Akira snapped. Then he stopped, horror dawning over his face.

“You did not just say that,” Morgana said dumbly.

“I did not just say that.” Akira gripped his hair. “Dammit.”

“You're becoming a lovebird,” Morgana sang. “You've fallen in looooove. You looooove her. You're all sappy now, you're a sap bucket.”

“Shut up,” Akira snapped.

“First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage, after a passionate honeymoon, of course—”

Akira's ears were on fire. “Cat jerky. Don't forget it.”

“Awww, he's embawwassed, wook at him bwush wike a widdle bwide.”

Akira lunged. Morgana leapt away. Akira broke his fall with a smooth roll.

“True love's kiss,” Morgana sang. “Happily ever after.”

“Shut up!”

.

.

.

A shadow stood over the sleeping Niijima Makoto in Shibuya Station. It looked passively over the records pulled up on her monitor, the papers scattered beneath her arms, the ink stains on her fingertips.

It scooped her up and walked out the door.

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.

.

| POLL: “Do you believe in happily ever afters?”

YES: 13%, NO: 87%

| CHATBOX

"i believe you have to make your own happily ever after"

"Life sucks and then you die."

"The mortality rate of the world is 100%"

"happily ever after? sounds like some kinda gateway drug"

"I do deep down. I want to think people can be happy."

"if they exist then people would eventually ruin them anyway"

Chapter 27: RANK 12, STAGE 1

Notes:

aaaaaahhHHHHHHHHH

Makoto awoke blearily. There was only darkness before her eyes. She blinked, trying to clear her vision and make out some kind of form, but was only rewarded with endless black.

Did I... go blind?

She stretched out her hand and ran it along the floor. It was hardwood, cool in temperature. She'd been covered with a downy jacket to stay warm.

But everything was still pitch black.

The darkness pressed on her lungs and she swallowed.

I'm fine. Nothing's wrong.

She cast her mind back, trying to find memories. She'd dozed off in her office chair after pulling an all-nighter researching the other potential sources of corruption within the police force. She'd dozed off, and then what...?

How could someone have kidnapped her from within the precinct? Joker wouldn't. They were allies. And he didn't seem like the hostage type, anyway.

Footsteps thudded overhead, the weight of men's shoes.

Makoto swallowed.

She forced herself to concentrate. One hand darted to her hip, but her holster was gone.

Alright. No problem.

She felt for her surrounds. Large, cylindrical barrels of wood met her fingers, in rows and columns as if they were shelved. She felt out a crate and ducked behind it.

There was the turning of a key and light leaked into the room.

Even the thimbleful that came through the darkness was blinding. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. She saw its source coming from the stairs, bleeding onto the polished hardwood. A single flashlight permeated the gloom.

“Niijima?” came a curious voice.

The figure walked cautiously down the stairs. The beam of the flashlight swept to and fro.

Makoto struck.

She vaulted over the crate and swung all of her weight into a backwards roundhouse kick.

The figure barely raised an arm in time. Her foot smashed into it, and he went tumbling to the ground.

She wrenched his wrists behind his back and pressed a knee aggressively into his spine. Her free hand gripped his hair and pulled his head up into an awkward angle. “You. Talk. Where am I?”

“Wait, Makoto, it's Inspector Akechi!” came the panicked, strangled voice of Akechi Gorou.

She paused.

It did sound an awful lot like Akechi Gorou.

But dangerous cognitions could take on forms of real-life people.

“Tell me something that only Inspector Akechi would know,” she demanded. She eased the grip on his head, just a little.

Possibly-Gorou choked. “We shared the same criminal psychology class in undergrad. It's where they had the police academy recruitment drive.”

Makoto paused. “I don't remember sharing that class.”

Gorou was quiet for a moment.

“You smiled brightly,” he said at last. “You talked about how you'd finally found what you wanted to do. I assure you, Makoto. We were in the same class.”

She hesitated.

“And I suspected you to be a Phantom Thief after Munakawa Asao's change of heart.”

She released his head in shock. It slammed into the hardwood floor.

“Ow,” said Gorou.

“You are Inspector Akechi.”

“So I stated.” He sat up. In the dim flashlight's beam, she could see him rubbing his nose.

“I... sir, I apologize.”

“No need.” He pulled himself to his feet, sighing. “Apparently, the room has a timer on the lights. I should have checked that.”

“Where is this place?”

He reached out to the wall and flicked something.

Blinding incandescent light flooded the room. Makoto squinted, shielding her eyes until they adjusted. The chamber was broad but low-ceilinged, lined with shelves alternating barrels and dark glass bottles. Labels were pasted on each object, stating a name and a year.

“You're in a wine cellar,” said Gorou placidly.

Makoto stared.

“Why am I in a wine cellar?” she said dumbly.

Gorou coughed delicately. “I apologize. We had an urgent agenda. I should have requested your permission beforehand, but in this case, your being unaware was fortuitous.”

“By putting me in a wine cellar?”

“The timeline is tight,” said Gorou. “We needed you to immediately move to a concealed place without contacting friends or teammates. Specifically, we needed witnesses to see me take you. Do not worry. Sae has been notified. During this time, you'll be paid as if on-duty, since this is part of an assignment.”

She stared. “What for, Inspector?”

“We need to catch the Phantom Thieves,” said Gorou simply. “I believe that they, for some reason, find you integral to their plan. If my theory is correct, then we shall see some activity from them if you were to go missing.”

They were setting a trap for Joker, and she was the bait.

And she had no way of warning him.

“I assume you have no objections to this plan, Officer Niijima?” said Gorou calculatingly. “Certainly you, of all officers, would be pleased to see the Phantom Thieves come to justice while you are still listed as the head investigator.”

He was watching her carefully.

It was an unusual plan, it was a humanistically inappropriate plan, but refusing it would only cast suspicion on her, and she knew it, and Akechi Gorou knew that she knew it.

Makoto smiled easily. “And here I was, thinking you would never help me.”

“Then that settles it,” said Akechi Gorou. “For the next seven days, you, Officer Niijima Makoto, are officially being kidnapped.”

.

.

.

The door jangled open. Akira eagerly looked up.

Sakamoto Ryuuji wearily pulled himself to the front counter and cast an eye at the menu. “Iced Americano,” he ordered. “Largest size you've got.”

Disappointed, Akira ran the charge. “It'll be a moment.”

Ryuuji slumped against the table.

Akira watched him, curious. Ryuuji's shoulders were slumped in defeat, the bags under his eyes substantial. Akira cleared his throat.

“Tough day?” said Akira.

“Dude. I don't even know.” Ryuuji sighed, long and loud. “Recently, our squad leader has this thing where she just up and disappears for days. No texts, no calls, no drop-ins. Been totally silent for three days now. We reported it to the Acting Chief Superintendent, and he said not to worry about it. Whole thing pisses me off. I swear, maybe they're off making out in a closet or something. He was the one who took her out of the precinct.”

Akira's jaw tightened. “Should you be telling this to a random civilian?”

“Hell no. Do I give a damn? Also hell no.” Ryuuji waved a hand. “Hey, how much longer is that Americano gonna take?”

“You said you wanted the largest size.” Akira plopped a huge curry-sized bowl full of iced Americano in front of Ryuuji. “Here you go.”

Ryuuji stared, then gave a bewildered laugh. “Man, you're weird. And awesome.”

Akira shrugged. “I try to match the café.”

“Remind me to tip you somethin' fierce.”

“No need.”

Ryuuji slurped at the bowl. “You sure know how to brighten someone's day. Damn, I was ready to sign this one off. Prissyma goes on and on about how change begins with us and how we're gonna change the police department, then disappears with the superintendent for a make out session. Gives a really dirty feeling, ya know, like you just ate a mouthful of sand.”

“She disappeared with the superintendent?”

Ryuuji shrugged. “It happens with officers. A lot. Chief Superintendents, Superintendents, Inspectors. I'm just sayin', I wouldn't be surprised if they had a thing going on. He's known as the department pretty boy, after all.”

“A pretty boy? What's his name?”

“Haven't heard of the famous Akechi Gorou?”

“No.” A dangerous smile pulled at Akira's lips. “But now I have.”

.

.

.

There was a mattress in the wine cellar and a corded phone where every call would be monitored. Niijima Sae's number was written on a conspicuous post-it at the phone's base, accompanied with a warning to not call anyone else, but Makoto ignored the phone altogether. Makoto’s personal cell phone remained, of course, in Gorou's possession. Three meals were brought every day, and there was even a bathroom down a wing of the cellar. Apparently, Akechi Gorou had friendships with some overpoweringly wealthy and influential benefactor.

Despite the accommodations, Makoto felt like a prisoner.

If she didn't move, Joker might get caught.

If she did, she would get caught.

She'd have to take her chances.

.

.

.

“Joker,” said Morgana quietly, “I really think that you need to think this one over.”

“He kidnapped her,” snapped Akira, pulling on his coat. “Who knows where she is? Who knows what he's been... doing to her these past three days?”

“I think he's been doing nothing,” said Morgana. “This whole thing reeks of trap.”

“What if you're wrong? What if I'm wrong? What if—dammit—”

Morgana offered up the gloves that Akira had fumbled, but his face was serious. “She didn't abandon you, Joker. Take a moment and think.”

“Three days. I haven't heard from her for three days.”

“Then one hour more isn't gonna hurt.”

Akira stopped.

“Come on,” said Morgana softly. “You know that something's off with this.”

Akira slumped. “The superintendent should be scared.”

“Yes. Right after Munakawa Asao, he should be lying low. He wouldn't be going after women in law enforcement. He would be afraid of the Phantom Thieves' reckoning.”

“Maybe he likes playing with fire.”

“Akechi Gorou, known as the superintelligent Detective Prince?” Morgana nodded at Akira's laptop screen, which still had Gorou's wiki page pulled up. “Not likely. This guy has an impressive record. He's smart, Akira, so don't underestimate him.”

Akira paused. “He's trying to replicate Munakawa Asao's situation. He's trying to bait a calling card.”

Morgana nodded gravely.

“Using Makoto? Did she agree? Is she already betraying Joker?”

“Who can say?”

Akira stared at the ceiling and thought hard.

Inspector Akechi was baiting a calling card. Could that mean that he'd learned about the Metaverse, and he'd set up a trap? Or was he simply seeking to verify that Niijima Makoto held some importance to the Phantom Thieves?

“The best option,” he said slowly, “would be to not react and target someone else.”

Morgana nodded. “Of course, you're not going to do that,” he said resignedly.

“Actually, I will,” said Akira. “Doing otherwise would be stupid.”

Morgana raised a brow. “No way. Did your brain make a sudden encore appearance? I thought that it was done for.”

“Come on, Mona.” Akira straightened. “It's time to pick out another target.”

Chapter 28: RANK 12, STAGE 2

Notes:

i ran out of witty things to say
and time
BUT ENJOY MY PRECIOUS BABIES

Sakamoto Ryuuji paced to the left.

Sakamoto Ryuuji paced to the right.

Sakamoto Ryuuji stopped.

“Alright, guys,” he said, “isn't this getting ridiculous? Six days. Prissyma's been out for six days. No contact. Not even a dumb little text.”

“It is ridiculous,” said Officer Tohgou. “No one has claimed to the contrary.”

“And we're just gonna sit around and do nothin' about it?” said Ryuuji. “Shouldn't we report stuff like this?”

“Inspector Akechi has a spotless record,” said Officer Kawakami. “The chick's probably fine.”

“Didn't Munakawa Asao also technically have a spotless record?” Officer Suzui pointed out. “On paper, at least.”

“Akechi's a pretty boy inspector. She could punch his lights out in two seconds flat.” Officer Kawakami waved a dismissive hand.

Ryuuji ground his teeth. “You guys ain't taking this seriously at all.”

“Did you expect anything less from this squad?” said Officer Mifune in a rare moment of true wisdom.

Ryuuji stared. He sighed in frustration and gripped his jacket.

“Fine. Stay here. Play cards, play shogi. I'm gonna go out and do somethin', like what Queen would tell us if she were here.”

“She isn't,” Officer Kawakami said.

Ryuuji made a rude gesture with his hand and slammed the door behind him.

Officer Suzui followed on his heels.

.

.

.

Makoto was beginning to lose her sense of time.

Akechi Gorou had offered a digital clock, which told her that six days had elapsed since she first woke up in the wine cellar. Frankly speaking, it was ridiculous. It wasn't right. No police superintendent worth his salt would approve of an officer being idle for six days. This was a futile plan—wasted resources, wasted time, wasted everything. She had ample reason to shove this situation in his face and call off the bait, and she absolutely would when she next saw him.

But for now—now, it was time to think.

She'd taken the past six days for considerable physical conditioning. There was little else to do, though Gorou was accommodating enough to bring her any case files she requested. Most importantly, she had time to think.

She closed her eyes and imagined. She imagined she was in Leblanc, she was sitting across the counter, she was smelling warm curry. She imagined that she had her familiar notebook in her hand and she was waiting, waiting for a voice.

And then it came.

“Life,” said the imaginary Akira, “is a box of chocolates.”

Because his perspective on life could provide hints for his perspective on Leblanc.

She gave him a dour look. A box of chocolates could not plausibly be a Palace.

“Kidding,” said Imaginary Akira. “Life is a circus. Everything that happens is a clown fiesta. People run around doing things to draw attention to themselves, make themselves stand out, with money, relationships, status, each one more ridiculous than the last, but in the end, they just look like fools. Criminals walk free and law enforcement bumbles, government is steeped in bribery, corporations care for seniority over competence. It's a gag concert of the best kind.”

The cutting cynicism, spoken in Akira's dry tone, rocked Makoto.

It didn't sound like Akira.

It sounded like someone else.

“Or life is a coliseum,” said Imaginary Akira. “A competition to the death, where people stake everything they are, everything they have, witnessed by an audience who just wants to see bloodshed and gore. And at the end of the day, their corpses are tossed away and completely forgotten, and it's like they never existed in the first place.”

Makoto's throat was dry. “This... isn't what Akira would actually think.”

“Isn't it?”

“It's not,” she said firmly.

“Why?” said Imaginary Akira, and despite his cold words, his tone was gentle. “Because you know me perfectly? Because you can read my mind? Because I'm the trope of the Perfect Guy For You in your head, and you can't let it go?”

And she was speechless.

Imaginary Akira eased up the pressure, as considerate as the real Akira. “Then maybe life is a theater. No one really shows who they are. When they're alone, when they're with family, when they're with friends, when they're with colleagues—they have different masks for each, and they switch them out, put on an act, become entirely different people. No one shows actual truth.”

Makoto regained her composure, taking in several controlled breaths before she responded. “It sounds very plausible.”

Imaginary Akira raised a brow. “I'm hearing a ‘but’ in there.”

“But Akira, I think he doesn't care too much about genuineness.” She brushed her hair behind her ear. “He... probably cares about... justice?”

“Is that you projecting onto me?” said Imaginary Akira wryly. “Because I've never mentioned what was important to me.”

Makoto hesitated.

She felt it, felt so certain, that his passion, his very core, was centered on justice.

Why?

But Imaginary Akira was already pressing on. “Or maybe life is... a pretty little police officer with chestnut hair and crimson eyes that pulls you in and makes you just a little bit crazy.”

And Imaginary Akira suddenly rebelled against the strict boundaries she'd set for him and snaked an arm around her waist, pulled her in, tilted her face, and whispered breathily in her ear.

“I feel like you forgot what happened. Maybe I should remind you.”

And Makoto frantically waved the illusion away, clamping a hand over her racing pulse. Kurusu Akira wouldn't do that. He was somewhat shy. Wasn't he?

Except when they'd first met, he'd flirted endlessly.

But Kurusu Akira was nowhere near as cynical as her imagination made him out to be. Was he?

Except he had wit and an endless pool of sarcasm, and those traits were often correlated to cynicism.

But there was no way, because if Kurusu Akira was bold, cynical, charming, a hint of rogue, then he was almost similar to—

Makoto shook the thought away before it crystallized in her mind.

It was impossible. There were movie tickets, there were alibis, there was untampered CCTV footage that showed nothing entering or exiting Leblanc.

Except Leblanc was a Palace. So the one person who could probably leave was—

Frantically, her mind seized onto another suspect. Mishima Yuuki. How inconceivable, how laughable. Yuuki was hapless and earnest and loyal and could not be any more different.

Except—

Mishima Yuuki had also been working with Akira for seven years.

The Phantom Thieves had operated for seven years.

Makoto's mouth ran dry.

She quickly shut off that entire portion of her brain, locked away every thought. It was impossible. It was mad. Someone as prominent as a Phantom Thief couldn't just coincidentally be the cute barista she fell for. That was a ridiculous turn of fate, that was the kind of event that surfaced in dramas. A police officer and a criminal, falling for each other with secret identities and missions playing in the background. It was the kind of thing that she'd marathon on a weekend with a giant bowl of popcorn, not something that would actually happen in reality.

She reached out for something, anything, to distract her.

“I won't hurt you,” said her voice, and she remembered her hands reaching out and cupping her face, she remembered tiptoeing, she remembered—

Panicked, she shoved it away, but it came back. Vivid, hot in her mind like a brand. The tenderness, the desperation, the caress of callused hands on her face. How Akira's form slanted against hers in a chaotic symmetry, two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

She slapped at herself.

Pull yourself together. This is ridiculous. The solitude is getting to you.

Her id was sighing dreamily. But that was the best possible first kiss we ever could have hoped for.

Except it wasn't our first kiss, said her superego sulkily. It was somewhere in the corner, angry that romance had become a Thing. Romance tended to make the id win and the superego lose.

In my heart, it was our first kiss, said her id. The other one didn't count.

You loved the other one too, you Casanova, muttered her superego.

He was hot.

What a base woman.

Makoto pushed both of them out of her mind. Six days. She hadn't seen her squad in six days.

Or Akira.

By now, they'd be panicking.

So would Akira.

They'd think that she had abandoned them.

Like Akira.

If Gorou continued to insist on this arrangement, she might have to break out by force.

So when she next heard footsteps coming down the cellar staircase, she turned around. “Sir. I say this as a fellow officer of law enforcement. We can no longer tolerate this plan. It's resulting in wasted resources and idle time—”

But.

She came face-to-face with an angular, cruel black mask.

And a silencer pistol.

.

.

.

Akira was swathed in Joker's clothes as he swung through the window of a large wooden shack. The walls were covered in colored canvases, each portraying a vibrantly different emotion than its neighbor. He made his way down the hall and turned the corner.

A thin, pale man, trim in an impeccable button-up and perfectly combed hair, nearly bowled right into him.

“Oh,” said Kitagawa Yusuke. “This is an interesting surprise. You could have simply texted.”

“Fox,” said Akira shortly, “I have a rush request.”

Yusuke's eyebrows furrowed. “What sort of rush?”

“Within the hour.”

“That's not much of a rush considering your ordinary deadline, I must say.” Yusuke nodded toward the shack's kitchen. “Care for some tea?”

“Not much in the mood for it.”

“Tea is soothing to the soul and a great symbol of tranquility.”

“Maybe next time.” Akira handed a slip of paper to him. “Here's the message I need. Payment's by the window, as usual.”

Yusuke examined it. “This appears to be nothing out of the ordinary. Why do you visit personally?”

Akira hesitated.

“I have a question,” he said finally. “If someone went missing for six days, where would you think they had gone?”

Yusuke frowned. “To a creative retreat, naturally. A time spent away from man and man-made things to refresh inspiration.”

Akira blinked. “Besides that.”

“Then there is no place other than the arms of Death,” said Yusuke.

Akira was silent.

Yusuke's gaze cut into him. “Something is strange with you this day, Joker. What arrests your soul?”

Akira looked at him.

Yusuke's eyes suddenly widened.

“I see it!” he said. “That's it! That's the difference! Eureka!”

Akira recoiled. “What?”

“This gentle, sensitive aura. I know it. I have seen its shape and color.” Yusuke reached into his pocket and whipped out a brush. “Pink. Tinges of magenta and the deepest, purest blue. Oh, my friend. You are in love.”

Akira opened his mouth dumbly.

“Your spirit animal is laughing,” said Yusuke.

“My spirit animal?”

“The cat that follows ever in your footsteps.”

“He's,” and Akira turned to check, “he's not even here.”

“Not physically, of course. But his presence is ever with yours.”

Akira's inner Morgana was, in fact, bawling in laughter and rolling down the aisles helplessly.

Akira shook his head. “You're one of the strangest people I know.”

“As it takes a different mind to see a different world, I shall endeavor to accept that as a compliment,” said Yusuke. “Remain here. I shall have your cards printed within the hour.”

.

.

.

The calling cards were posted that night on the windows of Havington, a clothing company riddled with sweatshop conditions, embezzlement, and infusing clothes with illegal chemicals in the dye.

The CEO, Erizawa Kikue, had her days of corruption numbered.

.

.

.

“You don't know anything?” said Suzui Shiho.

Mishima Yuuki blinked.

Officer Suzui waited.

“You changed your hair,” Yuuki stammered.

Officer Suzui stepped back. “Huh?”

“It, it looks prettier this way.”

She paused. “O-oh. Thank you.”

A moment of silence.

Officer Suzui's phone rang. She glanced at it and turned away, blushing. “Sorry. That's Officer Sakamoto. We're supposed to meet up at the train station after two hours of recon.”

Yuuki cleared his throat. “Is—is he your boyfriend?”

Officer Suzui looked at the ground. “No.”

Silence.

“Are you open to getting one?” said Yuuki.

Officer Suzui pulled her cap over her eyes as she pushed out the door. “I might be.”

.

.

.

The seventh morning.

Akira had just donned his gloves when Mishima Yuuki bolted into the attic, gasping.

“Boss,” he said tremulously, “there's something you need to see.”

He jumped down the stairs and Morgana pounced after them. When they reached the first floor, he pointed frantically at the screen. A polished newswoman was settled at a desk, gesturing to a fuzzy picture superimposed by compositing software.

“...the Phantom Thieves fansite, where a video was forcibly uploaded by an anonymous user. We await reactions from the local police stations. Here rolls the clip.”

The screen blew up with an image of a man in a sharp black mask, illuminated by a single flashlight. From his underlit jaw to his two-sided smile to the subtle hunch of his back, he seemed irreparably insane.

“Joker!” screeched the man. “Heed my words! Know me as Black Mask!”

Akira stopped in his tracks.

“Did,” whispered Morgana, “did he just say, ‘Joker?’”

Black Mask spun on the screen, theatrical and deranged. “Behold, Joker, for I have the ultimate trump card! Your precious little cop is in the palm of my hand, hanging from the strings of fate! I may cut her lose whenever I please!”

He panned the camera.

Akira's gut fell.

A large metal frame was hoisted upwards. At the top, a gleaming blade was set in a spring-loaded mold, ready and waiting to fall. Makoto was tied at the bottom of the contraption, struggling. Her face was chalky with terror.

“A guillotine?” Morgana choked.

The camera swiveled back to Black Mask.

“Come, submit yourself to my reign!” cackled Black Mask. “I give you two hours!”

The transmission cut.

.

.

.

Makoto was tightly bound, weaponless, set out beneath a guillotine, and her id was not having a good time.

DEATH DEAD DYING DEATH DEAD DYING—

That, snapped her superego, is doing absolutely nothing to help our present situation. Think like a rational woman for once.

DEATH DEAD DYING PROBABLY DEATH DEAD DYING PROBABLY—

Everything in her was shaky and shivering. She worked to focus, pushing her arms at the ropes. They held fast, expertly tied.

Plan A, failure.

She tried shifting her whole body, but the ropes were anchored to the metal contraption. She could barely budge a few millimeters.

Plan B, failure.

She tried feeling around her pockets, but she felt nothing except a black cloth hood that had been jammed over her head.

Plan C, failure.

Goodbye, my beloved neck, mourned her id. It was lovely being attached to you.

No, she just had to think a little outside the box.

She was ungagged. She still had the power of words.

“Hey,” she said. She sounded a lot more confident than she felt. “I know what this is about.”

“Do you?” said Black Mask coolly.

“Your genius is withering in the shadows. You need the spotlight. An audience to appreciate you.” She kept her voice steady. “You're bored, aren't you? Life has nothing to offer. This is the only moment you feel alive.”

Black Mask looked at her.

“I've read profiles on psychopaths like you,” she said.

Black Mask smiled. “So have I.”

And he unveiled.

Makoto stared and her mouth went slack.

“My apologies, Officer Niijima,” said Akechi Gorou placidly. “I needed a genuine reaction for the camera. The Phantom Thieves will be watching, after all. Fear not. The guillotine is a fake. The blade is made of styrofoam, and it is glued in place.”

Makoto kept staring.

“Let's get you out of those ropes, shall we?” said Gorou. “They look quite uncomfortable.”

.

.

.

JOKER. Track it.

ORACLE. Five minutes.

JOKER. You have three.

.

.

.

Sakamoto Ryuuji leapt to his feet, eyes transfixed to his smartphone.

“GUYS,” he screamed, “WE NEED TO LOCATE QUEEN, NOW!”

Officer Mifune drew a card and frowned.

“That's strange,” she said. “She's supposedly completely safe.”

“That's paper and I saw her under a damn metal guillotine!” He reached out and tore the card from her hand. “We gotta get moving!”

.

.

.

“Whoever this Black Mask is,” ground out the Superintendent-General, “he dared to kidnap and bargain with an officer of the law. I want him in this office in twenty-four hours. Go!”

The helicopter took to the air and the SWAT teams jumped into black vans, heading out in droves.

.

.

.

Niijima Sae watched the footage and shook her head bemusedly.

“You may be milking this too much, Gorou,” she said. “If you don't get executed for this, it'll be a miracle.”

She drank calmly from her tea.

.

.

.

“Wait, Joker,” Morgana growled, digging his claws into Akira's shoulder. “We sent out the calling card. The Phantom Thieves are supposed to strike today. Black Mask is forcing you to choose.”

“We'll hit Erizawa afterward,” Akira snapped.

“Black Mask has a video camera, Joker. If he catches you onscreen, not only will everyone know your appearance, but they'll know that Niijima Makoto means something special to the Phantom Thieves. A group that's had flawless operations for seven years wouldn't jeopardize it all on an unrelated civilian casualty, not when they've just carded someone. Every single person, from every cop to every soldier to every new enemy like Black Mask, will know that Niijima Makoto is a pressure point.”

“Then we split,” commanded Akira. “I take care of the card. You take care of Black Mask. No one would notice you on camera.”

Morgana shook his head. “You know I wouldn't be able to help her. I have no powers here.”

Akira swiveled with a furious roar, crushing his heel into the nearest object. It was a garbage tin, which punched into the wall with a sizable dent.

“Joker,” said Morgana.

“Makoto is tied under a goddamn guillotine. She's going to be beheaded in two hours.”

“If you go,” said Morgana, “just throw in the towel while you're at it. Because from here, it'll all go downhill.”

“She's terrified.”

“You rescue her from this one, and she'll be targeted by the police. She'll go through endless rounds of interrogation. Everyone will ask what connection she has with the Phantom Thieves. Some interrogations will be less than friendly.”

“She's alone.”

“Everyone will go after her. They'll be looking to get their hands on the cop prized by the Phantom Thieves. Yakuza. Hitmen. Politicians. Accomplices of all your previous marks. Seven years of angry people showing up at her doorstep every day. If not her doorstep, then the precinct. With explosives. With gasses. With guns.”

Akira closed his eyes.

He thought hard, harder than he'd ever thought in his life.

Makoto was held captive by a deranged stranger who called himself Black Mask.

Black Mask somehow knew the Joker.

Not just the appearance, but specifically the name: “Joker.”

If he had seen Joker in the Metaverse, he wouldn't have known a name—just an appearance.

The only five people who knew the Joker's name were Makoto, Morgana, Oracle, Fox, and himself.

Akira idled on this point for a few seconds before discarding it. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't really matter. It was disconcerting, but not directly related to saving Makoto.

How had Black Mask captured Makoto?

She had been absent for one week, taken from the precinct by Inspector Akechi.

Inspector Akechi, when confronted with Police Squad 29, reassured them that everything was fine.

But clearly, something had gone wrong. Because Niijima Makoto was now in the grasp of a madman.

A little shard fell into Akira's grasp: Where is Akechi Gorou?

What happened to him when Niijima Makoto was kidnapped?

He took out his phone, his real one, and dialed a number.

“Hey, Officer Suzui,” he said. “It's Kurusu Akira, from Leblanc. You left this card with Mishima Yuuki a few weeks ago...”

Chapter 29: RANK 12, STAGE 3

Notes:

こんにちはグーグルトランスレート（笑）

Makoto was sitting on the floor of an abandoned cement building. From the limited ambient glow of a flashlight lantern, she could make out faded numbered pillars. It looked like a basement floor of some parking structure. Gorou was leaning against the fake guillotine with a book propped in his hands, as if he was on vacation lounging on the beaches of Maui, not waiting for an unknown criminal group while sitting beneath a fake execution machine.

Makoto considered her options.

If she acted out, Gorou would instantly know that she'd sided with the Phantom Thieves.

If she did nothing, there was a high chance that the Joker would be caught—or, at the very least, placed in great danger.

Naturally, this was all assuming that he would come for her rather than fulfill the calling card. Somehow, she had the feeling that he would.

“What are you reading?” she said, shifting close to Gorou.

Gorou's eyes flickered at her proximity, but he kept his gaze on his book. “Something light. A bit of study on Greek rhetoric.”

She leaned close, brushing their arms. Gorou probably had no interest in her, but she might be able to distract him for just a second if she channeled enough of Akira's charm. “Greek rhetoric?”

Gorou swallowed. “Yes. Persuasion and speech. Back in the days of Athenian democracy, every free man had to be prepared to reason with his countrymen, compelling them to share his opinion on certain legislation—Niijima?”

She'd laid her head on his shoulder. “Hm?”

“Makoto—Niijima—” He stood abruptly and shuffled away. “This is not an entirely appropriate distance.”

She stretched her arms. “Sorry,” she said innocently. “I was just really tired.”

Apparently, channeling the charm of Kurusu Akira did wonders.

Gorou breathed shakily and returned to his seat. “Of course. You must have been very frightened earlier. I apologize.”

She shrugged. “It's all to get the Phantom Thieves, isn't it?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You got an idea that would work? After law enforcement's pursuit of seven years?”

He relaxed. “I believe so. I always knew that they would be too clever to take a surface level bait.”

“My going missing.”

“Precisely. They would never react to something so minute.”

Gorou lowered his book.

“No ordinary criminal evades incarceration for seven years.” A faint smile pulled at his lips. “They would first wish to play it cool. Simply choose another target, as per the status quo, the typical modus operandi, showing no weakness or disturbance. But they would be hyperaware of your absence, more inclined to irrational decision and paranoia.”

“It was a two-layer trap?” Makoto said.

“Just so. Imagine a chess match. The first move was my setting up your disappearance. That was why you were kept in the wine cellar with minimal human contact and no knowledge of your whereabouts. The second move, the Phantom Thieves' counter, feigned ignorance and simply pressed on with their agenda. The third move, my counter to their counter, was Black Mask's debut appearance with the horrifying guillotine and hostage situation. With a most inconvenient timeline, the Phantom Thieves were then forced to make an urgent choice: save the woman who is, somehow, special to their cause, or protect their identity by ignoring her and keeping to their promised calling card. I presume that they would far prefer to save the woman, making this trap quite potent.”

“That's so smart,” Makoto said.

Gorou flushed. “Erm, thank you.”

“You really think that they find me all that special?”

“The motives I can think of from such a devious and egotistical criminal group are not honorable in any way,” said Gorou darkly, “but for some reason, yes, that is my working hypothesis.”

“Why, that's—” Makoto cut herself off. She looked strategically in the distance, just over Gorou's shoulder, and widened her eyes.

Gorou immediately turned, craning his neck to see the object of her fright.

The moment his back was to her, she pulled the black cloth hood out of her pocket and over his head. She clutched his shoulders tightly, releasing a terrified scream.

“Help me!” she shrieked. “Gorou—help! He's—mmph!”

Gorou flailed and kicked, but he was held fast by her grip and blinded by the cloth hood.

Makoto released a final terrified scream and socked him in the jaw.

Gorou fell to the ground, unconscious.

She straightened, looking guiltily at his comatose body.

Hopefully, that would make for a good enough alibi.

.

.

.

Akira ended the call with Suzui Shiho.

“Akechi Gorou is apparently in the emergency room,” he said. “Last week, he allegedly took Makoto to the mansion home of his influential friend, Okumura Haru. She stayed there for six days. On the sixth night, the mansion was infiltrated. Windows broken, Makoto gone. Nothing of value was taken, just Makoto. Someone knew what they came for.”

“And Akechi Gorou is in the emergency room?” Morgana said.

“Okumura Haru claims that he tried to protect Makoto, was bludgeoned for it, and now is in intensive care,” said Akira. “I'm not entirely sure I believe it. She could have paid off the hospital staff, and the windows could've been broken by anyone.”

“But it's a risk you don't want to take,” Morgana deduced.

Akira nodded. “If Black Mask really exists, then Makoto's going to be executed in two hours.”

Morgana deliberated on this for a moment.

“I warned you what'll happen if something goes wrong.”

“Something's already gone wrong,” said Akira.

Morgana thought longer.

“Go get her,” he finally said. “I should be able to solo Erizawa Kikue.”

Akira rubbed his head. “Thanks, Mona.”

“Watch for the video camera. He's expecting you, and we don't know how much he knows about the Metaverse.”

“Don't worry. This is his debut. I'm a seven-year veteran.”

And Joker disappeared.

.

.

.

Blue and white trucks and compacts soared over the highways of Tokyo, screeching sirens.

Inside, a SWAT team prepped their firearms.

.

.

.

“Stop,” commanded Officer Tohgou. “Don't take the highway. It will be utter chaos.”

Ryuuji growled in frustration. “Then what the hell am I supposed to do?”

Officer Kawakami jumped out of the beat-up van, something that was very much not owned by the police and very much owned by Sakamoto Ryuuji. She opened the driver's door and thumbed over her shoulder.

“Come on,” she said. “Out.”

“Hell no. I'm not lettin' you take the wheel.”

“That parking structure's on the outskirts of Shinjuku. I know my Shinjuku. All the side roads, the alleys, the shortcuts.”

“Why's that?” snapped Ryuuji.

Officer Kawakami's mouth stretched into a sneer. “I was a maid.”

.

.

.

Makoto searched Gorou's pockets. There was a pair of handcuffs, which she used to fasten his wrists behind his back.

Step One: Debilitate the captor.

Handcuffing an inspector seemed like something a Phantom Thief would do, which was convenient.

Step Two: Disarm the captor.

She found the silencer pistol in his holster and flicked the safety back on, threading the gun gingerly through her belt. If asked, she could easily claim that she'd wrested it from her captor. It was, in a way, the true story.

She searched for anything else: tasers, pepper spray, retractable baton. There was nothing.

Step Three: Disperse the evidence.

She searched for video cameras, recording devices. There were two pinhole cameras and three audio devices: three on his person, and two in discreet corners of the room. Apparently, Akechi Gorou thought like her.

Footsteps dropped behind her.

She swiftly drew Gorou's pistol, flicked the safety, and crouched.

Akira stared at her silently from the shadows.

She choked, the gun falling from her fingers, pivoting end over end until it clattered against the cement. She shook her head violently and tried to clear her hazy vision.

That's not right.

Who are you?

Akira's form wavered. She shook again.

And suddenly she was looking at Joker.

She breathed, relieved. There was the familiar white mask, the double-tailed coat, the crimson gloves.

Why that hallucination?

She pushed it away as she picked up the pistol. They had no luxury to waste time.

“Joker,” she said briskly, “we don't have long. Inspector Akechi could wake up at any moment, and he's smart enough to feign unconsciousness when he's actually listening in. So I was thinking that—”

Joker strode to her and pulled her in.

She thudded against his chest at the force. He buried his head in her neck, the flat of his mask pushing into her earlobe. One hand cradled her head, stroking her hair gently, and the other gripped her waist.

“Hey,” she said sharply, “let go.”

Joker breathed with a shudder. “I thought you were going to die.”

She stopped at that.

He sounded scared. Not suave, not arrogant, but genuinely scared.

She patted him awkwardly on the head. “I'm not. Let's go.”

His arms curled tighter. He raised his head, leaning his cheek against her brow. “One minute. I was prepping myself to witness a death. This relief is quite welcome.”

She pushed at him. “Stop this. I have a boyfriend.”

He didn't budge. “Do you?”

“I...” Akira hadn't technically hadn't asked her out yet, but... “Yes.”

“How certain you sound.” His hand gently ran through her hair.

She pressed the edges of her fingers warningly into the knob where his smallest ribs would lie. “Look. Maybe it's a habit to fool around with every woman you see, but I'm now a working colleague. I expect to be treated with respect.”

Joker obligingly released her. “Fool around, hm?”

“I know my gentleman thief lore. Casanovas and flirters, the lot of you.”

“I assure you that I've only fooled around with one woman,” said Joker with a sly grin.

She glared petulantly at him. “And what, I remind you of her? I'm some poor man's substitute?”

“That would make it two women, not one.”

She opened and closed her mouth.

“Well, I don't care,” she snapped. “Pretend I'm married. Pretend I'm off limits. Do whatever you have to. I'm a colleague, so stop disrespecting me.”

“As you wish,” Joker said quietly.

She paused. “That's it?”

“Yes,” he said. “Now. What was the plan you were beginning to clarify before I so rudely interrupted you?” He gestured to Gorou's body. “It seems well in progress. As expected from the star of Shibuya Station.”

She blinked, thrown off. He'd let it go? Just like that?

She shook her head and tried to refocus.

“Yes. Um. Well, we shouldn't be talking aloud all that much. Akechi could wake up at any moment.”

“Akechi? Akechi Gorou?”

“He pretended to be Black Mask.”

“That,” mused Joker, “makes a surprising amount of sense.”

“We're not supposed to talk aloud, you know.”

Two crimson gloved hands raised and flew, fluid and certain.

That won't be a problem, Joker signed.

Makoto stared.

Sign language.

The motions were fluent, practiced, bespeaking years of consistent use. They looked achingly familiar to her.

JSL-fluent.

It was completely irrational, but Makoto felt tears suddenly dash to her eyes.

No.

It was impossible.

She cut the thought away, beat it angrily into submission.

You know sign language? she signed hesitantly.

It's extremely useful in thievery, said Joker. One mustn't alert the guards with loud whispering, you know.

She paused.

How did you know that I knew sign language? she said.

Joker's hands faltered.

You, looked like, the type, he said.

More alarm bells, more things that she shoved down. Joker was, first and foremost, a criminal, and she couldn't forget that, even if they were technically allied at the moment. A criminal, not a civilian she knew. That's a dirty lie, she signed.

I thought it rather family-friendly myself.

Joker.

Do we really have time for this? he signed urgently.

They didn't. She huffed. Alright. Look. Gorou's blinded with that bag, so long as you keep his arms bound. I think you should take him into the Metaverse. There's probably a lot of angry people headed here to catch the Phantom Thieves, so you don't want to be sticking around.

And what about you? said Joker.

I need to be rescued by the police, said Makoto. It'll be a huge blow to their pride if both Black Mask and the officer in trouble disappear. But if they rescue the officer, they can at least save public face by showing they've recovered an innocent. Concede that part to them and win the war.

He touched her cheek, then withdrew suddenly, as if remembering her wishes. Will you be safe?

Probably, said Makoto, assuming that nobody worse comes for me. And you, do you have a Palace around here?

Mona and I—Mona is the other Phantom Thief—created a system. We have a map of certain hotspots all over Tokyo. Within these hotspots, there must always be one Palace. If there are two, then we can prune one. Otherwise... well, for the sake of transportation, we are forced to keep it up.

It was a little disturbing, but understandable. I see, said Makoto.

She reached out, gesturing to his hand. He extended it, and she dropped Gorou's pistol and the recording devices.

These were his, she said. Take care of them.

His glove closed and he pocketed the objects.

Where shall I take him? he said.

She blinked. She hadn't thought that far. I don't know.

I'll figure it out, said Joker. Then final question. How does he know my name?

She looked away. I'm sorry. I never thought he would meet you in the Metaverse, so... I told him a name. When he briefed me after Munakawa Asao's heist.

There was a pause.

I never thought he would use it this way, she signed desperately.

Silence.

She turned. Joker was gone. And so was Akechi Gorou.

.

.

.

The beat-up van, now slightly more beat up and muddy on the underside, pulled next to the abandoned parking structure.

“How the hell did you ever get a license?” Ryuuji snapped.

“I got us here, didn't I?” said Officer Kawakami dryly.

Officer Suzui snapped her head to the beaten pathway. “Focus, kids. One officer per floor. Weapons out. Dragonheart, you're the strategist. Stay at the van, keep yourself focused. Report to the helicopter that Police Squad 29 has arrived.”

.

.

.

Back at the courthouse, Niijima Sae continued to passively sip her tea and work on her latest case, a family homicide.

“Prosecutor Niijima,” gasped a clerk from the info desk, “it's horrible, your sister—”

Sae waved her hand. “It builds character.”

Chapter 30: RANK 12, STAGE 4

Notes:

//nyans to the tune of the blue danube

Akira plunged through the Metaverse, Gorou's weight heavy on his back. He whisked out thin, strong cords from his satchel and bound them around Gorou's ankles and wrists. Then he flung Gorou's body like a potato sack over one shoulder and broke into a steady jog.

His mind looped in an endless mantra that attempted to block all other noise from his head:

She did not betray you, she did not betray you, she did not betray you, get that ridiculous thought out of your head because it isn't true and she acted within reason—

This is just the beginning, whispered his inner Makoto. It starts with a name. Then the name becomes a place. Then the place becomes a method, and the method becomes everything, until there is nothing more to say about the Phantom Thieves and you are caught and imprisoned and left to rot—

NOT TRUE.

I will betray you.

NO.

I will stab you in the back, and it will bring me joy.

STOP.

I will, said his inner Makoto gleefully. She had her arms around his waist, twisting the knife in deeper. His breath shortened. It's only a matter of time.

Joker, said his inner Morgana, this is an illusion.

He knew it was an illusion. He knew she was an illusion.

But that didn't stop the fear.

She said she wouldn't hurt you, said his inner Morgana quietly.

“People lie,“ Akira cried.

“I love you,” said his mother.

“I’m proud of you,” said his father.

People lied and broke their promises all the time.

They turned you away and sent you down the dusty backstreets of Yongen-jaya to a complete stranger.

They left you nothing but your family name, which became a mockery, an insulting reminder.

Akira felt a familiar sharp pain between his ears.

GUILTY.

Frantically, he reached for other memories. Amusement park with Sojiro. Arcade camping with Yuuki. Sushi restaurant with Morgana.

GUILTY. GUILTY. GUILTY.

He stumbled. Akechi Gorou's body flopped to the ground.

Akira could see it—the boundaries of his Palace expanding, washing over grass, building furniture, solidifying walls. The Treasure was pulsing in him, folding upward.

No. No, this is irrational. This is completely baseless. Get rid of it. You can control it, you can—

The agony vibrated in his skull. His vision spiraled to black.

Akira fell.

.

.

.

Officer Suzui stepped into the second basement floor. Her service pistol was fixed on the hand holding her flashlight. She swept back and forth, the beam cutting into the gloom.

“Floor reports,” she said curtly into her walkie talkie. “In sequence.”

“Maid reporting. Nothing of note.”

“Miss Fortune reporting. Nothing of note.”

“Skull reporting. Nothing of note.”

“Setter, acting squad leader, reporting.” She stepped around the pillar. “Nothing of—wait.”

Her flashlight landed on a gleam.

She inched forward, peeking out of cover.

A huge metal contraption stretched to the cement ceiling. At the bottom lay a mass of ropes, and at the top sat a gleaming, wide-edged blade.

Officer Suzui stepped back.

“I, I found something. Oh, god. I found something.”

.

.

.

Morgana vaulted out of Havington and dusted his paws.

“Mission accomplished,” he said smugly.

He darted through the alleys, heading back to Leblanc.

.

.

.

Akira stirred.

His head was pounding.

His body felt stretched out, thin.

His mind—

His mind was an utter mess, sending tears to his eyes for no reason, weighing down his head like a brick, choking his throat—

He fought to shake it away. He tried to move his limbs, but they felt heavy, driven against the ground by stakes.

He wanted to lie there.

You get up, Joker, commanded his inner Morgana. Akechi Gorou is five feet away and you have a lot of distance to travel.

He pulled himself to his knees. Every movement was difficult, shaking through water.

That's it, said his inner Morgana. One foot ahead of the other. Just think one step ahead.

He leaned down and slung Gorou's body over his shoulder.

I left him in your hands, whispered his inner Makoto. Her voice was gentle, no longer gleeful. I trusted you, because I left him in your hands.

He stepped forward. Left in front of right. Right in front of left.

I trust you, said his inner Makoto. Will you ever trust me?

.

.

.

Officer Suzui crouched by the guillotine, studying the ropes. She kept her ears alert as her fingers trailed on the edges.

No signs of cuts, burns, or other forceful tampering.

They'd simply been untied.

She checked for blood along the inside fibers, signs of struggle from Makoto. She was surprised to find a thin felt lining, as if the captor had wanted to prevent rope burn.

That didn't match at all.

Black Mask had seemed unhinged, completely unconcerned with the sanctity of human life. He certainly wouldn't have opted for minor comforts like lining the ropes.

What had happened?

A shadow flickered in the corner. Officer Suzui swiftly raised her gun.

“Black Mask,” she called clearly. “This is the federal police. Come out with your hands raised. You are surrounded. There is nowhere to run.”

“Setter,” came Officer Tohgou's voice, sudden and panicked. “Setter, we've received instructions to not enter the building! It's a hostage situation, Setter, you're supposed to send a negotiator first, we acted too—”

The shadow lunged.

Officer Suzui threw herself out of the way, firing a warning shot into the ceiling.

The shadow screamed and cowered.

It was a feminine scream.

Officer Suzui paused. She fumbled with her flashlight and pointed the beam directly at the shadow.

Niijima Makoto was pressed against the wall, shivering with her arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes were rolling in her skull, wide and terrified, and her skin was pallid, coated with sweat. She shrieked at the bright light and shielded her face.

“Oh,” whispered Officer Suzui. “Oh, no, Makoto.”

She lowered her flashlight and pocketed her pistol, kneeling in front of Makoto.

Makoto scrambled away.

“It's me, Suzui Shiho,” Officer Suzui said softly. “You're safe now. Don't worry. Don't worry.”

She slid her arms around Makoto. Makoto smiled secretly into her shoulder.

.

.

.

Akira faded out of the Metaverse into the cellar of Leblanc. He hoisted a chair from the upper floor and tied Gorou securely.

Gorou stirred.

Akira rolled up the cloth hood so that it settled on the bridge of his nose but kept his eyes covered.

Gorou suddenly was still.

He was awake. Akira could see his Adam's apple bob nervously as his fingers subtly moved, feeling the ropes, the hardwood chair. He was attempting to feign unconsciousness and gather his bearings.

Akira kicked him in the ankle. Light enough to cause no damage, sharp enough to sting. Gorou hissed between his teeth.

“So you're up,” said Akira. He lowered his voice, added a hint of gravel.

Gorou was quiet for a moment.

“Akechi Gorou,” Akira read off smoothly. “Once famous as the Detective Prince. The pretty boy inspector of Shibuya Station. Now the acting chief superintendent. Fortune's been in your favor recently, I see.”

Gorou's fingers tightened on the wooden armrest. “Joker, I presume.”

Akira clapped hollowly. “Brilliant deduction.”

“What have you done with Niijima Makoto.” Gorou's voice was threaded with steel.

“I don't think you're in the position to be asking questions, Inspector.”

“Answer that question, and I shall answer one of yours without falsehood or concealment.”

Akira blinked. That was a card that Gorou never should have played. It conceded far too much power to a criminal.

“Why? Does the pretty little cop mean something special to you?” Akira said, injecting amusement into his tone.

He caught an infinitesimal shift in Gorou's jaw. “Is that the question you wish for me to answer?”

The realization hit Akira like a blow to the head. “You're in love with her. From a distance.”

“Is she safe.”

“You want her to be yours.”

“Tell me only that.”

He remembered the leering face of Black Mask, the unmitigated terror on Makoto's face. Fury raced in his blood.

“A pity,” he hissed, kicking Gorou's chair again. “I've gone into her head, stolen her heart.”

He chose the words to sting, and they did. Gorou's face twitched for a split second. Then he smoothed it over.

“Since when were the Phantom Thieves so, how can I put it, dastardly?” Gorou said coolly. “I thought that you were renegades for justice.”

“They say that all is fair in love and war.”

“And you are in love?”

“If it distresses you, certainly.”

Gorou paused. “You came for her. You had just carded Erizawa Kikue, but you chose to split resources for her.”

“You do not understand the scale of the Phantom Thieves' operations, little prince. We can do both simultaneously without any trouble.”

Gorou shook his head. “I have long determined that the Phantom Thieves were required to keep their group small. Seven years of secrecy is not easy to keep. Every additional operative is an additional mouth with exponentially greater degrees of risk. And if the Thieves had truly expanded, heists would be occuring internationally. Europe. America. Africa. Oceania. No place would be safe from the Phantom Thieves. But it is not so. They have stayed within Japan, grounded primarily to Tokyo. And only one victim is carded at any time.”

Akira was struck into silence.

“You chose Niijima Makoto,” Gorou pushed. “You chose her on the day of an operation. It does not matter whether you were able to do two missions at once. She is more to you than a mere civilian, enough to divide your focus on a heist. What is your agenda with her? Where have you taken her?”

“I find men who only speak about women to be dull and shallow,” Akira said. It was filler, something to provide time while he thought of a better answer.

“Is that filler?” said Gorou placidly.

Akira paused, unbalanced.

“We both know that this is more than a squabble for love,” said Gorou. “The Phantom Thieves have some heinous use for her, do they not?”

“Heinous? What, have the past seven years not assured you of our goodwill?”

“They have been seven years of forceful psychological manipulation.” Gorou's voice hardened. “Impelling people to make a specific decision is not goodwill, it's turning them into robots and ignoring their rights as human beings.”

“What if they consistently make the choice to hurt others, princey? What if I made my decision to walk into an airport, loaded with a bomb vest and eleven additional pounds of explosives? Then that is my human right? To inflict pain on innocents?”

“Naturally, the airport security would do their job properly and catch you.”

“And if they do not? If they are paid off, if their sanctity of human life can be bought at a price?”

Gorou opened his mouth. Then closed it.

“Difficulties arise,” said Akira, “when law enforcement fails to be competent.”

Gorou's voice was sharp. “We do everything within our power.”

“Clearly, it's not enough.”

“Perhaps it would be, if civilians such as yourselves dedicated your talents to aiding the police rather than hindering them. Submit the evidence you find. Gather clear testimony. Cooperate in the investigation.”

Akira laughed. “Don't mock me. Evidence from the Phantom Thieves? Imagine the court proceedings. Recordings taken without express consent are inadmissible evidence, and what resourceful man would leave loose ends lying about? Why do you suppose that it is so difficult to catch the wealthy with your bureaucracy? Because the wealthy have lawyers, and the lawyers delay cases for months and years, and all the evidence disappears, and you are back to square one. The heads of yakuza, you know that they sell women and substances and human body parts, but you can do nothing because they also sell and buy lawyers, and lawyers sell and buy the court!”

“Then what does your system have?” Gorou said angrily. “You play a glorified King of the Hill. It is childish and destructive, a pure ploy for the human ego. With nothing above, people will fight for dominance of the law. And you are just one more of the squabbling children.”

Akira laughed again, the rage blackening in him. He knew it was becoming dangerous. He could feel the Palace stretching. But he no longer cared. “Then here we go! A utopia of perfect Law and Order, with innocents shot in their homes and raped in the streets and executed for crimes they didn't commit! All hail the wonderful sense of Order!”

“Then it is perfectly acceptable for you to rewrite the very souls of people, to set their destinies as if they are puppets, to overrule their every choice?” Gorou hissed.

“Maybe I'd be doing the world a favor,” Akira spat dryly.

“So then,” said Gorou, “imagine the woman you love, if you have one. Now. Imagine I am a Phantom Thief, and I decide that it is for the betterment of society if I completely rid her of all emotion, take away her love for you. Maybe my reasoning is rational, maybe it is not. Either way, how would you feel?”

Akira faltered.

Makoto, turning her back to him.

“I'm sorry,” her sweet voice would say, sadly, too sad for him to genuinely hate her. “I've changed my mind.

Makoto, leaving him behind.

“You had no choice in the matter,” Gorou continued. “She had no choice. I forced something upon her. I made her my slave, my doll, my puppet. You Phantom Thieves are ten thousand times worse than the most corrupt official, the most demented slaver, the most twisted whore dealer, because you make your victims do what you want, but far, far worse, you make them want what you want. Pitiful, pitiable victims. They might as well be inanimate pawns on a chessboard.”

Akira swallowed.

A deep, pounding ache rose in the core of his skull.

“Now. I can sense your counter-argument. Perhaps you do it for the ‘greater good.’ But what exactly is this ‘greater good,’ Joker? Who decides what is within the boundaries of ‘greater good?’ What is great and good enough to completely ignore free will, the one natural right that humans ought to keep?”

Akira's eyes were getting wet and he didn't know why, something was painful in his throat and—

“There's a story, you know, about the Holocaust,” continued Gorou coolly, his assault relentless. “Terrible, horrifying event. So many people wounded and tortured and killed, brutally, inhumanely. And the concentration camps, oh, the atrocity that was the concentration camps. There was a man named Viktor Frankl sent to Auschwitz, an intelligent psychiatrist, his only crime the genes that declared him a Jew. And he was surrounded by the brutality and the inhumanity, and he was surrounded by despair, but do you know what he wrote in his book? That in the midst of suffering, at least he could hold onto the ‘last of human freedoms,’ which was to choose how he thought about his circumstances. His freedom to think as he pleased. In Nazi Germany, in concentration camps, in immeasurable oppression, Viktor Frankl had freedom of will. And yet, Joker, the Phantom Thieves take even that away. Then what does that make you?”

Something was cracking at the seams, doubts that had been packed away and fears that had been stuffed down—

“You turn people into domesticated pets, mute slaves, meant only to behave a certain way and never step out of bounds, all for the sake of some nebulous ‘greater good’ that is defined according to you.”

“That's... not... the same...”

“Isn't it? Forceful changes of heart? Pressing everyone into a perfect cookie-cutter version of the Ideal Human Being, as perceived by the Phantom Thieves' handbook? My, my, Joker, your god complex is something to behold.”

“But I... I'm just... weeding out corruption...”

“You are being reckless!” Gorou cried furiously. “You are crafting a totalitarian society of which you are the omnipotent dictator! You are instituting the very system that you hate, enforcing the very government that you loathe! Society is meant to have order, checks, balances! Without it, one group seizes singular power and oppresses everyone else! The Phantom Thieves are going to become oppressors, Joker, everything you have done is repugnant, damnable—”

GUILTY.

The resentment spilled into nothingness.

Akira's leg crescented.

He struck the side of Gorou's head with a solid thud.

Gorou toppled.

The chair shattered against the ground and he crumpled in a heap.

Silence.

A pool of blood trailed into the cellar floor.

Akira stood, his breathing uneven.

He fell against the corner, pulling his knees to his chest.

And Joker sobbed.

.

.

.

| POLL: “Is killing bad?”

YES: 81%, NO: 19%

| CHATBOX

"depends who"

"Yes, always. No exceptions."

"if ur bad at it"

"WHY ARE THERE 19%"

"Our veterans kill people to protect us."

"this is too #deep admin"

Chapter 31: RANK 12.5

Notes:

PSYCH
topkek.

on a side note, i am very impressed with the thoughtfulness of people's comments and debates. you guys are a rad community. keep going.

Suzui Shiho stood in the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department headquarters in front of the Superintendent-General desk. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead even as he paced before her.

“Suzui, this is a considerable problem.”

She waited.

“Leading Squad 29 to be the first responders on the scene, beating our second fastest vehicle by fifteen minutes, was certainly admirable. I will admit that.”

She waited.

The Superintendent-General swiveled on his heel, spitting fire. “But you reacted impulsively! To, of all possible situations, a hostage crisis! You went in without awaiting instruction from headquarters. You endangered your entire squad! Your impatience, Suzui, could have led to catastrophe!”

She bowed her head. There was no need for an apology. The police had no patience for them.

“Three month probation and pay cut.” The Superintendent-General looked directly at her. “During probation, you'll be serving as traffic control. When the period is over, you'll return to your normal duties as a member of Police Squad 29.”

Officer Suzui's jaw twitched.

“Dismissed,” said the Superintendent-General.

She bowed shortly. “Yes sir.”

.

.

.

“So you're saying,” said Ohya Ichiko, “that the guillotine was a fake.”

“The blade was styrofoam,” said Niijima Makoto's voice over the phone, “and the whole framework was constructed like a stage prop. It wasn't actually meant to behead people. It was functionally inoperable.”

Ohya Ichiko was silent for a moment. “Why are you telling me this, Niijima?”

“What do you mean?”

“You should be in shock. If not shock, then a debrief. This information could be considered confidential.” Ohya Ichiko paused. “Telling me about the lining on the ropes, the fake guillotine. What are you implying?”

“What do you think?” said Makoto primly.

Ichiko frowned. “You believe that the higher-ups are gonna block the truth of the story. That they'd straight-up lie, say that Black Mask is a dangerous fugitive and Public Enemy Number One.”

“Maybe,” said Makoto's voice. “It's a hunch.”

“But this is your way of looking into it,” Ichiko guessed. “Use me as bait. See who comes calling to shut down the article.”

“In order to start weeding it corruption,” said Makoto, “we need targets.”

“How magnanimous,” said Ichiko drily. “But what do the police have to gain from setting up Black Mask as a dangerous villain?”

“Black Mask is the first person who appears to know anything about the Phantom Thieves,” said Makoto. “In other words... he's the first solid lead.”

“And upping him on the priority list will make it faster to catch him, and through him, the Phantom Thieves.”

“With the public none the wiser,” agreed Makoto.

Ichiko leaned back, a faint smile on her lips. “Well. Guess it's not all that unfair. Black Mask did kidnap and threaten an officer of the law on public television. Even if it was all a dupe.”

“Will you publish the article or won't you?” said Makoto.

Ohya Ichiko tapped her pen thoughtfully against her desk.

Then she shrugged.

“To hell with it. Why not."

.

.

.

Morgana surveyed the blindfolded Akechi Gorou, a very strange look on his feline face. “Well, he's not dead. In fact, he looks fine.”

“He had a concussion. I brought him into the Palace for a Diarahan,” Akira said hollowly.

Morgana nodded. “Then it looks like there's nothing to worry about. You had me worried for a second, what with all your wailing.”

Akira clamped his hands over his ears.

Morgana set a paw on his knee. “Joker.”

“I did it to him,” Akira whispered.

Morgana blinked.

“It didn't happen while we were crossing the Metaverse. It wasn't because of a shadow. I hurt him. I kicked him in the head, he went down. There was a bad injury. Blood on the floor.”

Morgana shrugged. “It's fine. I'm surprised it took you this long. I've bowled down more people than I can count because I was having a hissy fit.”

“It's not fine,” said Akira desperately. “You don't get it, Morgana, I can't control myself anymore. I can't control it anymore. I'm turning into something. I don't know what it is. I can't. I can't handle it.”

“Joker,” said Morgana calmly, “you're fine. Just chill for a minute and think things through like you always do.”

“I CAN'T!”

A hand snapped out and gripped Morgana by the neck. Morgana choked, his windpipe pressing dangerously thin.

Akira shook Morgana. “Don't you get it?! I almost killed someone! This is uncontrollable and it's going to—”

Horror washed over his face and he swiftly released his grip. Morgana fell to the floor, coughing violently.

Akira stepped back.

Morgana held up a paw. “I'm, I'm fine,” he hacked.

Akira pushed himself up the cellar stairs, up into the attic. He slammed the door.

Morgana collapsed back on the floor, fighting to regain his breath.

.

.

.

Okumura Haru paced back in forth in the hospital hallway, nervously tapping her fingers together.

“Ooooh, Gorou,” she whispered, “where are you? You're really cutting it close...”

.

.

.

Niijima Sae frowned at the news report.

Black Mask had disappeared.

There was no sign of the Phantom Thieves.

Niijima Makoto had been recovered terrified and traumatized.

Helicopter footage showed that no one had exited the building, and yet, only Niijima Makoto was found inside.

In short... something had gone wrong.

Akechi Gorou wouldn't have left his operation in the middle. He had been dedicated to crafting the perfect trap. Besides, the parking garage he'd selected would have been surrounded by approaching police vehicles. There was nowhere to plausibly run.

But Gorou was gone, vanished into thin air.

The only clue remaining was Makoto's testimony.

.

.

.

Police Squad 29 watched quietly as Suzui Shiho slipped papers, gadgets, and the bobbleheads on her desk into a cardboard box.

“Shiho,” said Makoto quietly. She was wrapped in a shock blanket, waiting for a debrief in the interrogation room. “I'll talk to them. This isn't right.”

“But it is.” Shiho swallowed back her tears. “It really is, boss. I made a reckless decision. I should have waited for instructions. I'm not a cadet, I should have known better. It was a hostage situation, and I endangered your life. That's the worst part, really. I know that the Superintendent-General was right.”

“That's bull,” Ryuuji ground out.

“Not according to regulation,” Officer Tohgou said sadly.

“Regulation can go to hell,” Officer Kawakami bit out. She wheeled around in her chair and returned to the solitaire game on her computer. She wasn't good at Emotional Partings.

Makoto placed her hands on Shiho's shoulders. “Well, I'm proud of you, Shiho. You were proactive. No bystander syndrome in you.”

Shiho shook her head. “That's a quick way for people to die in a hostage situation.”

Makoto pulled Shiho in, rubbing her back. “You're a good officer, Suzui. Come back quickly.”

Shiho braved a smile and heaved her box on her hip.

She stepped out of Shibuya Station.

.

.

.

Morgana rapped against the attic door. “Joker! Joker, I know you're in there!”

No response.

“This isn't the time for you to be an edgy teenage girl! I'm fine! In fact, I think you dislodged something in my throat!”

No response.

“Don't do this, you bipedal moron, we're partners!”

No response.

The vents were locked down. The window was securely bolted. The secondary entrance, accessible by climbing the ladder in the café backroom and removing a ceiling panel, was weighted.

“Do you wanna build a snowman?” Morgana tried desperately with a weak laugh.

No response.

Morgana left.

.

.

.

Suzui Shiho rested her head against the cool mahogany counter of Crossroads Bar. The alcohol was starting to buzz in her system, giving a nice tingle to her fingertips. It didn't feel nearly strong enough. She wanted enough to black out, to temporarily ease the burden of reality.

“Lala,” she called, “I'll try some vodka.”

Lala raised an eyebrow. “Oh, my. You've never tried something so strong.”

“I need to get smashed.”

Lala looked at her for a moment, then shrugged.

Shiho swiveled her cheek to the counter and sighed. It was nice being alone, unbothered, left in a calm environment without a yelling Sakamoto and a snapping Kawakami and a useless Mifune and—

Oh, who was she kidding.

It sucked being alone.

But she'd brought it on herself with her own carelessness. If there had been a bomb, a group lying in wait, or even if Black Mask had been provoked at the sight of police officers in the area—

Makoto would have died.

Police Squad 29 would have died.

Six deaths, all on her.

Lala passed Shiho a glass of vodka. She reached out for it.

A hand cut in front of her, blocking her access.

“Sorry, but I think you should stop here,” said a voice.

A male voice.

Shiho looked up.

Mishima Yuuki settled on the bar stool next to her. He looked homey and gentle in a navy sweater and off-white trousers. His spine had a soft curve as he surveyed her, eyes bright and innocent beneath dark hair.

“Oh, geez.” Shiho sighed again. “I'm going crazy.”

“Officer Niijima sent me here,” said Yuuki. “She wants me to remind you to drink responsibly. And she said... um... I seemed like the kind of person who would have a lot of free time. That's probably not a compliment?”

“Well, crap.” Shiho buried her head in her arms. “Now I have to be mortified on top of everything else. She sent me a chaperone.”

“She's worried about you,” Yuuki said earnestly. “She can't come herself because of all the debriefs. I'm just here until she can take you home.”

“Did she tell you why I'm here?”

Yuuki paused. “She said you had a rough day.”

Shiho covered her eyes. “Well. Probably better that you don't know, then.”

Yuuki was looking at her. She couldn't see it, but she felt his gaze on her hair. There was the smallest touch on her shoulder, a comforting one.

“Is it,” said Yuuki, and she heard him swallow. “Men giving you trouble at work?”

She sat up, bewildered.

“Because,” said Yuuki in a rush, “I remember that Shibuya Station just had that chief superintendent—Munakawa, I think, that was his name. And he... well, there were rumors of really bad things. And, and, well, I know what it's like. Having someone's eyes on you and... you know. Feeling like prey.”

There was a note of pain in his voice. Her lips parted.

“But!” Yuuki suddenly waved his hands. “I don't mean to force you! Just... if you want someone to talk to, I'm here. For at least two hours. Um. Yeah.”

She smiled at him, her stomach fluttering. He was sweet, too sweet.

“Thanks,” she said.

“My pleasure,” he said absently, looking right into her eyes.

She turned away, blushing.

They sat side by side in silence. She didn't touch the vodka.

.

.

.

| POLL: “So there's this girl... Should I ask her out?”

YES: 27%, NO: 73%

| CHATBOX

"admin you will only be disappointed"

"NO. What will happen to the Phan-site?!?!??"

"YOU DESERVE HAPPINESS ADMIN"

"*waves handkerchief with a teary smile*"

"seeing the poll results... it fills you with indetermination"

"is she cute"

Chapter 32: RANK 13, STAGE 1

Notes:

L.C. is gone again, so I'm back - RP

The moment Makoto was released from briefing, she drove over to Crossroads.

Shiho was slumped against the counter, sleeping, and Mishima Yuuki was studying her face with a very odd expression, like he was trying to decide whether it would be a good idea to lift her head and lean it against his shoulder. Makoto stopped short at his tender expression, but he saw her through the window. He promptly yelped and scrambled away.

“Hi. Hi, Niijima. You're a cop. This, this isn't what it looks like.”

Makoto found a tickle of amusement—an emotion that she hadn't felt for a while. “Oh? What does it look like?” she said primly.

“Um. H-harrassment?” Yuuki said weakly. “Which, you know, it isn't. At least. I really hope it's not. Oh, god. She just looked tired and that counter looked really uncomfortable.”

Makoto smiled wider. “Would you like to say anything to her before I take her home?”

Confusion flickered over Yuuki's brow. “She's sleeping. She's sleeping?”

“Some reports say that people are more susceptible to messages when they're sleeping,” said Makoto innocently. “Maybe if you tell her something, you know... her subconscious will really take it to heart.”

Yuuki's eyes flickered to Shiho's sleeping face.

“Is that... okay?” he said quietly.

She only nodded towards Shiho.

Yuuki leaned close and whispered. The posture seemed somewhat intimate. Makoto turned away, but in the quietness of the bar, his voice carried, clear and bright.

“Suzui... cheer up. You're wonderful. I wish I could be as courageous as you.”

He darted in, pecked her on the cheek, and sprinted out the door as fast as his lanky legs could carry him.

Shiho stirred with an incoherent mumble.

Makoto giggled to herself.

.

.

.

When Shiho was safely home, Makoto immediately booked it to Leblanc.

She'd vanished off the face of the planet for an entire week, then appeared as the kidnapped victim of an unhinged madman on the entire internet. What could Kurusu Akira possibly have thought?

She pushed against the door, but it was locked. The lamps were off. A quick switch of her flashlight revealed a bright sheet of paper taped to the glass: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Her stomach fell.

Dread.

She pounded against the door. “Akira! Akira, it's me, Makoto!”

There was a shift in the darkness.

She aimed the flashlight. A black-and-white cat pulled up to the door and stared at her.

“Morgana,” she whispered. “Morgana, where's your owner?”

Morgana reached out a paw and tapped rhythmically.

Deliberately.

Why... are... you... here.

Makoto recoiled.

A cat knew Morse code.

A cat. Knew. Morse code. And Japanese.

“Are you, are you self-aware?” she cried.

Morgana tilted his head. She had the feeling that he was giving her a wry look.

Akira's cat was superintelligent.

Akira's cat knew Morse code.

Morse code.

Morse code could be extremely useful for criminals.

And—

It was known by a superintelligent cat, the same cat that had been recorded posted calling cards by the Phantom Thieves.

Makoto swallowed.

“I'm here to see Akira,” she said. She'd think about the implications of a self-aware cat capable of symbolic language later. “I've been kind of, um, kidnapped these past few days. Is he okay?”

Morgana paused.

Then shook his head.

“He's not okay?” Makoto said desperately.

Morgana tapped. You can't help him.

“I haven't even tried yet,” Makoto said. “Let me try.”

Morgana shook his head. He wouldn't want you to.

“Why not?!” she cried.

The tapping was laborious. Everyone has a mask that they present to the world. Destroying that mask is very dangerous.

“Don't talk in riddles. You're a cat,” said Makoto, irritated.

I'm an honest— The cat suddenly broke off. You know what? Just come in.

The cat jumped and the lock disengaged. Makoto pushed the door open.

“Is Akira here?” she said, switching on the nearest lamp.

Morgana pointed upwards.

“In the attic?”

A nod.

“How long as he been there?”

Morgana tapped six times.

“For six hours?”

A nod.

Makoto climbed up the attic stairs. The door was shut. “Has he eaten or drunk anything?”

A shake of the head.

Makoto gulped. “What... could have caused a shutdown? Did anything significant happen today?”

A conversation?

A perceived betrayal?

There were too many trickles of evidence, too many that could no longer be ignored. There were too many coincidences aligned on the same block. There were too many nonsensical situations that could be straightened out with a single hypothesis.

Makoto grimaced, emptying her mind.

The cat looked nervous.

Makoto paused. “There's a Palace here. Leblanc. Do you know what the distortion is?”

The cat stared.

“Do you even know what I'm talking about?”

The cat stared.

Did it not know? Or did it not trust her?

Makoto sighed in frustration, gripping her hair. Would it make sense for a Phantom Thief to have a Palace? The thought seemed highly contradictory: how could a vigilante who stole hearts have a twisted one on his own? The very idea was fundamentally oximoronic.

No. She had to stop entertaining impossible hypotheses, and start focusing her attention on Kurusu Akira.

What was his Palace?

What was his distortion?

What had happened in the past week, and why had he shut down?

Makoto lifted her eyes to the attic door and bit her lip.

Six hours.

No eating or drinking.

Horror welled in the throat and she pounded on the door, screaming. “KURUSU AKIRA! Open this door, right now!”

The cat recoiled, staring at her like she'd gone crazy.

“I'm going to break down this door in ten seconds if you don't respond!” Tears were shooting to her eyes. If she saw a pair of shoes, a kicked-over chair, hanging feet... “TEN! NINE! EIGHT!”

“Stop!” came a voice from inside the room.

She stopped. She choked on relief. “Akira? Are you okay?”

There was only silence.

She splayed a hand over the door. “Akira, if you're about to make a poor decision, please, please don't, please just listen to me, don't step off but listen to me—”

“Go,” came Akira's murmur. “Take Morgana. Take Yuuki.”

“I've told you,” Makoto said quietly. “I'm not leaving.”

A laugh. “What a saint you are, Makoto.”

That bitter, caustic aura, riddled with despair.

Makoto gripped the railing.

It was no longer ignorable, no longer an image that she could keep at bay with an unbreachable iron wall.

Seven years.

Kurusu Akira was in high school seven years ago.

Kurusu Akira would've been unfairly convicted of assault and battery seven years ago.

Kurusu Akira would have fit every Phantom Thief profiling analysis to a tee seven years ago.

Makoto swallowed.

“I told you,” she said softly. “You were there when I really needed someone.”

“So?” said Akira curtly.

She'd never said that to Kurusu Akira.

She'd only said that to Joker.

“So I'll be here,” she said, “now that you really need someone.”

He laughed again. “Don't bother. What's the point to it all.”

—what's the point to it all—

She closed her eyes.

“Will you let me in?” she said. “I'll keep the light off.”

Silence.

“Akira,” she said. “I'll sit out here. All night. All day. Until you give me five minutes.”

Silence.

“Really. I'm not budging. It's getting really cold in here, by the way. The heater isn't on. There's no blankets around. And I don't know where the thermostat is. I wonder if I'll freeze to death when I fall asleep.”

Something shifted in the door.

Makoto switched off her flashlight and the lamps in the café. Everything was pitch black. She reached out and gingerly pushed at the door. Morgana followed silently.

She fumbled her way by touch up a set of stairs. Everything was complete darkness, stifling her breath. She shook away clown masks, a stormy night, two gunshots.

“Akira,” she said softly.

There was a quiet plink in the back corner.

She headed there at a painstaking pace. The window had been blocked out, squeezing away even the ambient reflection of the streetlights. She felt shelves, books, a television. She crouched, reaching forward.

A hand snatched her wrist. Calluses rubbed against the juncture just below her palm. They were cold, clammy.

Makoto was very, very still.

In the silence, she heard quiet breathing, shaky from dehydration and mental exhaustion. She pulled back to unbutton her jacket, but the grip on her wrist tightened, clamping like iron.

“Stay,” Akira whispered hoarsely.

Makoto shifted forward. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Akira said nothing.

She felt the hunger in the coldness of his skin. She unbuttoned her jacket and pulled closer, reaching forward. Gingerly, with the tips of her fingers, she made out the figure of his back against the wall, the slant of his shoulders, the line of his knee. She propped him up with her arm and—

—he pulled his coat around her with a quiet sigh—

—his coat—

—long and dark and triple-tailed—

—she pulled her jacket around him, resting her chin gently on his shoulder.

He felt frail in her arms, huddled against her chest, still and silent like a doll. She grazed her palm over his back, rocking slowly back and forth. Akira shivered against her.

“You shouldn't be here,” he whispered.

She brushed her fingers through his hair. “You asked me to stay.”

He choked a sad, small laugh. “Since when have you listened to me?”

She only hugged him tighter. Her hands moved up. They felt his shoulder, his neck. She traced his jaw and cupped his cheek.

Her thumb ghosted over his lips.

Her fingers gently traced the area around his eyes.

Her palms eased into his unkempt hair.

And without the illusion to misguide her—

—the sight of an innocent, bespectacled barista—

—she finally saw past the mask.

She saw the Joker.

.

.

.

The symptoms had been scattered everywhere in plain sight.

.

.

.

Kurusu

Akira

was

the

Joker.

Chapter 33: RANK 13, STAGE 2

Notes:

the group I'm going to AX with is going to be performing at Masquerade! :D if you're attending, keep an eye out for Jesus Otaku.

Makoto fell against the wall, breaking Akira's grasp.

Joker was sitting in front of her.

The flirting, the concern, the anger—

It had all been Akira's.

When she'd shot Joker, she'd shot Akira.

When she'd been saved by Joker, she'd been saved by Akira.

When she'd been—

—kissed, hugged, tenderly and carefully—

—by Joker, it had all been from Akira.

She tried to steel her features and keep herself still. She wanted to scream, she wanted to curl up in a ball because her barista couldn't be on Japan's Most Wanted, her barista couldn't be the tortured soul who'd had to put up with countless injury and reinjury, her barista couldn't be constantly afflicted with fear and loneliness and betrayal—

But it all fit.

It pieced together like jigsaw.

Akira was smart, he was just, he had a dash of roguish charm.

Joker was gentlehearted, he was considerate, he had contemporary wit.

They were one and the same.

A hand lashed out and seized Makoto's neck. She choked, but she couldn't bring herself to lift her arms or kick her legs.

“Why do you gasp?” came Akira's voice, low and bitter. “Does this scare you? The darkness? Me?”

She coughed. He suddenly let go, a noise from his throat.

“No... Makoto, get away...”

The fear was palpable. She could hear the distortion in his voice, the conflict in his head. Comfort would do nothing for him. He was dangerous, and he needed immediate attention.

“Kurusu Akira, tell me,” she said. She kept her tone level and calm, but urgent. Something that his mind might react to, not his emotions. “What is the distortion of your Palace?”

His hand snapped out again. This time, she gripped his arm to block the strike.

He reacted immediately.

His torso twisted and he leapt to his feet. The force almost wrenched her arm out of its socket. She careened into the wall, grip broken, and slammed into the wood surface. Her arms came up barely in time to take the brunt of the hit.

Akira's strength was terrifyingly, overwhelmingly powerful, combat hardened by years of expertise.

It crossed her mind that she'd seen Joker fight many times, but she'd never actually fought him herself. Kurusu Akira had always been soft and gentle around her, and Joker had always been careful to protect. This force was violent, turbulent. It was an unpredictable tornado, spiraled out of control.

“Makoto!” His voice was frantic. “Makoto, you need to get out of here!”

“Tell me the distortion of Leblanc!” Makoto commanded. The pain lanced up her arms as she turned.

“Leave—go—”

Kurusu Akira lunged at her. She slid to the side, but his leg flew at full force, catching her back in a crescent kick. She crumpled to the ground, the wind knocked out of her. Agony screamed over her spine and stars cannonballed in front of her eyes.

Morgana the cat leapt on the nearest table, yowling. Akira swung a fist, but he jumped nimbly on the shelf.

“Don't tell her anything! You're betraying me, Morgana!” Akira cried. His voice was hoarse. “You, of all people—”

Another yowl. Akira swung, and this time, Morgana went flying. The cat crashed into the shelves.

Makoto struggled to pull herself to her knees. She'd chased and apprehended countless criminals, the vast majority of them bigger and stronger than her. But this wasn't just another criminal. This was a trained professional, combat skills honed from seven years of pure necessity, self-preservation the highest priority. She was desperate.

Slowly, she stood.

She drew her gun.

She flicked the safety, letting the metallic sound reverberate around the room.

Akira stopped.

She leveled the pistol forward.

“Kurusu Akira,” she said. Her voice was slightly wheezy from hitting the ground. “I command you to tell me the distortion of your Palace. Explain how you see Leblanc.”

Akira was silent.

“You have five seconds.”

He didn't move.

“Five.”

He only tilted his head.

“Four.”

Her throat felt sore.

“Three.”

Tears lined her eyes. She blinked them away.

“Two.”

Her hands were shaking.

“One.”

Akira waited.

And he kept waiting.

So did she.

“The difficulty with making a bluff, Makoto,” said Kurusu Akira softly, “is that you rely on the other person being unable to read you.”

“Zero,” whispered Makoto.

She fired.

.

.

.

—I will never ever hurt you—

.

.

.

Niijima Sae watched as the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department's press conference on Black Mask concluded.

Black Mask had been proclaimed a dangerous criminal and a fugitive from justice, but his mysterious disappearance had raised an entirely new storm of questions. Where had he gone? Had the Phantom Thieves arrived? Had they given him a change of heart? Who was the Joker, and why was a woman named Niijima Makoto known as “his precious cop?”

And the unusual situation of the fake guillotine had gone unexplained.

Sae kneaded at her temples. Gorou had told her of his very convoluted plan ahead of time, simply because he'd been convinced that Sae would commandeer a weapon of mass destruction to save her little sister. She hadn't strictly speaking approved, but he'd done it anyway. The ideal and likely result, said Gorou, was that the Phantom Thieves would arrive just in time to be caught by the police, Makoto would be rescued, and Gorou, if he miraculously was still alive, would be sacked, but sacked with style. Someone who caught the Phantom Thieves was probably not going to be executed, after all, but they couldn't expect to keep their job with such a scandalous plan.

But instead, the Phantom Thieves were gone, Makoto's testimony revealed basically nothing, and Black Mask the nonexistent criminal was now a fugitive from justice.

Worse yet, a third-rate journal shared that the guillotine was fake and the entire Black Mask situation had been a setup and a hoax—and it was gaining traction.

The whole affair had been a spectacular backfire.

Her assistant knocked at her doorframe. “Prosecutor?” she said.

Sae gestured.

The assistant nodded. “It's about your inquiry. Akechi Gorou's cover story was that Niijima Makoto was brought to Okumura Haru's mansion for an undercover case. After six days, the mansion was broken into, during which Niijima Makoto disappeared.”

“And Akechi Gorou?”

“He is supposedly in emergency care after attempting to fend off the intruder, but... that turned out to be false. We investigated the hospital. He had instructed Okumura Haru to give that cover story. She broke the windows herself, and he left with Niijima Makoto. His current whereabouts are unknown.”

“He's missing?”

“Correct. It's only a matter of time before the police department finds out.”

Sae dismissed her assistant and made a call.

“Prosecutor Niijima,” said acting-acting-chief-superintendent Takamaki Ann. “I hope you have a good reason to call, because it's raining cats and dogs over here with Black Mask.”

“Is that position cursed, by any chance? Chief Superintendent?”

“Our resident fortune teller says that it's just subject to the intricacies of Plot Devices. Who knows what that means.”

Sae blinked. “Resident fortune teller?”

“I don't even know anymore. This station's gone to pot. Nothing makes sense around here. I'm a freaking intern and I'm sitting on this chair because everyone else is too scared to take it.”

The times had become exponentially more unhinged as of late. Sae tapped her fingernails against her desk, considering her angle.

“I hear you're having some difficulty with Niijima Makoto's testimony,” she said finally.

“That's one way to put it,” said Ann. “Wait. No. Your sis is a gem. Please no lawsuits?”

“Is she withholding testimony?”

“No, but nothing really makes sense. She verified being in the Okumura mansion, working closely with Inspector Akechi. She verified some kind of infiltration, because a black cloth bag was thrown over her head and she was kidnapped. She verified seeing Black Mask and being tied under the guillotine. But then... well, that's where things get strange.”

“What is it?”

“She said that someone showed up. There was an altercation. She couldn't see very well because it was dark, but there were thuds happening next to her. Then something untied her, and that was it.”

“What do you mean, ‘That was it?’”

“I mean that was it. There weren't any exiting footsteps, no one said anything. One moment, there was some brawl happening, and the next, both the intruder and Black Mask were totally gone. Like magic. Poof, when you wish upon a star.”

Black Mask? Had Gorou not revealed his identity?

That was impossible.

Was Makoto trying to protect him in the investigation?

Or was there someone else she was trying to protect?

Sae mulled over this information. “That sounds like a fantastic story.”

“We checked for lies, Prosecutor. She seems completely sincere. She actually thinks that they vanished to another dimension or something. We'd pulled in a perimeter at that point, so there was nowhere for them to run. Besides, she's a cop. She has no reason to lie to us.”

“We'll see about that,” said Sae coldly.

“Prosecutor?”

Sae gathered her files. “Let me interrogate her.”

“Really?”

“I'm her sister.” She smiled ruefully. “I can tell when she's lying.”

.

.

.

The shot was clean through his hand, far from any vital organs, but the excruciating scream tore at Makoto's heart.

She'd hurt him.

Joker, Kurusu Akira.

He was huddled against the ground, horrible, scratchy groans bleeding out of his throat. She leveled the gun again, tears blinding her.

“Take yourself to your Palace!” Makoto demanded. “Heal yourself!”

It was an appeal to his instinct of self-preservation.

It was a command to obey without thought.

He had to listen, he had to stop thinking, this was a moment where his mind needed to control him, or she would've inflicted pain on him without reason—

He looked up at her.

Something wet rolled down his cheek.

Her lungs caught. Pain twisted her chest. She shook the gun, screaming.

“TAKE US TO YOUR PALACE!”

He looked small, lost, childlike.

Broken.

“Kurusu Akira,” he whispered. “Leblanc café.”

He swallowed on the last word. His voice broke.

“Home.”

Chapter 34: RANK 13, STAGE 3

Notes:

due to my busy schedule, updates will be on pause during AX. more info to follow shortly.

“Beginning navigation,” said a mechanical voice.

The air shimmered.

Leblanc's attic became bright with sunlight. Colored paint appeared over the walls, pictures hung from nowhere, furniture morphed into cozier shapes.

It was a boy's bedroom, something long lived-in that had gained countless artifacts over the years. There were old textbooks on the shelf, a soccer ball, tapes from a childhood piano recital, a few spattered collages of finger paint. The next shelf held thicker and taller textbooks, a three-panel science fair project on tectonic plates and the natural disasters caused by their movement, small photos of a middle school soccer team gathered around a silver trophy.

Makoto turned her attention to the walls. They were deep blue, adorned with countless objects: a diploma, bladed weapons on display, a poster on psychology, a plush cat. She could see pencil marks etched into the white doorframe, a homemade height-per-year chart that shone with charm and nostalgic affection.

She came to a stretch of the wall plastered with calling cards. Each bore a different message, a different name. Seven years' worth of mental infiltrations, all condensed on five square feet of blue wall.

And next to the calling cards were four photos. The photos were in artisan wooden frames and fixed on a special shelf, underlit, as if they were on display at a museum.

The first was an older man dressed in a pale pink shirt, hunched over a cup of coffee.

The second was a preteen boy with shaggy hair, three-quarters dark and one-quarter silver. He was wearing a black-and-white Letterman jacket, baggy khaki striped shorts, and an impish grin.

At the next photo, Makoto gasped.

Mishima Yuuki stared straight at her with a friendly smile, hands in his pockets.

Uncertain, she moved on to the last photo.

She reeled.

It was her, Niijima Makoto, standing in the street in the same A-line dress and thin belt that she'd worn on their date to the diner. Her short chestnut hair was waving in a gentle breeze, flowing over the braid that twined around the top of her head. She was beaming. Everything about her looked warm and gentle and comfortable.

Makoto let her fingers trail over the edge of photo for a second. She felt winded.

“This... is your Palace?” she whispered.

Behind her, Kurusu Akira straightened, his hand once more healthy and whole. “Yes,” he said, monotone.

“Is it... a place you used to live?”

If he had been normal, his mouth would have twisted ruefully. Instead, his face stayed blank. “It's the kind of place I wish I'd lived. Most of the memories here never happened.”

It wasn't demented, twisted, psychotic. “I don't understand.”

“The thing is,” said Kurusu Akira quietly, “distorted emotions don't necessarily need to be evil. They just need to be a discrepancy from reality. The reality that you know deep down in your unconscious, at least. A Palace is basically, in its essence, cognitive dissonance.”

“That sounds easy for anyone to have a Palace,” Makoto said. Her voice was gentle.

She felt his eyes on the back of her head. “The discrepancy needs to be really, really strong.”

There was something tragic about that statement.

Makoto's fingers drifted to the first two pictures. Who were they? A father, a brother? She squinted. The backdrop of the man's photo were familiar shelves and familiar countertops. She immediately pegged it as Leblanc. Perhaps he was the previous owner, Akira's guardian, Sakura Sojiro. What had happened to him?

“It's a good thing that you made me come to the Metaverse, Officer,” came Akira's soft voice.

Alarm bells sounded in her mind. She turned.

Akira stood upright, arms spread to his sides. Fire wreathed around his shoulders and licked down to his hands, dancing with burning intensity. Sparks blitzed into the surrounding furniture, but there were no resulting scorch marks, no fires.

Akira smiled with a hint of madness. “Now I can kill you.”

.

.

.

Gorou stirred awake.

He was blindfolded. He could feel the cloth pressing against his eyes, enforcing darkness.

But his body was, for the most part, free. His wrists were tied snugly behind him, but his legs and arms were no longer bound to a chair.

He seemed to be lying on some kind of starchy mattress. A thick cotton blanket had been pulled to his shoulders, like he was just an ordinary boy tucked into an ordinary bed.

Gorou sat up and tried to push the blindfold up with his knees. Something pulled at his cheekbones and forehead.

He paused.

The cloth blindfold had been duct taped to his face.

Gorou sighed, choosing to feel for his surroundings with his bound hands. He was surprised that his hands touched nothing before the knobby, whitewashed wall. No storage crates, no barrels, no bottles.

Had he been moved?

The smell was no longer woody and fragrant like a cellar of wine and coffee. The smell was musty, bland, an unused basement. Gorou kept rummaging, hoping to find something that could remove his bonds. The wall broke into empty space. When he explored with his foot, he found a staircase.

Technically, he probably shouldn't leave the cellar. His captor seemed somewhat temperamental, and grand escapes were nearly impossible to make while blind.

But there were mysteries to be solved.

And this blindfold was really rather obnoxious.

Gorou took a deep breath and started up the staircase.

.

.

.

Makoto had no magic, and she had nowhere to run. She had a pistol, but she was fairly certain that Akira would disintegrate it—and maybe her—the moment she reached for it.

All she had were words.

“You could have killed me a long time ago,” she said quietly. “You could have killed me in the attic of Leblanc. You could have killed me when I shot you. You could killed me five minutes ago instead of letting me walk around this room.”

The fire arced around Akira. “Don't tempt me.”

“Why haven't you?” Makoto continued. She kept her voice gentle. “Why aren't you?”

“I'm just deliberating on my best options.” Akira touched his mask, and suddenly, the fire turned to crackling lightning. She could feel the static in the air. “There's a lot of ways to inflict injury. What to choose, what to choose.”

He didn't sound excited about it. He was trying, but failing, his voice flattening where it should've risen in glee.

“I would deserve it,” whispered Makoto. “Four gunshots of pain.”

“Your little body couldn't take it.” A harsh wind flushed her into the wall. She crumpled to the ground, ears ringing. “Have you studied what a bullet does to a human body? How it punctures the skin, rips apart tissue and bone, crushes everything in its path? Do you know how it feels? Shattering bone sends fragments, tiny little knives, all through the inside of your body, and those knives cut at your nerves, and your nerves send blinding fire to your brain until you can't register anything but agony.”

Her gun ripped from her holster. She felt the icy press of metal against her calf.

“Maybe I should show you how it feels. To get shot, shot again, and you have to heal it, you have to heal it or you'll die, but the pain doesn't go away, the nightmares don't go away.”

He dug the gun painfully into her calf. Terror blitzed up her veins, chasing away her thoughts.

“When you close your eyes and dream, someone comes to you with a warm smile and a kiss, and then you feel metal press into you and they leave your stomach full of holes until the acid eats your body alive. Someone comes to you with a beautiful laugh and stabs you in the chest, over and over, and you can't lift a finger because you can't bring yourself to hurt them, not even when they're killing you.”

His voice finally started to rise. Emotion was bleeding back into him, cracking him.

“Someone whispers I won't hurt you, I will never hurt you and they cut you open with a knife through the back and you know you can't trust them, you can never trust them again—!”

He threw the gun at the wall with all the force of his arm, cracking his framed diploma and sending it crashing to the floor. Makoto's eyes were blurry with tears. Guilt and fear twisted in the pit of her stomach, slamming her with nausea.

Akira drew back his leg. She curled, bracing herself for the kick.

His leg shook in midair.

He stomped it down, screaming in frustration.

“Akira,” Makoto whispered.

She couldn't apologize.

She couldn't say “I'm sorry.”

It was patronizing to think that two words could ease any of his pain.

“I should kill you! I should!” A blade of light blasted the side of the room. “It'd finally be over, all of this damned, miserable life—!”

She didn't know what to do.

She lay there, speechless.

Akira suddenly stopped and curled against the wall. He looked very small and ragged.

A moment passed.

Makoto breathed.

Akira was still.

“Diarahan,” he whispered.

Makoto felt a cooling sensation all over her body, like mint applied to her skin. The soreness and splinters in her body eased away. She sighed instinctively, the relief immediate.

He'd healed her.

“Go,” Akira murmured.

She lay there, unwilling.

The door swung open with a creak. A boy walked in, oversized sneakers scrunching the carpet.

Makoto recognized him. He'd been in the second photo, raggedy hair and black-and-white Letterman jacket. His bright Metaverse-yellow eyes surveyed Akira as he jumped on the bed.

“Up and at 'em, Joker,” he said.

“Go away, Morgana,” Akira mumbled into his knees.

Morgana.

Morgana?

In his cognition... Akira saw his cat as a human?

Human-Cognition-Morgana stood up and nudged him with a foot. “Come on, Joker. Get up.”

Akira didn't move.

Cognition Morgana's gaze swiveled to Makoto. She pushed herself onto her knees, not knowing what to expect.

“Hot damn,” said Cognition Morgana. “The things he does for you.”

“How can I help him?” Tears, stuffed up for too long in her eyes, poured over cheeks and down her chin. “I don't have a right to ask, but please. How can I—or if not me—anyone else help him? How... how?”

“You can't,” said Cognition Morgana flatly. “This whole mess happened because you tried to help him in the first place.”

“I had to,” Makoto cried. “He was locked up in his room, he was—”

“Do you know why he was locked up in his room?”

Makoto's voice faltered.

“Black Mask's video,” said Cognition Morgana. His voice was matter-of-fact, but it still cut into Makoto. “He came to fight Black Mask because he was scared for you. Which led to him taking Gorou. Which led to a very, very problematic conversation. Which led to a crash. Hence the self-imposed solitary confinement.”

“But his Palace...”

“Also your fault.” Cognition Morgana kept looking, his yellow eyes piercing into her soul. “We got a bunch of unwelcome eyes on Leblanc because you went missing, and your card had transactions from Leblanc, and your squad wanted to find you. We needed another way to get in and out without being noticed.”

That was a blow.

“You... you didn't have to go to such extreme measures...”

“Then he'd be caught for Phantom Thievery and sentenced to prison for life. Or, let's be real, capital punishment isn't out of the question.” Cognition Morgana crossed his legs. She had the feeling that he'd be preening if he was still a cat. “Not a good place for Joker to be. Love is a liability in this field.”

Makoto was speechless.

“You're still a liability, by the way,” said Cognition Morgana. “More stuff can still be your fault. If you arrest him. If you report him. If you bring the police here and get the whole department killed. Odds aren't looking great for you.”

“Ignore that for now,” managed Makoto, “and save him. You're... his best friend, aren't you?”

Cognition Morgana shrugged. “Who knows? In this form, I'm something like a punk little brother.”

“He loves you.”

“He loves you, too.”

Makoto swallowed. That was a hit that made her unexpectedly sore. “I can't leave. Not before I've made things right.”

Cognition Morgana eyed her warily. “You're going to have to. The psyche doesn't enjoy intruders. It prefers to flush them out.”

“Soldiers? Guards like Munakawa's Palace?”

“Usually, yes. But in this case, only kind of.”

A soft wind brushed through the door and skimmed over the nape of Makoto's neck. She stiffened. It felt cold, deadly, and very, very angry with her.

Cognition Morgana grinned. “Imagine the cognition's entire security system condensed into one person.”

Ten thousand guards, all in one.

Ten thousand otherworldly monsters, all in one.

Ten thousand powers, all in one.

Cognition Morgana's grin widened. “That's Shadow Joker.”

Chapter 35: RANK 13, STAGE 4

Notes:

AX IS THIS WEEK I'M LOWKEY PANICKING

JK IT'S HIGHKEY

Makoto ran blindly.

She tore out of the room, sprinting down warm-colored hallways with blurry portraits and paintings of abstracted flowers.

A quiet breeze was at her back, haunting, chuckling, warning her of imminent peril.

She found a window at the end of the hallway and tugged with all her strength. It refused to budge. She whipped out her belt and slammed the buckle against the glass. Not a single crack.

A little whisper carried on the wind. “It's not going to be that easy, my dear queen.”

Makoto kept running. She slid down the banister, her mind automatically filtering out the sofas, the lighting fixtures, the plush chairs set around colorful tables. This wasn't the time to appreciate the interior design of Akira's Palace. She ran past a kitchen, a living room, a laundry room that led to a garage that paradoxically led back into the house, a home office, a shoe closet. Then she finally reached the tiled foyer.

There was a large shoe rack, but it was completely empty, and Makoto stopped for a split second to wonder why, if it was a home, there was no one inside except for Shadow Joker and Cognition Morgana.

And the moment she stopped—

“Megidolaon.”

Orbs of light, catastrophic and beautiful, pulsing with pure, unrestrained power, encircled the air and merged. They plummeted to the ground and exploded at the door, right where she would've been if she'd kept running.

The force rocketed Makoto away from the entrance and crashed her into the whitewashed wall. Blinding agony faded into the cold, horrifying numbness of shock. Something very bad was broken. Something had paralyzed her.

“Garudyne.”

She was extracted from the wall and flung to the ground.

She couldn't move. The shock was blurring her vision. White noise screamed in her ears.

The house was, by some miracle, untouched, as if nothing had even happened.

A foot stepped in front of her. A man eclipsed in dark smoke leaned down, looking at her face with unnatural yellow eyes behind a white mask.

“Joker,” she rasped.

He tilted his head. “Interesting. You're conscious.”

Was this how he saw himself? Not Kurusu Akira, not a king or an emperor or a tycoon—but a Phantom Thief? Somewhere along the way, had it become his identity? Had he ever wanted to give it up, only to realize that he didn't know what Kurusu Akira would be without Joker?

Shadow Joker reached out and pulled her chin. Her body scraped numbly along the ground. “I'll take conscious. I prefer it. There's something dissatisfying about killing something when it's not even awake to witness it. Perhaps like... a student falling asleep in the middle of one's lecture.”

His tone was blasé, but she could feel the fury against her. Her dry tongue attempted to wet her bleeding lips. “You... hate... me. Why?”

Shadow Joker stared at her for a long while, then snapped his fingers.

There was another her.

She was wearing that elegant date-worthy dress, looking lovely and innocent and gentle. Her eyes were the same piercing yellow as Shadow Joker's.

And her hands were stained with blood.

One of them was holding a serrated knife, a horrible thing that screamed of prolonging agony as long as possible.

Cognition Makoto licked the blade with a giggle.

“Hm,” she said daintily. “A beautiful thing, betrayal. As if anyone could bring themselves to really love such a failure.”

Makoto retched.

Shadow Joker snapped his hand again, and Cognition Makoto vanished. “You do not understand,” he said flatly, “the sort of mental torture that Kurusu Akira has been subject to in these past six hours.”

That was how Akira saw her.

No, that was what she'd done to him.

“Save him,” she rasped. She was still numb, paralyzed, but she was being crushed by guilt. “Please... just save him.”

Shadow Joker laughed, caustic and bitter. “What is there to do? He is far gone. His past is a wound that never mended, wrenched open by the nails of the woman he loved. The only peace that he might find is in death.”

“Save... him...”

Anger flickered over Shadow Joker's face and he wrenched her shoulder. A blinding pain sliced at her. She screamed.

“Save yourself, queen! Beg to save your own miserable life!” He leaned close, spittle flying from his lips. “Since when have you cared for the wellbeing of Kurusu Akira? You are the one who shot him four times! You are the one who terrifies him! You are his worst nightmare!”

She had nothing else in her mind. Just an endless mantra, the only words that could break through the throbbing agony. “Save... him... save...”

Shadow Joker kicked her violently in the ribs. Something cracked and she choked, her lungs failing. “This is futile. I am proceeding.”

There was a deadly pause as he stepped away.

“Back in olden times, I believe they burned witches alive,” he said softly.

He raised his hands.

Makoto stared at his shoes, unable to turn her head, choking to death.

Somewhere, she heard a distant whisper, buried deep in her heart: Have you decided to tread the path of strife?

Shadow Joker spoke.

“Agidyne.”

Fire dwarfed his cloaked figure.

She felt the ambient heat touch her face, morph the air into shimmers.

The path of strife?

No... no.

She didn't want her legacy to be a path of strife. She wanted it to be a path of peace. True justice. An example for future generations to follow—not an insurgent or a rabble-rouser. Surely, somehow, some way, there could be good cops.

The voice inside abruptly disappeared, empty, and somehow, Makoto knew that it would never return.

Shadow Joker snapped his fingers. The flame curled into a whirlpool.

And bolted towards her like an arrow.

“GARUDYNE!”

A blitz of wind flung the fiery projectile forcibly to the side. It gyrated into the wall, dispersing harmlessly.

And a cat landed in front of her in a crouch.

It almost looked like a bobblehead. It stood on its two hindpaws, the head around twice the size of the body, big and bulbous with giant, adorable eyes.

Shadow Joker raised a brow. “Morgana. We had an agreement.”

“That agreement,” snapped Morgana, and his voice was high but firm, just like Cognition Morgana's, “does not encompass burning innocent people alive, Joker.”

A talking cat.

The sentience and Morse code were now somewhat explainable.

“Diarahan,” said Morgana.

The pain eased, the shock dissipated. Makoto's body mended to be completely whole.

It was too much too quickly.

She kept lying on the tile.

“Step aside,” said Shadow Joker flatly. “She is not an innocent. I have a score to settle with her.”

“Sorry to break up the party,” said Morgana.

He cast something in the air.

“Vanish Ball!”

They disappeared.

.

.

.

The yard was, apparently, a Safe Zone.

Makoto seized the chance to rest her head against the broad oak tree in the lawn. She stared at the cat-shaped bobblehead that was pacing back and forth, rapidfire words spilling out of his mouth in time with his pawsteps.

“I told him this would happen. I told that numbskull over and over, don't mess with the human psyche, but did he listen? Noooo. He had to be Mister Soap Opera. Mister Protagonist. Let's pick the most convoluted solution possible. Let's save the girl and kick our own skin out to the curb. Dammit, Joker!”

They were all utterly incomprehensible to her shocked brain.

“Morgana?”

“What?”

“Can you... give me a minute to just take everything in?”

Morgana twitched, obviously annoyed, but nodded.

Makoto looked around.

The yard was massive. It was a sprawling verdant lawn that extended far beyond what was proportional for the house's square footage. Beautiful wildflowers grew in select clusters that dotted the greenery. Several large trees were rooted in both the front and back yard, each adorned with a different artifact. One had a rope swing. Another had a tree house. Another had a filled but unoccupied bird feed. They were vacant props—little fragments of childhood desires.

The yard was surrounded by a picture-perfect white picket fence, the kind that would show up in family magazines. The house itself was a bright pale yellow that shone in the sun with perfect shutters and beautiful white trim and textured wooden tiles. She could imagine a happy family living there, a family full of tag and singing and gingerbread cookies.

“But it's empty,” she said.

Morgana glanced at her. “What?”

“The house is completely empty.” She looked at him. “Except for you. The you in his cognition.”

Morgana shrugged. “I haven't met me yet. But of course it's empty.”

“Why?”

“Everyone left him.”

Makoto’s throat clogged.

“Sakura Sojiro died. Abandoned him. Mishima Yuuki spread malicious rumors before they even knew each other. Abandoned him. A woman who he tried to help testified against him. Abandoned him. Law enforcement carried out an unfair verdict. Abandoned him. His parents rejected him. Abandoned him. And you, Miss Cop, hot damn, don't even get me started.”

Makoto wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes wet.

“It shows with the cognitions,” said Morgana, waving at the house. “They never stick around. They come and go. Brief sojourns, visits, you know. Sometimes they arrive just to pester his mind as inside voices. Heck, I don’t even know how often I’m in there.”

Every time she thought his Palace couldn’t get more miserable, a new fact bumped along.

“What do we even do?” she choked.

“Nothing,” said Morgana. “It's hopeless. I told him. If his Palace gets out of control, I can't beat his shadow. That one shadow is literally the entire Palace security.”

“You seemed to hold your own.”

“One, I caught him by surprise. Two, I was deflecting an attack, not trying to hit him. Three, he has mastery of all the elements, and I'm only wind, so he just has to whip out lightning and he'll have a cat steak for dinner. Four, I used a vanish ball, because ain't no way in hell that I'm leaving room for any risks. Five—well, you get the picture. He's actually invincible.”

It did seem like a conundrum. An invincible enemy that could kill any size of a force in the blink of an eye.

Everyone left him.

Maybe a normal person would have given up.

Makoto just felt more stubborn.

She sat back and brushed her hair behind her ear, thinking.

“Sniper rifle,” she said. “Long scope.”

“Can't see him behind walls, and he doesn't come outside,” Morgana pointed out.

“Aimed using thermal vision.”

“Okay, look, queenie. Whatever we do, we can't kill his shadow. Actually, rule of thumb, never kill anyone's shadow in their own Palace. Their mind will shut down, and they'll become psychotic and die a gruesome death. Very bad.”

Makoto closed her eyes. “Oh.”

Then her eyes flew open.

“That was why, Munakawa's Palace, he stepped forward to take the gunshot—!”

Morgana glared at her. “You tried to shoot Munakawa's shadow?”

“I, I won't do it again.”

“Good. Because I'll kill you. By the way, I'm pretty sure that Shadow Joker is immune to lighting. And fire. And ice. And wind. Unlike the normal Joker, he doesn't need to switch Personas to gain their immunities. It's a nightmare.”

“Switch Personas?”

“Never mind. Too complicated for a young 'un like you.”

“What is he vulnerable to?”

“Almighty skills. That's probably it.”

She had no clue what that meant, but she'd roll with it. “If this were a video game, we'd have to reflect his own move back at him.”

“That's impossible because there's no ointment for Almighty skills,” said Morgana crossly, which also made absolutely no sense. “And no killing the owner's shadow, remember?”

“What, no resurrection spells?”

“Samarecarm wakens people from unconsciousness and applies an automatic Diarahan. It does not reverse cardiac arrest or brain death, so don't get any funny ideas. It only rouses consciousness. I don't think it even works on shadows.”

She tried to think.

Clearly, fighting Shadow Joker was impossible.

Avoiding him was impossible.

And talking Akira out of his psychosis was impossible. The last time she'd tried that, it hadn't turned out well.

So how could they heal him?

Natural causes seemed out of the question. At this point, he was too far gone.

Stealing the Treasure was out of the question. They'd never be able to get past Shadow Joker.

What else was there?

“Look, Niijima Makoto,” said Morgana with a sigh. “You're a pretty okay gal, but just let this one lie. It's an impossible problem. I've tried to think of a solution for weeks because I knew this might happen, and I didn't get anything. We're screwed.”

“You are a self-aware bipedal cat. You shouldn't be saying that anything is impossible.”

“I'm an honest-to-god human!”

“Are you gonna give up on him?” Makoto said sharply.

Morgana paused.

Makoto kept glaring.

Morgana sighed. “I have been his loyal companion for seven years. You've known him for what, seven weeks?”

Had it been that short? She blushed at the thought of being so impulsive.

“Kids,” Morgana muttered, “acting like husband and wife when they barely know each other.”

“I'm standing in his psyche.”

“Shaddap.” Morgana pocketed his slingshot. Makoto didn't know how, but one moment it was in his hand, and the next moment, he turned and it disappeared. “Whirlwind romances make me sick.”

Had it really been seven weeks or less?

She felt like they'd known each other for much longer.

“Come on,” said Morgana. “We're technically safe out here, but it's not good to linger.”

Something caught the edge of Makoto's periphery. “Wait,” she said.

The door fluttered.

A figure came stumbling out of the house in an uneven gait, nearly face-planting on the porch. Fringes of brown hair, pulled out of his ordinarily neat ponytail, stuck to his sweat-coated temples and blindfold.

“Akechi. Oh my god, Akechi,” Makoto cried.

She ran to the porch as Akechi Gorou continued to push forward. His clothing was ruffled, but he looked otherwise unharmed.

“Akechi!” Makoto said urgently—of course Akechi was here, Joker had taken him, and Akira was Joker, so of course, why hadn't she thought of it earlier—“Akechi, it's me, it's Officer Niijima!”

Akechi ground to a halt at the voice, gasping for breath.

“Impossible,” he finally said.

Morgana shot Makoto an incredulous look, paws whipping in sign language.

Of course. Sign language.

What the hell are you doing Miss Cop you'd better explain yourself before I lop off his head with a vacuum cutter SERIOUSLY WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS BEING CRAZY.

She signed back in a flurry. Won't reveal. Still blindfolded. Take to Shinjuku. Throw lead off of Leblanc.

Morgana glared, then reluctantly nodded.

“How could you be here, Officer Niijima?” hissed Akechi Gorou. “Is this another one of your tricks, Joker? One of your games? You seem to be a sore loser.”

Makoto froze, but regained control. “This is a rescue, sir. I need to get you back to headquarters, stat. Come on.”

Gorou opened his mouth, but she gripped his arm and slung it over her shoulders, bracing his weight. He was still drenched with sweat, his limbs shaky as leaves.

Morgana, know any shortcuts? Makoto mouthed, and Morgana looked at her with the slightest hint of disdain before he moved.

And the cat turned into a bus.

Yes, it meant exactly how it sounded.

The cat.

Turned into a bus.

There was a pop, there was a cloud of smoke, there was a vague pulling in of appendages and some unusual hazy transformation taking place, and suddenly, the self-aware bipedal cat had turned into a fully functioning motor vehicle.

Makoto stared.

She was starting to feel rather faint.

The catbus honked, as if to say, We haven't got all year, Miss Cop, so get on it!

She did.

Chapter 36: RANK 13, STAGE 5

Notes:

i bek

Courtesy of a certain catbus, Niijima Makoto arrived at an alleyway in Shinjuku with a still-blindfolded Akechi Gorou hoisted over her shoulder. She unceremoniously dumped him on the ground and knelt, sawing at his bonds with a pocketknife.

“Long time no see, Inspector,” she said mildly.

“Is it really you?” said Gorou's puzzled voice.

“That,” said Makoto, “isn't a very useful question, because you wouldn't believe me either way. But you'll find out when we get this blindfold off.”

Gorou was silent for a moment. She could almost hear his brain turning over in his skull.

“Akechi Gorou,” said Morgana suddenly.

Makoto shot him a confused look. Morgana surveyed Gorou for a moment, then sighed.

“Alright, good. He doesn't seem to understand me. That could've been bad.”

Why? Makoto mouthed.

“I'm guessing that he didn't see my physical form in the Metaverse,” said Morgana. “With a lack of visual cue, there was no change in cognition. So basically, he can't understand me because he hasn't seen me talk.”

Makoto stared.

And stared some more.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh. You're—talking. Holy. You're—”

“Shut up,” Morgana hissed. “There's an inspector right next to you.”

“Of course I'm talking,” said Gorou, puzzled. “Did you think he would cut out my tongue?”

But it was a cat and it was legitimately talking even as a Felis catus in the real world, not even the Metaverse—

“Talk now, think later,” said Morgana.

Gorou tilted his head and frowned. “What on earth is meowing so loudly?”

Makoto shook herself and coughed. “Just an alley cat. We're in Shinjuku.”

“Shinjuku,” Gorou mused. “So. I've scarcely been moved from when I was Black Mask. But you certainly put me in a car and drove quite a distance...”

“Tails,” Makoto invented. “I had to lose them.”

She finished sawing through the ropes, which fell to the ground. Gorou reached up and peeled at the tape that secured his blindfold. He winced at the bright sunlight, shielding his eyes until they adjusted.

His gaze turned to her. “Officer Niijima. Why are you operating alone?”

It should have been a keen accusation, especially from someone like Akechi Gorou. It should have carried weight to it: Why don't you have an alibi? Why are you disobeying protocol? What are you really after?

But it didn't.

It was tentative, puzzled. Something that seemed unusually hopeful, like he was expecting a specific answer, a special answer.

She didn't know what he was looking for.

But she did know how to appear innocent.

So she softened her voice, lowered her lashes, briefly touched the ends of her hair, and whispered, “Why do you think I'm operating alone, Inspector?”

Gorou stared at her for a long, long moment. His face was stoic, but his ears were gradually warming to beet-red.

He cleared his throat. Then cleared it again. “Because the Phantom Thieves have an insider in the police department.”

The answer surprised her. Given his reaction, she was expecting something much bigger and grander. But she waited patiently for him to finish.

“You didn't want to risk leaking information,” continued Gorou, “and you didn't know who to trust.”

“They operated flawlessly inside the police station. It's not an unlikely situation,” Makoto said.

Gorou's face flickered in disappointment, but he nodded. “Regardless. As an authority of the police force, I cannot condone operating alone. There is no accountability when an officer is allowed to do whatever she wishes without report or partner.”

Makoto made a generic noise of assent. She felt a tinge of guilt, but not enough to override her concern for Akira and her desire to conceal the Metaverse.

“Where did you come from?” she asked. “You stumbled out of a door.”

“A cellar of some sort,” said Gorou. “We must retrace our steps at our earliest convenience. I made sure to memorize my exact path to—wherever I met you. It seemed like a front door to a porch? It took significant trial and error, but I am certain I would recognize the house if I saw its layout.”

“I doubt that,” Makoto murmured.

“Hm?”

“Never mind. What happened after you were taken by Joker?”

Gorou paused.

“You were taken too, weren't you?” he said. “I heard your scream...”

“Oh, um.” Makoto cleared her throat. “I managed to fight back. Almost got some skin cells and blood for a DNA sample, but he fled before I succeeded. That's how the police found me in the parking structure.”

“I see.” His gaze was distant. “Joker took me to a cellar. He proceeded to interrogate me.”

“Civilly, right?” Makoto said. She kept a mask of iron over her apprehension.

“Well, before he kicked me and sent my skull cracking to the ground, yes, he was quite civil.” Gorou stopped to massage his temples. “It's rather miraculous that I suffered no brain damage. At least, from what I can tell. Perhaps I am blind.”

“No,” said Makoto firmly. “You're completely fine. Completely healed.”

“Healed? That's an odd way to put it if no damage was done in the first place.” Gorou turned his eyes to Makoto's, his gaze piercing and serious. “The Phantom Thieves are exceedingly dangerous, Makoto. I felt it when I spoke with him. Joker is temperamental. A figurative time bomb, waiting to explode.”

Makoto was quiet for a moment. “Maybe he's not always like that.”

“I have dealt with men like him. They are self-pitying, arrogant, hypocritical. They are quick to become drunkards and domestic abusers, terrorists.”

“Gorou.”

“Yes?”

“Please shut your mouth,” said Makoto sweetly, “before I break your nose.”

Gorou shut his mouth before she broke his nose. She could feel the gears in his head turning, wondering at her sudden vehemence. Why was she angry? Did she care for the Phantom Thieves? Was she a traitor?

He turned his attention to their surroundings, clearing his throat. She watched as his eyes took in the Shinjuku alleyway, synthesized the timeline, traced a mental path. He had no questions for her, because Shinjuku was expected; Yongen-jaya was not, but Shinjuku was.

“Why do you pity them?” Gorou said presently.

“Who?” said Makoto cautiously.

“The Phantom Thieves.”

Makoto considered this for a moment. “Have you heard the story of a girl in a high school, Inspector?”

“That is a fairly generic descriptor. Which one?”

Makoto breathed. “A girl witnessed an immense bullying problem at her high school. She reported to the administration, but beyond a half-hearted campaign for the sake of public image, they did nothing. She told the community, but the community didn't care. She told the police, but the police couldn't be bothered to bring cases against minors. So she started her own group. If the school's administration failed her, if every figure of authority stood still, then she'd fight the problem herself. And she got in trouble for stirring up a fuss, for making a commotion, for being a Teenage Rebel. But she still did it, because no one else would defend the defenseless.”

“Was this you?” said Gorou softly.

“No,” said Makoto. “It's the story of the Phantom Thieves. Inspector, how has our administration been dealing with our school's bullying problem?”

Gorou's gaze was level. “You enjoy metaphors, I take it.”

Makoto stared back.

“Then,” said Gorou, “what do we do if this girl did not muster the school in a united front? What do we do if this girl did not operate with a nonviolent protest or a public speech? What do we do if this girl forms her own little gang and throws the school under a new reign of terror, where bullies are bullied, and the bullied find more to bully, until all is a vicious cycle? What do we do if the intention is pure, but the methodology is flawed?”

Makoto's eyes softened.

“I think that's where administration has to step in,” she said, “and form a method that's right.”

.

.

.

Makoto drove Gorou to the hospital. Okumura Haru was waiting by the back entrance, the tips of her fingers tapping together restlessly.

“Gorou!” she hissed as he clambered out of the car. She strutted forward, somehow staying perfectly balanced on two nine-inch stilettos despite her swift pace. “What have you even been doing?”

Gorou chuckled drily and slipped his arms around her shoulders for a brief hug. “It's good to see you too, Haru.”

She rubbed a hand over his back, but her glare was petulant. “Get inside. Doctors are going to check you up. If there is anything wrong, a-ny-thing, I will sock you in the face. Twice. Actually, three times.”

“Duly noted.” Still grinning, he disappeared into the hospital.

Okumura Haru turned to Makoto, who stiffened. The heiress of the largest food conglomerate in Japan was no force to be reckoned with. She seemed intense, driven, ambitious, like the stereotypical businesswoman.

Then her face melted into a gentle smile.

“I have something to give you,” said Haru.

Makoto blinked.

Haru grasped something in her luxurious genuine-leather-with-pure-gold-clasps designer handbag—roughly ¥1,500,000 market price—and handed it to Makoto.

It was a phone. Makoto's phone.

“Gorou had me safekeep this for you when he brought you to my house,” said Haru. “I promise, I never touched it or looked at it, except when I put it in this bag to give back to you.”

Makoto stared.

Haru's voice grew soft. “I'd also like to apologize on Gorou's behalf,” she said. “He was... a little extreme. You know how he can get. He just really, really wants justice, in his own way.”

Makoto nodded slowly. She accepted the phone with two hands and an instinctive bow.

Haru slipped her a card. “This is my personal number. Please let me know if you ever need anything. You seem like a very good person, Officer Niijima.”

Makoto spoke past her dry mouth. “You as well, Lady Okumura.”

“Oh my. Lady Okumura, that sounds pretty intimidating.” Haru smiled. “Maybe someday, we'll be able to call each other by our first names. Have a good evening.”

She strutted into the hospital. The doors sealed behind her.

Makoto turned and left.

.

.

.

Morgana was sitting quietly in the back seat as Makoto drove back to her apartment.

“I'm taking you to my home,” she told him. “Since, you know, your owner's not around at the moment.”

Morgana glared. “I am completely self-sufficient, thank you very much. I lived on my own before I met Akira.”

“Did you really?”

“Yes. Who saved your sorry ass from Shadow Joker again?”

“Point taken,” Makoto said primly.

Morgana stared out the window. His tail flicked idly, indicating a thoughtful mood. “Do you get why Akira's so upset?” he asked.

Makoto paused. “He was abandoned,” she said quietly.

“Well, kind of. But there’s more to it. Remember the house?”

“Of course.”

“His distortion is ‘home.’ That means that Leblanc being home is a cognitive dissonance—it's not true.”

“Leblanc isn't his home?”

“Apparently not, or it wouldn't be his distortion. And for him, that's crushing. Leblanc is the closest to a home that he's ever had.”

“So if it's a distortion...”

“He can't imagine that he'll ever have a home. Because if Leblanc isn't his home, then no place ever could be.”

Makoto's fingers tightened on the steering wheel all the way to her apartment.

.

.

.

Makoto dreamed that night.

She was sitting on the rope swing in Akira's cognition, swaying back and forth on the balls of her feet, watching the sun set in ripples. The world was aglow, soft. She soaked in its warmth. She was barefoot, the spaces between her toes threading into cool grass, a white dress flowing like water over her figure.

Akira stepped in front of her, out of nowhere, and knelt before her.

“Hey,” he said.

There was no pain on his face, no sadness. Just peace. She felt a pang somewhere deep inside.

“Hey,” she said.

“Someone looks pensive,” he said, his mouth pulling up in a teasing smile. “What's on your mind? Life, the universe, everything?”

“You,” she said.

“I'm flattered.”

“You should be.”

He stood and walked behind her. His hands closed over hers and he pulled slightly on the swing, pushed, pulled, rhythmically. She rocked in the gentle, invisible beat, her skin tingling at the contact. She loved feeling his calluses run over her knuckles, his heat press between her fingers.

“What's this about me?” he said dryly. “Did I leave the toilet seat up?”

She blinked. Toilet seat? “Are we married?”

He chuckled. “That sounds ominous. Already regretting it?”

She leaned into his chest, heat flaring her cheeks. “Could I ever?”

“Everyone does at some point,” said Akira. “The trick is to not act on it.”

“I was trying to be romantic.”

“I was trying to be practical.”

She pouted up at him. He only grinned at her.

“Come on, Majesty,” he said. The nickname no longer sounded condescending and vicious. It was affectionate, special, something that spread warmth over her chest. “What's on your mind.”

Makoto frowned. Her thoughts felt hazy, like the troubles that had plagued her were suddenly far away. “I... I have a friend in trouble, I think.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“He's trapped. In... a prison of his own making, I guess. I made it worse. I want to get him out. It's painful in there, agonizing.”

Akira stopped the swing.

“What should I do?” Makoto whispered.

He was quiet.

“Majesty,” he finally said, “a jailbreak is no use to a prisoner who doesn't want to leave the cell.”

“I can drag him out.”

He knelt behind her. His arms skimmed over her sides and connected at the front of her waist, pulling her close. She leaned her head into his shoulder, the top of her hair just under his jaw. It was comfortable there—too comfortable, cuddling in the fading light of the sunset. She could feel the beat of his heart fluttering in his neck.

“No one can drag him out,” Akira said.

She nuzzled him gently. “How do I get him to want to leave?”

Akira paused. “Why do people normally not want to leave their current circumstances?”

“They don't know of a better way, maybe.”

Akira looked at her. “Fear of the unknown.”

Fear of the unknown.

Trapped in a prison, because the prison was known.

Outside could be worse. The rescue could be a lie. Hope could be in vain. He was used to this cell, he knew how to survive in it, he understood how it worked. Outside, he was helpless, powerless. He would be vulnerable again. He would be betrayed again.

“Then how can he overcome it?” Makoto asked quietly.

She felt Akira smile against her cheek. “Generally speaking, mankind is strained by the tension of two opposite fears. One is the fear of the unknown. It could also be thought of as the fear of failure. But the other—the other is the fear of missing out.”

“FOMO? I don't think I can take you seriously anymore.”

He chuckled, and the rumble against her back made tears suddenly shoot to her eyes. If only he could laugh forever.

“The fear of failure prevents people from taking risks,” he said. “It encourages withdrawal from risk, the pursuit of safety, self-preservation. But the fear of missing out spurs people to take every opportunity, to always be connected, to never have regrets. So really, all you need to do is tip the scale.”

Makoto bit her lip. “I don't like that idea.”

Akira raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Either way,” said Makoto, “it's using fear. Negative reinforcement. Trying to make him react to an aversive stimulus to get rid of it.”

She almost expected Akira to be annoyed, but he only grinned wider. “Ever the starry-eyed idealist, Majesty.”

“I'll use fear if I have to.”

“No, you won't.”

She paused. “No, I won't,” she agreed.

“But maybe you won't find your perfect solution,” said Akira. “Maybe you'll have to reach a decision, and even if you don't like it, you have to face it, because it's the truth. For example, you could register a new service pistol and—”

“Stop,” she said raggedly. “Stop. Don't.”

He was quiet. His arms tightened around her waist.

“I would never,” Makoto whispered.

“Psychological Japan.”

She turned and cupped his face in her hands. “Please. Stop.”

His gaze was serious. “Is that your verdict? On the nation? It's a bit harsh, isn't it?”

Her breath caught, but then—

—your verdict?

She leapt to her feet, breaking his grasp.

“Makoto?” said Akira. His face was strained, like he was afraid and trying to conceal it, afraid that she'd turn her back and walk away and leave him one more time.

But Makoto's mind was spinning. Her thoughts were already far away, unraveling the giant, tangled mess that had been her mind.

Of course.

The fear of failure wasn't something that she should eliminate. The fear of failure wasn't something that she should attempt to overpower by force.

Courage.

Courage was courage because it moved despite fear. It was never the absence of fear. It was the acknowledgement of fear, and the desire to move ahead regardless, because there was something else on the line, something that couldn't be surrendered, something absolutely important—

Makoto had to make a strong stimulus, the strongest possible, something to spur that courage and move Akira beyond his fear of failure and to do that she needed—

A verdict.

Verdict.

Makoto's face split into a smile. She whipped around and dashed to Akira, crashing into his chest. Her arms were tight over his shoulders as she kissed his cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, thank you.”

Akira stumbled over a few unintelligible words. “For. For, what?”

“I have it,” said Makoto. “The idealist's solution.”

“Which is?”

She tiptoed up and nuzzled his nose. “I guess you'll have to wait and see.”

His eyes burned as he looked at her. “I'm not known for being patient.”

“One week,” she murmured. “Hold on for one week. You can do it, I know you can.”

He slowly sank to the ground, lying on the grass. She rested her head on his chest, staring at the fiery sky. He kissed her brow lightly, patiently.

“I think I love you,” she murmured.

“Well, that's convincing.”

“I'll get back to you on a later date with incontrovertible evidence.”

He chuckled. The rumble spread to her fingertips. “That's my officer.”

She dozed off, lying on the grass, Akira's arm nestled around her waist, legs playfully twined together. The warmth of his skin was a blanket on her soul.

.

.

.

Niijima Makoto smiled in her sleep.

.

.

.

Huddled in his Palace—

Kurusu Akira smiled in his sleep.

.

.

.

| THE POLL FUNCTION IS TEMPORARILY DISABLED.

Chapter 37: RANK 13.25

Notes:

the beginning of the end.

comments are my toast, i am the stereotypical anime girl who overslept before the first day of school.

Makoto walked into Shibuya Station, bracing herself for staring and pointing and whispered rumors and the wrath of her squad—

A tornado of paper flew in front of her. Officers bolted down the corridors in haphazard droves. Doors opened and slammed, reopened and reslammed. Somewhere in the corner, somebody was screaming.

Anarchy, chaos, entropy.

“What,” Makoto said flatly, easing into her chair, “the hell happened here?”

“No one knows,” said Officer Mifune calmly.

“No one ever knows what's going on,” grunted Officer Kawakami. “Everything's a mess. Takamaki Ann is the acting-acting-chief-superintendent.”

“Takamaki Ann? The intern?”

“People think that the position is cursed.”

“That's ridiculous.”

Officer Kawakami shrugged. “The original got targeted by the Phantom Thieves and his successor was assaulted and sent to the ER.”

“Gorou?”

Officer Kawakami looked sharply at her. “You mean Inspector Akechi? Since when were you two so lovey-dovey?”

Makoto recoiled. “I wasn't—”

“We haven't forgotten that you went poof for six days after Gorou took you,” Ryuuji said loudly.

Makoto sighed. “It's ridiculous. Nothing happened between us. Neither of us could possibly see each other in that way.”

Officer Tohgou shook her head. “Perhaps take him drinking. It is said that sake reveals the true heart.”

“You're seeing things just because we came from the same undergrad program,” Makoto said dismissively. “Are there any specific orders for our squad?”

Ryuuji waved his hand, still sounding somewhat irritated. “Nope. Proceed on. As usual. Doing nothing. Because our leader is always gone. Hip hip hooray.”

She glared at him.

He quietly lowered his hand.

“Everyone knows that the Phantom Thieves are a goose chase,” Makoto bit out. “Just take it. Take the bad evals for the year. I know we got close a few times, but so did plenty of other teams. Don't be blinded by the Phantom Thieves, and remember that our real goal is eliminating corruption. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to visit Shiho.”

.

.

.

Niijima Sae gripped a leather-glazed notebook as she studied Makoto's testimony video. A series of tidy bullet points was scrawled over her paper, headlined in bold Sharpie: BLACK MASK CASE.

Tomorrow would be the day.

.

.

.

“Makoto,” said Shiho quietly, “what does it mean when you dream about one person over and over?”

It was a little past midday, just after Shiho's morning shift. The two women had seized the opportunity to change out of uniform and grab coffee, kicking back to take a breather in a hectic day.

Makoto coughed, remembering her own dream. “In what way?”

“In...” Shiho's cheeks were very, very pink. “In an inappropriate way.”

Makoto's eyes widened. “Um. What kind of inappropriate?”

“D-don't make me say it aloud.” Shiho buried her face in her arms.

“I can't help you unless—”

“Hewasgivingmeabackhugandwhisperingintomyear and and he felt like my sweetheart and oh god Makoto you don't understand.”

The edges of Makoto's lips pulled up. “Oh?” she said innocently.

“It was so warm. Just standing there in his arms... why. Why.” Shiho flopped her head against the table. “Why am I dreaming about, about Mishima Yuuki like a perv.”

She was so tiny and innocent and Makoto wanted to cry with laughter. “What kind of things does he say?”

Shiho's voice was very small. “That I'm wonderful. And courageous.”

“Well, he's right.”

“Real life Mishima Yuuki would never say that! The first time we met, I throttled him by the neck! He probably thinks that I'm brash and, and crude and...” Shiho's fingers brushed over her ponytail. “He... he was probably just teasing me when he asked...”

“What did he ask?”

“Nothing.” Shiho straightened. “How do I make the dreams stop?”

Makoto smiled enigmatically. “Do you want them to stop?”

Shiho blinked.

Makoto waited.

“No,” said Shiho meekly.

“Then stop trying.”

“That's not fair to him!” Shiho cried. “He watched over me when I was drinking at Crossroads, he was so sweet and earnest and considerate, and here I am having fantasies like some base woman!”

Makoto was grinning like an idiot but she couldn't stop it. “I see.”

“What if it escalates? What if he kisses my cheek? W-what if he k-kisses my lips? I'll never be able to look him in the eye again...!”

And Suzui Shiho pulled her hat over her eyes.

Makoto giggled. “Have you thought about confessing?”

“What do I say? ‘Hey, I've been having inappropriate fantasies about you and I can't control my primal urges, so will you date me?’”

Makoto almost had it then. Police Squad 29 had worked on kidnappings, homicides, and sexual assaults, during which Shiho was the understated backbone of the team with hard-eyed professionalism. But when it came to her own love life, she was as innocent as an infant.

“Just say, ‘I like you, you're nice, let's see a movie,’” said Makoto.

“He'll laugh at me.”

“He definitely won't.” In fact, she could already see Yuuki hiding under the counter to conceal a massive blush, pinching himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

“I can't.”

“You can.”

“He's too nice. He'll accept out of pity.”

“Or he'll accept because he likes you too.”

Shiho shook her head fervently. “I won't.”

Makoto let up the pressure. “Alright.”

A moment of silence.

“Do you know what's great for relaxing?” said Makoto presently. “Iced coffee.”

Shiho's eyes brightened.

Oh, baby, deep down, you really want to see Yuuki, don't you?

“That's a good idea,” said Shiho. “I'll go get some right now.”

She grabbed her jacket and raced away.

Makoto grinned.

.

.

.

Mishima Yuuki frowned at the sign pasted on Leblanc's door. Then he frowned at his phone. Then he frowned back at the sign.

Kurusu Akira had apparently decided to close up shop—at least temporarily—and he hadn't informed his erstwhile part timer. Yuuki called his number and waited, but like the five previous times, there was no response. Of course, he could always use his own key, but using it without the boss's permission didn't feel quite right.

He sighed and sat in front of the doorway.

It had been a whole day since he'd heard from Akira. After the mission on Erizawa Kikue, after Black Mask's appearance, his boss had disappeared.

“Closed?” came a pleasant voice.

Yuuki looked up.

Suzui Shiho was out of uniform, a casual shirt resting over light-wash denim shorts that accented her legs, which were curved with muscle. There was a hint of a mint-green clip in her hair next to her signature ponytail.

She smiled at him and the world sang.

“No,” he said automatically. Then fumbled. “Actually, yes. I don't know. Boss isn't responding.”

Shiho glanced at the sign on the door. “Closed until further notice,” she read. “He didn't tell you?”

“He doesn't tell me a lot of stuff,” Yuuki grumbled.

She sat next to him, around an armslength away. He found himself wishing that she'd sat closer. “That's too bad. I was in the mood for iced coffee.”

“Iced coffee?”

“Yeah.”

He scooted a teensy bit closer to her, keeping his eyes forward. “Leblanc is that good?”

She turned away, cheeks pink. “I don't have much of a frame of comparison.”

“Neither do I.” He scooted a little closer.

“You don't have much experience?”

“None.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It's true.”

His knee was barely brushing hers.

They stared ahead in silence, neither wanting to move. The sun was shining warmly, bathing their surroundings in a happy, golden glow. Yuuki knew that he could sit like that forever, sit next to Shiho in the sunlight, his knee quietly resting against hers.

She peeked at him. “Why did you start working here?”

Yuuki smiled. “Akira asked a favor. And it pays the bills.”

“Does it?” Shiho said doubtfully.

He probably would never be able to tell her exactly how well it paid. “Yeah. He's generous. It's strange, really. I met him in high school. And...”

He trailed off.

High school.

“Yuuki?” said Shiho gently.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

If he thought about high school for too long, the darkness inside would swallow him up. He'd gone to therapy. He'd supposedly gotten over it. But one thing that no one had told him was that time left scars when it mended wounds.

Yuuki felt a hand touch the back of his fingers.

“Everyone's broken,” Shiho said simply.

She was so kind.

“I'm worried for my boss,” Yuuki mumbled. “He hasn't responded to anything for two, three days.”

Shiho kept watching him with those warm eyes, looking at him like he was important, like she understood him.

He started to babble.

“I, I wasn't fair to him when we first met, you know. I spread rumors because I was scared—there was this one teacher, and he was doing things to students, and I—I didn't want that to be me—but then—it was so close, it almost did happen to me, I was terrified, but then, just in time, Akira saved me and—I basically owe him a life debt. I, I don't know what to do if something happens to him and I just sit around useless...”

He leapt up. He was embarrassed to be pathetic, and in front of Shiho, of all people.

“I won't be useless,” he said firmly. “I have to figure out what's happening.”

Shiho stood next to him, her eyes fixed on his face.

Yuuki breathed and unlocked the door.

The café seemed normal. Furniture was in its place and nothing was missing. Yuuki flicked on the lights, looking for a note.

There was nothing.

Shiho was poking around next to him, looking on the tables and shelves. She had a scrunched-up look of concentration that was unfairly cute, and Yuuki had to bite back a grin.

“Shiho,” he said, “if you don't want to, you don't have to be here. It's probably nothing. I'm probably just being, you know, paranoid.”

“It's okay,” said Shiho. She turned away, hiding her face. “I want to be here.”

He blinked. “Why?” he blurted.

She silently opened a cabinet and perused its contents.

Yuuki decided to drop the question. He headed to the staircase. To his surprise, the door to the attic was open.

Maybe Akira was prepping something in his room?

Yuuki climbed the stairs and flicked on the light. He'd been to the attic before a few times, usually to play video games or sleep over, so he knew what to—

—expect.

Oh.

Oh god.

His hand shook. He grabbed hold of the nearest table to steady himself.

“Shiho,” he said. “Shiho, there's. There's blood, there's a mess.”

He heard Shiho's rapid footsteps as she bolted up the stairs.

The room was halfway demolished. Segments of the shelves were crushed to pieces, frames had shattered into glass fragments, blankets on the bed were savagely torn to shreds. But the worst thing, the worst thing by far, was the small pool of dried blood gathered in the center, flanked by smaller splatters over the floor and against the wall.

Yuuki absently stepped forward to touch the blood, but Shiho's hand thumped into his chest.

“Don't touch anything,” she said crisply.

She looked at him.

“I'm calling my squad. From now on... this is a crime scene.”

.

.

.

| THE POLL FUNCTION IS TEMPORARILY DISABLED.

Chapter 38: RANK 13.5

Notes:

whoops it's been a while

work is getting really crazy so my editing process has been majorly slowed. due to this, unfortunately i have to announce the update schedule will be permanently dropping to once per week.

thank you all for your support so far. i really appreciate it ;w;

Niijima Sae strode into Shibuya Station. She ignored the chaos around her and placed one stiletto firmly in front of the other, following a path that she'd never taken before, but had known for years.

She knocked against the cubicle wall and cleared her throat.

Niijima Makoto looked up in a sway of chestnut hair.

For a moment, Sae was speechless. The roundness of her sister's little face had slimmed, and her eyes were deeper set, darker. Gone was the little girl who had once followed her everywhere, copying everything she did. She'd caught a glimpse of it at the sushi restaurant, but only now did she take it all in—the harrowed eyes, the shadows in her face.

Makoto's voice was demure, but Sae felt a wall of steel surge up between them. “Ah. Prosecutor Niijima. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Sae swallowed away her bitterness and regret. Now was not the time for sentiment. “The chief superintendent requested my assistance in the debrief of Black Mask's confrontation.”

Makoto's brows raised. “The chief superintendent?”

She knew, she knew that Takamaki Ann wouldn't have requested aid from an outsider, and Sae knew that she knew.

But Makoto only stood with a professional nod. “Very well.”

Sae frowned. That was it? “Thank you for your cooperation.”

“I will cooperate, certainly. But this must happen next week.”

Sae's voice hardened. “Next week?”

Makoto nodded.

“State the reason for your deferment,” Sae commanded.

“Religious obligations,” said Makoto immediately.

It was a prepared answer, and one that riled Sae's senses. “Don't pull that kind of card on me, Makoto.”

“How would you know if I was lying?” said Makoto mildly. “That implies that you know what kind of person I am.”

“Don't be a child.”

“I am only stating the obvious.”

“Then I'll also state mine.” Sae slammed her hand on the desk. Makoto didn't flinch, of course; she'd done her fair share of desk slamming in the interrogation room. “I know you're lying. I know you're hiding things in your testimony.”

She waited for the motion.

And there it was.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Makoto said politely.

“You know,” said Sae, “whenever you lie, you have a perfect poker face. But you don't control your trigger finger. It twitches, just a millimeter. And you can try to control it, Makoto. You can try to keep it as still as you can. But I don't think you'll be able to. That movement was programmed in you the night you saw our father die.”

Makoto's face shattered for a split second before she glued it together again. Sae felt a punch of guilt. “I expected this. I wish that things stopped hurting when you expected them.”

Sae's eyes narrowed. “What?”

“You didn't even ask if I was okay.”

Sae heard the tears in Makoto's voice. It tore at her heart.

“You didn't visit me once during the debriefs,” said Makoto. “You didn't look for me after I was about to be executed on public television. You didn't check to make sure that I'd been returned in one piece.”

Sae was speechless. Of course she hadn't looked for Makoto, she'd known that Black Mask was Gorou, she'd known that Makoto was safe—

“I could have been chopped in half, and you wouldn't have even cared.” Makoto's voice shook, then steadied, forced into a flat tone with raw professionalism. “Well. Anyway. I don't mean to throw a tantrum. Blood isn't always thicker than water. But I have an urgent situation, Prosecutor, so I won't be able to participate in further investigations for seven days.”

“It's your civil duty,” Sae managed. Everything else in her mind was running blank.

“Actually, Officer Niijima Makoto is to be on leave for the next seven days for traumatic psychological recovery,” said a placid voice.

Akechi Gorou stepped in from the hallway, prim and perfect in his typical double-breasted coat.

Sae gritted her teeth. “That's unheard of. Officers have to deal with trauma all the time. If one went on leave every time they witnessed something disturbing—”

“Apologies, but it is my understanding that a prosecutor should not even be involved in this case in any official capacity,” said Gorou mildly. “I would be glad to provide you with the opportunity to speak with our key witness, but please do so at a timeline convenient to her schedule. That would be in seven days, you said, Officer Niijima?”

Makoto looked surprised, but pleasantly so. “Yes. Seven days.”

Sae's brow twitched. “Akechi.”

“Chief Superintendent Akechi for now,” said Gorou. He pointed at his name plate. “I recomandeered my position from the intern.”

“It's foolish to put off the investigation. Niijima's memory could fade. You know that.”

“What could possibly fade?” said Gorou. “The identity of Black Mask?”

She glared at him.

He stared evenly back.

“Seven days,” said Sae. “I'll be back.”

“I await your return,” said Gorou mildly.

Sae left the building, shaken.

.

.

.

“Did... did something happen to him?” said Yuuki.

Shiho knelt, examining a portion of the wall. “Looks like there's a bullet here. If it's what caused this much blood, that means there was an entry and exit wound.”

“Bad?”

“Less bad than if it was still in his body, probably.” She waited until Officer Mifune snapped a forensics shot, then pulled the bullet and slipped it into a plastic bag. “I'll have this sent to ballistics."

“We're really not supposed to do this, Suzui,” said Officer Mifune uncertainty. “Aren't you still on probation with traffic control? One more violation, and you could be fired for good.”

“Divine it for me,” said Shiho blandly. “Will I be caught?”

“That's not fair, Suzui.”

“Just focus on the pictures.”

Officer Mifune returned to snapping away.

In truth, Shiho was banking on the fact that Shibuya Station was a mess and the Yongen-jaya administration was notoriously disorganized. She'd officially filed a report on Leblanc, but she certainly hadn't called attention to it. This was important to Yuuki, and she wanted to make sure it was in fully competent hands.

Ryuuji stepped away from the window. “Somethin' doesn't seem right,” he said with a frown.

“All hold your breath for Sakamoto, the brains of the operation,” Officer Kawakami muttered.

“Shut up,” Ryuuji snapped. “Look, there's no blood trail, no bodies anywhere around this café, and this window ain't been opened in days. You can see the dust. This kinda room gets damn dusty really fast. So where'd the people go?”

“Tohgou?” said Shiho in clipped tones.

Officer Tohgou looked up from her computer. “CCTVs show nothing. Except...”

“Except what?”

Officer Tohgou's face was pale. “It is devilry.”

Yuuki crouched next to her. “What is?”

Officer Tohgou gulped. “Yesterday evening, the footage shows Officer Niijima entering this café because a cat opened the door for her.”

“What,” said Shiho.

“It's the owner's familiar,” said Officer Mifune. She was still snapping away to avoid Shiho's wrath.

Officer Tohgou met Shiho's eyes. “However, Setter... that is hardly the strangest part.”

Shiho waited.

“Officer Niijima walks in,” said Officer Tohgou, “but she never comes back out.”

.

.

.

QUEEN. Hey, where are you guys?

QUEEN. Sorry. I got caught up at the station. Prosecutor Niijima wanted to speak with me. I'm on my way.

QUEEN. Everyone? Where are you?

.

.

.

“Rush job,” Ryuuji gasped, bursting into the forensics lab. “Blood and ballistics.”

Takemi Tae snatched the bullet from him. “Do you think that I can just snap my fingers and have the universe line up?”

“You're the best in the field,” said Ryuuji.

Tae barked a laugh. “Don't bother with flattery, Sakamoto. It doesn't suit you.”

“Will you have it done?”

She paused. “Tonight.”

.

.

.

Makoto stood in front of an uncomfortably familiar desk. It hadn't been long since she'd last stood there for rather distasteful reasons, and being there brought an unusual, sickening déjà vu.

Gorou, who seemed attentive to this, smiled mildly. “What do you say we swap positions, Officer Niijima? Just this once?”

She blinked. “Sir?”

“You may sit in the seat of power, and I may stand.”

She shook her head. “That would be an unacceptable breach of protocol, sir.”

Gorou's smile widened, and it felt a little dangerous. “Hm. Remarkable.”

Makoto's brow pinched in consternation.

“Officer Niijima,” said Gorou, “I had other intentions in calling for a seven-day deferment for your interrogation. Simply put, the two of us will be busy attending to other matters.”

The desk, the room, the supervisor. Nausea swirled in Makoto's stomach. “Like what, sir?”

Gorou stood and flexed his fingers. “We need to retrace our steps to Shinjuku immediately. I exited a house; you found me as soon as I did. Surely you remember where it was.”

Makoto blinked.

“Well?” said Gorou. “Shouldn't we leave at once?”

“Oh,” said Makoto. She blinked. “Just us, sir?”

Gorou raised a brow. “You conducted a search-and-rescue on your own, Niijima. I trust you have more than adequate reason to suspect a mole.“

“Yes, sir...” But she didn't have time for this. She needed to help Akira. She needed to construct an alibi. And, perhaps most importantly, she needed a house that actually existed. She couldn’t possibly bring Gorou to the Metaverse.

“Is there a problem?” said Gorou. The determination on his face was melting into suspicion.

Yes. Yes, there was a very big problem.

She hadn’t even considered that Gorou would expect her to bring him back for an investigation. Of course she should; if it had been a real search-and-rescue, she'd have a tidy list of locations for them to check. But it wasn't. It was luck, impulse. It had happened in the Metaverse.

In the craziness of Akira's palace... what else had she missed?

A deep foreboding pulled at the pit of her stomach, like she'd forgotten something very, very important, but she pushed it away. There were more pressing matters. Akechi Gorou was waiting for her response, cataloging her reaction.

First. She couldn't lead him back to a house that didn't physically exist.

Thus, she needed redirection.

She seized it. She didn't have time to craft something well thought out. For now, it was sink or swim.

“Sir,” she said gingerly, “I didn't find you in a house.”

Gorou stopped halfway in donning his jacket. His eyes snapped to hers.

A beat.

Then two.

“No?” he asked, baffled.

“No,” Makoto said.

Gorou swallowed. He finally finished putting on his jacket, but the movements were dry and creaky. “I don't understand.”

Second. Gorou believed he had been in a house. Why? Sensory information.

Thus. She needed him to doubt his sensory information.

Makoto waited strategically.

One mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi—

And then she let the shock dawn on her face. She let her brows raise and her mouth stretch wide and her lungs gasp just once.

“Sir,” she whispered, “since you returned, have you taken a drug test?”

The edges of Gorou's features pulled in horror.

She pressed on, taking advantage of the momentum. “What's the last thing you remember? How did I find you?”

Gorou stammered out a response, but his mind was already spinning. “You... drove me, of course. To the Shinjuku alleyway. We spoke. I told you that I memorized the house floorplan, that I would probably recognize it if I saw it, and then you told me how you escaped. You didn't seem surprised when I mentioned a house.”

Inwardly, she cursed. Outwardly, her face was perfectly stoic. “I thought you meant that they kept you at a house before they moved you, sir.”

“Moved me?”

Third. She needed an alternate location. Someplace she could allegedly find Akechi Gorou. Someplace without CCTV coverage or eyewitnesses. Someplace where her word was the only law.

Thus—

—did such a place even exist?

The abandoned parking garage in Shinjuku was still swarming with police, or else it would've been the perfect place.

Then: all caution out the window. What she needed to do was survive.

“You were in a body bag, sir,” she said. “Hidden in a Shinjuku alley.”

Gorou absently shook his head. “But I... my memory was so clear... and...”

“Sir,” Makoto said slowly, “think about the floor plan. What kind of rooms did you run into?”

Gorou spoke in a rush. “Of course, when I exited a cellar, I ran onto a stretch of carpet that led to tile. Perhaps a kitchen. Then I was back on carpet, and I collided with a sofa, so—a living room. The next was a narrow room with waist-high appliances and tile, so; a laundry room. It certainly led into the garage, which led back into—”

Then he stopped. He mouthed the next words with dread.

“—into the house.”

“You were back in the house,” said Makoto in a perfect doubting tone, “after you just walked into the garage?”

A beat.

Two.

When victims were in circumstances of immense psychological distress, their hallucinations often reflected their physical situation. Running endlessly through a building, but being unable to escape, was common symbolism for being in confining circumstances.

Such as a body bag.

Add in drug-induced delirium, and the solution was almost too obvious.

Gorou knew this.

Makoto knew that he knew this.

So—

—Akechi Gorou leapt to his feet.

“I should have known. I should have known when I woke without a headache, even after a clear concussion. Damn it, I must have been high off my mind.”

She couldn't blame him. The Metaverse was, in physical terms, completely nonsensical. She just had to take advantage of it.

“A whole day. It's been over a whole day. It's very likely that the drug is out of my bloodstream. Urine test, I must take a urine test.”

And he zoomed down the corridor, straight for the lab.

Makoto went completely forgotten.

.

.

.

She pulled up at Leblanc café.

After the radio silence from her police squad, she'd had to look into their whereabouts. Apparently, they had filed a report—albeit in a slightly underhanded manner—of a dispatch to a crime scene. In Yongen-jaya.

In Leblanc café.

So here Makoto was, very late at night, standing on the entrance of the café that was starting to become a little too familiar.

Makoto was just about to reach for the handle when the door suddenly opened.

Police Squad 29 filed out of the café. They paused when they saw her, but then their faces shifted into something grim.

Makoto felt a flicker of apprehension.

Sakamoto Ryuuji stepped forward. His boyish face was unusually flat. He'd always worn his heart on his sleeve since the day she met him, screaming when he was angry and bawling when he was sad—but this night, there was a mask of professionalism over his face.

As if he couldn't trust her.

“Officer Niijima,” he said.

And he raised a sheet of paper: a ballistics report.

“There was a bullet found in the attic of Leblanc café with traces of blood from the individual named Kurusu Akira,” he said. “Apparently, it came from your gun.”

Ice flooded Makoto's blood.

She'd missed it.

Of course. That altercation hadn't happened in the Metaverse. It had happened in reality. Right now, in the cellar of Leblanc café, there was a crime scene.

“Officer Niijima Makoto,” said Ryuuji, still in that flat, dead tone, “where is your service pistol?”

The rest of the squad was peering hopefully at her, like there had to be some reasonable explanation.

Makoto swallowed.

Akira had taken the service pistol from her in his Palace. He'd thrown it against his diploma.

It was still in his Palace.

“It's gone,” she whispered.

“Where did it go.”

“I... I don't know.”

“Did someone steal it from you.”

She was silent.

Ryuuji's voice hardened. “Did you shoot Kurusu Akira.”

This was bad. This was really bad.

She didn't have time for this. Akira's clock was ticking down to total mental degradation.

Ryuuji's face twisted. “Where is his body?”

His voice was raising. She knew that he'd be slamming the table if she was in the interrogation room.

But she couldn't say where Akira's body was.

“Where,” roared Ryuuji, “is the goddamn corpse, Officer Niijima Makoto?!”

Akira wasn't dead.

But she couldn't show them that he was alive.

Or—

—what if she did show them the Metaverse?

No. No, those were more mouths, more brains, more points of weakness. Eventually, someone was bound to file a report. The reward for closing out a seven-year case would be too tantalizing.

And all that was needed for everything to be ruined... was for one person to break.

If they filed a report, the whole police department would descend on the Palace.

And then they'd get obliterated by an invincible Shadow Joker.

Or they'd murder Kurusu Akira.

Ryuuji rounded on her, rage leaking from his face. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO WITH YOUR SERVICE PISTOL?!”

Makoto was frozen.

Throw in the towel, said her terrified id. We're done. Ryuuji's gonna pipe us right here.

Was there anything she could do? Anything?

She couldn't be charged, she couldn't go to jail, not now. With every passing hour, Akira's Palace was spiraling further out of control. She needed to study, pull in knowledge. She needed to execute her plan without wrenches in the timeline.

“One week,” she said.

“One week for what,” Ryuuji ground out.

“One week and Kurusu Akira will be right here, unharmed,” said Makoto. “No damages, physical nor psychological. I promise.”

“One week and you'll be fleeing on a plane for your crime.”

“Put me on no-fly.”

“Like that'll stop you.”

Makoto bowed her head. “Please, Ryuuji. Trust me.”

“Like hell I can!” Ryuuji viciously kicked at the café wall. “You know how many secrets you've been keepin' recently? A whole damn lot. Disappeared for forty-eight hours. Then a whole week. Now your bullet shows up in a crime scene that's been blown apart. Nuh-uh, Niijima, no more room for trust.”

“I can't save everyone!” Makoto screamed.

Police Squad 29 recoiled. Makoto's face wobbled, even as she tried her best to keep it stoic.

“I can't. Not if you do this. There's lives at stake. I need to do something about it, or innocents will die. A lot of them.”

“Are there people threatening you?” Officer Kawakami said sharply.

“If there are,” said Shiho, “then we take this to the precinct. We make it an official case. We're behind you, Makoto, but we need to do this the legal way. Otherwise, we're no better than the corruption we're trying to catch.”

It wasn't like that. They couldn't understand.

The pressure was building up in her head. Makoto seized her hair.

Was this how the Phantom Thieves felt all the time? Like the entire world was on their shoulders, and if they failed just once, everything would fall apart?

It was an egotistical perspective, but now she could understand it.

“Any ideas?” she said loudly.

Police Squad 29 glanced at each other in confusion, but the cat concealed in the shadows on Leblanc's rooftop responded, “You're doomed.”

“You don't have any super special deus ex machina to save the day?”

“In this world, I'm a cat.”

So. That option was out.

Makoto had one last resort. It was a resort that she hated.

She breathed shakily, bringing her hands to her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

Ryuuji stepped forward and gripped her by the shoulders. “Stop apologizin' and start—”

Makoto moved.

Her elbows swiveled over his arms.

Her hands wrenched his wrists.

Her knees smashed into the back of his legs.

She seized his service pistol.

She gripped his hair and pushed it forward.

She pressed the gun to the back of his head.

“STEP AWAY!” she roared, injecting every ounce of authority possible in her voice.

Police Squad 29 stumbled back in shock.

Makoto drove more weight into her knee. Ryuuji's cheek slammed against the pavement. He lay still, not daring to move with a gun pressed to his head.

“You're not going to fire,” said Shiho. She was trying to sound calm, but Makoto could pick out the thread of fear in her voice. “You would never fire at someone in your squad.”

“Try me,” Makoto said coldly. She had the perfect poker face, and no one besides Sae knew about her trigger finger.

Shiho shook her head fervently. “You're not that kind of person, Makoto. You're good and kind and, and you always end up doing what's right.”

Makoto was quiet for a moment.

“Then maybe you should start wondering,” she said, “why you're trying to arrest me.”

She kicked Ryuuji lightly in the side. Ryuuji jerked up.

“Walk,” she said harshly. “The rest of you, stay here and don't move a muscle. You know how this works. You move, he dies.”

It hurt, threatening a loyal member of her own squad. It was a sore punch to her gut.

But she had no other choice.

Ryuuji walked. The rest of Police Squad 29 stayed very, very still, even as they faded into the shadows of the backstreet.

Ryuuji's motions were calm, even, just as professional as he would've been in a real hostage situation. “Makoto,” he said.

“Silence,” Makoto snapped. “Not another word.”

If he kept talking, she might lose it and burst into tears.

Ryuuji was obediently silent.

They walked painstakingly down the street, out of the light. She knew that as soon as she turned the corner, Police Squad 29 would seize the chance to move. It was what she would've done in their position. So she kept walking down the same road, walking until they were small little shadows, and then she turned the corner.

She shoved Ryuuji away from her, leveling the pistol at him. “Go.”

Ryuuji looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. “Makoto.”

“I said go.”

He stared for one moment longer, then raced away.

Makoto sprinted around the rear of the building, heading back to Leblanc. She wove through toppled canisters, old cardboard boxes, piles of aluminum cans, and beaten posters, careful to keep her steps solid. A shadow flitted at her side.

“Morgana,” she gasped, fumbling in her pocket.

Morgana leapt to her shoulder as she rounded the corner and vaulted on a garbage tin, climbing the low stone wall to the rear of Leblanc. She crouched, drew out her phone, and whispered fervently.

“Kurusu Akira. Leblanc café. Home.”

She and Morgana vanished.

.

.

.

(If Police Squad 29 hadn't chased down Ryuuji—)

(If Ryuuji hadn't met them halfway, and if he'd proceeded to Leblanc—)

(—perhaps he also would have vanished.)

.

.

.

| THE POLL FUNCTION IS TEMPORARILY DISABLED.

Chapter 39: RANK 13.75

Notes:

blewp blewp blewp

“So,” said Morgana, “let's recap.”

“Let's not,” mumbled Makoto. She pressed harder on the gas.

Morgana the catbus bolted through the Metaverse on full throttle. “You're now a fugitive from justice after manhandling and threatening a fellow officer at gunpoint. Shadow Joker is gonna go ballistic in around a week and wipe out all of cognitive Japan. Squad 29 is bound to report you as rogue with recently developed psychotic tendencies. Oh, and your sister doesn't love you.”

“Not helping, Momo.”

“That's a stupid nickname, and we're doomed.”

“We just have to tackle one problem at a time.”

“What happened to the good little law-abiding cop that Akira fell in love with?”

“That good little cop,” said Makoto mildly, “is trying to save his ass.”

“We're still doomed.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Makoto snapped. “I can't tell them about the Metaverse. Who knows what could happen if knowledge about a cognitive dimension becomes widespread? Someone could run around killing shadows, murdering people with no one the wiser. Just imagine the horrific ramifications of cognitive crime. The police isn't equipped for that. We can't fight magic.”

Morgana sighed. It was odd, coming from a bus. A whiff of exhaust spewed from the front vent. “True enough. You probably picked the lesser of two evils.”

“So, Momo. Where are we headed?”

“From now on, I am not responding to Momo, and we are headed to the house of an accomplice. I'm trusting you not to tattle to the precinct the moment you see the address.”

“The moment I go to the precinct, I'll be behind bars.”

“Awesome. The two of you already have so much in common.”

She felt them steamroll out of one Palace into another, a desert into a forest. “I didn't know that the Phantom Thieves had accomplices.”

She swore that the catbus was smiling. “Where do you think the calling cards have been coming from?”

.

.

.

“Shibuya Station, this is Officer Tohgou—”

Shiho seized the phone and forcibly ended the call, glaring at Officer Tohgou.

Officer Tohgou glared back, offended. “Excuse you, Acting High General Suzui.”

“Don't make any calls,” said Shiho crisply. “The number one thing we can't afford right now is rash action. Were you even listening to Makoto's words? Did you see the look on her face? There's something very big and possibly very bad behind all this, and I don't want to be the bonehead who accidentally nuked all of Tokyo.”

“She held a gun to Sakamoto's head,” Officer Tohgou ground out.

Officer Kawakami snorted. “Let's be real, all of us have wanted to do that at some point.”

“She took him as a hostage.”

“I agree with Tohgou,” said Officer Mifune solemnly. “Niijima Makoto is touching on some serious criminal charges.”

“What is a legal system for if people can do whatever they want?” Officer Tohgou springboarded.

Shiho looked to Ryuuji, who was applying ice on his bruised cheek. “Sakamoto. You're the victim. What are your thoughts?”

Ryuuji looked up at her.

The squad waited.

Ryuuji sighed, mussing his hair in frustration. “Hell, I dunno.”

“Did she seem insane?” Shiho pushed.

“We didn't talk.”

“How did you get her to let you go?”

Ryuuji paused. “I dunno. She just let me go when she turned the corner.”

Officer Kawakami nodded. “She wanted to book it. Didn't actually want a hostage. Seems obvious enough.”

“She still did it,” said Officer Tohgou.

Shiho held up her hand. Their argument halted. “Sakamoto, you don't seem angry with her.”

Ryuuji pressed the ice pack. “I heard her voice, y'know. She sounded cornered. Desperate. That happened to me once. She doesn't actually wanna hurt anybody. She's doin' her best.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Officer Kawakami flatly. “You feel more sympathetic to her after she held a gun to your head?”

Ryuuji shrugged.

“Masochist,” said Officer Kawakami.

Shiho sent a chilling glare. She paced for a moment, rubbing her head with the tips of her fingers. This was probably one of the worst possible situations that ever could have arisen.

“Alright,” she finally said. “We're going to speak with Akechi Gorou.”

“Inspector Akechi?” said Officer Mifune, surprised.

“I,” said Shiho, “am going to shake out what's been happening to her if it's the last thing I do. Officers don't just go ballistic and hold hostages out of nowhere.”

She glanced at Ryuuji's vacant holster.

“Let's hope there's no more of Niijima going rogue, or we're all on the chopping block.”

.

.

.

The shack loomed above the ground—too big in size to really be called a shack. Makoto, in accordance with Morgana's suggestions, had changed in a dark jacket and pants more befitting of subterfuge. She knocked on the front door and waited.

There was no response.

Morgana glanced up at her. “Try again.”

She knocked again. “Are you sure that someone actually lives here?”

“Trust me. I was just as surprised as you are.”

The door finally cracked open. A pale head poked outside, and two grey eyes squinted at her like she was impossibly tiny.

“Hm,” said the odd yet beautiful head.

She nodded politely. “Hello, Mr. Kitagawa, I believe. My name is—”

“The Reaper Grimme,” said the man suddenly.

She halted. “Huh?”

“Clothes of shadow, eyes of crimson. Your hair is the color of deepest chestnut, the wood that comprises the handle of your scythe.” He opened the door fully and whisked a small sketchbook from his pocket, scribbling rapidly. “I would have expected black ebony. Yet perhaps chestnut holds greater capacity for power.”

Makoto's mouth ran dry. She croaked incomprehensibly.

“By the way,” said Morgana, “he's basically the walking definition of an eccentric artist.”

Makoto shook her head to regain her senses. “I'm not a grim reaper. My name is Niijima Makoto. I know the Joker.”

Kitagawa Yusuke's hand paused over his sketchbook.

“I'd like to talk inside where there's greater privacy,” said Makoto.

Yusuke kept staring at her.

She waited.

“Ah,” he said softly, “that is why the aura is identical.”

“Sorry?”

“Come inside.”

He whipped around and strode into the darkness of the shack. Makoto followed.

.

.

.

“Joker is in trouble,” said Makoto over the cup of green tea.

Yusuke nodded solemnly. “Naturally. I can think of no other reason as to why his lover might visit me.”

Makoto choked on her tea.

Yusuke elegantly set down his cup. “Tell me why you seek my assistance.”

Makoto surreptitiously dabbed at her mouth. “I, I heard that, you two are, accomplices.”

“I am contracted regularly to design the calling cards,” said Yusuke. “Apart from that, we have little interaction. He is a character of much intrigue, yet he confides little.”

“When did you first meet?”

“Seven years ago.” Yusuke's eyes were distant, focusing on a great, swirling painting hung on the walls, distraught in colors of neon and black. “He saved me from a life of slavery and showed me truth. I owe a great deal to him.”

“You saw him in person?”

“He revealed himself to me as his Joker identity. Naturally, I did not beg to question further.” Yusuke sipped his tea. “There was a painting that captured my heart when I was just beginning as an artist. The Sayuri; beauty itself! I had been led to believe that my ex-mentor, Madarame, was its creator... but then Joker approached me with the original painting.”

He passed her his phone. Makoto was stricken to see the same canvas that hung on the walls of Leblanc café.

“I learned that day that the Sayuri was created by my mother. Perhaps such was its drawing power upon my heart.”

“Wait—you have it with you?”

“No. I was grateful enough to receive Truth. So I imparted the original painting as a gift to the Thieves. It would not have seen recognition in the art community, at any rate.”

“And he's been in contact with you to design the calling cards ever since,” Makoto guessed.

“Indeed.” Yusuke leaned back in his chair. With one long leg crossed over the other, he seemed like waifish royalty. “Now, Niijima Makoto. How might I help the lover of my greatest benefactor?”

Her cheeks flamed. “Please don't call me that.”

“The lover of my accomplice, then.”

“You definitely missed the point.”

“The lover of—”

“Just call me Makoto, please. Or Niijima.”

Yusuke was quiet for a moment. “Very well, Miss Niijima.”

Makoto straightened, regaining her composure. “I'm here simply because I'm now a criminal.”

“Johanna.”

“Excuse me?”

Yusuke frowned. “Pardon. I do not know why, but the name suddenly came to me.”

“Well, sorry, but my name is Makoto, not Johanna.”

Yusuke waved a hand. “Proceed. You are now a criminal, and you need a place in which to reside, I presume?”

She hesitated. “Just temporarily. Until we get the Joker out of trouble. It'll be a week, tops.”

“That should not be much trouble.”

“And when the time comes, I'll need to ask you to make something. A calling card of my own, per se.”

Morgana looked sharply at her in confusion. Yusuke only nodded.

“Addressed to the Joker, I presume?”

She smiled. “I'll tell you more when the time comes.”

.

.

.

“Any plans on monologuing your dastardly schemes, or will you keep just smiling mysteriously like you're Mona Lisa?” muttered the catbus.

Makoto shrugged as she drove. “I've been doing some theorycrafting.”

“Oh, this can't be good.”

Makoto glared at the roof of the catbus. “Every shadow is propelled by something. Correct? A primary distorted emotion that is behind the Palace, which takes the form of a Treasure.”

“How'd you learn that, exactly?”

“Monsters tell you things at gunpoint when you threaten to shoot their limbs one by one.”

Morgana was silent for a moment. “You're surprisingly hardcore.”

“My theory is that Akira's shadow is fueled by the thirst for justice. I might not know what his Treasure is, but I know that he's been through a lot of injustice.”

“You don't even know the half of it,” said Morgana, and he told her.

He told her about a boy who grew up in an ordinary but distant family that rarely saw each other because of Work, and as long as he behaved, he was loved; a conditional affection.

He told her about a boy who saved a woman, and in return, was granted an assault on his permanent record.

He told her about a boy who was rejected from his family because they refused to listen.

He told her about a boy who was forcibly transferred to a school where unfounded rumors followed his every step.

He told her about a boy who was imprisoned in a Palace on his first day of class, about to be executed simply for his crime of walking inside.

He told her about a boy who singlehandedly dismantled corruption from the shadows.

Makoto took it all in. She pulled the car aside and began to write in her notebook of STAND BACK, I'M GOING TO ATTEMPT SCIENCE. She didn't cry, not one tear, even though the story was heartbreakingly sad. Instead, she took every detail, turned it in her mind, memorized it until it was etched in the very fabric of her brain.

“Why,” said Morgana when he was finished, baffled, “are you writing?”

“Because this is key testimony.”

Morgana snorted gas. “Key testimony? Can't you put off the police thing for just one second? You're listening to the tragic backstory of your boyfriend.”

Makoto closed her notebook and returned her hands to the wheel. “This is a way to save him. You'll see.”

She continued driving.

.

.

.

They stopped off just down the backstreet of Yongen-jaya, outside the rear corner of Leblanc.

It made Makoto exceedingly nervous. She expected to see the café swarming with countless policemen, blocked off with yellow tape, surrounded by wailing vehicles.

She was shocked to find nothing. The café stood quietly, as if nothing had happened.

“This way,” said Morgana, and led her down the street. “I'm going to introduce you to our other accomplice.”

.

.

.

Sakura Futaba looked at Makoto.

Makoto looked back.

“By any chance,” said Makoto uncertainly, “given your last name, are you related to Sakura Sojiro?”

“Geez,” muttered Futaba, “since when was this house accessible to NPCs?”

“My name is—”

“Yeah, yeah, Niijima Makoto, leader of Police Squad 29, sister of Niijima Sae, and I got paid one hundred sweet grand o' yen to lift your phone number, by the way.”

This struck Makoto into silence.

“You're always on the CCTVs in this area going to Soji's café to flirt with someone. Mishima Yuuki or Kurusu Akira, heck, I don't know which.” Futaba shrugged. “Look, lady. Dunno what kind of side quest you're gonna offer. Don't care. See ya.”

She almost slammed the door, but Makoto kicked at its base. Futaba flopped flat on her bum. Apparently, her strength was rather flimsy.

“I told you that I was with the Joker,” said Makoto, adding a hard edge to her voice. “He's your primary employer, and he's in trouble. Shouldn't that concern you?”

“I've got plenty of ways to make bank, lady, and you're rude for a cop.” Futaba surged to her feet. “Go away. Or I'll send fraudulent charges on your credit card.”

“You're indebted to him.”

Futaba glared at her. “Says who?”

A black-and-white cat threaded out from between Makoto's feet. Futaba's eyes widened.

“Kitty,” she said accusingly.

Morgana casually licked the back of his paw.

“Apparently,” said Makoto, “you were being plagued by psychological problems and you wanted a change of heart. So you hacked the Phan-site, made it a public message to the Thieves. They got in contact with you using a disposable flip phone, an old model, something you wouldn't be able to track if they weren't calling you. You directed them to help you. In a way, you contracted them. And when they were successful, you offered your talents.”

“Three years for free, as gratitude. I've already paid my dues, lady.”

“They resolved deep-rooted psychological problems that were unfixable in any other way.”

“Professional therapy. Duh.”

“You couldn't even look any of the therapists in the eye.”

Futaba fell silent.

“They reconciled your feelings about your mother,” said Makoto. “Isn't that worth a little help?”

“A hacker of my caliber for three years isn't skimping the rewards. I know how to design quests.”

“So he's just a client? You wouldn't consider him anything close to a friend? You never joke around with him or tease him?”

Futaba gritted her teeth. “What do you want.”

Makoto made sure to keep her face still. It wouldn't be wise to grin victoriously and lose out on Futaba's good graces. “I have to look up some sites. Criminal law, United Nations, maybe a few books on court proceedings.”

Futaba stared at her. “You came to my house because you were too cheap to ring up a PC bang.”

“Fugitive. Not good to be in public buildings that are easily surrounded.”

“Noob.” She jerked her head to the house. “Fine. Come inside. But it'll be five thousand yen per hour.”

“Are you serious?”

“Private fiber line, one thousand megabits per second, encrypted connection, yeah, I'd say I'm serious.”

Makoto seized her ear. “Are you sure?” she said primly.

“Ow! Ow, lady, this is assault and battery! I'm gonna call my lawyer!”

“I think that zero yen per hour sounds a little more reasonable. Don't you?”

“What are you, the yakuza?!”

“Not being a cop is so relaxing. Maybe I should quit my job.”

“Okay! Fine! Geez!” Makoto released, and Futaba wrenched free. “Weirdo. If he didn't like you so much, I'd put you in some serious trouble.”

“I think,” said Makoto, “that the two of us will get along great.”

Not being a cop was very, very relaxing.

.

.

.

She spent the rest of the week studying. She could feel every minute tick by, urgent and pleading, but still, she studied. It was her way of prepping for war.

At the end of the allotted time, she reconvened with Morgana in Yusuke's guest room.

“I'm ready,” she said.

Morgana glared. “Are you gonna finally tell me what you've been up to?”

Makoto smiled. “We know that Akira's psyche—Shadow Joker—is driven by the desire for justice. It's what he cares about above all else. Naturally, we can't steal the Treasure. He's basically unfightable.”

“Sukunda and Ziodyne. I'm a fried cat.”

“Nor can we reach him by natural means.”

“You gave that a try.”

Makoto closed her eyes, peacefully smiling. “So only one option remains. We give Shadow Joker what he wants.”

Morgana stared.

“You've lost it,” he finally said.

“I believe that the root of his problem is the injustice of the assault charge. That's the inciting incident that led to everything else, if you think about it.”

“That case has been over for years. Shidou's been over for years.”

“But the psyche holds on.”

Sometimes, it didn't matter that decades had passed or therapeutic programs were completed or interpersonal lessons were learned. Sometimes, thunderstorms still hailed terror. Sometimes, lying still twitched the trigger finger, and underlit clown masks still extracted a scream. Sometimes, what the brain wanted to shelve, the psyche wanted to put on display.

“I believe,” said Makoto after a pause, “that addressing the tragic verdict might make a difference.”

Morgana's tail flicked. “If so?”

“So we, in the Metaverse, hold a retrial of the case as if we were back in that time.”

“A trial.” Morgana mused on this. “There were no CCTVs and no other witnesses. How's the retrial gonna be any different?”

“Naturally, we have to disprove the validity of the only witness testimony. Thanks to Futaba, we now have the evidence to show that the witness was under external pressure to give false testimony. The case will fall through. Akira will have to naturally be presumed innocent, by lack of evidence against him.”

Morgana was quiet. “Sounds risky.”

“It is.”

“How are you even gonna get Akira and Shadow Joker to attend this trial?”

Makoto brushed her hair behind her ear. “Akira and his psyche are stuck in a psychological prison. And they can't take a step out, because subconsciously, no matter how much they try to fight it, they're afraid of the unknown. But one way to get past fear is by putting something they need in the unknown. A stimulus, a motive.”

“The methodology of courage.”

“Exactly.”

The room fell silent as Morgana looked at their surrounding paintings, turning things over in his mind.

“You know,” he admitted, “I'm pretty impressed. It's not a bad idea.”

High praise indeed from the cat.

“Then I'll speak with Yusuke,” said Makoto. “We need to get moving quickly.”

“You'll ask him to make a calling card?”

She grinned. “Not a calling card.”

She paused.

“A subpoena.”

.

.

.

| THE POLL FUNCTION IS TEMPORARILY DISABLED.

Chapter 40: Interlude

Shiho neatly folded her uniform and separated the neon yellow traffic vest. A part of her wanted to keep the vest. Keep some normalcy. Pretend that she was still an ordinary officer on an ordinary probation, and her smart, discerning leader hadn't gone off-the-rails. Pretend that Akechi Gorou hadn't reinstated her normal status because Police Squad 29 was now leaderless. Pretend that she didn't have to provide testimony on the sudden turning of Niijima Makoto.

Even if it was a tedious job of probationary traffic control, it meant that everything was okay.

Shiho eased into casual clothes, keeping her baton clipped to her side. Then she pushed out of the Crossroads bathroom, waving to Lala as she entered the street.

“Hey there, pretty,” came a gleeful snicker. “Where you headed this late?”

Shiho paused and sighed. Not this again.

There were disadvantages to having a regular shift schedule in Shinjuku. Whenever she changed out of uniform, she had to deal with inconveniences.

She turned to witness a seedy man approaching her from one of the abandoned alleyways. One glance told her that he was no threat: no knife, no gun, just muscles that he thought were everything. He wasn't even worth her time.

She turned and started to walk away.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said the man. He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the alley. “Why you in such a hurry?”

“Hands off!” commanded a sharp voice.

Mishima Yuuki steamrolled around the corner. His lanky frame and trim clothing were entirely out of place in Shinjuku, but there was considerable anger sizzling from every tense muscle in his body. His face was contorted in rage. It was a foreign look on the Yuuki she knew.

What was he doing in Shinjuku?

The man took one look at Yuuki's pale skin and lanky arms and snickered. “Why? You want first dibs? I don't mind sharing.”

Shiho couldn't help but roll her eyes.

But his words seemed to incite Yuuki further. Yuuki crouched and raised his fists, mirroring a textbook fighting position. As if he had actually copied a textbook. It was heavily telegraphed and spoke of inexperience.

This wasn't going to end well.

The man's smile only broadened and he walked forward leisurely. “You a schoolboy? Maybe I should teach you a lesson.”

He swung. Yuuki's arm came up in a perfect block.

And while Yuuki was distracted, the man kneed him hard in the gut.

Yuuki fell backward on the ground, choking.

Shiho sighed and stepped in front of him. “That's enough,” she said clearly.

The man stepped back with a glint in his eye. “Tell ya what. I'll spare his sorry life if you come willingly with me.”

“No, Shiho,” said Yuuki weakly.

Shiho waited calmly.

The man shrugged and reached for her arm.

Shiho moved.

Snap, crackle, pop.

A jab to his neck, a wrench of his wrist, a knee to his groin.

She turned.

Snap, crackle, pop.

A twist to his arm, a kick to the back of his knees, a stomp on his toes.

Snap, crackle, pop.

A chop on his shoulder joint, an elbow to his spine, a light punch to the jaw.

The man crumpled.

The movements had been calculated and efficient. There was no need for excessive force; Shiho put just enough strength into every blow to make him feel sorry. No dislocations, no breaks, but highly painful bruises and maybe a minor sprain.

He groaned and squirmed.

Shiho walked over to Yuuki and extended a hand. He was staring at her, mouth agape.

“Come on,” she said.

Yuuki blinked. Then he suddenly shook his head and buried his face in his arms. “I can't.”

Shiho frowned, puzzled. “Why not?”

“I just. Leave me. I'm mortified.”

Shiho crouched next to him, grinning. “Just a reminder, but I'm a cop. It's my job to deal with people like him. Worse than him, actually.”

“Let me die in my embarrassment.”

She nudged him with her elbow. “It was a very valiant effort.”

His head whisked up to glare at her, and then it was back in his arms. “I must've looked like a kid. I couldn't win a fistfight against a fly.”

“Your job is to make amazing coffee and curry, and you're great at it.”

Yuuki paused at this. “But I'm still embarrassed.”

“That's fine.” Shiho lowered her eyes. “I... I sometimes get embarrassed that I don't get to wear nice dresses or fancy makeup. You know. Get in touch with my girlier side. Just sometimes.”

Yuuki's head swiveled. “But you're so pretty!” he blurted.

She stared.

He stared back.

She blushed hotly and ducked her head. “Oh. T-thanks.”

Yuuki jumped to his feet. “N-no problem.”

Somewhere behind them, a man in great pain groaned.

Shiho stood and brushed off her capris. “I, I guess we should go.”

Yuuki coughed. “I'll walk you home. I mean, if you want. Or not want, but... not not want. If it's tolerable. Um. You probably don't need it, but I'd like to.”

She hid her pink cheeks. “I'd... I'd like that.”

.

.

.

They took the late train. Yuuki sat next to her, his leg skimming hers. The contact sent jitters up her hip to the base of her spine.

Shiho had a brave idea. On another day, maybe she wouldn't have had the courage. Maybe she would have stayed still. But this was a day where she felt confident, restored. Back to Officer Suzui Shiho of Police Squad 29. For better or for worse.

She faked a yawn and closed her eyes. Slowly, with the train's light bumping motion, she started to lean her head towards Yuuki.

She was shocked to feel Yuuki's hand cup the side of her head and guide her to his shoulder.

The train rocked back and forth.

Yuuki breathed quietly over the top of her head.

Shiho sat there, her ear resting on his soft sweater, head comfortable on the incline of his shoulder. Her heart roared through her fingertips.

They sat like that until the train came to Shibuya.

Chapter 41: RANK 14, STAGE 1

District of Metaverse
SUBPOENA IN AN ADMINISTRATIVE HEARING

Petitioner(s): Niijima Makoto, an Official of the Law
Respondent(s): Kurusu Akira and the Shadow of Joker

YOU ARE COMMANDED to appear to testify at: PALACE of KURUSU AKIRA, TOMORROW AT 1030 HOURS.

The retrial is of defendent Kurusu Akira brought by plaintiff Shidou Masayoshi, regarding Assault and Battery.

TARDINESS OR FAILURE TO APPEAR IS SUBJECT TO DUE PENALTY.

.

.

.

“I had a remarkable dream,” said Kitagawa Yusuke.

He'd brought Makoto into his studio room, which smelled heavily of paint and varnish and a musky cologne that she couldn't quite place. Bits of eclectic decor, from the avant-garde deconstructed porcelain dolls to the spun glass abstractions on the shelves, highlighted the quirkiness of his inner mind. The large canvas on his easel, which had been blank just two nights before, was now filled with something striking.

Unlike most of Yusuke's art, which was primarily abstract, this painting was a figure. In a way, it looked like Makoto—the slim jaw, the red eyes, the brown hair cropped under her chin. But this figure was garbed in burglar suit, black and skintight with spike-embedded leather padding. A capelike scarf flowed in a dangerous line around her, backlit by a cold light, and the iron mask on her eyes gleamed impersonally.

Something in Makoto's heart twinged, like she missed something that she didn't even know.

“What was the dream?” she asked softly, stooping closer to the canvas.

Yusuke's smile was oddly grounded, rueful. “Belonging.”

She looked at his shack, its odd eccentricities, its beautiful walls, but first and foremost, its lack of residents, much like another home she had just seen.

“I think I know what you mean,” she said quietly.

.

.

.

“So, lady, is it the moment of truth?”

Futaba was squatting on her rolling chair, which took much more dexterity than it looked, slurping up a bowl of instant ramen. There were no lamps in her room; it was solely lit by the glow of the ten monitors hanging on the walls, which had leeched most of the pigment from her skin.

Makoto smiled. “It seems so. Are you going to wish me luck?”

Futaba shrugged. “I don't think you need it. The yakuza always get what they want.”

Somehow, it was a big compliment.

Makoto thought of Futaba's house, how it was broad and roomy and completely empty. She thought of leaving the house, of leaving Futaba behind with no one to talk to but her ten monitors and the occasional alley cat.

“Futaba,” she said, returning her laptop, “are you lonely?”

“I hate people,” said Futaba.

“That didn't answer my question.”

Futaba set down her ramen and turned to her computer, very pointedly ignoring Makoto.

Makoto heard the answer loud and clear.

.

.

.

The Palace.

Makoto stepped out of the catbus, which transformed back into her stalwart bobblehead companion.

Shadow Joker was waiting on the porch of the house.

“Um,” said Makoto, “is he supposed to be able to do that? You know, be outside?”

Morgana shrugged. “Look how big the yard is. His Palace has gotten stronger.”

And it was big. What had once been a tidy picket fence front yard had swelled into what seemed like a multi-acre property with large, luscious trees spotting the area. Makoto was filled with the sudden impression that this was their final chance. It made her very, very nervous.

Shadow Joker strode to them, his steps long and smooth. “A subpoena,” he growled. “Clever, but futile.”

Makoto lifted her chin, ignoring the trembling in her gut. The last time she'd faced this man, he'd broken her body into pieces. It was hard to forget the overwhelming agony that he'd caused.

Was that how Akira felt when he looked at her?

Her sole advantage was that Shadow Joker, unlike previous shadows she'd witnessed, seemed exceedingly rational and self-aware. Morgana had offered the explanation that Akira was a “wild card, so of course his shadow would have a multifaceted personality.” Makoto hadn't bothered asking what that actually meant.

“Where is the defendant,” she said clearly.

Shadow Joker snarled. “Preparing himself.”

“For what?”

“The failure of his defense attorney. Who will be, I assume, you.”

She looked at him levelly. “I will not fail.”

“Ha. You almost seem to believe yourself.”

“It's not me in whom I believe.” She gripped his collar, throwing every last bit of courage and determination in her voice. “It's Akira.”

Something shifted in Shadow Joker's yellow eyes. He threw off her grasp. “Believing in your defendant does nothing! Being innocent does nothing! You have no evidence. This retrial is useless!”

“Tell me,” said Makoto crisply. “Why are you upset? You changed the heart of Shidou Masayoshi. You've exacted your revenge. You've been revered by the online community for seven years for your works of good. Why are you still hungry for justice?”

The smoke around Shadow Joker blazed higher. “Changing hearts is worthless, little queen! Change the heart of one man, and another will rise to take his place. Humanity is flawed and they fall back on their flaws. You fix one problem, and another one will arise. There are always wrongs committed, every day, every city! We have slaved for seven years, and little good it has done for the crime rate! Criminals do not quake at the sight of the calling card; they challenge. And normal people, they never realize that their own little crimes are just as nauseating and vulgar! Lying, shoplifting, petty powermongering—well, if it's not enough to be carded, then surely, it is permissible. What morons!”

His hand lashed out to seize her by the hair. Makoto whipped to the side, avoiding his grasp by a hair.

He sneered. “And law enforcement. Like you, dear little cop. Why seven years of changed hearts has solved nothing?”

Makoto paused.

“Because... the priorities of the police changed,” she admitted shakily.

He laughed. “That is correct. Public Enemy Number One, the Phantom Thieves. Why toil to catch those who can line your pockets, such as the criminally wealthy, the oppressors, the perverse, when you can set your sights on the unruly children who dare to question your authority? Oh, mankind, your eternal thirst to play god will led to destruction.”

The resentment from him was thick, coating Makoto's throat.

He wasn't wrong, and yet—

—she'd have to show him that there was a chance.

A chance for good to prevail.

Shadow Joker stepped away, his gaze turning to the house. Kurusu Akira pushed through the door, wincing at the sunlight through his fingers. Her heart pinched when she saw him.

“It seems the defendant has arrived,” said Shadow Joker. “Well, little queen, shall we begin?”

“You'll be the prosecution, I assume?”

Shadow Joker smiled. “No. Kurusu Akira will, of course.”

“He's the defendant.”

“We made an arrangement. He was unconvinced of my... temperament.”

Even now, Akira was thinking of her safety.

Makoto swallowed.

“Then let's begin.”

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The courtroom.

It was outdoors, informal, a setup of two small desks for the prosecution and defense sitting right on the front lawn. Shadow Joker snapped his fingers, and a scene unraveled before them. A street built beneath Makoto's shoes. Three players entered the scene between the prosecution and defense's desks: a man, a woman, and a boy.

The scene played out. Once according to Kurusu Akira's memory, and then another variation based on the woman's affidavit.

Akira was stone-faced at the prosecution desk. Shadow Joker lazily kicked back, the hint of a leer on his mouth.

The scene ended. And then Makoto tore into the key testimony.

Encrypted electronic correspondence.

Bank account statements.

Money transferrals.

All of which were uncovered by Futaba from deep in the archives of years past.

The evidence revealed coercion and bribery of the witness from the plaintiff, which led to:

Reasonable doubt of the court in the credibility of witness, which led to:

Considering the witness account as null and void due to being delivered under duress, which led to:

No remaining case against the defendant, which led to:

Innocence.

For every man should be innocent until proven guilty.

And if they could not catch every criminal, if they could not bring justice to every wrongdoer—

—then the least that law enforcement could do was save every innocent man.

Makoto finished her defense, knowing it was thorough. From the shock on Akira's face, he hadn't expected her angle. He'd expected that she'd plead uncharacteristic behavior, that she'd try to find other evidence or witnesses that didn't exist, that she, his defense attorney and opponent, would fail once more.

She looked to Shadow Joker. He was sitting silently, his face unreadable.

“This concludes the defense's cross-examination of the witness,” she said. “Prosecution may proceed.”

She sat at her desk and waited.

Instead, Shadow Joker stood.

Makoto instinctively moved back in apprehension. “Sir, please remain seated while court is in session.”

Shadow Joker stopped.

Then he said: “This is a joke.”

He flung out his arms. Blades of wind seared out in concentric quakes, severing the desks, the chairs, a nearby tree. Morgana vaulted in front and cast a counterwind in the nick of time, shielding her. Akira lurched to his feet.

“This,” said Shadow Joker, and his voice was placid but cold, like a spear of ice waiting to pierce her heart, “is cowardice. You pick an easy case, Niijima Makoto. An easy trial.”

Makoto trembled.

She didn't understand.

She'd won.

He was supposed to be placated.

“What case, then?” she whispered. “What will put you at ease?”

Shadow Joker's eyes flashed. Spikes of lightning shot from his figure—wild, untamed, like he hadn't intended it, but it was a side effect of his rage. “Fool!”

Morgana's eyes widened as the lightning rocketed toward them.

Akira lunged forward, flicking his wrist. A block of ice crystallized in front of them, sparkling like dew. The bolt struck it. The ice rocked, steam fluttering from the surface, and then disappeared with a snap of Akira's fingers.

Makoto breathed.

Morgana grinned. “Nice to have you back, Kurusu.”

Akira skidded to a halt in front of Makoto, nodding sharply.

Makoto swallowed her shock and nodded back. She stepped forward. Akira crouched in front of her.

“Yet you came, Shadow Joker,” she said bravely. “You came because you wanted a trial. Look at Kurusu Akira. His mind is clearer. It worked, to some extent. You know it did. What more do you need?”

Shadow Joker snarled. “You picked a shallow battle to conceal the true problem, Niijima Makoto. You are no different from the stench of your department. Burying the virus under the carpet while treating its meager symptoms.”

“I don't understand,” Makoto said numbly.

Shadow Joker laughed bitterly. “Then hear, Niijima! This is the real question, the one that you have always refused to answer, no, the world has always refused to answer!”

Akira’s eyes flickered in Makoto’s direction. “What is he talking about?”

“You tell me,” she said shakily. “What are you talking about?”

Shadow Joker crushed his heel into the earth. The ground shook and soared upward, a levitating platform that turned Makoto's stomach.

He raised his hands. “Turning a heart. Stealing it forcibly. Becoming someone's conscience. Oh, Niijima, it sounds like fun and games, doesn't it? It sounds heroic, doesn't it? The Phantom Thieves, restoring sight to those blinded by their own hearts and wrongdoings! Why, it brings a tear to my eye!”

Veins of ice shook through the ground and soared up into dangerous spears. Akira snapped his fingers and a cloud of cyan light burst the ice into harmless nanofragments that instantaneously vaporized. His gaze was unsteady as he crouched back down, waiting.

Makoto swallowed. “The Phantom Thieves are unrelated to this case—”

“But that's the heart of the matter, isn't it? The heart of your matter, the heart of my matter. Because that is our line of work, Niijima. Hearts.” Shadow Joker laughed bitterly. “I pose to you a question, officer. Do you believe that removing distortions is good?”

“Of course.”

“Fool!” Light pulsed in trapezoid shards. The ground groaned. “Stealing a heart could not possibly be what you think it is. So much is wrong. It is hidden, and it is exclusive; not everyone can enter the Metaverse. And it is not defendable. People are vulnerable to whatever the intruder desires. And finally, finally, it is not a simple, innocuous glasses-cleaning ritual. Do you think that's all it is? Cleaning out distortions, allowing people to see that they have done wrong?”

“That's what a Treasure is. A source of a distortion.”

“There is direct contradictory evidence! Realizing horrible deeds always leads to instant, immediate remorse? Pah! In this world, some people are keenly aware of the exact repercussions of their actions, and they do it anyway! There are jokes about it online, Niijima, jokes about being in hell for this or that, jokes about something being sick but somehow they love it! The acknowledgement of wrong deeds does not always lead to remorse in reality, Niijima, and yet, the Phantom Thieves boast a one hundred percent success rate! What then is stealing a heart?”

“Those are just jokes,” Makoto whispered.

“Yet the base argument remains. People know exactly when they do wrong, but sometimes they do it anyway.” Shadow Joker straightened. “Kamoshida Suguru. Do you not think that he knew exactly what he was doing every time he raped a young boy or a young girl, every time he beat a body black and blue, every time he induced a suicide? No! He knew! He had no concern, because deep inside, oh, he adored it! Power! Fame! Sex! God, what a life, and he knew! Stealing a heart does not open the eyes, Niijima. Oftentimes, their eyes are already open. So what does it do? What would make a man like Kamoshida Suguru fall on his knees and beg for forgiveness? What then is stealing a heart?”

“Most people don't have palaces because palaces only develop from uncontrollable distortions, which could be indicative that they can't even see their own problems,” Makoto began, but her tongue was thick and heavy.

“Yet you can also change a normal heart! No need to limit yourself to the extreme distortions of palaces, officer! In a place called Mementos, you can clear the distortion of anyone you wish! Why take the difficult route and sit them down and have a long, hard conversation with accountability? No, let's simply beat around their shadow and make their heart repent. How heroic! How heroic indeed! And what then is stealing a heart?”

He was waiting for her to stumble, addressing her counterarguments rapid-fire, like he'd spent years preparing for this.

Years mulling these problems over in his mind.

Years wallowing in guilt, because in the end, he didn't even know if he was right.

Makoto was wordless.

Shadow Joker's grin was turning rueful. “This is the true case for you, Niijima Makoto: The Phantom Thieves! Are they right, or are they wrong?”

The Phantom Thieves.

The law enforcement.

Where true justice lay.

How it was determined.

That was the true knot that lay at Shadow Joker's center,

and one that lay at hers.

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| POLL: “Are the Phantom Thieves just?”

YES: ???, NO: ???

YOU DECIDE.

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! THIS IS A COURT NOTICE.

The verdict will be posted
August 14, 2017.

Cast your vote.

Chapter 42: RANK 14, STAGE 2

Notes:

I was surprised, but very pleasantly so, to see the depth of thought that went into casting a vote for the verdict. Thank you for your participation.

Right and Wrong.

Makoto had always known the difference. Getting good grades was Right, cheating was Wrong. Being honest was Right, lying was Wrong. Healing people was Right, hurting people was Wrong. In her mind, the world did not change from the time she was a child. There was black and white and no shades of grey, no midtones to distract her sight.

But what if there was a time and place for everything?

Crying was Right at a funeral and laughter was Wrong, but crying was Wrong at a celebration and laughter was Right. Listening to authority was Right with a good teacher, but Wrong when a bully was asking you to dump someone's head in a toilet.

Germans lied to save the Jews hiding in their secret rooms.

Armies killed and maimed to defend their people.

Conductors stole slaves to rescue them from a lifetime of demeaning treatment, cruel punishment, menial labor.

There were wrongs and there were counterwrongs, lying that countered concentration camps and killing that countered more killing and stealing that countered slavery and—

—changing hearts that countered sexual harassment, embezzlement, corruption.

Makoto stumbled, breathless.

Did countering a wrong make it right?

Fighting fire with fire—a valid technique by the fire department, given dire circumstances. If a fire went out of control, a perimeter around it was carefully lit, controlled and regulated. Since fire couldn't blaze over the same area twice, it would die once it reached the already burned perimeter.

Makoto wanted to believe that it wasn't the right way. That fires should always be fought with extinguishers, never with more fire. That lying should be fought with honesty, cheating should be fought with hard work, cruelty should be fought with kindness.

But life wasn't always that easy.

Life wasn't always that simple.

She stumbled again, the earth rocking beneath her feet. Shadow Joker looked on her passively.

“This is your true dilemma, Makoto,” he said, power flickering around him, “and your life shall never reach a verdict until you untie it.”

It was something that she'd never wanted to face. Something that she'd always wanted to ignore. It would be so much easier to just put her head down, obey orders, never question, never think that there might be something more.

But she didn't become a police officer to follow orders.

She became a police officer because years and years ago, eighteen of them, she was a little girl huddled in a shuttered cabinet who watched her father's chest explode to bits of flesh and organ before her eyes.

She became a police officer because she was terrified, struck dumb by trauma and reliant on sign language for years.

She became a police officer because she was angry, she was resentful, she wanted revenge and she wanted justice.

But she became a police officer, and a police officer was supposed to catch the Phantom Thieves, because aiding and abetting criminals was Wrong, but law enforcement was corrupt and law enforcement was Wrong, and—

Even counterwrongs, even the Phantom Thieves, could be Wrong.

Idi Amin launched a military coup in 1971, declaring himself president of Uganda. He freed all political prisoners and gathered many to his banner with the promise that he would return the country to a democracy.

But his counterwrong became another wrong. Upon reaching official presidency, he instituted soldiers in all major political positions and suspended parts of the constitution. The economy collapsed, lowering the value of salaries by ninety percent. Beneath his regime, torture and executions arose, ethnic groups were purged, and innocents were killed without reason. Up to half a million people died as a direct cause of Amin's rise to power.

And it had all started as a counterwrong.

In 1955 during the Cold War, the United States considered communism-sympathetic North Vietnam to be a threat. Consequently, America dispatched military and police forces to their ally South Vietnam to help the anti-communist leader, Ngo Dinh Diem.

Diem proceeded to rule South Vietnam with an iron fist, arresting, torturing, and executing over 100,000 people for sympathizing with North Vietnam. So great was the oppression that both communists and non-communists created a resistance to Diem’s regime: the National Liberation Front.

And the United States, who had begun with an attempted counterwrong, to protect their ideals and allies and defend what they thought was right and true—

—sent an increasing number of troops to help Diem fight the resistance. Because by their reasoning, if one country was overtaken by communism, then it was only a matter of time before the entire world fell.

And so it continued, even after Diem's death from a coup: Vietnamese splitting, American troops, Vietnamese skirmishes, American bombings, full-on warfare with support from China and the Soviet Union, endless bloodshed. By the end, Vietnam suffered five million casualties, twelve million refugees, and complete destruction of both civic infrastructure and economy. The United States suffered $120 billion in expenses, nearly sixty thousand veteran casualties, and an irreparable rift in American idealism and beliefs. Citizens distrusted the government. Civilians criticized the veterans for supporting an oppressive regime.

And it had all started with a counterwrong.

In the late 19th century, China suffered countless lost wars against foreign nations and, after losing millions of lives, were forced to cede control of their economy to other countries. So a religious resistance group, mainly of impoverished and trampled peasants, rose up and called themselves the Society of Righteous and Harmonious Fists, attacking the foreigners colonizing their land and controlling their economy as a counterwrong.

But innocent Chinese Christians, foreigners, and structures like churches and homes all found themselves on the chopping block as these Boxers fought for freedom. The counterwrong turned into vengeance as officials and missionaries were tortured and murdered.

In response, as a counterwrong to the counterwrong, a multinational force from eight countries was sent to Beijing to seize the city and rescue the Chinese Christians and foreigners. This Allied force succeeded.

And then the Allied force proceeded to rape countless Chinese civilians, uncontrollably loot the broken capitol and countryside, and execute suspected Boxers.

One counterwrong became a wrong, and was countered by another counterwrong, which also became a wrong.

And it had all started with a counterwrong.

That was the problem, her problem:

Not every counterwrong was right.

People were broken. When they started to believe that all they needed to do was follow their own heart and their own morality and what they believed was right—

—then counterwrongs could possibly become, once again, wrong.

It was no longer a slippery slope fallacy if there was repeated historical precedent. It was reasonable doubt. It was human nature.

Everything was wrong.

There were consequences to every decision, weights to every choice. Nothing was black and white.

It was easy to assume the seat of judgment, to point fingers at others and believe that they deserved to be Carded and Changed, but to be blind to one's own faults. It was easy to ask for other people to be forced to repentance, to have the corruption of their psyches beaten violently and the privacy of their minds raped. It was easy to paint everything in black and white and believe that right and wrong were easy to distinguish, easy to manipulate.

It was easy to believe that a Phantom Thief could be perfect.

It was easy to believe that a Phantom Thief would always be perfect, because there had not yet been precedent for true psychological obliteration or wrongdoing.

It was easy to believe that there was nothing wrong with becoming someone else's conscience, nothing wrong with forcing a change in worldview, nothing wrong with taking it upon oneself to weed out the distortions in other people's hearts.

But something about it didn't sit well with her.

If someone's mind or worldview was flawed, did that give another person the right to forcibly change them against their desire? A good therapist would never attempt to push change on a subject before they were ready, even if the subject was Wrong. Simply forcing a solution, rather than walking with them, journeying with them, allowing them to make the decision themselves—it robbed them of learning and character, and most importantly, the opportunity for true, self-instituted redemption. Certainly, criminals needed to face consequences as they made victims; but did that fully nullify their own human right to think freely? Was it just for other people to decide that certain humans were allowed certain natural rights and others were not?

If heists were perfectly acceptable, why did it involve beating something into submission, something that could be eliminated by self-acceptance or natural means? Why was taking a Treasure synonymous with stealing a core desire, twisted though it might be? Why was it acceptable for the victim to never be conscious of what was happening inside them, not even granted the right to witness changes being forced on their own psyche?

When someone didn't consent to be changed, someone unlike Futaba, they lost their freedom of perspective. In a perfect world, they would have the right to see unclearly, to harden their hearts and be stubborn, but any actions that hurt others would be blocked by the police. In a perfect world, they would have freedom of thought, which included freedom of a distorted view because that was their human right, but all of their wrongdoings would be punished fairly by law enforcement. In a perfect world, slavers, corrupt officials, and murderers could rot in jail unrepenting, because if man did not have control over his own perspectives, what made him man?

But the world was not perfect; the world was flawed, and cops concealed evidence and commissioners were bribed and lawyers condemned the innocent and protected the guilty.

And everything was wrong.

“You have no answer,” said Shadow Joker softly, “because there is none.”

There was no answer, because everything was wrong. Freedom of thought and perspective, the right to hold a wrong opinion but the consequence of owning up to its resulting punishments—that was the ideal, but if the punishment was lacking, or if the thoughts were forced, then it could never be attained.

Makoto's mind was blank.

Everything was wrong.

Shadow Joker raised his hands. “The prosecution awaits the defense's response!” he snapped, and the ends of his tone carried a desperate anger.

Ah.

There you are.

Makoto finally understood.

Are the Phantom Thieves just?

She understood herself. Her view of the government, her role of justice, her balance of right and wrong.

And Shadow Joker—

She understood him.

Guilt.

Shadow Joker felt guilty.

He, or rather, Akira and his psyche—

—was wondering if everything he had done for seven years, all the fruit of his labor—

—was pointless.

No, more than pointless.

Twisted, vile, corrupt, just like the very people he was trying to weed.

Makoto stepped forward, stepped again, and again, until she was at the center of the levitating platform, the current of Shadow Joker's power whipping at her hair. She looked him in the eye, her stance firm and her chin lifted.

“For the Phantom Thieves and their cases of the past seven years,” Makoto said, “I plead not guilty.”

Shadow Joker laughed, bewildered. “With what?”

“The defense of entrapment.”

Entrapment.

A scenario where government officials would use overbearing tactics such as threats, harassment, or fraud to force someone to commit a crime, then shortly arrest them for the very same crime.

Shadow Joker blinked. The platform lowered, sinking back into the ground.

Makoto stood, the air silent, Shadow Joker watched her quietly.

She spoke.

“Kamoshida Suguru. Extensive sexual crimes and physical abuse against minors. Pursuant to Penal Code Articles 176, 177, 178-2, 181, 204, 210, and 223: life imprisonment and a fine of up to 1,000,000 yen.”

The files she'd studied avidly when she first received the Phantom Thieves' case flowed back to her mind, spilling out of her memorized mouth.

And Shadow Joker kept watching.

“Madarame Ichiryuusai. Plagiarism, extortion, inhumane treatment of people including minors, deception of the public. Pursuant to Penal Code Articles 204, 205, 210, 219, 223, 246, and 252: up to life imprisonment and a fine of 2,000,000 yen.

“Kaneshiro Junya. Trafficking of human beings and drugs, extortion and bribery, assault and battery and murder. Pursuant to Penal Code Articles 148, 175, 182, 186, 198, 202, 225, 226-2, and 249: life imprisonment and a fine up to 4,000,000 yen.

“Okumura Kunikazu. Negligent homicide, bribery, abuse of employees, disregard for working standards and conditions, obstruction of other businesses. Pursuant to Penal Code Articles 198, 204, 210, 222, 230, and 233: up to life imprisonment and a 4,000,000 yen fine.

“Shidou Masayoshi. Extortion, witness intimidation, counterfeit evidence, bribery, sexual impulsion. Pursuant to Penal Code Articles 104, 105-2, 158, 169, 176, 198, 223, and 249: up to life imprisonment and a 2,500,000 yen fine.

“Centuries of jail time, and yet... each of these victims escaped custody.” Makoto lifted her gaze. “No. Worse. They ran free, because the police never even attempted to catch them. Bribed, corrupted, unwilling to put in effort that might hurt their own personal goals—that was us. So evil was rampant on the streets, a festering pile of trash that no one wanted to clean up.”

Her eyes wandered and met Akira's. His gaze flickered, his jaw slack.

“We, the government, due to our inadequacy and corruption, have entrapped and induced the Phantom Thieves to criminal activity.” She closed her eyes. “In accordance with the United Nations' Universal Declaration of Human Rights: ‘...it is essential, if man is not to be compelled to have recourse, as a last result, to rebel against tyranny and oppression.’ The leadership of our bureaucracy has failed and become tyranny. Therefore, it is not outside reason that the People would wish to alter and abolish the destructive form of government.”

Everything was wrong, but perhaps one thing could be made right.

She turned her head and looked back to Shadow Joker, wetting her dry lips. “What the Phantom Thieves did... it was criminal activity, but they temporarily enacted what the government refused to do.”

“The law?” sneered Shadow Joker. “Justice?”

“Protection.”

Shadow Joker's face flattened, stricken.

“To protect the weak, the widowed, the orphaned. To protect the innocent. To protect victims made by criminals. To protect the citizens of Japan from a tyranny founded by corruption.” The wind was soft against her hair, lifting it to brush her cheek. “Naturally, it shouldn't be that way. Law enforcement should be the protectors and defenders and bringers of justice. Government should be the supervisors and the overseers and the stewards. But when those fail, then ultimately, they become purposeless. They're meant to represent the People, but the People are trampled. And when that happens... then what's left?”

Shadow Joker's brow twisted. “And you believe that everything should continue as it is? That the Phantom Thieves should continue to race about, unchecked, with limitless power, acting as government?”

“No,” said Makoto. “They must stop.”

“Because, in the end, they are wrong.”

“Because they cannot adequately represent the People.”

Shadow Joker watched her quietly, waiting.

Makoto breathed nervously. “The Phantom Thieves are only two individuals. There is no representation, no voting, nothing that is by and by the choice of the larger population. There is no public knowledge of the Metaverse, its opportunities, its repercussions. There are no checks and balances to keep them accountable.”

“So let them grow.”

“No. Even if the Phantom Thieves were a large group, it wouldn't matter, because there is a lack of the People's representation and input unless the Phantom Thieves held public elections. Bureaucracy has its many flaws, but it also institutes protection from totalitarian regimes. If the Phantom Thieves continued permanently, Japan would be no better than a dictatorship with an inbalance of power. And anyways—”

She turned and looked at Akira, her eyes soft.

“It's a surface solution. It fixes only the symptoms, not the root of the problem.”

“And what problem is that?” said Shadow Joker impatiently.

“In the end, it's cyclical.” Makoto bunched her fingers in her pants. “The Phantom Thieves change a heart. So others start to kick back and relax. Why work to change anything themselves when an anonymous, powerful force will do everything for them? Why try to fight for what is right when superheroes have everything covered? Why suffer through protests and lead activist groups for causes when there's an instant fix in your local vigilante? Why toil for years to form a connection, develop an understanding, slowly mold and shape the heart of a friend, when the Phantom Thieves could bypass all discomfort and simply, impersonally, steal a heart?”

She thought of the Phan-site. She thought of the rising participation rate of polls, and how no one actually did anything to help, all they wanted was to request, to demand—

“And it just keeps escalating in that way. The Phantom Thieves keep succeeding, so people get lazier. The Phantom Thieves become faster and stronger and perform at optimum efficiency, and citizens start to stay away and watch and never dig their hands into any messy affairs. Because that's the easy way. And humanity, so rarely do we pursue what's hard.”

She met Shadow Joker's eyes. He was very quiet.

“We can do better,” she said. “Not just the Phantom Thieves. Not just the government. Everyone. We can all do better.”

Shadow Joker kept watching. She stepped closer.

“Akira,” she said softly, looking into his eyes.

Because that was to whom she was speaking.

Not a shadow, not a monster, not a distortion—

—but Akira, in the form of his very psyche.

“You may have originally fueled off of revenge and anger and a resentment for authority. You could see this as a wrong thing.

“You may have operated in the shadows without checks or balances. You could see this as a dangerous thing.

“You may have forcefully manipulated the pace and manner and the very foundation of certain people's worldviews and perspectives. You could see this as a terrible thing.

“Indeed, objectively speaking, the Phantom Thieves' activities are criminal activities. But you were entrapped to protect countless victims by your own hands due to the corruption of law enforcement, which failed the People, and therefore—

“This court hereby finds the defendant—”

And she kept looking at him, emphasizing the words, speaking clearly so that they would penetrate into his very soul—

“Not Guilty.”

Behind her, Akira stumbled to the ground, groaning.

Shadow Joker flickered.

“Rest,” Makoto whispered. “Be peaceful.”

Shadow Joker flickered again, transparent, and then—

—he suddenly lunged forward, flinging his arms out with a scream.

A gust of wind bodily threw Makoto backward. She crashed to the ground, her bones shrieking in pain. Through the haze, she heard Morgana whisper Diarahan and felt a familiar soothing sensation over her body.

Shadow Joker's cloak cracked like thunder. “This is your justice?” he roared. “You are weak! You know it is wrong! We have obliterated the human rights to dignity, privacy, freedom of thought! We have tampered with the psyche, the essence of one's personality and rationale! We have destroyed free will and individualism!”

A storm of lightning shot towards them in a flurry. Akira, still huddled on the ground, shakily threw up an ice barrier, but a segment of the lightning blitzed through and struck Morgana. Morgana slumped, unconscious.

“Morgana,” Akira croaked.

He whispered Garudyne and an arrow of wind carried Morgana out of the Metaverse.

“Wrong, you are wrong!” bellowed Shadow Joker. “I must be right! Right! Right, always right! Once again, a trial without justice! The ones who committed a crime leave unscathed!”

Makoto gripped Akira's arm. “We need to leave,” she hissed. “I've done all I can. He's gone ballistic. I can't talk him down.”

Akira looked at Shadow Joker.

Shadow Joker's eyes flashed. “You know the truth!” he spat. “You know what we are, Kurusu Akira!”

Akira pulled himself up with trembling arms and slammed his foot against the ground.

The earth split at the seams, cracks sizzling in spiderwebs throughout the entire picturesque lawn. The sound was enormous, a reverberating CRACK-OOM that stopped Shadow Joker in his tracks.

“I understand,” whispered Akira.

He stood, his figure engulfed in blue smoke.

“You can never be appeased,” he said. “You have no room for mercy. You seek true justice, which leaves this world cold and dead, lacking any grace. You are endlessly hungry.”

He raised his hands and stepped towards Shadow Joker.

Shadow Joker stepped back.

—it's all for naught—

—you shall never have a place—

“Come, Joker,” Akira said quietly. “This world has no place for outcasts like us. Let's leave it in peace.”

His eyes drifted to Makoto and his mouth turned up in a sad little smile.

“Thank you, Majesty,” he said. His voice was warm and soothing, distracting, like the glow of a fireplace on a blustery night.

“What, what are you doing,” Makoto blurted automatically.

Akira's hand settled gently on the incline of her waist. He leaned down. She felt his lips on hers, earnest, drinking up the texture of her mouth. Her heart blazed in her chest, dangerously hot. She curled her fingers around his neck. He smelled like generic spice shampoo, like he'd somehow washed up in the cognitive world to prep for the trial. He was here, he was with her, he was alive, and god had she missed him, she just wanted him to be happy—

He suddenly drew back. She flailed a little, blushing.

“You put in a damn good effort,” whispered Akira, his forehead cradling hers, “but sometimes, there isn't another option.”

And he turned and touched his mask.

“Megidolaon.”

The earth shook as pure, brilliant power gathered into orbs, shivering and pivoting above Shadow Joker's head.

And—

Shadow Joker closed his eyes, accepting.

The haze in Makoto's head vaporized, replaced with the pungent tang of horror.

No.

Shadows.

Killing the shadow of an owner would—

No no no.

Makoto didn't stop.

She didn't think.

She raced forward, shoving Shadow Joker away with all her strength.

The orbs consolidated.

Light blinded.

The missile of energy rocketed into Makoto.

Her body was flung away like a broken doll as the earth crashed and groaned.

She fell.

And all was quiet.

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“—there is no resurrection spell—”

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| POLL RESULTS:

YES: 79%, NO: 21%

Total Votes: 99

Chapter 43: RANK 14, STAGE 3

Akira's hands dropped.

Shadow Joker lay face-down on the lawn, unmoving, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Akira's stiff legs pushed into a walk.

Faster, faster.

He ran.

“Makoto,” he said weakly.

He'd always been an outcast, an outlier. He'd meant to bring it all to an end. To stop Shadow Joker, stop himself.

But Makoto had stepped in the crossfire.

The one cop who cared.

The one woman who mattered.

Akira dropped to her side, his knees skimming the grass. Her body was limp.

No breath. Stillness.

“Diarahan.”

Bones shifted beneath her skin as they realigned and mended from the blunt trauma of the fall.

Nothing more.

“Diarahan!” Akira commanded desperately. He felt the power coursing down his arms, through his hands, into her body.

She did not stir.

“Diarahan! Diarahan!” Tears were blurring his vision. “Dia—no—Samarecarm!”

Light eclipsed her figure. Flowers and clovers and all things new and promising blossomed around her. Frantic, he pressed his thumb against the inner point of her wrist.

Nothing.

“Samarecarm! SAMARECARM!”

More light, more energy, and no response.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Oversized sneakers on a green lawn, and next to them, grey Oxford loafers.

“Semarecarm,” said Cognition Morgana solemnly, “only works on people who are unconscious, Joker. You know that.”

“SHE’S NOT DEAD!”

“Um,” mumbled Cognition Yuuki, “actually, since she’s not conscious, and she’s not waking up at Samarecarm... by definition, she actually has to be.”

Akira flung his arm. A hasty Garudyne swept them away.

He placed his hands over the center of her chest and pushed, compressing. Cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Never advised to be executed by an uncertified person. It didn’t matter. He was desperate.

“Makoto,” he pleaded.

His mind cast around for more options.

He could encase her in Bufudyne, lower her body temperature.

But if he took her out of the Metaverse, it would melt. It might take too long to get her to the hospital, especially encased in a difficult-to-transport ice block.

No. He needed something else.

Charging... two hundred... clear!

A defibrillator. Diarahan had mended her body from the fall. All he needed to do was get her heart out of cardiac arrest.

Which was, of course, not nearly as simple as it first sounded.

Asystole—flatlining—was not treatable by shock. Defibrillation was meant to treat hearts with previously existing rhythms, such as corrupt rhythms. It did nothing for a complete lack of heartbeat.

But there was hope.

Megidolaon was a spell of high energy rather than a pure physical force. Rather than a blow of specific matter, atoms and molecules strung together like his weapon or even Garudyne, Megidolaon harnessed and affected the force of the dimension itself: True Damage in every way.

In other words, there was the slim possibility that Makoto was not in asystole, but ventricular fibrillation from sheer energy overload. And ventricular fibrillation was treatable via shock.

It was a hope, a wish, a prayer, but he had to try. He couldn't stop himself from trying.

Unfortunately, that left room for one more issue:

Defibrillator charges ranged from 200 to 1000 volts.

Zio, his weakest electric spell, sent bolts of lighting up to 100 million volts.

It seemed like overkill. As in, it could very well kill her all over again. He needed something to redirect part of the charge, to bleed out some of the power. He needed an electrical resistor.

But he didn't have a specially manufactured resistor. He had a house, inconsistent cognitions, and a bunch of magic that did no good for a dead person.

Akira mindlessly continued chest compressions and breath regulation, thinking harder.

Electrical resistors.

The most common type of electrical resistor was the carbon resistor. They came with color-coded bands to determine the resistance value depending on the length. They also came with insulation coating for safety.

Akira didn't have access to a manufactured carbon resistor. But he did have trees in this lawn.

He leapt up and drew his dagger. One swipe, heightened by the strength of his Persona, brought a tree crashing down. He cut out a hefty chunk that was generally cylindrical in shape, skinning the outer bark until there was only smooth, inner wood.

“Agidyne.”

The wood was wreathed in flame and blazed instantly into charcoal.

Carbon.

A natural resistor.

He raced back to Makoto's side, frantically alternating between continuing CPR and trimming the charcoal into a rod. He was no scientist, no electrician. He didn't know how to convert volts to joules using coulombs, or how to calculate ohms of impedance from the volume of the rod or Makoto's body. He would just have to guess. In this case, he figured it was best to err on the side of caution. He could not risk zapping her body into a charred husk.

He stripped Makoto down. Complications with the current were the last things he needed. Then he fixed the rod above her chest, touching the base to her heart. He breathed deeply, trying to rein back his power, subside the strength of his spells.

Charging. First level. Hopefully around two hundred volts.

And clear.

“Zio.”

A directed bolt of lighting streaked from nowhere and sizzled through the carbon rod, surging towards her chest. It ignored his hands—the caster's hands. The voltage dissipated little by little as it pushed past the resistor—

A jolt.

Akira felt for a pulse at her neck.

Nothing.

He pushed a few chest compressions, hoping to keep the blood pumping. Then he cut off a chunk of the carbon rod and placed the bottom back over her heart.

Charging. Up the voltage. Three hundred, maybe. Clear.

“Zio.”

Another jolt.

Her brain would lose oxygen if he didn't hurry. He cut off another chunk.

Four hundred. Clear.

“Zio.”

A jolt and nothing.

Five hundred.

“Zio!”

He continued the chest compressions. He imagined her smiling, snarking at him over warm curry, nuzzling her nose against his jaw.

Six hundred!

“Zio!”

He felt her neck. There was only stillness.

She had to live. She had to live, there was someone waiting for her, someone who loved her—

Seven hundred! Clear!

“Zio!”

Her body jolted. He pressed his fingers for her pulse.

And there it was.

The steady, quiet pump of a heart.

He collapsed backward, the carbon rod dropping from his hands.

Her heart was out of fibrillation.

Her pulse was back.

Niijima Makoto was alive.

He pulled himself on his knees with shaking arms and buttoned her clothes back on.

“Diarahan,” he said. For safety.

She breathed, deep and full. A gentle smile curled her lips, and for a moment, he thought he could see her dreams—an oak tree, a swing, a lovely sunset.

He lay next to her, exhaustion weighing his shoulders.

And Kurusu Akira fell asleep.

Notes:

remember how p5 pulled a similar fake death bait and switch?

yeah.

Chapter 44: RANK 14, STAGE 4

Makoto woke.

She was lying on a stretch of cool grass, staring at the blazing sunset sky. A soft breeze wafted over her skin, caressing her hair. The light scent of wildflowers washed over her face. For one moment, she wondered whether she was back in that cozy, blissful dream.

She turned on her side. She smiled to see Akira sleeping, peace resting on his brow.

She inched forward and snuggled into his chest, slipping her arms around his waist. His heartbeat was warm and steady on her cheek. It felt vivid, almost as vivid as if she were awake.

Akira stirred at her touch.

How odd, said her superego.

Something is strange, agreed her id.

Makoto pulled herself up and tried skimming her lips over his. They were lightly chapped, lacking attention of his usual care. She pressed experimentally.

The sensation felt very real, tingles on her mouth and wings in her chest.

Memories blipped back little by little. The trial. The verdict. Akira had stood, ready to kill his shadow, sentence himself to death for the sake of putting his psyche's vengeance to rest.

Oh—

She scrambled back, releasing him.

This is not a dream and he is very real.

What was she doing?

She was being delusional and cozy and—

Makoto's cheeks were on fire.

Is that really important right now? said her id. After everything that's happened?

Excuse me, you lecher, said her superego, offended, but some of us have standards of behavior.

She stared at his face, taking in his eyebrows, his cheeks, his mouth. He was alive. He was ready to kill himself to stop his shadow, but something else had happened, and he was alive, and she was alive, and they had won. Makoto thought that she should feel a sense of victory, maybe smugness, but all she could feel was terrifying relief.

“Don't scare me like that again,” she whispered.

She kissed him on the forehead, kissed him on the nose, brushed her fingers over his cheek. Then she sat there, waiting, watching him breathe in and out.

“Mm, why'd you stop?” came Akira's sleepy voice.

Makoto choked.

Akira smiled as his eyes opened blearily. He reached out an arm. He looked peaceful and happy and mischievous, so normal that her heart felt buoyant.

She whipped away, slapping at her cheeks. “How... how long were you up?”

“Before you were awake,” he said, sounding very amused.

Dammit.

“You get very cuddly when your inhibitions are lowered,” continued Akira.

“Shush.”

His hands pulled at her waist until she thudded against his chest. Her pulse jerked traitorously.

“I could stay in his arms forever,” Akira whispered into her ear. His breath was hot on her skin, making her shiver.

She stopped.

I could stay...

I could...

HELL NO.

“Oh my god.” She buried her face in her hands. “Oh my god, you're Joker.”

“Unmatchable. Award-winning.”

“Shut up.”

“My hugs are ten times better than Joker's kisses.”

“I—I didn't know that he was you!”

“I could stay in his arms forever,” Akira sang into her ear. “Forever. Forever, forever.”

“Stop iiiiit,” she whined.

He hugged her tighter, laughing. “Never. I'll never let you live it down. That was one of the nicest things you've ever said about me.”

“Don't you already have enough inflating your ego? All-powerful spell caster, renowned warrior of justice...”

“Who gives very nice hugs. Important detail.”

“I hate you.”

He only laughed, his fingers twining with hers. He was completely uninhibited, loose, drunk. She could feel the joy rolling off of him, and it confused her, even as he left her breathless.

“Akira?” she prompted.

Akira nuzzled his nose into her neck. The tender sensation made her stomach churn. “Damn, your heartbeat, your heartbeat sounds so beautiful.”

She flushed. “M-my heartbeat?”

“I'm so happy that you're alive,” Akira said thickly. “I almost killed you.”

“Oh,” she said gently.

He was quiet, and she could sense the knot of guilt in him.

“Hey,” she said, smiling, “you nuked me with light, I shot you four times... I think we can call it even.”

“We've got issues.”

She chuckled and squeezed his hands. “Who doesn't?”

Her eyes landed on the sunny yellow house in the center of the lawn.

“Who doesn't,” she repeated confusedly.

She rocketed to her feet.

“Makoto?” said Akira.

“Your Palace is still up.” She turned wildly, searching for Shadow Joker. “Akira, the trial failed. Your Palace is here.”

He shook his head. “You didn't fail.”

“How can you say that?”

He pointed across the grass. Shadow Joker was lying face-down, motionless. “He's been like that all day. Something happened.”

“But it didn't fully heal.” She squatted and looked him in the eye. “You didn't fully heal.”

Akira shrugged. “The Palace is disarmed. Maybe for someone like me, that's the best you can do.”

“No,” said Makoto. “We can do better.”

She looked at the house: Akira's distorted home.

They could do better.

Better.

She turned to him with a smile and took his hand, closing her fingers over his palm. “Come on. I have something to show you.”

.

.

.

They stepped into the attic of Leblanc, now out of the Metaverse.

The place was still trashed. The shards of wood and metal scraps hadn't moved, and to complement the scenery, police tape was now criss-crossed over the doorway. But surprisingly, there were no officers, no investigation team, no police force. For reasons unknown, Makoto's squad had held their silence.

But there were people, perched on any parts of the bed or sofas that hadn't been destroyed.

A cat regaining consciousness, cradled by an orange-haired woman.

A beautiful artist sketching his surroundings.

An unassuming blue-haired man, pacing anxiously in a tight circle.

They all stopped when Akira and Makoto stepped into the room and looked at him. Akira's mouth ran dry.

“Thanks for waiting,” said Makoto softly, “Morgana, Futaba, Yusuke, Yuuki.”

.

.

.

“Say, Yusuke,” Makoto had said, touching the edge of the painting he'd titled Queen, “I think there's a place where you can belong.”

.

.

.

“Futaba,” Makoto had said, even though the orange-haired woman was pretending not to listen, “have you ever wanted to join a guild?”

.

.

.

And in the attic of Leblanc, Makoto stepped forward, tightening her fingers on Akira's hand.

“Akira,” said Makoto quietly, “your distortion was ‘home’ not because you'd never have a home... but because your perception of home was flawed.”

She slid her arms over his shoulders. Morgana perched on his knee, rubbing his face against Akira's cheek. Yuuki clung to him from the side, and Yusuke and Futaba patted his back.

“Home is not a building,” said Makoto. “Home is family. So, Akira... we'll be your home.”

And Akira crumbled.

.

.

.

In the Metaverse,

a sunny yellow house shimmered,

shrank,

and disappeared into the beautiful blazing sky,

forever gone.

Chapter 45: Omake

Notes:

this month, work is in a crunch. In order to meet my deadlines, I have to work around 60-80 hours a week. I haven't had time to even think about cop and robber, much less finish up the denouement scenes.

so unfortunately, i'm going on break for two months until the crunch is completed.

when I come back, I hope to have the whole denouement finished so it can be posted in one week.

until then, have some extras. naze? WATASHI GA KITA

“Sir,” Makoto said gingerly, “I didn't find you in a house.”

Gorou stopped halfway in donning his jacket. His eyes snapped to hers.

“I don't understand,” he stammered. “Where did you find me?”

Makoto closed her eyes. “I went deep, sir,” she said. “I traveled through a myriad of universes until I found the right one.”

“The—pardon?”

She looked at him solemnly. “You were in Equestria, Inspector. You were a pink pegasus.”

“What.”

“Your name was Pancake Pony.”

---

“I don't understand. Where did you find me?”

“You're a wizard, Akechi.”

---

“I don't understand. Where did you find me?”

“It's been 1000 years, Inspector. I'm a hologram. Everyone is a hologram. Your body was encased in ice, and we just found you.”

---

“I don't understand. Where did you find me?”

“The Matrix.”

“What?”

“Gorou... what if everything you ever knew was a lie?”

---

MAKOTO.
You don't have to protect me! I'm not afraid!
Please don't throw me out again,
Please don't Megido.
You don't have to keep your secrets anymore.
'Cuz for the first time in forever,
I finally understand.
For the first time in forever,
We can face this hand in hand.
We can head out of this Palace together!
You don't have to live in pain,
'Cuz for the first time in forever,
You will have a friend.

AKIRA.
Makoto,
Shibuya calls,
Your squad awaits.
Go back to your station and stop tempting fate.

MAKOTO.
But—

AKIRA.
You mean well, but leave me be.
Yes, I'm alone, but I'm alone and free.
Just stay away and you'll be safe from me.

MAKOTO.
Actually, we're not.

AKIRA.
What do you mean you're not?

MAKOTO.
I get the feeling you don't know.

AKIRA.
What do I not know?

MAKOTO.
Shadow
Joker's
way
out
of
control.

---

“So Dad, Mom, how did you guys meet?”

“Your father was a barista at a café. He was so handsome and intelligent and charming, I couldn’t help but fall for him.”

“Your mother shot me four times.”

“Akira!”

---

POLL: What's your most attractive feature to the opposite sex?

Akechi: I would like to think... my intellectual capacity.

Ryuuji: Hell, I dunno. Chicks dig a guy in a uniform, right?

Sae: Frankly, I don't care.

Futaba: Ew. People.

Akira: Everything.

---

POLL: Favorite sport?

Shiho: Take a guess.

Futaba: League of Legends, duh. What do you mean "that doesn't count?" Fine, drone racing.

Yusuke: Dance is poetry in motion! Such grace! Such poise!

Akira: Teasing Her Majesty.

Makoto: (Shut up, Akira.)

---

POLL: Most important thing you'd bring to a deserted island?

Ann: Hmm... a dog! It can hunt, keep watch, and I won't go stir-crazy by myself.

Morgana: A fishing rod.

Haru: My vegetable plot. Maybe none of the vegetation there is edible.

Makoto: Oh, we addressed this in a team bonding session. A mirror is very important.

Akira. Makoto.

---

DELETED SCENE

“I'm not going to lie,” said Makoto, crouching slightly on the blue mat beneath her feet. “You'll probably be sore. You'll have bruises. Maybe a sprain. I'll try to prevent that since you have a business to run, but I figured that I should let you know.”

Akira, dressed loosely in a loose shirt and exercise pants, rubbed his neck. “Uh. Maybe we should rethink this?”

“It's a good life skill.”

“Life skills are only useful if I'm alive.”

Makoto laughed. “I'm a cop. I would never kill an innocent civilian.”

“Comforting.”

“Ready?”

Akira lowered his weight slightly. His stance was balanced, expert, even though his arms hung awkwardly at his sides. “What exactly do I do?”

Makoto watched how he shifted on the balls of his feet, how the angle of his shoulders was fluid, how his back was relaxed but the muscles in his hips were tight.

“Were you an athlete, by any chance?” she asked.

Akira chuckled drily. “First time anyone's accused me of that.”

“So, you weren't?”

“Nothing outside of mandatory P.E, I'm afraid.”

Makoto frowned. It didn't match.

“Okay,” she eventually said, deciding to dismiss it. “Here I go.”

She needed to get an idea of a starting point—his speed, reflexes, maybe prior knowledge. So she darted forward and shot her forearm towards his stomach. She didn't plan on hitting him; she only wanted to gauge his reaction.

Akira turned at the last second, shifting forward. Surprised, she tilted her arm to follow him. Her arm came in contact with a wall of iron-hard muscle.

Wait, she thought vaguely, that's not right.

And Akira was a blur.

He pincered her arm with his elbow, spun her around, and swept her ankle. She went tumbling to the ground, off-balance. His body angled and his limbs extended and before she knew it, she was in a perfect judo hold, lying flat on his chest with her arm wrenched in a painful pin.

She lay there in shock.

Akira's grasp softened. He shifted, pulling her closer until his mouth was right by her ear and his torso pressed against her back and she could feel the muscle, cords that didn't belong on a barista. His body was hot, branding into her skin as he whispered with amusement, his lips skimming her earlobe. She stiffened.

“I think I'm going to like these lessons,” chuckled Akira.

She seized the opportunity and pinwheeled, breaking out of his grasp and pressing a heavy knee to his chest. Her cheeks were flaming hot against the air and her heart was hammering with vengeance.

“You were lying.” She barely managed to keep her voice calm and level. “You don't need any lessons at all.”

“So I go to the gym once in a while,” said Akira dismissively. “That doesn't make me an expert.”

But he hadn't moved like a gym member.

He'd moved like a soldier.

She pressed the knee harder, pinning his upper body down. “You have some kind of experience.”

“Beginner's luck.”

Without warning, she whipped out a fist straight for his nose.

In half a blink, Akira's head shifted and his hand soared up and he redirected her blow to the empty floor.

She looked at him.

He dropped his gaze.

“Don't tell me that reflexes like that are a beginner's,” she said calmly.

Akira was quiet.

And then the look in his eye changed, and he seemed a little daring—a familiar atmosphere that she couldn't quite pin down.

“If we're testing reflexes,” he said, “why don't we try yours?”

He suddenly slammed a palm against her shoulder and turned his torso so that the pressure of her leg slid off of him. Makoto could have moved, but she didn't. Then he whipped upwards, his arm pressing the small of her back and his face coming closer and closer and Makoto could have moved but she didn't—

—he was there, holding her close, his nose lightly touching hers, his labored breath feathering over her lips.

And Makoto could have moved, but she didn't.

Her fingers slowly came up and twisted in the collar of his shirt. Her voice was a little lower, a little huskier.

“Well?” she said. “Is that all you've got?”

Chapter 46: RANK 15

Notes:

haha ohisashiburi //sweats

Niijima Makoto dressed for a date.

She chose a blouse, a skirt, a cardigan—neat and comfortable, cozy and feminine. She fastened on a small silver pendant, gleaming grey flowers in the daylight.

Then she took the bus. A normal bus, one that didn't meow or wave a tail.

She caught a pickpocket and nearly broke his wrist as she exited, then casually continued on her way to the giant gates already stuffed with lines of waiting couples. Big underlit letters proclaimed magically: Destinyland.

A man was waiting for her by one of the beautiful wooden benches, leaning against the edge with his arms crossed and countless women glancing at him in admiration. He smiled as he saw her, a daring thing with a hint of mischief.

“Majesty,” he greeted. “Welcome to your castle.”

“You forgot my carriage,” she teased with a small smile.

“Maybe I have something better.”

He whisked something from behind his back with a flourish, like he'd been born to whisk things from behind his back in as theatrical a manner as possible.

A single blue rose, rich and luxurious in hue, winked up at her.

Her heart throbbed and she felt a tingle deep in her gut, a pleasant warmth flowering, the unique knowledge that she was special to someone. She took the rose, a spark shooting up her arm when the tips of her fingers brushed his.

“There's all kinds of warnings about guys like you,” she said, smiling. “Guys who are too charming for their own good. They're dangerous.”

He leaned close and whispered so that the heat of his breath kissed her ear. “Just your type.”

He was on a roll today.

She swallowed her fluttering pulse and sniffed the rose. It was fragrant, fresh. “Where'd you get a blue rose?” she said.

Akira grinned. “I know where to get things that aren't always available in normal places.”

“The black market?”

“More like a phantom market. Legally licensed, I promise you that.”

He held out his arm, and she remembered another date on a street in front of a diner. Her smile faded.

“Akira,” she said quietly, “we can't hold it off forever. I need to go to the precinct and answer for everything I've done.”

His eyes darkened and he looked solemnly at her. “I just want one day.”

She looked at the rose in her hand.

“One day,” said Akira, “without worrying about baiting the Joker or making a Palace or saving psychological Tokyo.”

He paused.

“One day with you,” Makoto finished softly.

She linked her arm through his.

And they walked into the happiest place on earth.

.

.

.

They stopped at one of the minigame booths, a stall with dart rifles that would pop colored balloons. Hitting a certain number would redeem a certain prize.

Makoto stopped Akira with a smile.

“Oh no,” said Akira.

“Oh yes,” said Makoto.

“Don't rob the poor man of house and home.”

Makoto flipped her hair with a confident smile. “I've never gotten to show off in front of you, you know.”

Akira winced. “That's actually false. My body has four holes to prove it.”

That made her grimace. “Sorry.”

“I wasn't aware that cops were such deadeyes.”

“They're usually not,” said Makoto. She quieted. “But there was a specific reason that I wanted to be good at a gun.”

Akira was quiet. He reached out and squeezed her hand. “To protect?”

She swallowed. “To kill.”

He waited.

“I guess I never was a good little cop,” she said wistfully. “When I was at the range, I didn't think of the people I needed to protect. I thought of... certain people from the past. I thought of their faces superimposed over the target. I thought of seeing a hole drill through their brain, or the feeling of exploding their heads with a shotgun. It was the only thing that could keep me in the range.”

Akira's hand brushed her hair. “What do you think of now?”

She looked at the stall with a glint to her smile. “I think that I want to break Destinyland's weekly record.”

And she did.

She was quite a show off, and Akira fell just a little harder for it.

.

.

.

“You know,” said Akira, eying the vendor's cotton candy, “by purchasing this, we'd be celebrating the entertainment industry's premeditated extortion of the upper middle class by targeting the basic human necessity of food and nourishment.”

“It's just one thousand yen, Akira,” Makoto said, grinning.

“It's one thousand yen, Majesty. For something that's half sugar and half air.”

“Think of it as providing jobs for all the workers here.”

Akira sighed and took out his wallet. “One cotton candy, please.”

.

.

.

The Haunted House was meant for, apparently, adults with even the hardest of hearts.

Akira and Makoto considered that assertion to be a challenge.

They walked into pitch black, the occasional light bursting before their eyes with plastic heads on skewers for ultimate shock value. It was surprising, but Makoto was a cop and Akira was a combat veteran of the Metaverse, and something about jumpscares from dark corridors just didn't carry the same weight. She vaguely wondered if they should be scared, if the sights should trigger some PTSD that would make the haunted house unbearable, but then shrugged it off. Best not to test her luck.

“You sure you're alright, Majesty?” said Akira, amused. “There's sounds of thunder in the background.”

“Thunder by itself doesn't scare me,” said Makoto. “And darkness doesn't, either. Neither does rain, or wind. It's just... everything together.”

“Bad childhood memories? Nightmares?”

She was quiet, and thunder boomed.

“My dad was shot in front of me,” she whispered.

Akira paused. “Makoto.”

“It's fine.”

“I'm sorry.”

She smiled. “I said that it's fine. I took therapy. I can talk again.”

“Your sign language.”

She chuckled and flicked his nose. She was actually aiming for his forehead, but the darkness made it difficult to see. “I'm fine. Honest.”

“You still get nightmares.”

She shrugged. “So do you, probably. About the Metaverse. Just because the wound closes doesn't mean that the scars disappear.”

His fingers slid through hers, warm and tingly.

They proceeded.

The corridor flashed, and a figure in a horrific mask bolted towards them with the screech of a banshee. It stopped just in front of them, cold wind blasting from the hidden fans in the corners.

“Oh,” said Makoto. “Hi.”

The figure drew away, looking somewhat sulky.

Akira chuckled. “To be honest, I'm a little disappointed.”

“In the haunted house? I think it's actually quite good.”

“No, no.” A finger poked her cheek. “I mean, I love watching you kick a bunch of ass, but you're very cute when you're scared.”

“Uh... huh? I. Um. Uh?”

“And very clingy.”

She let go of him, inching away. “I was definitely not clingy.”

“Please. Until the storm is over.”

She groaned. “This isn't fair! How come you can tease me about so many things, but I have nothing on you?”

“Because one of us had a murderous psyche and the other was just a cute cop stumbling through a new world.” Akira was quiet for a moment. “It's not something I'm proud of. I'd rather take the endless teasing.”

“I call bull. You love to be cool.”

“You're very right. I do.”

She felt him take her hand again, callused digits lacing through the spaces in her fingers, and they moved on.

.

.

.

“I must say, this doesn't feel like a very effective mode of transportation.”

“Akira.”

“I mean, it feels like we're going in circles.”

“Akira, it's a carousel.”

.

.

.

The Ferris wheel came last. Of course it would. It was considered the pinnacle of the amusement park—rather literally, but primarily for couples. After all, there was nothing like an isolated space with a beautiful sunset view to paint a romantic mood.

The silence felt strangely tense to Makoto. Akira was sitting right at her side, but his eyes were honed out of the carriage, his gaze distant.

She quietly coughed. “What're you thinking about?”

Akira's head turned slightly. She caught a glimpse of his eye from over his shoulder. He chewed the question thoughtfully, letting the silence fill the carriage.

Makoto waited patiently.

Akira's fingers curled against his pants. “I was just thinking... I'm happy.”

Makoto bit her lip. “But you seem more perplexed than happy.”

“Because...” He turned. They were sitting side by side, but he was facing her, the tip of his knee touching hers. “It feels strange. Haven't felt it before.”

She felt winded. “You... haven't felt happy?”

He shrugged. “I've felt victorious. Content. Smug. Excited, even. But just being—happy for no other reason than just happiness... it feels weird. Almost like the world could fall apart, but for some reason, I'd know that everything would turn out fine in the end."

Makoto's smile broadened. “I think you're feeling the effects of being loved and cherished. By family, friends...”

“And you?”

“And your cat.”

“Not you?”

Makoto flushed. “I don't know,” she blurted.

Akira's lips pulled. “Are you sure?”

She punched him lightly on the shoulder and turned away. There was a warm chuckle behind her.

The sky was beautiful. The moment was beautiful. Akira was beautiful. She wanted to take this second, ball it up, fold it in a time capsule, untouchable. She wanted to keep it pristine and perfect, a matchless memory in the treasury of her head.

But there was still the future. The unknown.

“What are you going to do?” Makoto said suddenly.

Akira was quiet for a moment. “Now?”

“I, I don't know. You're... not going to be a Phantom Thief anymore, I mean, so...”

She trailed off.

Akira tapped his fingers against the window in a calm rhythm.

“I got around three million yen per Palace.” Makoto choked at this, and Akira smiled ruefully. “But the currency is unusable. A humble café owner in Yongen-jaya could never declare such earnings. I could sneak some of the money in, make small purchases here and there, but never anything big, not like a house. I don't even know where the Metaverse money comes from. Does it spontaneously materialize? Is it the collection of yen lost across the country? If it's not being circulated to and from reality, yen from the Metaverse could, over time, singlehandedly inflate the economy and bring a depressive crash.”

Makoto opened her mouth.

Makoto closed her mouth.

“Um,” she said.

“And it was cash. Printed cash.” Akira shook his head. “It gets hard to store. Hard to carry. It's very inflexible. The easiest thing to do is spend it on the black market, but that seems pretty counterproductive for a self-proclaimed thief of justice, don't you think?”

She hadn't even thought about such conundrums.

“Wow,” was all she said.

Akira nodded solemnly.

“So if you couldn't keep it in the country...” Her mind was beginning to turn its faithful gears. “I assume you made international investments under a secondary name? Spread the cash over several countries, met in person with cases of hard cash?”

Akira grimaced. “The first investments were difficult. People were understandably skeptical. But Ponzi schemes have worked from less. It took time to build a reputation, but now I have a variety of small holdings in around five countries.”

It sounded complicated, questionably legal, and brilliant.

“So basically,” Makoto said slowly, “you don't even need a job.”

Akira nodded. “I can cash in those investments and transfer them under the guise of international business dealings without raising too many eyebrows. That's the advantage of global transfers.”

Makoto was silent for a long, long moment.

“You know,” she finally said, “I feel like I should congratulate you or be relieved or be gobsmacked, but all I can think is that you've been pulling some hardcore federal tax evasion for the past seven years.”

Akira recoiled, alarmed. “I mean—if I declared—there would be investigations, people would wonder—”

She grinned brightly at him. “I know, silly thief.”

He was speechless, still staring at her like a lost puppy. Something about it was adorable, so she cupped his face with her hands, tilted her face up, and kissed his nose.

“I wonder if I should be more disturbed,” she mused, “that I'm with a veteran criminal.”

She whispered teasingly just above his lips, and Akira's eyes darkened and his hand snaked around her waist and his breath was hot on her cheek. “I bet you find it quite thrilling.”

She froze, a tiny noise stumbling from her mouth.

Akira's smirk turned a little dangerous. “You're a little too cute when you make that face, Majesty.”

She temporarily forgot how to breathe. She wanted a witty reply, but every thought in her mind had promptly flown put the window. She swallowed, her teeth instinctively catching her bottom lip.

Something flickered over Akira's face and he released her, turning hurriedly to the window.

Makoto blinked.

Silence stretched on.

“What was that?” Makoto said.

“What was what?”

“You're being evasive.”

“Astute observation.”

“Akira.”

“Ah. Pardon, Majesty.” Akira swallowed. “You looked very... innocent.”

Her brow furrowed. “That's... bad? Or...”

Akira swallowed again. “No. It's, it's not bad. It just... makes me think of certain things, because I'm a terrible person.”

A beat.

Two.

Makoto flushed and whipped away, kicking him in the shin.

“Ouch. My feelings.”

“You can't just say things like that.”

“Would you have preferred that I hold my silence?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then. Next time, I'll plea the Thirty-Eighth.”

An awkward, tense silence descended.

Akira coughed.

Makoto laced her fingers tightly.

Akira sighed and touched her arm. “Come here, Majesty.”

Makoto side-eyed him, still blushing. He patted his shoulder.

Cautiously, she rested her head against him, the top of her head anchoring to beneath his jaw. His arm draped over her shoulder and took her hand, gently rubbing her fingers. He was warm. She closed her eyes, soaking in the comfort.

His breath was soft over her hair, but she felt him smile. She smiled back.

“I—”

Her pulse spun.

“I love you,” she said.

It felt right to say, on the top of the ferris wheel with the sun setting in gold and phoenix-red, completely cliché and expected, her head on Akira's shoulder, snuggling in the thrum of his heartbeat against her cheek.

Akira's breath hitched, but his voice was quiet. “How do you know it won't change?”

It was a vulnerable question, lacking his usual slyness. She looked into his eyes, waiting.

“Tomorrow...” His fingers tightened on hers, protective. “Maybe you'll get in serious trouble. Maybe you'll be incarcerated. Maybe you'll forget, or you'll change your mind—”

“I won't,” she said.

“Everything could be different in one day.”

“I won't.”

He looked at her, and she saw it. He was remembering an earlier promise, one where she'd sworn not to hurt him, and then she put a bullet through his hand, made him suffer unbearable agony.

“Feelings change,” he said.

She pulled his head down, resting her forehead against his. “Yes. And so will ours.”

“Then how?”

She smiled. “Love is a choice. That no matter what comes, I'll stick by you.”

His voice was a whisper barely there. “Sounds difficult.”

“Are you up for a challenge?”

He tilted his head and slanted his mouth over hers—a tender movement that made her pulse flutter wildly. His lips pressed gently for one second, two, and then he retracted.

“That's supposed to be the gravity of a vow, I guess,” he murmured in a rumble.

She nodded wordlessly.

Akira suddenly reached down and clasped her hand. “Makoto?”

The atmosphere was turning heady, weighty, as if everything would depend on his next sentence. Makoto's breath shuddered in her chest. “Hm?”

“Will you—”

Makoto gulped.

“—be my girlfriend?”

Makoto stared.

Then she burst into laughter. “You are absolutely ridiculous. After everything that's happened?”

Akira grinned wryly. “Is that a yes?”

She bumped his nose, wrestling away a tiny hint of disappointment. “Definitely.”

“Good,” said Akira, “because I figured that proposing is something you do to girlfriends, not strangers.”

And smooth as butter, he stooped to one knee and drew something from his back pocket and—

“Makoto, will you marry me?”

Makoto stared at the simple, beautiful gold band glinting at her from a navy velvet box.

She stared at Akira.

Akira smiled back, somehow combining smugness and bashfulness into an unfairly charming look.

She was speechless. She could only hit him on the shoulder, tears climbing to her eyes.

“Makoto?” said Akira, alarmed.

“You're so—” She struggled to piece the words together. “You're such a trickster!”

Akira was starting to look very nervous, as if he hadn't considered the possibility of rejection and was now regretting it deeply. “Is... that a no?”

She wanted to say something witty like ‘It's an irritated yes’ or ‘I'll get back to you, let me check with my secretary’ but she saw him on one knee holding a ring with an open and vulnerable expression and she ended up diving into him and wrapping her arms tightly around his waist and whispering breathlessly “Yes of course I'll marry you” and he fell back from her weight and they hit the ground like two dorks and the carriage rocked and he laughed, cradling her head.

“You had me worried for a second,” he said with mirth.

She curled into his arms and soaked in his warmth, smiling. “That I'd say no?”

“I plea the Thirty-Eighth.”

She kissed his nose. “Nerd.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

.

.

.

When their carriage stopped at the bottom of the Ferris wheel, Akira laced his fingers through hers. Makoto impulsively kissed the back of his hand.

“What a gentleman,” Akira deadpanned, but she heard his breath catch.

She grinned at him. “You've been too charming. I have to up my game to match.”

Akira laughed. “Oh, Majesty, are you clueless?”

“Clueless?”

“Of your own charm.”

She blushed. “I know I don't have much.”

“Are you saying that my taste is subpar?”

“Maybe it is.”

“The one thing that every gentleman thief can do is correctly appraise works of art, Majesty.”

That knocked her off-balance. She coughed, flushing even deeper. “You have strange taste.”

He leaned close as the door opened. “I like a woman who can think.”

The light of the setting sun poured into the carriage, and they stepped outside.

And—

—Akechi Gorou stood before them, backed by a dozen officers in uniform. Their postures were relaxed, but they wore bulletproof vests, and service pistols were strapped to their hips.

Makoto's heart fell to her stomach.

“Officer Niijima,” said Gorou placidly, “there you are. You're under arrest.”

Notes:

writing happy people is boring

Chapter 47: RANK 16

Niijima Makoto was cuffed to the table of the Shibuya Station conference room. In front of her sat Akechi Gorou and the five individuals of Police Squad 29. Beside her sat Kurusu Akira, who had made use of a citizen's right to legal counsel by declaring himself as Makoto's temporary defense attorney.

She considered the situation to be rather ironic.

Her stomach churned. She should've gone to the precinct as soon as she exited the Metaverse, she should've confessed everything, she shouldn't have been careless—she knew all of that, and yet she'd gone to Destinyland anyway, throwing everything to the wind like a child.

Akechi Gorou was all professionalism. His face was unreadable, his posture perfectly straight. His hands were folded neatly on the conference table, relaxed. Officer Mifune rapidly typed a transcript on a laptop as he spoke.

“Well. Officer Niijima. Where exactly should I start?” said Gorou mildly.

Makoto winced.

“Withholding contact for days. Threatening your own team member at gunpoint. Revealing yourself days later, not penitent, but frivolously wasting time at an amusement park. And, lastly and most horrendously... we've found evidence that points to you as the perpetrator of an attempted murder in Yongen-jaya.”

Makoto glanced at Officer Sakamoto. He looked pained.

“I believe that I know what you're thinking, Niijima,” said Gorou, “and you are correct. No, your squad said nothing. But unlike my predecessor, I am attentive to case reports, particularly those that officers attempt to file underhand. A mysterious crime scene in Yongen-jaya caught my attention, and after further investigation... well. You see the result.”

And Kurusu Akira raised his hand. Gorou blinked in surprise, as if he'd forgotten about Akira's presence. “Yes?”

“The attempted murder charge is null and void,” said Akira blithely.

Gorou's brow furrowed. “What makes you say that?”

“Because,” said Kurusu Akira, “the crime scene is my café, and all the blood is my blood, and the wreckage is in my room. That would make me the victim, and I've decided to settle out of court.”

“Out of court?” Gorou repeated, surprised.

“Yes,” said Akira. “We've already decided on the settlement fees.”

Makoto cast a secretive glance at him, alarmed. We have?

“I've decided on three occurrences of the same charge,” he continued smoothly, “and in fact, I think I'll claim one right now.”

And right there, in full view of Akechi Gorou, in full view of Police Squad 29, the squad that included Sakamoto Ryuuji and Suzui Shiho and Kawakami Sadayo and Mifune Chihaya and Tohgou Hifumi, he pulled Makoto close and kissed her full on the mouth, pressing her waist closer with one arm. Makoto let out a little surprised noise and she felt him smile against her lips.

Akechi Gorou balked.

Sakamoto Ryuuji and Suzui Shiho and Kawakami Sadayo and Mifune Chihaya and Tohgou Hifumi balked.

Akira pulled back with a smug look.

Makoto blushed and swiveled away.

Gorou's gaze was level, controlled. “That was not an appropriate display, Kurusu Akira.”

“Will you sue me?” said Akira dryly.

Gorou's brow twitched. “This case is more serious than you might think. Much more is at stake than a—”

“Sorry,” Akira cut in. “Since when can a civil case be brought against a defendant without a plaintiff?”

Gorou stopped.

“I'm the victim. I don't want to press charges. Isn't it my right to not press charges? Are you infringing on my civil rights?”

Gorou's face was perfectly calm, but the air was rapidly decreasing in temperature. Makoto felt the cold prickle at her skin. “You are making a shortsighted decision.”

“I can live with that.”

“You may be endangering public security by obstructing us from further investigation.”

Akira's jaw tightened. Before he could say anything stupid, Makoto surreptitiously pinched his leg.

“What exactly is at stake?” Akira said mildly.

Gorou was controlled. “Non-disclosure begs me to be selective with information. All I will tell you is that it may have something to do with the Phantom Thieves.”

Akira was also controlled, perfectly ironing his features so that they betrayed the perfect amount of surprise, not too much, nor too little. “The Phantom Thieves? What does this case have to do with the Phantom Thieves?”

“Might you step outside for a moment so that I can speak with the defendant in confidance?”

“She has the right to legal counsel.”

Makoto caught Akira's eye. She shook her head and jerked her chin to the door.

Akira looked surprised, but he obediently stepped outside.

Akechi Gorou leaned forward, a hint of steel in his gaze. “Officer Niijima. What is this disaster you've left me?”

“I apologize, sir.”

“Do you realize exactly what you've done?”

She was penitently silent.

Gorou slammed his hand on the table. The motion was sharp and abrupt, completely unexpected of his usual mild demeanor. Makoto jerked. Police Squad 29 flinched. The chill in the room grew colder, heavier.

“Niijima Makoto. You lost your service pistol. You shot a man and destroyed his property. You threatened a fellow officer in your own squad at gunpoint. You went rogue. And instead of turning yourself in, you squandered time at an amusement park, completely unconscientious of your wrongdoings. Is this what you do to a supervisor who places their trust in you?”

Makoto said nothing. It was bad.

“You have been disappearing frequently, acting on your own without supervision, and making promises you have not kept. You have been willfully concealing information from the department.” If voices could drip acid, Gorou's certainly would have. “I am sorely disappointed. Do you hear it? My voice is rising. I wonder why it is rising.”

“I apologize, sir.”

“Apologies”—slam—“are”—slam—“not”—slam—“enough. Not anymore. I can permit this no longer, Niijima Makoto. I thought that you were more diligent than this.”

The words cut into her. She closed her eyes.

“Well?” said Gorou. “What is your excuse this time? More kidnapping? More magic tricks? Or, dare I say, the fate of all of Japan?”

Buddy, grumbled her id, you have no idea.

“I have none, sir,” Makoto said evenly.

Surprise flickered past Gorou's dark expression. “What?”

“I have no excuse.”

“Then you will be released from the force. And prosecuted to serve the adequate amount of time for your crimes.”

“So be it.”

Gorou's expression fractured into a myriad of emotions: shock, confusion, anger, even a hint of pain. “Do you even understand what you're saying, Makoto?”

“It's Niijima, sir,” corrected Makoto, “and yes.”

“But—” He blustered, searching for words. “But... why? It makes no sense!”

Her eyes drove into his. “Because, sir, I encountered a hostage situation that could have destroyed Tokyo as we knew it. So I did what I had to in order to defuse the situation. But I have no evidence. I have no proof. On paper, I have no excuse. And that's how it should be, sir. Don't pardon me without evidence.”

Gorou was silent.

Makoto's hand drifted to her lapel. Slowly, she unclipped her badge and placed it on the table.

Shiho gasped. “Makoto, no...”

“I can't keep this,” Makoto said. “Even if I'm pardoned, even if I get away scot-free—I've broken the trust of my squad, and I can never earn that trust again. I know that.”

“Don't give us that bull, Niijima!” Ryuuji roared. “Just tell us about the damn hostage! Who was it? Where did it happen? Why?”

“You are one of the station's best and brightest, Niijima,” said Gorou levelly. “I saw how hard you worked. I know how much you had to overcome. Are you throwing it all away?”

Makoto bit her lip. Seeing the badge made her chest feel empty. Tears built in the back of her throat, but she shook them away.

Knowledge of the Metaverse was too dangerous. It was too unlegislated, too unknown, too easy to kill people.

The Metaverse would have to be a secret she carried to her grave. Or, at least, unemployment.

“Squad 29,” she said, saluting, “it's been an honor.”

“Don't be a fool,” Officer Kawakami bit out. “This was your dream.”

“I must affirm that this is in no way a strategically valid decision,” Officer Tohgou added solemnly.

Officer Mifune shuffled her cards in silence.

“The moment you step out that door,” said Gorou harshly, “you will be indicted. And with such pathetic excuses, you will certainly be condemned to serve time.”

“You're saying that like I want to resign,” Makoto said blandly.

“I have yet to officially submit the case against you. The higher-ups know nothing of this.” Gorou folded his hands. “Furthermore, the victim of the Yongen-jaya case seems to have no intention of pursuing court action. Explain your hostage situation, Officer Niijima, and you can resign honorably without charges. None of these events have to come to light.”

Makoto paused.

We really shouldn't be thinking about this, said her superego.

But jail, said her id.

What does jail matter if everyone dies?

But jail.

Public knowledge of the Metaverse would be absolutely catastrophic, and you know it.

But—

Dear god, woman, at least jail gives you food and a place to sleep!

—no Akira.

Get him arrested too. Problem solved.

Absolutely ridiculous. She shook her thoughts away.

“That's not possible, sir,” she said shortly, “and I would thank you to stop enticing me.”

She turned to leave, but the door spontaneously opened. A shock of black hair popped in, and a pair of round-rimmed glasses gleamed coldly beneath the fluorescent light.

“Sorry to intrude,” said Kurusu Akira mildly, “but I can no longer ignore the public disturbance of inefficient bureaucracy and absolute stupidity.”

He raised his hand, ticking off his fingers.

“Let me summarize. Officer, well, probably-soon-to-be-former-Officer Niijima is receiving four charges. First, she's accused of attempted murder in Yongen-jaya. Second, she threatened an officer of the law. Third, she fell out of contact and went rogue. And forth, she didn't turn herself in immediately, but instead went to the amusement park with her dashing fiancé.”

“Your point being?” said Gorou.

Akira stepped fully into the room, letting the door shut behind him for dramatic effect. “Well, obviously, the first charge is moot. I'm alive. I'll testify that she didn't hurt me. And I don't want to bring charges. Why would I bring charges against someone who didn't hurt me?”

“Then the blood? The bullet?”

Akira's teeth flashed. “We were having a bit of fun. She knows what I like.”

Akechi Gorou's face reddened. “How filthy.”

Makoto buried her face in her hands.

“Second point,” continued Akira, “a criminal threat. Punishable with jail time and a whopping fine. Perfectly valid... except there's a plausible defense if 'the victim wasn't scared.' Now, Sakamoto Ryuuji, and even the rest of Squad 29—I daresay they weren't scared.”

“Ridiculous,” said Gorou coolly. “If they were not frightened, why would they have allowed Makoto to continue her agenda? Why not incarcerate her?”

“Because they saw her desperation,” said Akira readily, “and, as loyal, highly confused colleagues, they pitied her. Do you think they sincerely believed that Niijima Makoto, a woman with great moral boundaries and no record of misdemeanors, would kill her own close squadmate?”

“It is always possible.”

“Lack of fear is still a plausible defense.”

There was a moment of silence. Akira and Gorou's eyes sliced across the air.

“Your voice sounds familiar,” said Gorou coldly.

“So does yours,” said Akira. “I believe I've heard it on public television. Enacting a criminal threat against an officer of the law. Hmm. That sounds familiar.”

A long beat. Makoto swore that the walls were beginning to prickle with ice.

“I did what I had to do,” said Gorou.

“So did she.”

More silence.

Makoto rolled her eyes and stepped between them. “Alright, guys. That's enough.”

“It definitely isn't,” said Akira. “Does this guy even know how hypocritical he is? Charge you for obstruction of justice and threatening an officer of the law, ha, ha. I could split my sides from laughing. And the last two points—lack of contact and going to the amusement park—well, those aren't even criminal charges, they're just indicators that she's incompetent at her job. Which she's quitting. So, really, Akechi Gorou, what do you think you have on my Makoto?”

Gorou silently stewed like a toddler who'd lost at hopscotch. Makoto almost burst into laughter.

“Yes, thank you, my unlicensed attorney,” she said with a smile. “You have done your unofficial job very well.”

“I wouldn't have to if the whole police department wasn't so incompetent,” Akira complained.

“Yes, yes, out you go.” She pushed him gracelessly out the door.

Consequently, Akechi Gorou, his face still pulled in a scowl, nodded at Police Squad 29. They looked at each other, swallowed, and scurried out the door.

The entrance clicked shut, leaving behind the silence of a low-humming air conditioner.

Gorou leaned back in his chair and sighed, his face clearing. “There are so many questions left,” he said quietly. “The Phantom Thieves. The Joker. Your connection to it all. How a nonexistent house in Shinjuku appears in my memory, yet my drug test returns clear. The mole in the police force.”

Makoto smiles ruefully. “It might just be me, sir, but I don't think you'll have to worry about any of those questions. Or the Phantom Thieves.”

Gorou arched an eyebrow. “Truly?”

“Time will tell.”

Gorou leaned back. “By any chance... would that be related to your hostage situation?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny the possibility.”

Gorou considered this for a moment. The clock ticked on, peaceful and pensive.

“Then I suppose this is goodbye.”

Makoto inclined her head. “I'm sorry for the complications I brought, sir. But I ask that you continue to pursue justice. True justice.”

Akechi Gorou extended a hand. “I would do that regardless.”

She shook it. “I'm glad to hear that.”

He was flawed, but so was she—so was anyone on the force. The important thing was that he strove. Strove for true justice, strove to protect the People. There were missteps and misconceptions, but still he strove.

His fingers lingered on hers for a second. “Be happy, Niijima Makoto,” he said softly.

She smiled, saluted at him, and walked out the door.

A golden badge gleamed on the table, left behind.

Chapter 48: RANK 17

Notes:

AAAAHHH ONLY ONE CHAPTER LEFT.

CLIMB EVERY MOUNTAIN
CROSS EVERY STREAM
UPDATE EVERY CHAPTER
TILL YOU FIND YOUR MEME

Makoto strode through the precinct with purpose. Left. Right. Left again. And a final left.

She paused in front of a blocky grey door, wiping her sweaty palms against her skirt. She'd changed out of her uniform and submitted her resignation, but in civilian clothes, she felt unguarded, vulnerable. She'd never walked into this room out of uniform.

She stopped to breathe. Akira's hand gently brushed the small of her back.

“How're you feeling?”

Makoto smiled thinly. “Like I'm entering the lion's den.”

He kissed her cheek. “You've got this.”

She released her breath, nodded, and stepped into the interrogation room.

Large mirrors—reflective windows, she knew—covered a stretch of the wall. And at the table sat a trim, professional woman with immaculately combed silver hair.

At the sound of the door, the woman stood.

“Ah,” said Niijima Sae. Then she suddenly sat back down, like she'd broken an unspoken rule. “Makoto. You're, you're here.”

“Yes,” said Makoto placidly. “I walked. From down the hall.”

Sae was quiet for a moment. “How... are you?”

Makoto stared.

“You went missing for a while.”

Makoto kept staring. Then she barked a quick, sharp laugh.

She'd gone missing for six days in the Black Mask case, she'd been shown as a potential execution victim on public television, and only now was Sae pretending to be worried. Maybe someone at work had criticized her, telling her to look after her family. Maybe some external pressure was forcing Sae to play the part of a caring sister.

“Let's just get this over with,” said Makoto.

Niijima Sae's face was still. Pale, long fingers, the nails perfectly polished, rested on top of her laptop's keyboard, ready to strike.

Makoto silently sat. The air felt cold and damp in the interrogation room. It settled uneasily on her skin like a slimy coat.

“I'm here to pay my dues,” Makoto said calmly. “Debrief of the Black Mask case.”

“That's not what I'm here for.”

That threw Makoto off. “What?”

Sae was quiet.

Makoto's face dawned. “You want a statement of induction as a criminal accomplice.”

“You're not the one giving a statement today,” said Sae harshly.

Makoto blinked. “Then who is?”

“Who else?”

Sae's voice trembled. Makoto didn't believe that it was genuine; it had to be forced, just another ploy. It wasn't genuine, it wasn't genuine, it wasn't—

“Where have you been?” Sae whispered.

She sounded worried. Not vaguely concerned, or distantly perturbed—worried, like she'd been hovering by the phone, like she'd been drilling Akechi for news on her little sister's whereabouts, like she'd been aggravated at a complete lack of contact.

Her voice was so small that Makoto almost believed it.

Almost.

“I went rogue for a week,” said Makoto coolly. “This is the end of my police career. And that's if I'm lucky. Maybe I'll head to prison. Isn't that why you're here? To prosecute me?”

A muscle in Sae's jaw twitched, and Makoto almost—was it only almost?—felt bad.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” was all Sae said, still in that soft, vulnerable voice.

She only spoke like that when she had to swing the jury in her favor. That was it.

And after this meeting was over, after Prosecutor Niijima had pulled out the words she'd wanted, her face would completely clear, and she'd stand up, crisp and sharp, and she would say in that all-business, pristine tone: “This has been quite a productive session. Thank you for your time, Officer Niijima. I'll be seeing you in court.”

So Makoto said the harshest thing she could. She was losing her grip on who she knew Sae to be. She needed to end this before she broke under the pressure.

“Am I hurt?” she repeated coldly. “It'd be better to hurt than to have to—”

And suddenly, like time stopped, her mouth froze.

She tried again.

Something in her, something deep and unchangeable, protested.

It'd be better to hurt than to have to be your sister.

She couldn't say it.

She was too weak. Prosecutor Niijima had already broken through her defenses.

Makoto swallowed, but the words wouldn't leave her mouth. They stayed there behind her teeth until they died on the tip of her tongue.

Instead: “Let's just continue onto business, Prosecutor.”

Sae's eyes were unreadable, resting on Makoto. Then her movements were whiplike. Her hands snapped out and swiveled the laptop and the rubber grip pads squealed on the table and the screen was facing toward Makoto.

It was a blank document.

Makoto kept blinking, her mind confused.

Sae pushed the laptop until it was in front of Makoto, waiting.

“You type,” she said curtly. “Write notes. Questions. Treat this like an interrogation.”

“An interrogation?”

Sae said nothing.

Makoto's brow furrowed. “If this is an interrogation, then you should be the one typing.”

Still nothing.

Uncertainly, Makoto placed her hands on the laptop's keyboard and waited.

Sae breathed deeply.

Then spoke.

“Tan pleated skirt. Dark brown jacket. Paisley tie.”

Makoto's fingers began typing out of habit—then stopped. Her eyes widened.

No way.

“That,” said Sae, and now her voice was firm without a hint of weakness, “was what you wore to your high school graduation.”

A tiny flicker of hope, fragile as a firefly, warmed Makoto's chest. She crushed it by force of habit.

It couldn't be. It wasn't possible.

Makoto swallowed. “You looked up the uniforms.”

“I was there,” Sae said neutrally.

“You couldn't have been,” Makoto snapped.

Sae reached into her pocket and slid something across the table—her smartphone. The browser was already open, and on its brilliant retina screen shone a Niconico video that was uploaded by a user named takamaki_ann.

Takamaki Ann?

The intern?

With shaking fingers, Makoto fumbled for the play button. It took her three attempts.

She recognized the school immediately. She'd attended there for three years. The uniforms. The flower bouquets. The widespread banner screaming in bold, bright letters, CONGRATULATIONS, CLASS OF 20XX!

Makoto's throat constricted, sore.

“Hey there, Niconico!” Takamaki Ann, seated on a dinky plastic chair, waved cheerily at the camera. “I'm here today with the famous Prosecutor, Niijima Sae. Filming this for evidence because she likes to pretend she's heartless and her cells are written in binary, but honestly, she's a huge softie when you get to know her. Just has a terrible way of expressing herself. Ironic for a lawyer, don't you think?”

“Put that away before I sue you for violating my civil right to privacy.”

“In case you couldn't tell, her kind and gentle nature is a huge hit with the guys.”

“Ann.”

“Whup! Show's starting. Catch you guys later!”

The video glitched to black. As the cheery end tag played—"Subscribe for more! Next video: dining at a... cat restaurant?!?!"—Makoto's eyes raised to Sae's.

Red for red.

“I don't understand,” Makoto whispered. She sounded stupid. She felt stupid.

“I was there,” Sae said. Patiently. Easing Makoto into the idea.

“But I—I didn't see you.”

Sae's face was unreadable. “You'd stopped looking.”

Makoto felt winded. She was right. Of course she was right; Sae was always right. At some point, between the endless nights of eating by herself and the recitals with no one to cheer for her and the stellar report cards that had no one to frame them, Niijima Makoto had stopped looking for Niijima Sae.

The thought made her feel hollow inside.

So she latched onto a question. Any question. “What is Takamaki Ann doing here?”

Sae frowned, recollecting memories. “She was a student vlogger with a significant online presence. Eventually, a... distasteful company attempted to force her into underage pornography. She started a lawsuit. Through a series of happenstances, I became the prosecutor for that case.”

“And that's how you met?”

“Yes. That's also when Ann quit vlogging. She was inspired by law enforcement and decided to look into police careers.” Sae's mouth lifted into a grudging smile. “I suppose that over time, we became somewhat close.”

“She was your mole.”

Sae looked back evenly.

“That's how you knew I'd gone missing during the Munakawa case,” said Makoto. “Ann was your eyes at the Shibuya Police Department.”

“A mole takes orders,” said Sae curtly. “Ann does nothing of the sort. In fact, more often than not, she tells me things I don't care to hear.”

Like how her sister was doing.

Or was that something Sae cared to hear?

Makoto swallowed and returned her attention to the computer screen. She tabbed back to her neatly typed notes, closing the vlog window. “Continue.”

Sae closed her eyes. “Navy skirt. Navy sailor top. A red tie, but with one end undone and threaded into your hair—just enough for your friends to notice, but not the school administration. That was the endearing hint of rebellion that you donned to your middle school graduation.”

Makoto’s fingers were frozen over the keyboard.

Sae... had been to her middle school graduation?

“Yellow hat. White blouse. Plaid skirt. You looked so excited at your elementary school graduation. You were always looking into the crowd. I know that you were looking for me.” Sae opened her eyes. “But I... had to work late. I had to pay someone to take a video of you. And that... was the first time you were disappointed in me, I think. Truly disappointed.”

It was. Despite Sae missing Girl’s Festivals, birthdays, Christmases—she’d always believed that Sae would come to her graduation.

But then Sae hadn’t.

And Makoto had learned to stop looking.

“And finally...” Sae swallowed. “Pink pajamas.”

Painful white pulsed before Makoto's eyes.

“Stop,” Makoto whispered.

“You were five, and it was a stormy night when you were wearing pink pajamas.”

“Stop, Sae.”

Sae's voice shook, but the traitorous words kept spilling from her mouth. “Niijima Makoto, you were five—”

—Makoto shook away two gunshots—

—two, not one—

“—when I saw you murder a man.”

.

.

.

Sae raised her arm. In her hand gleamed the large, swelled-up shell of a concussion grenade.

“Get out,” she said in a cold, clear voice, “or I'm blowing us all to hell.”

Lightning, thunder, buffeting rain.

One of the men stepped forward, his clown mask leering down at her. She raised her chin, her hand clamping around the top of the grenade.

”This is not an empty threat,” she said. “Leave, and keep your life.”

The man reached out. He gripped the grenade and crushed it in his fingers. It fluttered to the ground—ragged scraps of paper maché.

A crafts project for school, and nothing more.

“You take me for a moron?” the man spat. “A cop wouldn’t have a goddamn ’nade in his house.”

Sae’s eyes widened. Her small frame trembled, just once.

The man gripped her by the neck and stooped down. She choked, scrabbling frantically at his arms.

No no no.

Makoto moved.

She moved without intending to move, like a puppet yanked on a string. She burst out of the cabinet with an unholy scream, flailing toward the nearest man.

Her small, pudgy arms slapped his hand upward.

Her fingers braced around his trigger finger.

The muzzle of his gun swiveled right to his comrade—right to the man who was holding Sae.

Click.

There was white light. A deafening shot.

Blood lathed the walls. The headless form of a man collapsed on the floor.

Makoto screamed, kept screaming. She looked like a wild thing, a wraith, her hair swinging limply in front of her face and her eyes rolling in her skull. The remaining men screamed with her. They wrenched their guns away and tore out the front door, fleeing from the pealing sirens down the road.

And Niijima Makoto, five years old and a murderer, slumped to the ground.

.

.

.

Makoto’s hands braced over her head.

The investigation room was silent, devoid of all noise except her own heavy breathing.

Sae watched her, tears lining her eyes.

“Why?” Makoto whispered brokenly. “Why...”

Sae bit her lip. “I know it was a painful memory. I’m sorry.”

“I thought... I thought that was why you hated me. Because... I killed someone. I was bad.” And she hadn’t wanted to remember it. She’d wanted to forget that it had ever happened.

“No. Oh, Makoto, no, no.” Sae stood, her face broken. “Please understand. We were young, with very few relatives, none of whom could take in two little girls. So social security wanted to distribute us. They wanted to send us to orphanages or foster homes... but separately.”

A chill ran up Makoto’s spine, and a piece of information that she’d been missing fell into place. “Social security.”

“Our mother was gone. Our father had been shot dead.” Niijima Sae’s eyes were wet—or at least, they looked wet in the investigation light. “You would have found a home in the blink of an eye. A small, cute little girl with good manners and a charming smile. But me, I was twelve. I was foul-mouthed and strong-willed. No one would want me. You would have left me, Makoto, and I was scared—scared that you wouldn’t just leave, but that you would forget me, and I would be alone, really alone. It was selfish. Completely selfish.”

Niijima Sae had wanted Makoto. She had always wanted Makoto.

The tears that had bundled in Makoto’s eyes finally spilled over. She cradled her face in her hands, barely holding back her ugly sobs.

She was wanted, she was wanted, she was wanted.

“I made a deal with one of our distant uncles,” Sae said shakily. “He’d sign on as our official guardian, and in return—I’d work. I’d work hard, and I’d repay him on loans. So I worked as hard as I could. Part-time jobs. Law school. I had to pay him off quickly, and then, then we could be happy. We could do all those things you wanted to do. Hiking. Hawaii. Destinyland.”

“I didn’t want Destinyland,” Makoto sobbed. “I just wanted you.”

Sae rounded the table and gathered Makoto in her arms. Makoto gripped her blazer.

And there they stood in the interrogation room, clinging to each other, bawling like idiots.

Sorry, one said, or maybe both. Sorry, I’m sorry.

Shut up, I’m more sorry.

Crackling giggles, teary smiles.

—for home is not a building—

Finally, Sae settled back, but her hands still rested on Makoto’s shoulders. There was a true sparkle in her eye, something that couldn’t be credited to the overhead fluorescent.

“Makoto,” said Sae, “why don't we go out for sushi? And this time... let's take our time.”

Makoto nodded, beaming through her teary eyes. Her grin radiated light.

“While we're there, sis... I have someone I want you to meet.”

.

.

.

Kurusu Akira smiled.

Niijima Sae glared back.

“Sis,” said Makoto, “this is Akira. My, um, fiancé. Akira, this is Sae. My sister.”

“I'm aware,” Sae bit out.

“We've met,” Akira supplied.

“Yes, you've seen each other,” said Makoto, “but that doesn't mean you've met. Meeting involves seeing each other as a person. Not an enemy. Or someone to mindgame. Or a potential criminal.”

Sae glared at Akira.

Akira grinned back.

“Sis,” said Makoto neutrally, “I want you to start seeing him as my future husband. Not... you know, an ex-suspect. Who was acquitted. Just saying. And Akira—”

“I'm being perfectly cordial, Majesty.”

“Stop being unnecessarily annoying just to piss her off.”

Akira's grin dropped.

“Good. Now... why don't we order some sushi?”

.

.

.

“So. Kurusu. What do you like about my sister?”

“Her money. And looks. That's it.”

“Akira!”

“What? She's clearly bent on criticizing me no matter what answer I give.”

“Kurusu. Try again. Or I'll snap your tailbone in two.”

“Ouch. In that case... Because she shot me. Four times, in fact.”

“Sis? Put the knife down. Sis?”

.

.

.

“So, Prosecutor Niijima, what do you like to do in your free time?”

“Indict criminals.”

“Don't you do that for work?”

“I do it in my free time, too. Like now. Come with me.”

“Sis.”

.

.

.

“You guys really need to find a common point.”

“Wouldn't that common point be you, Majesty? Namely, that we both love you?”

“Kurusu, I'll be honest. I still can't tell if you're really serious about Makoto.”

“What would convince you?”

“Probably nothing.”

“Well, there's the problem.”

.

.

.

Dinner had successfully passed without injury or serious psychological damage, which was, in Makoto's book, a win.

Over the meal, Akira and Sae's tension of cat-and-mouse had dulled into something like inventive bickering. Makoto could tell that they were starting to respect each other, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

After all, aside from Makoto, the major common point they both had was scathing wit.

But then the bill came.

“I'll cover this one, Prosecutor,” Akira said smoothly. He swiped the bill with a deft motion.

Sae's gaze was cold and unimpressed. “The only thing worse than a man with no money... is an irresponsible man with no money.”

Her hand snapped for the bill, but Akira juggled it to his other hand. He slid in his credit card—premium black with shiny gold edges and most certainly not befitting of a minimum wage café owner—and tossed it to the waiter without hesitation.

Sae gaped.

Akira smiled. “If it puts your heart at ease, Prosecutor, shall I show you my retirement fund?”

“Don't,” said Makoto tiredly. “She'll just investigate you for embezzlement.”

“Never mind. I humbly retract my offer.”

Sae remained agape, her jaw stretched in bewilderment.

And Makoto laughed, clear and bright.

Chapter 49: RANK 18

Suzui Shiho tiptoed in the cramped storage closet of Shibuya Station, reaching for a dusty navy binder on the top shelf. Her fingers scratched across the spine, but the binder refused to budge.

“Too high up?” came a voice from the closet door. Shiho turned.

Mishima Yuuki smiled sheepishly at her, his head poking through the doorframe. He inched into the storage closet, propping it open behind him.

“Yuuki?” said Shiho, bewildered. “What are you doing here?”

Yuuki rubbed the back of his neck. “Officer Mifune and Officer Tohgou said you were here. I, uh, brought some lunch. For all of you. Your squad, not the department. The department... would be a lot of lunch.”

She smiled. “It definitely would.”

“What're you up to?” Yuuki said.

She sighed. “Squad 29's supposed to get a new acquisition tomorrow to replace Makoto. It's... kind of sad, because we all loved working with her... but life has to go on, I think.”

Yuuki only watched her quietly. She shrugged her shoulders—shrugged off that vague moment of nostalgia.

“Anyway, I wanted to check up on a few things before the new hire, but the document I need to find is print-only. And all the copies are up there.” She gestured to the top shelf, which was jammed with navy binders. “Cops don't really like paperwork, you know.”

“I can help you out,” Yuuki offered. “I’m tall. People say that's my only redeeming feature. I'm too tall and gangly.”

Shiho blinked. “That's alright,” she said after a pause. “There's a stool somewhere in here for a reason.”

“You sure?”

“Just wouldn't want to cause you any trouble.”

“It wouldn't be any trouble,” Yuuki said solemnly.

Shiho ducked her head a little. “Then, um, sure.”

Yuuki stepped close. “Sorry, I might need you to step out of the way.”

Shiho tried as best as she could, but there was only around two square feet of free space. “I'll wait outside, then.”

Yuuki glanced at her, then glanced away. His cheeks colored a little. “No, never mind, I got it.”

And with unprecedented bravery, he reached up from behind Shiho. His other arm braced on the shelves, pinning her close.

Shiho didn't move.

His fingers curled around the binder and he brought it down. He placed it in Shiho's hands. “T-there you go. One binder.”

“Thank you,” she said. She kept her head lowered as she turned to face him.

Yuuki rubbed his neck. “Then... I guess I'll be... going.”

He turned to the closet door, but it suddenly shifted, like it was pushed from the outside, and—

—the door clicked shut.

Mishima Yuuki and Suzui Shiho were left alone in the storage closet, accompanied by only the dim, flickering incandescent overhead.

“That...” Yuuki gulped. “That’s locked from the outside, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Shiho. “It is.”

“Oh.”

The closet was cramped. Her body was just a touch away from his. The toes of their shoes were barely scraping together. Yuuki's arm, which was extended to the shelf to brace his balance, rested right above Shiho's shoulder. He felt her warmth like a current, smelled something sweet like vanilla and lavender that tingled his skin.

"Oh," Yuuki repeated. This time, the syllable was a little breathless, whispered from behind dry lips.

Shiho instinctively tried to turn away. Her hat bumped right under his jaw. Yuuki swallowed.

"There's, uh, not much room," he observed.

She turned back. Her ears blazed red, and her nose was right at his chin.

He looked down.

She looked up.

She was right there, her eyes big and warm and her cheeks glowing soft in the dim lighting and her lips, her lips were pink, gentle and understated. A deep flush spread across her face as she took in their proximity. She was so adorable, she was so shy, and it made him feel brave.

He placed his hand on the curve of her waist and slid it to the small of her back. She jostled forward with a soft gasp. Her palms pressed against his chest to regain balance.

“We could, uh, probably go knock on the door,” he murmured lowly. “Someone would hear.”

“Yeah,” whispered Shiho. “We could.”

His pulse was soaring, sprinting loops until he thought his heart would explode. He knew she could feel it in the heel of her hand. The heat was pressing on him, making him feel hazy. His arm tightened around her waist.

She broke her gaze.

Yuuki's nerves flickered, but he pushed them away. It was time to be courageous.

He reached up, slow and gentle, like he'd spook her. The tips of his fingers clasped the brim of her hat and eased it off, revealing a silky black ponytail highlighted by mint clips. Her fingers trembled, but she held still.

He leaned in and pecked her on the lips.

Her mouth was soft, sponging for a split second beneath his before he retracted. She looked at him with wide eyes, her fingers digging slightly in his sweater.

He watched her and waited for a word, for permission.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

He smiled brightly and leaned down. His lips captured hers. His hand came up to the nape of her neck, cradling the back of her head. His vision was soft velvet, warm candlelight. He could feel the cautious pressure of Shiho's mouth skimming over his bottom lip. Her fingers braced his jaw, pulling him closer until she was flush against his chest.

He reached out and gently wrapped his fingers around her hand. Her palm was toughened from work and his was dainty, but the lankiness of his fingers dwarfed hers. She stroked the back of his hand with her thumb, humming in pleasure.

A key turned a lock.

The closet door pulled open.

Yuuki jumped and slammed his head against a shelf. Shiho scrambled away and hit the wall.

“Told you,” said Officer Mifune with a smug smile.

Officer Tohgou grumpily slapped a wad of bills in her outstretched hand.

.

.

.

“I appreciate this,” said Kitagawa Yusuke, bringing Makoto gingerly into his art room. “Truly, I do.”

He looked nervous and offset, slightly shifting from one foot to the next. His eyes were fixed on her face as he waited with bated breath.

Makoto's gaze swept over the room—from the paint splatters on the walls to the abstract mobiles hanging from the ceiling to the patterns of Yusuke's nonstop pacing etched into the floor. And finally, finally, her eyes stopped on the row of canvases before her.

There was Queen, the first, the precedent, Niijima Makoto. Spikes with liquid fabric, dark metal on a backlight.

Then there was just after her Joker. An angular form with power in the curve of his spine, a hand covering the crack in his beautiful white mask.

Next to him was Oracle, caught in a futuristic suit, half-boarded into a unique spacecraft, but with one foot still on the ground.

And at her side was Fox, an elegant figure sitting quietly by a rippled pool, watching his twisted reflection as the fireflies looked on.

Set aside were four canvases: Skull, Panther, Noir, and Crow, painted in rich hues and perfect compositions just like the others, but waiting at the far edge of the room, as if counting down the days until they could join the others.

And finally, there was Mona.

Mona's head was graced with a shock of black and silver hair, and he was wearing a contrast Letterman jacket and baggy khaki shorts and—

Mona was human.

Makoto swallowed, a hitch to her breath.

“Yusuke,” she whispered.

These are amazing.

These are incredible.

You should sell them.

No, you should never, ever, ever sell them.

Yusuke's expression lightened at the tears in her eyes. Truly, it was only the privilege of an artist to take pride in the weeping of others.

“I am still pondering a series title,” he said. A slight frown twisted the joy on his face. “I entertained the thought of calling it Thieves of Hearts, Confidante, Justice... but truthfully, nothing has felt right.”

Makoto looked at the paintings for a long moment. She didn't know why, but suddenly she wanted to laugh and wail at the same time and—

She squeezed Yusuke in a tight hug, patting his back.

“Stained glass,” she whispered.

Yusuke was standing loosely, as if he'd never been hugged and didn't know how to react. “Hm?”

“Stained glass.” She drew back and looked at the paintings. The selective lighting, the colors, the intensity yet vulnerability of the figures. “Broken pieces, just trash on their own, but when the edges are connected, when they're compiled in a chaotic and flawed collage, they create something breathtakingly beautiful.”

Yusuke reached up and touched his canvas, his face alight. “Stained glass,” he echoed. “A window once shattered and separated, now brought together.”

And he laughed, pure and joyous.

Makoto looked at the paintings and smiled with him.

.

.

.

In Conference Room #2 of Shibuya Station, Suzui Shiho waved her hands to gather the attention of her squad, which was no less unruly than before.

“Kawakami, away with the cigs. Mifune, clear out your cards—we need that table space. Tohgou, keep your shogi board at your desk and nowhere else. Sakamoto—Sakamoto?”

Sakamoto Ryuuji lurched upward, snatched out of the deep recesses of an afternoon nap. “Hungh? Yeah. Sure. Sounds good, Officer Suzui.”

She rolled her eyes and rapped a ruler on the table. “Guys. Seriously, listen up.”

They grudgingly tidied up the room and settled in their chairs.

“I've been informed that to replace Niijima Makoto, a new member of the force is joining our squad,” said Shiho.

Ryuuji sat up straight, his brows barreling up to his hairline in excitement. “Is it a guy? Will I finally get a brother in misery?”

Shiho waved at the conference room door. “Come in, rookie,” she called.

The handle turned.

The door sprung open.

And—

Takamaki Ann strutted through the door, dressed in fresh, iron-pressed police blue.

“Oh come on!” Ryuuji groaned.

.

.

.

On the terrace of an ostentatious mansion, two figures sat at a doily-covered table, scrumptious, bite-sized treats arrayed like blooming flowers around their plates.

“Gorou,” said Haru, sipping tea with a delicate pinky extended, as was ingrained in her from the moment of conception, “do you think that we'll ever find other friends?”

“In terms of numbers, I believe we have plenty,” said Gorou mildly. He was currently enjoying a light and fluffy stack of pancakes, courtesy of the Okumura chef.

Haru shook her head. “You know what I mean. People who really like us. Not for money, favors. Bribes.”

“Where is this coming from?”

Haru was quiet for a moment. “I... think I had a dream.”

Gorou paused. “Of what?”

Haru sipped. Her gaze was distant, guided to the gardens. Gorou caught an unusual vision by a trick of the light—a black mask, a cavalier hat, a corset and bloomers.

“Belonging,” said Haru.

She turned back and the vision was gone. Gorou frowned, sipping his coffee.

“Belonging,” he echoed. The word was warm, tingly on his lips.

Haru set down her cup. There was sadness set on her shoulders, a weight covered by professionalism forced from years of managing a food conglomerate. “Forgive me. Here I am, having idle daydreams again.”

“Perhaps,” Gorou said. “But it may happen at a later time. Not everything happens in a specified order, Haru. Some things get a little mixed up. The people we are destined to meet are tied to us, but there can be knots and crossed threads.”

Haru's mouth pulled, and Gorou knew that she was trying her hardest not to cry. “Do you truly think so?”

“I truly do.”

She sipped at her tea again. Her eyes cast over the mansion—its length, its breadth, the masterful filigree embedded in its porcelain sculpture, but beyond that—

“This place,” said Haru distantly, “is always empty.”

“How dismaying to hear that in my presence.”

Haru giggled. “Oh, Gorou, you know what I mean.”

They ate in companionable silence. But somewhere in the distant crannies of the broad, empty house, the future promise of laughter danced.

.

.

.

A window, once shattered and separated—

—to be brought together.

.

.

.

The newly instated Officer Takamaki Ann was brought on tour by the newly instated Squad Leader Suzui Shiho. It involved lots of newness and lots of instating and Officers Mifune and Tohgou marching behind them, blowing party horns like a royal fanfare.

“This is”—pfwoot!—“where you receive and turn in your service pistol”—pfwoot!—“which you've probably seen around”—pfwoot!—“but haven't experienced yourself.”—pfwoot!—“Mifune! Tohgou! Put those away and get back to work before I report you for disturbing the peace!”

Officer Mifune and Officer Tohgou skipped away with one last large blast on the party horns.

Sakamoto Ryuuji was the next offender. He ran into them as he exited the coffee room.

“Oh right, the new girl,” he said, sipping his coffee delicately like a connoisseur.

Then he leaned forward and stared intensely into Ann's eyes.

“He-llo,” said Ryuuji, enunciating every syllable deliberately like he was talking to an alien. “My name is Ryuuji. It is nice to meet you. How are you?”

Shiho smacked him lightly over the back of the head. “She's been in the precinct for over a year, Sakamoto. She's not from outer space.”

“Yow! Okay, okay, I get it.” Ryuuji rubbed his head and disappeared down the hall to do something moderately productive.

Shiho rounded the corner and gestured to a cluster of thinly-divided desks. “This is where we work. Squad 29. And this is your new desk.”

Ann's smile was bright as her fingers brushed the empty table. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome. The last person at this table went rogue for two weeks, shot a civilian, and was discharged from the department, but at least she's not dead. So you might be haunted by bad luck, but not a ghost.”

Ann stared.

Shiho stared back.

They both dissolved into strange, relieved giggles, because the sheer madness of Shibuya Station had finally caught up to them.

Shiho's face eased into a warm smile. “Hey. Wanna grab some coffee sometime?”

Ann grinned back. “I'm totally down.”

.

.

.

Sometimes, things could get a little mixed up, things could take delays, but the strings were always there.

.

.

.

Kurusu Akira folded a three-tailed coat, crimson gloves, and a white mask into a modest cardboard box.

He taped it over once.

Twice.

And three times for good measure.

Smiling softly, he reached up and slid the box into the furthest corner of the closet, hiding it in the shadows, past the stacks of law textbooks diligently tabbed and labeled BELONGS TO NIIJIMA MAKOTO, past the post-it note screaming BAR EXAM: JUNE 27.

If the Joker was ever needed again—

—he would be waiting.

.

.

.

The Phan-site was hacked.

Backups of all data were courteously sent to Mishima Yuuki from an email address that self-destructed. The site itself was replaced with a single page that read in glaring block letters of red and black:

Change hearts yourselves, n00bs.

.

.

.

Perhaps,

indeed,

if there were less to stand idly by and comment,

less to criticize,

less caught in complacency piling burdens on others,

and more on the battlefield themselves,

the winds of change would stir once more.

.

.

.

Are you just?

.

.

.

FIN.
s.d.g.