Chapter Text
“Here’s how it’s going to go.”
The electric hum of a timetable rings in your ears.
“I understand,” says Akira’s voice, “that this must be difficult for you. Know that I am deeply sorry. That’s simply how it is.”
Lamination. Decoration. You are chained to the heartbeat of the world, each rumbling cycle of the wheel. Eternally in transit.
anywhere in the world to go and no way to get there.
“But you don’t want my apologies, do you? No. Not even my sympathy. Still, I give them freely. Here—can you see? Outstretched hands, just for you and your fragile heart. And my morning coffee, of course. My condolences.”
The smell of metal and movement and coffee stirs something within you. A million shadows move without purpose but with direction.
The next station is Yongen-jaya. Yongen-jaya.
There’s a boy sitting before you, red robes strewn loosely from sallow limbs. He glances lazily at you and offers a smile.
“You will die,” Akira continues, one pale finger pushing a spoon across the rim of a cup. “It will be tragic, of course. But you will go surrounded by love—so much love that your heart will burst and finally be free.”
You open your mouth.
And speak these words—
[ refusal ]
Impossibly lovely eyes blink once, twice.
“Oh,” Akira breathes, pleasure splicing his voice in two: the saviour and the spectator, enraptured with the sparks and stars that sheer off twisted metal. “You’re—”
—so beautiful—
—such a damn fool—
“—always a surprise, aren’t you?”
Laughter. The sound is hollow, like a stone striking the ribs of a great leviathan.
Clink,
clink,
clink.
One after the other,
like heels upon
a grand staircase.
A distant whistle screams. The train pulls into the station. Steam hisses from its rusted frame. A slow fog rolls above
your ankles.
[ ascend ]
“Of course!” says Akira. He pulls on a thick overcoat—one easy motion from a place beyond November—and reaches for his luggage. “I would never deprive you of such a thing. Ah, if you wouldn’t mind…?”
You wrap your fingers around the handle of the briefcase. Something pulses beneath leather and aluminum—
The next station is Yongen-jaya. Yongen-jaya.
Just an electric buzz. Nothing more.
You slide the briefcase across the table.
Cold hands trace a cage across worn corners. “I’d expect nothing less from a brilliant boy like you,” Akira says, smiling sweetly. A flash of cruel mischief crosses his features. “Oh, but…”
One pale hand reaches out, fingers curled gently inward. Its palm is just large enough to fit the smallest things.
what’s the smallest thing you own?
A lampshade. A coin. A memory.
Silence. Eyes upon the cup, cold with h̶̨̛̛̛͖͎̗̗͈͗̆͛̚͝ḧ̴͈͓́͌̄̒͠h̵̬͕̺͓̤̬̱̭̖̖̏̾̆͐͐̚ǫ̴̯̣̭̣̝̳̂̾̃̾̐͗̃̕͝͝ẉ̷̡̢͙̤̦̩̏̅̀̑̓̅̈́̃̇͘͘͠ ̶̨̖̞͔̳̩̼͈̩̉̓͆̆͑̌͘͠͝m̶̘͒̿͐͒͛̋̄̈́̇̒̕͝͝a̶̡̛̳̣̬̎̒́̌́͆̅̂͊̿̊̆͝n̵͕͈̩̦̞̳̠̮͙̝͔̼̮͐̂̽̎̄̍̍̔̏̆̿̑͜͝͠͝y̸̗̮͙̼͕̬̦̫͎͙͈̓̐̊͒́̍̈́̃̕ lives’ worth of regrets. A silver orbit, worn with pity.
(Your glove.)
(Which you gave away.)
(Which you wanted to do.)
(Which you forgot to take back.)
(Which is fine.)
(Even if it wasn’t the smallest thing you own.)
You dog Akira’s steps. Like always. Like always.
“Children only have so much to give in service of the world,” Akira notes curiously. “What do you have left?”
Akira holds out one pale hand—
You reach for him—
—And the conductor presses gloved fingers to the ticket.
The press of metal against paper is a festering wound against the fabric of the world.
Click.
(Your heart is the smallest thing you own.)
“Not for my friend here,” says Akira. “He’s a special guest,” he adds, when the conductor lays out a brittle hand. “Our little prince, yes?”
The conductor opens a mouth full of static. Where are you going?
“Wherever he wants.” Akira beckons to you, smiling a little, like there’s a great secret between you and every bartender who called you stranger those November nights. Like the warm napkins you left unfolded spoke in your silence: what do I do. What do I do. Hey, what do I do?
“I’m not privy to such secrets,” Akira tells you. He beams. “Well, dearest? Keep close.”
So you do.
You reach out—
—and Akira weaves into the narrow walkway.
The stomach of the metal beast thrums, settling comfortably into the routine of the uncertain future.
(Brushing aside all your graves and memories.)
“Don’t be sad,” says Akira. His voice is gentle but detached. His voice is a dream. His voice is a surgeon and a scalpel. “Death isn’t as frightening as you think it is. You won’t remember much, anyway. Oh, but I do hope you remember me!” The coy smile on Akira’s lips renders all
your warmth to bone.
[ query ]
Akira stills. “To die, of course,” he answers, a little surprised. “You’ve had your fun, haven’t you? What’s the saying? ‘s̸̼̼̮̫̗͉̟̜̙͇̦̝̜̈́͑̆̆͊̕ȍ̶͖̲̼̙͍͛̏̀͂͋͑͐͛͠ ̴̡̨̣̙̣̈́͌̊̂̽͒͗͘m̷̲̥̱̰̯̃̌͜ͅṁ̵̨̢͔̠͉̯͚͍͙̿̊̓̉̒͆͗͗̏̚͘m̷̟͇̙̰͇̄͑̈̐̈́̂͊̒͘̚͜m̷̩͂̀̾̀̓͗͂̎͂̅͝͝a̶͍̤̤̐̎̎n̵͇͉̻̱̹̘̝̝͓̥̥͈̑͗͛̾̾y̴̨̹̘͔͓̱̬̎̾̔̅͌͝͝ tries and a million deaths…?’ No matter.”
There’s a hand as cold as death around your wrist, wrenching the memories from your chest—
(The smallest thing you own—)
(is that fucking glove—)
“You had a good run,” says the thing with Akira’s face, dragging you toward an ending of your own fucking creation. “Now it’s time to go, as you always wanted.”
[ QUERY ]
Akira’s eyes are so, so soft.
“I don’t know,” is his answer, gentle and forgiving and cold as the grave. He smiles. Pulls you closer. His embrace is a plastic sun: a lampshade you used to have. A childhood frivolity, five hundred yen wasted on one little delusion and one grand universe of what if, what if.
And what the hell are you supposed to do but what you’ve always done?
Dig your heels into the ground. Pry at the fetters around your wrist.
“What is it that all children want to be when they grow up?” Akira says absently. “Ah, that’s right: an astronaut. To go away from here. From this dark room. From these dirty sheets. From these failing arms. From the methodical butchery of the self. From those who loved you and those who still do. But why?”
So warm. So kind. Unfailing. A knife that drives between the ribs of some ancient regret and wrenches.
Akira’s embrace is an anchor. “I don’t know, dearest. My condolences.” Go down with me. “Perhaps your mother will know when you ask her.”
You open your mouth—
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
Akira’s hold tenses. “Oh,” he says airily, “you don’t need those. They were always silly little things.”
You open your mouth—
[ ]
[ ]
[ a ]
The smallest thing you own—
That you still have—
Isn’t your heart—
It’s your fucking future.
Akira’s eyes widen. “You…”
He reaches out
and vanishes like mist.
You open your mouth—
[ no ]
Oh! Well… that was rather unexpected.
[ no ]
Hm?
[ NO ]
Oh? And why is that?
[ unfair ]
Ah, your precious justice!
[ owed ]
[ owe ]
[ equal ]
Indeed! You speak the truth. A normative truth, that is. But what ought to be is never what is. You will die so so so loved, knowing that the world is unjust but good exists regardless… so long as you take my hand. Isn’t it lovely?
[ refusal ]
Yes, I know. I know. But there’s nothing much to be done.
[ refusal ]
Yes, you’ve said so… you’ve made yourself terribly clear… ah, would you look at the time! I really should be going. It’s been a joy speaking with you. You provided excellent entertainment!
Be proud. Be loved. Go to your mother, dearest.
[ liar ]
Oh? Oh. Hang on a moment—
[ LIAR ]
Now, there’s no need for that—
[ LIAR ]
Ah, now, wait just a second—you don’t need to lose your temper so quickly—we’re all just trying to make the best of what we have, aren’t we?
So just—put down that knife—
Justice is the constant and perpetual will to render to each his due.
[ unless ]
[ unless]
[ unless ]
What… what are you doing?
[ unless ]
You—
[ UNLESS ]
If you do this—
[ UNLESS ]
How many dreams will finally be enough—
[ dream ]
[ dream ]
[ DREAM ]
[ go to sleep ]
—to create a future…?
The scene:
Foggy breath. Hand-knit scarves. Dim porchlight. The faint smell of coffee and snow.
The players:
“It’s getting cold,” says Akira.
Goro blinks.
Snow falls gently from above. A single lamp illuminates the windowpane from within, blurring behind a thin sheet of frost and condensation. Warm hints of curry spice waft through the wood. A child argues with his mother somewhere in the distance—something about putting down a dog. There’s a quiet wail, and then silence.
not too different from a gunshot, is it?
Goro blinks again. He thinks there may be snowflakes on his eyelashes. “It’s awfully early for snow,” he says.
Akira hums in agreement. The red of his scarf swallows his upturned, oddly wistful expression. “Looks like we’ll be having a white Christmas.”
The setting is unique: not as intimate without rolling notes of jazz, not as clinical as behind a mask. Control is something that Goro has had to fight for and is something he is eternally prepared to fight for. But here, everything he knows is real and everything that is real, he knows.
“How can you tolerate this?” Goro asks.
Akira’s gaze falls from above, from beyond, and settles upon Goro. Like snow. Like sand. “Tolerate what?”
“This world.”
Misty breath drifts out from between Akira’s lips as he carves out an answer. “I don’t,” he admits. “But I love the people in it, and I can’t leave them to face the future alone.”
Goro scoffs. “Your kindness will kill you.”
“Only if I wield it as a weapon. I tried that, once. I don’t think I’ll do it again.”
Goro tries to give form to the image of perfect, saintly Akira, holding his hands out toward those scorned by society.
The rebel hero, beautiful and pristine and covered in filth, nodding sympathetically as the destitute crowd around him, sobbing out tragedies and grievances. Goro tries to see himself among the crowd, toward the outer dredges. Goro tries to imagine a journey of a million miles and wretched curiosity—a pilgrimage of revenge turned inward. Goro tries to imagine hate eating through his bones until the truth comes to crush him out of existence: you will never be good enough because nobody has ever wanted you to be the hero.
“How can you tolerate me?”
The question dislodges something from within Goro, but Akira remains perfectly still. For a heartbeat and a half, Goro can convince himself that freedom lies in the unlovable.
“Because you challenge me,” Akira finally says, quietly. His expression is warm with honesty, as if Goro has any place within his truth. “You excite me. You remind me there are things worth fighting for, if only to be selfish.”
Goro’s throat is dry. “That’s foolish,” he manages, only realizing that his voice is shaking when Akira’s head jerks up, eyes wide. “What kind of obligation have you deluded yourself with? Do you… you think you owe me something, don’t you? No, no—you think I owe you something!”
The warmth in Akira’s face focuses into steely determination. His hands slip free from his pockets, and his spine stands straighter. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” he says, certainty nailed through every word.
if justice is outside the truth—
And Goro could demand an answer to anything so long as Akira remains steadfast, eternally trying to prove that a place without duty can form the foundation of a home.
And Goro could ask a million questions, but he chooses this one:
“I didn’t ask you to be the hero,” says Goro. “So who did?”
Akira’s breath catches.
“I didn’t ask you to save me. Nobody did. Yet you do. Why?”
Slow, white mist accompanies Akira’s measured breaths. “Nobody needs to be told to reach out,” he murmurs. “I only wanted to help.”
Of all the truths in this world, here is one which forms its unshakeable base:
“I’m not you,” says Goro. “I’m not good.”
Akira’s expression falls. “You don’t have to be good to be worth saving.”
“No, I don’t. But life is a little thing if you live it without wanting too.”
“Do you want to die?”
A simple question—one Goro has heard upon the lips of is reflection, in is dimmest and brightest dreams. He is stricken by it all the same.
“I… don’t know,” he answers wretchedly.
His hands are cold. He pulls off his gloves and winds his fingers together in a bid for warmth.
“I want to be worth the truth I give myself. No knights, no champions, no heroes. Just my word and the strength to go my own way.”
Akira listens, his impossible grief manifest in silence.
Goro lets his gaze flicker upward. “Have you nothing to say?”
“I don’t know if it would mean anything to you.”
“Nothing here means anything to me.”
“I’ll offend you.”
“Your existence already offends me. Just say it.”
In the silence, Akira’s grip renews. He stands a little taller, a little prouder.
“You promised me,” says Akira, unshakeable as a monolith, “and I held onto your glove.”
ah, yes. your promises.
whatever became of them?
“You died for yourself, but you also died for me. You gave me your life. I’m trying to become someone worthy of it.” Akira’s breath stutters. “Please give me a chance to be worthy of it.”
For a moment, Goro thinks: it’s hard enough to survive in the world, and you want to demand a life I never really had?
And then the shame comes. Inexplicable, embarrassing, like an unwelcome flush. Goro will carry this piece of his childhood forever: the wailing boy who was never able to understand what he’d done wrong, only that the weight of the blame was his.
Resentment carves a little well within Goro, small enough to fit into his palms. Perhaps it would twinkle if he shook it. As it stands, all it does is burn.
Goro is many things, but he is his mother’s son first and foremost.
“Why,” says Goro, “should I live to make you happy?”
Akira’s expression twists. Grief frames his visage, as if his theatrics aren’t common self-abasement, as if Goro couldn’t be replaced by any dog that snaps and bites. “That’s not what I mean,” Akira says desperately.
But Goro knows what he means. Goro knows everything. Goro knows, because everything that is true is real. And everything that is real—
is true?
—is his.
Goro learned long ago that speaking his mind won’t solve his problems. It won’t stop the other children at the facility from stealing his belongings. It won’t stop his peers from forcing their impossible expectations upon him and hating him when he succeeds. It won’t stop adults from smiling as they give Goro’s fetters back to him.
All it’ll do is expose his heart, and Goro can’t afford to be known.
So Goro smiles. “You’re lying to me,” he says pleasantly.
Akira’s expression is openly wretched. “I’m not,” he says again, pointlessly. “I’m not. You have to believe me.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” Goro reminds him. “You’re not even real, are you?”
Akira’s reaching for Goro, but Goro is already pulling back. “I’m real,” Akira insists. “I’m real. Please believe me.”
But Goro already knows. Everything false is—
unreal—is that right?
Goro smiles as he always has. He lies as he always has. “You should’ve left me to die on my own terms.”
He turns then, spins on his heel and away from the soft-edged warmth. He goes on, smiling, as he always has. Akira calls after him, following in rushed footsteps, but Goro doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. Akira will never catch him, and Goro will never need him to.
There’s a place beyond the desert. It will be a long march. So be it—what’s another journey? Goro has made the same mistake time and time again: lean on others. If you don’t know your shape, steal someone else’s. Become something pitiable. Something angry. Something loud. If you can’t have their love, you can have their attention.
is that enough?
Of course not. Only children want to be heard and not understood.
ah, because they don’t understand themselves.
“Akechi,” cries a voice behind him, “don’t go!”
But Goro is his mother’s son. He has never loved anything enough to stay.
INT. THEATRE OF CRUELTY - ???
WE OPEN in a theatre as old as time. Across the left wall: a cityscape. Across the right: a courtroom. Along the back wall: one million monoliths. Upon the stage: the cast of a nameless play, bickering amongst themselves.
THE GIRL
So? Why have we been called here tonight?
THE PROPHET
Yes… I’d like to know as well. It’s terribly late for yet another argument.
THE PRISONER
Must we do this again? What a warm day… I’m too tired for this.
The back door of the theatre slams open. THE GIRL, THE PROPHET, and THE PRISONER fall into reproachful silence. Their eyes follow a crimson shadow.
THE DIRECTOR hurries onstage. He takes a moment to tidy his appearance.
THE DIRECTOR
Quiet down. We don’t have much time to spare.
THE GIRL
As if we have any time at all!
THE DIRECTOR
And I don’t have time for your attitude. Gather round.
THE GIRL, THE PROPHET, and THE PRISONER mutter to themselves as they step close.
THE DIRECTOR
You’ve done well so far. For that, you have my thanks. But now, I need you to do better.
THE PROPHET
(indignant)
Better? Have we not pulled your precious treasure up even when he would drown himself in the mud?
THE DIRECTOR
Indeed you have.
THE GIRL
And have we not cut the rot from his flesh with the scalpel he turned on himself?
THE DIRECTOR
Indeed you have.
THE PRISONER
If you claim we have failed, then shall we kill even his hope?
THE DIRECTOR
No!
(gesturing wildly)
Don’t you understand what our work is for? If he is to die, he must be loved. He must be filled with so much love that he is sick on it. Thesis, antithesis, synthesis — do these words mean nothing to you?
THE PRISONER
No, they don’t… nothing does. We don’t exist to make him happy.
THE GIRL
Speak for yourself! I want to join in love, not hate.
THE PROPHET
(quietly)
All I ever wanted were answers.
THE DIRECTOR
And all three of you will receive what you deserve!
(to THE PRISONER)
You will die surrounded by hatred, having finally found your truth.
(to THE GIRL)
You will die knowing that love prevails over all — truth, pain, regret.
(to THE PROPHET)
You will die knowing everything that matters, warm in the twilight of the world.
Silence falls over the stage.
THE GIRL
(hesitantly)
What would you have us do?
THE PROPHET
We can only do so much…
THE PRISONER
…And still, our efforts only reach so far.
THE DIRECTOR
You don’t need to worry. You don’t need to reach far. In fact, you don’t need to reach at all. Where we are is where all is now.
THE GIRL
Ah, an open book quiz! Then shall we go?
THE PROPHET
Yes. Yes, we shall.
THE PRISONER
One final toast. A toast to the little prince.
THE DIRECTOR
And one more dream. One more unimportant failure.
The stage lights go out all at once. Four figures upon the stage fade into shadow. Only their memory remains.
(Blackout.)
In a play, then, the hero’s will must be free, but something else is needed:
It must have some causal connection with his suffering.
(The a̴̖̹͎̦̩̥͈̭̺̐͜͠a̵̟̪͕͎͌̓̈́͊̄̀̑͛̍̒́͝͠À̷͙͔̟̙͚̞̳̟̜͈̺̘̂̏̈́̚Ặ̵̢̩̣̗̞̩̗̼̙̙̮̝̑̚Ã̸̯̫̹̱̗̘̦͖̫͗̏̈́̆͘Ą̸̧̫̻̭̖͛̾̿͊̉̽̅̕A̶̱̙̾̚͜A̶̖̮̥͎͈̭͙̝͓̬͈̗̓͐̎̌̃́͗͐ͅA̴̱̻̭͓̭͉͚͉̳͇̼̎̐̈́͗̀͝A̷̛̟̳͙̙̱͕̳̭̦̣̋͐ loop—)
Goro goes to the library.
He has a half a moment to think, I was under the impression that losing your mind was a lot louder than this.
There he is, briefcase in hand, dwindling sanity tucked neatly away. If he loiters any longer people are going to think that he either has a very pathetic date or that he’s passing time before a hit. As someone whose experience with dates has contributed significantly to his experience with hits, Goro feels that he should be allowed to loiter a bit. He’s going through a few things. Sue him.
It’s absurd. He’s on a deadline. Why is he here when he could be anywhere else in Tokyo? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t need to be here. There’s nothing for him here. There’s nothing to gain here.
But—
it’s different
A thousand second chances, and he hasn’t started any of them like this, has he?
Goro slips through the scattered crowds with ease. He meanders his way to a vacant corner of the library—English literature, or something of the sort—and decides to do… something. Something that doesn’t involve thousand-yard stares. He feels sufficiently learned in that department.
Except that dream dies a violent death when he realizes all the titles staring back at him are decidedly not non-fiction. Surely this is meant to demonstrate his heavy-handed pragmatism and not his total and utter refusal to accept even literature as an escape.
It’s between minutes two and three of weighing the benefits of arson that the click of heels jolts Goro out of his existential stupor.
“Good morning,” says an absurdly chipper voice. “Can I help you find anything?”
And Goro would claim that it’s too early in the morning for a battle of customer service smiles, but that tenor—oh yes, that’s a very familiar tenor. It soothes his black little soul, even. It communicates that the speaker spends a considerable amount of time battling language apps and the urge to end conversations with violence.
Cheered by the prospect of interacting with someone equally as miserable, Goro turns. Locks eyes with a young woman who puts a great amount of effort into looking presentable and likely gets turned away by every landlord regardless. There’s a little tag clipped onto her lanyard that reads Ask Me Anything! which explains the twitch in her eye.
Courtesy demands that Goro should be polite. Antagonizing the world did a fat lot of good every other time he tried it, insofar as hemorrhaging all over nine kinds of tetanus is good for anybody who doesn’t carry the moniker “Cleaner” with pride.
And by the way the girl’s smiling like her lips are being kept in place by toothpicks, Goro’s already lost any chance at a decent first impression.
Fuck it. “I admire the effort,” Goro says primly, “but I speak English.”
“You just don’t read much of it, I suppose,” says the girl, dropping her broken Japanese in place of a dubious eyebrow. Which seems deliberate, so that’s nice.
“Yes, well.” How does one explain the priorities of teenage hitmen? Not sensibly, and certainly not legally, either. “I’m actually quite well-versed in readings on more, ah, practical matters. Social sciences, philosophy, law, and the sort. Not…” Goro gestures toward the shelves. “Whatever this is.”
The eyebrow arcs higher. “Translated classics of global renown?”
It’s been all of thirty seconds and Goro already knows this conversation is going straight to the back of his mind, right next to pancakes! in Morgana’s mewling drawl.
He can’t even be bothered to salvage this anymore. “Are all the interns here as rude as you?” Goro says instead, defeated.
“All of them are meaner than me, but they’ve decided to bottle up their rage until they die,” says the intern, trying on a lopsided grin. “Far be it from me to judge. Google Translate isn’t very receptive to my witty banter. My coworkers don’t know what they’re missing out on.”
“Something tells me they prefer it that way.”
“That ‘something’ being personal experience?”
That’s the reason why I’ve learned to speak this language, and to write it, too: so I can speak in the place of the dead. So I can finish their sentences for them .
“You’re unloading all your self-proclaimed witty banter onto me by virtue of our shared fluency in English, aren’t you,” Goro says, realization dawning.
The intern’s mouth opens. Shuts. Her shoulders slump, and then she sighs. “You’re sharp.”
Which more or less confirms that this intern has no clue who Goro is. Not that he expected her to be one of his adoring fans: they’re usually, how do you say, intellectually absent, with a lexicon limited to oh my god and can I take a picture.
“Well, awkward introduction aside, I really am happy to help!” The intern dangles her cheerful, lying tag from side to side. “What are you looking for? I can give recommendations, try to dig you out of Camp Pragmatic.”
The urge to defend the ramblings of dead white men is ridiculous. This conversation, however, is a train derailment waiting to happen, complete with the prospect of mangled corpses, and hell if Goro’s going to let himself be outperformed. “Philosophy is plenty pragmatic,” he snaps.
The intern stares. “Okay,” she says slowly, as if dealing with someone seriously deranged. “We’ll work our way up to Tolstoy so you don’t maim someone by hurling War and Peace out the window of a moving train.”
“It’s rarely that difficult to maim someone.”
To his… surprise? Wonder? Horror? To his something, the intern cracks a brilliant smile. “Too right! Which is why I’ll be steering you to Plato first.”
Ah, yes. The maiming makes much more sense now. “I’ve already read Plato’s Republic—” specifically, when he was fifteen, hurting, and desperate for someone to affirm the quiet, bloody vengeance in his heart, so really, not the most unbiased reading “—and I’m not particularly eager to try it again.”
The smile only brightens. Goro suppresses the urge to hurl himself out the window. “Ah, so you like philosophy in that you like watching men throw temper tantrums over contrary knowledge,” the intern says pleasantly.
Well, Goro’s not about to deny that.
“No problem, no problem at all,” the intern continues easily, taking Goro’s silence as agreement. “In that case, why not give Turgenev a try? You might like Fathers and Sons.”
It’s fascinating, how easy it is to judge a book by its cover. “No. I mean, no thank you,” Goro quickly adds, when the intern’s expression shutters. Perceptive. Time for damage control. “We can…”
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
“…Work up to it. From something else. Preferably not Russian.”
The intern nods, relieved by the prospect of a reprieve from Slavic misery. “That’s fair. Those trigger warnings could fill the world’s most morbid museum. You never know how many ways a train can kill you until the devil struts into town!” Then the sunny smile returns, complete with a happy clap, and she says, “Hey, how about something less dreary? You know Howl’s Moving Castle, right? Have you ever read the novel?”
“Does it have someone getting run over by a train?”
“Only if you’re really opposed to upper-middle class wizards from Wales.”
Against his better judgement, Goro spends the rest of the evening listening to an international exchange student who either needs a consistent sleep schedule or a handful of sleeping pills ramble about the impunity of natural gifts and aptitudes, the tangled mess that is family and obligation, systems that deliberately encourage self-sabotage, and independence as a journey of self-respect.
Goro comments. Frequently. Mostly to try and pry a hint of irritation out of the mire, which he discovers is exceeding difficult. He hypothesizes—god knows he isn’t going to ask—that whatever company would willingly subject themselves to her presence is a thousand times worse than himself.
You’d have to be insane to enjoy her company. That much is clear.
What Goro means to say is that he leaves the library three hours later with a book and a new contact in his phone.
INT. A COURTHOUSE – DAY (?)
THE FOOL and STRENGTH stand on opposed sides of a library table. It is undoubtedly out of place. They are arguing a case that has no intention of being solved, but finds the conflict amusing. An unnamed arbiter is the only member of the bench.
STRENGTH
I claim his innocence.
THE FOOL
I claim his guilt.
STRENGTH
There is no romance in suffering.
THE FOOL
There is no romance at all.
STRENGTH
Is there not meaning in survival?
THE FOOL
And what of the cost?
STRENGTH
And what of the gains?
THE FOOL
The boundaries cannot be shifted. They are immutable.
STRENGTH
And who gave him his strength?
THE FOOL
Life and circumstance.
STRENGTH
And who gave him his words?
THE FOOL
The apple and the tree.
STRENGTH
So it is said. Yet he yearns for both strength and speech.
THE FOOL
It is not a crime to demand more.
STRENGTH
Then where is his crime?
THE FOOL
Living to see what more is.
STRENGTH
Not living to experience it?
THE FOOL
No human on earth has ever lived so long.
STRENGTH
Then will he not be the first?
Oh, the prophet sings:
There (in the grave)—no more restless are the troubled;
And there the failing of strength finds repose.
All prisoners are (there) at peace;
They hear not the voice of their oppressor.
The small and the great, there are the same;
And a slave is set free from his master.
It’s April 18th.
Goro snakes his way past Shido’s requests with all the grace of a hiker waving a can of bear spray.
He needs a plan.
But first, he’d appreciate it if his hands decided between shaking uncontrollably with fear or rage. Or both. Though in Goro’s experience, both usually leads to subpar decision-making. Not that he has any experience in good decision-making, but it might be of some benefit to try and shift his colourful assortment of felonies into something more greyscale.
He needs a plan. He really, really needs a plan. But. But…
First, he needs a break.
Goro shoulders his way into the firing range.
There are an assortment of reasons why plugging a few rounds into plastic targets is soothing.
There’s something special in the feeling of living free from mercy. Nobody to damn, nobody to save—just an inevitable suggestion at the end of the barrel. The Metaverse is beautiful in that way: everything is at once connected and utterly detached. And isn’t it a lovely thing, moving across society’s collective disdain for life entirely undetected?
Well. Probably not. A little voyeuristic, some would say.
Metaphors aside, a bit of gunpowder makes for a great deal of power. Not because a bullet can kill—anybody can manage something as common as murder—but because it takes a level of patience only afforded by vengeance to keep someone in your scope for years and never pull the trigger.
Goro should’ve pulled the fucking trigger.
His first shot goes wide. His second punches a hole between the target’s eyes. His third, fourth, and fifth shots are sufficiently lethal for Goro to feel more secure in himself.
That feeling slips sideways when he stretches himself out of his funk, partially because the negative space that comprises his conscience has an excellent echo, but mostly because someone five lanes down is staring at him.
So that’s promising. The bright red jacket and gold embroidery are too bold to be considered tasteful, though Goro’s not about to point that out. He’s fairly certain the scars on those fingers find their origin in something deadlier than repeat encounters with a feral kitchen knife.
Goro lands a couple more rounds. The flat, neutral expression folds into a scowl, and then a deeper scowl, and then finally an expression which someone kinder would describe as angry but Goro is choosing to describe as murderously enraged, with a touch of lemon.
It figures that Shido would throw a bear at the bear spray. “Can I help you?” Goro asks, voice carefully level.
His pleasantries are met with a grimace. Red Riding Hood marches over with the grace of a slingshot pulled to breaking point, allowing Goro an excellent opportunity to survey the oversized layers of clothing and the tattoos peeking out from jacket sleeves. He takes a moment to confirm that there are several illegal implements out of sight but most certainly not out of mind. Though that doesn’t say much, considering the acreage of that jacket allows tenancy for several large bricks. Blunt force trauma: always a charmer.
“How’d you do it?” Red Riding Hood demands.
Goro… wasn’t expecting that. “I beg your pardon?”
“You know, the—” here Red Riding Hood makes a gesture which Goro can only hope doesn’t mean to come off as violently deranged “—shooting thing, with the headshots. How?”
Ah. That explains the staring. The volcanic temper is another matter altogether.
“Oh,” Goro says easily. “It’s not that difficult once you get some practice.”
“How much practice?”
Not a hitman, then. Maybe a very desperate hitman with rent to pay. The gig life is tumultuous. “It depends on the individual, of course. May I ask if you’re new to this establishment?”
Red Riding Hood frowns even deeper. Goro didn’t know it was possible to be so visibly repulsed with life, but every day is an experience. “Kind of. I’m more used to, y’know, the bow and arrow kind of shooting. There’s a shooting range back home, but… yeah, I could do without all the side-eyeing.”
“I see,” Goro lies.
He can barely unpack his own story. He really doesn’t want to unpack this one.
Besides, Red Riding Hood is rubbing her hands together now, in the way of cartoonish schemers everywhere. Goro tempers his instinct to flinch back by reminding himself that the individual before him appears to operate strictly within the timeframe of how long it’ll take to put someone on the ground.
Poor circulation, perhaps. At least that’s one normal thing about all—this.
“And Japan’s all stingy with firearms, which, fair, but god, the paperwork,” Red Riding Hood continues, apparently encouraged by Goro’s lack of protest. “I probably bulldozed an entire forest trying and failing to convince the city I wasn’t an arsonist!”
“That sounds troubling,” Goro says sincerely. “Have you, ah, done anything to imply that you…?”
Red Riding Hood waves dismissively. “That’s not important. What’s important is that you can’t even pull a knife around here, because people just start laughing and saying things like ‘wow, I bet you take real good care of your arsenal’ and ‘maybe visit the smithy, not the Daiso’ and I cannot even communicate how much of an ego check that is.”
Goro opens his mouth. Closes it, for fear of catching flies.
Is this what it feels like to be on the receiving end of the rumoured “oversharing”? God, his nightmares are going to become so much more embarrassing. He can never speak again.
“So here I am,” Red Riding Hood goes on, unperturbed by the non sequitur. “Also, my aunt’s visiting in a few weeks.” Oh yes, that makes much more sense. “It’s bad enough having the locals treat you like a clown. My aunt…” Red Riding Hood rubs wearily at her temples. “I might lose it if she can shoot better than me. She’d carve it on my gravestone. Here lies Yilan. Laser tag or bust.”
“Your aunt is… good at shooting?” Goro tries, a little desperate.
“No, she’s shit at shooting.” Red Riding Hood—Yilan—scowls. “Her aura, I dunno, does something to the gunpowder.”
“Her aura?”
“Yeah. We had her help out at a firework show one year. Loudest fucking sound you’ll ever hear.”
Goro vehemently does not want to unpack that. “I’m sorry to hear that. Will you be around until your aunt visits?”
“Until I figure out how intimidation sans knives works, yeah,” Yilan mutters, visibly upset.
So until she gets good at shooting, Goro will have to suffer her presence every time he wants to shoot shit in peace. His entire life is a joke.
“Listen,” Goro says, already resigned, “it’s likely that I’ll be visiting often. If you’d like tips, I don’t mind sharing. To help you spite your aunt, that is.”
Yilan’s lips curl into a slow, deliberate smile. “Great. I knew you had it in you.”
Goro tries to keep his expression polite while he exchanges contact information. He quietly picks apart the implications of that sentence, like a sane person, and decides that being mauled by a bear is still an upgrade from being mauled by a shadow. Yilan waves him a cheerful and only slightly unhinged goodbye, leaving Goro alone to contemplate just how much he doesn’t give a shit anymore.
It’s barely been a month, and Goro has either managed to sabotage himself spectacularly or taken a sledgehammer to predestination. He’s not sure which one is the lesser evil.
INT. A COURTHOUSE – DAY (?)
THE CHARIOT and THE FOOL stand before a single lane of a firing range. The walls which surround them are that of a courthouse. A single arbiter sits at the bench. Coloured rings surround his head.
THE CHARIOT
I claim his innocence.
THE FOOL
I claim his guilt.
THE CHARIOT
Why?
THE FOOL
The evidence is before you.
THE CHARIOT
I see very little.
THE FOOL
Will you not look closer?
THE CHARIOT
There would be even less to see.
THE FOOL
How so?
THE CHARIOT
Neither he nor I are artists.
THE FOOL
What do you mean?
THE CHARIOT
Our creations are hardly so complicated as to require scrutiny.
THE FOOL
He would disagree.
THE CHARIOT
He disagrees because he will not speak. Are you not speaking for him?
THE FOOL
The guilty only lie.
THE CHARIOT
Then let his justice take on a lighter touch.
THE FOOL
A lighter touch? Justice is a hammer.
THE CHARIOT
Ah, but it is also a vice.
THE FOOL
No law matters to him but his own.
THE CHARIOT
Then it is by his hand that the execution will be stayed.
And what is it that Goro’s looking for, anyway?
Recognition? Fulfillment? Safety?
It’s an old question, and a hopelessly pointless one, at that. It occurred to Goro the day his mother slit her wrists in the tub to demand something of the world while he still could.
As with most things in his life, he’s not sure what he asked for.
Here: flip a coin. Make a wager. Heads or tails?
In its simplest form, life is a transaction. Goro put everything he has into everything he can to prove that he has something to give.
Oh… good try! No, no. Keep it. You need it more than I do.
It’s magical what a little bit of money can do. There’s a tale in this country about an old bamboo cutter who comes across a shining stalk of bamboo. What’s the first thing he does? Cut in open. Take a blade to the unknown, as he’s done so many times before.
But forget that—now there’s gold pouring out from the stalk, so what does anything else matter? And this happens, and that happens, but what matters is that the bamboo cutter and his wife live in luxury. A happy coincidence! Even when they mourn, they do so in comfort. Isn’t there pride in attending a funeral in a new suit?
It’s incredible what a little bit of money can show you about the world.
Here’s a sprout of rebellion and a handful of coins. Here’s the very coin—look! Aren’t its edges adorable? Isn’t there something romantic about the way its teeth fall through the slot of an arcade machine, like a cog that never fits? Here’s the afternoon you stole from the world and wouldn’t give back, no matter how many drawers your mother threw open, eyes desperate and disgusting for just a single coin. Here’s a week longer in dirty clothes. Here’s when you realized that if you couldn’t live with dignity, you could at least die with it. Here’s a catalogue of all the humiliation of childhood, its pages laminated and shiny, preserved through memory like plastic wrap over spoiled food.
Here’s your mother, dressed in a swath of cold blue.
Flip a coin. Make a wager. Heads or tails?
So no: Goro isn’t special. Not truly. The first thing everyone had was hope, and he hasn’t even lost his. It’s been wagered away in halves, again and again and again, to prove that it exists.
The heart is a jealous thing. You could live for one day—just one day, one fleeting summer day, under sticky green leaves and the oppressive heat of sun—and live ten thousand more in memory.
Given time, the heart will cannibalize itself.
So keep up the bet. Flip a coin. One day, you might win it all back.
Oh, the prophet sings:
What is a mortal that you treat him as important?
Why do you pay him any mind,
Take account of him each morning,
Test him every minute?
Why can’t you just look away from me?
Well, isn't that promising?
Goro steps into the Metaverse on Shido’s accord once, and only once.
It’s instinct by now. Pick up the phone. Stay silent. Remember the name. Hoist your vengeance up, brush it off. Look it in the eye and say, just a little longer.
You have to treat a promise like a child: feed it, water it, hold it close to you when the world goes dark. The strength of its conviction lies in its shine. Each step brings you a little closer, until the day you bend down and pick up the shining thing. It will be small enough to rest in the palm of your hand. You’ll rage and scream, but given time, you’ll slip it into your pocket, and your eyes will catch something glimmering in the distance.
It’s always easier to promise something than to fulfill it. If the little lies make the world tolerable, promises make the world worth living in. I’ll save you, I’ll love you, I’ll hold you to your promise—
Goro steps into Mementos. Ashen particulate winds between his fingers and under his nails.
He breathes a sigh through his teeth. “Another awful day in this wretched place.”
just like any other.
Loki’s presence is an acrid bone at the back of his throat. Loki has no love for oaths and even less for those who make them. Loki could be a saviour but chooses not to. It’s not the cruelty that matters. It’s the choice.
Loki manifests, a tall, smiling testament to Goro’s will. He lingers longer than usual over Goro’s shoulder. Perched upon Laevateinn, Loki waits, surveying the end of all things from afar.
Goro has no doubt that Loki has spent all these years laughing. He may be laughing now.
“Well?” Goro says, inexplicably, to the overwhelming indifference of the collective unconscious.
Loki’s head tilts askew.
“Our magnanimous puppeteer gave us an order. Should we be good sheep, or should we scatter his entrails on the tracks?”
Loki’s smile is as vast and fanged as his sons’.
“That’s what I thought,” Goro says, to no one in particular. He rubs at his temples. “This is a waste of time.”
what will you do?
Goro presses his lips into an unhappy line. “I’ve got leftovers,” he mutters. “There’s no point lingering here when I’ve got a meal at home.”
Yet it’s half an hour before Goro can muster up the courage to turn back.
Loki drifts curiously alongside Goro. There’s a metaphorical brow being raised, and Goro doesn’t much appreciate it.
“I’ll handle things as they come,” Goro explains, trudging up the steps. “It’s what I’ve always done. Hell, scheming only got me as far as a bullet in the gut. Maybe Jocasta was onto something. Not a man on earth can see a day ahead, groping through the dark. Better to live at random, best we can.”
Loki’s scrutiny communicates both that night vision is among his talents, and that Goro is very much not living as best he can.
Goro scowls, ascending another floor. “Oh, shut up. Best is a relative term. And I don’t need any judgement from you, of all people.”
self-reflection is a virtue, you know.
Something in Goro twists. “I’d rather die before I give this chance to Shido,” he bites out, bitter. The words fit the shape of his mouth as if he was born with them on his tongue. “What’s the worth of freedom if I’m always hanging onto a noose?”
There’s amusement, now. Loki raises a spindly hand to his neck, curling his winding fingers.
“Ah, what a helpful recommendation,” Goro says dryly. “Unfortunately, hanging myself from the tallest tree in town won’t help my intellect as much as my impulse. Odin’s a different breed, I’m afraid.”
Loki shrugs, smirking. It’s a heavy shrug, weighed with sharp-edged and foul humour.
The smirk says: I suppose dying hasn’t made you smarter, anyway.
Goro yanks Loki back into his mind with sheer force of will. He spends the rest of the night in silence, wishing that sleeping gods would, for once, stay the fuck asleep.
but where’s the fun in that?
It goes like this:
Goro waits until Kamoshida throws himself to the mercy of the media. He waits until he’s certain that Akira has made friends, has found a footing in this unfair world.
Here’s the thing about anchors: they sink. Not by accident. Not by happenstance. An anchor is created with the intention of dropping, of quietly holding on while the world above the horizon rolls on. There’s no poetry in greeting the seafloor. Just oh, hello. I wasn’t expecting someone else to be here.
It’s May 9th. Goro marches into Leblanc.
He plants himself at a counter seat and resolves to finish his latest burden: a children’s book which Johanna firmly insisted would make him feel warm and fuzzy. Given the book in question involves a boy literally being raised by the dead, Goro hasn’t decided what to feel yet. He’s trying not to think too hard about it.
He tried to put his arms around his mother then, as he had when he was a child, although he might as well have been trying to hold mist, for he was alone on the path.
…Goro’s doing a miserable job of not thinking about it.
Which is funny, because lately, he’s been doing a miserable job of thinking about anything at all. Case in point: his traitorous mouth is already forming the words “Welcome home” before Akira can so much as squint suspiciously at him.
Akira takes a moment to offer one of his soul-piercing stares. “Hi?” he says, confused by the noise Goro’s soul makes when he shakes it. “We… haven’t met, have we?”
Goro pastes a press smile on his face. “No, we haven’t. I’ve seen you a few times at the station, but I never had the opportunity to approach you. If it isn’t too much trouble, may I have a moment of your time?”
Akira offers yet another stare. His gaze gravitates to Sakura, lawmaker and curfew-setter.
Goro pretends not to notice the subdued but lopsided grin growing on Sakura’s face. “Don’t mind me,” Sakura says, in the tone of someone determined to get the wrong idea. “Go hang out with the nice boy.”
Which is how Goro finds himself introducing Akira to Muhen, who looks between the two of them with an expression unacceptably similar to one he would give stumbling puppies. Morgana releases a furious yowl when Muhen makes a joke in passing about Akechi-kun’s social life, you two must be close if he’s making disappointed faces at me, which Akira disguises with a bout of polite coughing and the ease of long practice.
Muhen frowns. If he texts Goro later asking if Akira’s terminally ill, Goro may just lose it entirely.
The only saving grace of the night is when Morgana is manhandled out of the building after he introduces Goro’s hand to the wonders of four sets of unclipped nails. Which, to be fair, is a justified reaction to admissions of many, many counts of supernatural murder.
Goro turns back to Akira, sufficiently mauled.
“And that’s how it is,” he concludes, utterly dead inside. “I’d like to work together with you to find a way out.”
Akira looks at Goro’s hand. Winces.
“You should—”
“Please don’t tell me where your cat’s paws have been. I’d rather not know.”
“Yeah, that’s fair.”
The story is one as old as time.
Once there was a thief. Once there was a murderer. Once there was an awful man, whose name I’ve never been able to recall, because he never existed.
Once there was a pitiable man, and love saved him. That’s what’s important. Turn your eyes upon the miracle, not the broken goods.
Once there was a saint, his robes covered in filth, and he walked with the people. He put his hands on the wronged and the suffering and made them whole. Everything in the world would have wept for him, if they knew how.
Like I said: it’s a story as old as time. Everybody knows it. There isn’t a soul in the world who doesn’t know what happens next.
Memory is a silly thing, context even sillier. Nobody can remember the day of the week or whether it rained afterward, but everyone remembers the broken goods. It’s the broken goods that soothe the soul, slather a balm over the wound. It’s the broken goods that appease little children who fear being broken but will never break enough to care. It’s the broken goods that watches from the outer dredges of the crowd, first curious, then hateful.
The broken goods, whose name may have been Goro, plunges a knife into a man revered as a saint.
The crowd screams. Children and women scatter. Goro smiles, teeth bared, and wrenches the blade in deeper.
What a conclusion to a long journey, he tells himself, feeling a gasp ghost across his cheek. A real saint! The genuine article! If he dies, Goro will live. An event can become an exchange if you define it. The absurd can be given reason and structure. It’s a simple trade, dearest saint. Isn’t my law unbearable? Don’t you hate me?
The saint, his eyes solemn and sad, rests his hand over Goro’s.
“I’m sorry.”
The knife twists, and Goro stumbles back.
In the wake of the act is a bloody crevice. The saint rests a hand over the wound. Hot lifeblood drips through his fingers and under his nails.
The knife is still in Goro’s hand. Goro levels its edge at the saint. “Hello,” he says, forcing the tremble from his voice. He clears his throat. “I heard you save anyone and everyone.”
The saint raises his head. Under the heat of oppressive sun, he looks small, uncertain, but never scared. His shadow leaves a long line across the sand. “Some people say that.”
“Yes, but why do they say that? You’re hardly anything special.” Goro gestures at the darkening robes, the laboured breaths. “You’ll die by my hand, for one.”
“Will that make you happy?”
Goro pauses. His gaze flits between the blade and the man whose life will be lost to it. “Yes,” he says, measured.
The saint shakes his head.
Irritation rises like bile. There’s a reason Goro doesn’t bother with saints: they aren’t whole enough people for the death to stick. You can only mourn an idea for so long before your heart falls in love with a new one. “Are you going to beg for your life now?” Goro demands. “It’s common practice in these parts, no? Go on. Perform your part.”
“Would you listen?”
“No. Why would I?”
Silence. The saint’s gaze shades from open-hearted empathy to gentle scrutiny. “I’ve disappointed your expectations,” he muses aloud.
What a foolish thing to stay. Of course Goro’s expectations have been rent apart. Saints shouldn’t bleed. That means they can be killed, or at least hurt. A good hope should be immutable. Like this: I hope everyone in this wretched world understands just how ugly they are.
The saint before Goro’s eyes is just another man who believes he can hold the entire world in his hands. He must: the only way to trim the unseemly edges is to dig your nails in and hold them still while they scream. A truly admirable act, if possible. It’s a shame something as mundane as death can silence him, but it’s a disappointment Goro can live with. It’s a disappointment that he lives on.
“That would require me having expectations of you to begin with,” Goro points out. He pretends to find his reflection in the knife. He knows it’s there, but he doesn’t want to look. So he sighs instead. “Look, saint—I’ll be honest with you. I won’t waste my breath if you’re going to die. It’d be unseemly.”
“Why?” asks the saint, still bleeding.
Goro smiles. He enjoys being the only one who can answer these sorts of questions. “Because I know better than to bare my heart to a fool, of course.”
The saint shakes his head again.
“No?” Goro’s smile falters. When the saint remains silent, Goro scoffs. “I see how it is. Playing the silent prophet, are we? If those are the terms you’d like to go out on, then by all means, be my guest. I don’t care for your nonsense. It means nothing to me.”
“I’ve betrayed your expectations.”
Irritation tickles at the back of Goro’s throat, struggling between shaping the lie and wielding the truth. Annoying. It’s not supposed to do that. It’s supposed to be angry, not uncertain. “Yes. You’ve said that. Are you slow?”
“It’s more than that,” presses the saint. Realization floods across his face. Goro wishes he would hurry up and bleed out. “You hold a grudge against me. You feel betrayed because you’ve put your life in my hands, and I’ve let go of it because I didn’t know you were there.”
“What?” Goro laughs, an instinctive reaction—a startle. He swallows his humour. It drops like lead, striking each rib as it falls. “Impossible. That’s ridiculous.”
The saint takes a wobbling step closer. “It isn’t,” he insists. “You believe I owe you something.”
“I said that’s ridiculous,” Goro snaps. He takes a step back and hates himself for it. The saint’s fingers skim over his sleeve, seeking touch, not grip, and Goro jerks his arm back violently. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t touch me. I’m going to kill you.”
The saint’s hand falls back to his wound. Why isn’t he bleeding out. “You’ve come here for a reason.”
“You really are daft,” Goro snaps. “Would you like me to stab you again?”
“You’re not wrong.”
Silence. Goro tries to make out the shape of the saint’s words. They slip through his fingers like sand. “What?”
“You’re not wrong,” repeats the saint. “I owe you.”
Goro stares. He stares, stares, and stares.
He’s right, Goro thinks, stunned. He owes you as he owes all those like you: the little children, terrified of being broken, who brag of the wounds they’ve survived so no one will dare raise a hand against them. He owes you sympathy even though you don’t want it. He owes you attention. You’ve got that, at least. You’ve got god’s eyes upon your back. You ought to gouge them out.
Goro doesn’t say anything. The knife is suddenly hot in his hands, burning his palms. If he is perceived any longer the world will find him wanting.
The saint doesn’t say anything, either. His face simply falls, overwhelmed by simple tragedy.
And Goro doesn’t want to be the first to speak—to peel away skin and muscle and reveal a floundering heart—but if he doesn’t, the saint will bleed away, and Goro will wander the desert forever, chasing his echo.
“Maybe you do owe me,” Goro says darkly. “But I wouldn’t be the first, would I? You can’t save everyone.”
“I can’t,” confirms the saint. He doesn’t appear particularly devastated.
Something frays within Goro. Laughter twists his mouth into a bitter smile. “Fascinating!” he says. “You’re a sorry excuse of a saviour, then. How do you sleep at night?”
“Alone, mostly,” the saint answers dryly.
“As it goes,” Goro continues, splitting victory between his teeth.
Blood drips from the hilt and down his hand. Once more, the wretched feeling simmers inside him. This world is absurd, but at least he’s proud to own his actions. He knows he’ll regret owning his words.
“It’s people like you I despise,” Goro sneers. “You trap a little power, something fragile and fleeting, and scrape miracles off its ephemeral bones! But you can’t save everyone—you couldn’t save my mother, and you won’t be able to save me. I’d rather miracles not exist at all than watch your ilk feed on the poor and destitute.”
“But that’s not why you’ve come here,” the saint says patiently. “You don’t truly care about the poor and destitute, do you?”
Goro’s jaw clicks shut.
The saint nods to himself, and his eyes are sad again, round and grey with grief. “So I thought.”
And Goro thinks: I care. I care. I only care about my mother, is all. That’s not wrong. It’s just that she’s dead, and I’m not certain whether she loved me when she left. It’s just convenient that she was poor and destitute, is all. Maybe this is all a matter of bad luck. Maybe if I flip the coin, I’ll win back my life. If she could take the part of me that mattered when she went, then I can take something when I go, too.
But Goro doesn’t know how to bare his heart without cutting himself open. “What of it?” Goro says hoarsely. “Will you condemn me?”
The saint has to think for a while. “There are more important matters,” he finally decides.
“Enlighten me.”
“Companionship,” tries the saint, and it’s clear the words are lost on him, too. “Empathy. Understanding.”
Goro chokes out a bark of laughter. Then he bites down on it, revelling in the ugly emotion that seeps onto his tongue. “You’re delusional.”
“We could be friends.” The saint’s hesitation looms over the sand like a monolith, and his certainty even more so. “We are friends.”
Goro feels very, very small in its shadow.
Wretched thief. Wretched thief!
There are a million ways to live and die, and Goro will hate himself if he goes hanging onto something as pathetic as a promise.
Goro’s eyes are wide, now. He steps forward, mania restrained only by his pride. “We are not friends,” he says. “We are not friends.”
The saint holds his ground. “We are,” he declares. Every passing moment drives steel through his spine. “We can be.”
“Spare me your drivel!” Goro throws an arm out to where the cowering masses once stood, so plenty and so worthless. The saint flinches back, but his lips are set in a grim, determined line. “O saint, where is your dagger? O saviour, by whose blood do you swear? I don’t want any of your hypocrisy. I don’t want you at all. Either kill me or let me loose on the world.”
A terrible kindness rises to the saint’s face: a softness, a gentle sadness, a great, cataclysmic loss—and for what? For what?
“There is more,” the saint says quietly, “than what you reduce yourself to.”
Reduce? Reduced to what? Reduced from what? Something reduced is the shadow of something greater, isn’t it? What does he see in Goro?
“Then, pray, what am I missing?”
There is a tragedy unfolding in the saint’s eyes. “A place to call home.”
Goro is stricken.
Is memory not a home? Is the sight of your mother, sobbing on her knees, cradling you in her arms, crushing you to her chest so closely that it hurt, pleading for your love, for your attention, for your future, as if the world had gone mad and you were all she had left—when you retreat to her memory, are you not where you belong? Are you not made whole only in her shadow?
My son, my beloved, my little prince. Please love me, wretched as I am. Please be loved by all who grace your presence. When I die, I want you to love me, even if I could never love you enough. I love you. I love you. I love you so, so much.
Rage boils within Goro. It’s a lovely, corrosive thing, eating away at all he has left of his mother until all that remains are shiny white bones. He’ll whittle them to needle-point, carefully, tenderly, and swallow them whole. Keep them next to fishbone. Keep them safe.
“Why are you here?” Goro finally asks. “What could you possibly hope to accomplish?”
“They are coming for you,” answers the saint, “and when they catch you, they kill you.”
Goro sneers. “I don’t fear something as common as death.”
“They will kill you with kindness.”
“I don’t—”
—Fear kindness. A lie.
Fishbone presses against Goro’s throat, cutting short every word, as if mocking him for his own crippling weakness.
The saint’s eyes are still so sad. “Please,” he begs.
Goro has dreamed all his life of beating his father half to death, an inch within his life, breaking his knees and having him kiss the earth before Goro’s feet, begging soundlessly as Goro stabbed into him again and again and again, never killing but always hurting, a long string of silence and satisfaction and finality.
Goro tries to imagine the saint beneath him, glassy-eyed, damningly silent.
“Don’t,” Goro says numbly, “beg me for anything.”
And the saint is sinking to his knees, a perfect image of martyrdom.
“What are you doing?” asks Goro.
And the saint presses his forehead against the ground. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Forgive me.”
“What are you doing?” Goro asks again. Wretched emotion rises like bile.
“Forgive me,” the saint repeats, over and over and over. “Forgive me. Forgive me.”
And that is how the people find them: a holy fool and a murderer, struck still before the grace of god. The Lord will kill them with dignity and kindness, and the words my child will leave His lips, and all will be set right.
“This is seriously uncalled for.”
“The mauling or my completely unindicated altruism?”
“If this is altruism, I’d pay good money to witness your cruelty—would you watch it?”
Goro snatches his hand back just as Akira jerks the cotton swab away. A dubious brow immediately creeps up, which is some gratitude for Goro’s reluctant acceptance of apology coffee!
To be fair, Poster Child of Skepticism Akira is a welcome change from that… blank-eyed calculation. Still. Goro would much rather not have to splay one hand on the counter as Akira pokes and prods under shitty Leblanc lighting like some sort of homebrew surgery.
“Did that hurt?” Akira asks slowly.
No, you idiot. “You’re overselling your magnanimity,” Goro accuses.
“You’ll find that it’s actually been on sale for a few weeks now,” Akira tells him, visibly amused. Assured that Goro’s reaction is more theatre than genuine offence, Akira gives the cotton swab an ominous twirl. “Now hold still.”
Wonderful. Clearly Goro hasn’t been pleasant enough for a simple exchange of contact information and the offering of tickets definitely not purchased on his own dime. Of course not! No—Akira’s found a chip in the armour and is preparing to pour molten hot friendship down Goro’s throat because he knows Goro can stand it.
Good god. Goro’s got a case of… fatal nostalgia, or some comparably lethal infliction. He takes a breath, then appeals to all the gods he knows. Given their track record, Goro can only assume his messages aren’t so much forwarded straight to the incinerator as rotting at the bottom of the bin. It’d be more efficient to appeal to a brick wall.
What’s the trend these days? Ah, that’s right: honesty, or at least something bastardized truth.
Goro tries not to deflate too visibly. “I’m not nearly comfortable enough with you for you to touch me,” he snaps. “Please keep your hands away from me.”
That seems to pass for intelligible conversation. Akira’s hands lower, and the humour in his eyes tempers into careful observation. “Alright,” he says, gaze averted. “Sorry for pushing. And—” a hesitation, here, to construct an even playing field “—thanks for being honest with me.”
“It’s my most valued trait,” is Goro’s dry response. He gestures at the rubbing alcohol. “Pass it here. Go… make that apology coffee, if you’re so sorry.”
Akira’s lopsided grin stretches the length of a million miles. He slides the bottle over with all the grace of a seasoned bartender prepared to watch their clients poison themselves. “Stingy.”
“I won’t accept that kind of criticism coming from the individuals who fuel my highbrow preferences.”
There are a few scratches running down Goro’s arms, but the mass of them are collected on the back of his hands. It’s hardly anything worth raising a fuss about.
With ease of long practice, Goro puts cotton ball to alcohol to wound. Akira’s figure is a mass of shadow moving behind the counter—a humble stagehand operating behind the curtain, his expression eternally shrouded. He might be watching. He might be smiling. He might be something beyond an irreplaceable cog with everything to spare and his entire life to give away.
He might also have the whole world before him, and that world is one that reaches far beyond Goro. The horizon is dotted with sand, sea, monoliths. Akira lives somewhere beyond.
…Which is exactly how Goro knows he hasn’t gotten nearly enough sleep, Jesus Christ, what sort of train of thought is that?
“Here.” Akira’s timely pity coffee is set before Goro. “Wasn’t sure how you like your coffee, so I just made it my way.”
Goro glances at the concoction and elects to set his first aid aside. “Then I’ll be sure to give you my honest opinion.”
“It’s only been honest opinions with you so far.”
Akira’s expression is calmer, deliberately settled. Goro is a stranger in his home, all sharp edges and wary steel. It’s hardly rocket science.
Kindness isn’t a subtle tool. Where cruelty is a scalpel, kindness is a hammer. Cut yourself open and pick out the memories worth pickling and preserving, or build yourself a damn future with your own goddamn hands. Either or.
The coffee is bitter on Goro’s tongue. He sets the cup down. “It could use some more sugar,” he says.
“I figured,” is Akira’s easy response. He’s moving again, scrubbing clean the counter in wide, slow movements.
There’s an odd humour to the way Akira makes himself into—not a target. Not exactly. But there’s artistry in how his shadow takes up space. It’s a deliberate tactic which says, look at me, look my way, not in the grating tones of a boy desperate to be loved, but rather in the simple desire to know and be known.
Absolutely humiliating. Goro keeps his eyes on the rim of his cup, too cowardly to be the first to speak.
It takes Akira few moments to recognize this accent of silence. When he does, he leans in a little closer. “You’re pretty calm for a guilty man,” he notes, as if guilty men can afford to be anything less than calm.
Goro barks out a laugh. It’s hardly the best response—Akira blinks, surprised—but at least it’s something, to be able to rise to the occasion instead of beat it into submission. “And you seem rather calm, given everything I’ve told you.”
“Since I can’t own what happens to me, I make a point to own my reactions,” states Akira, raising a brow. “You’re similar, but different. It’s almost like you’re resigned to however I react.”
Goro takes another sip of his coffee. He takes brief comfort in the familiar scald. “Every good confession presupposes resignation.”
“Maybe. But you’re not resigned, are you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Resignation is a special form of hope,” says Akira. “The easiest place to find new hope is in defeat.”
The words are gentle. Each syllable falls like fresh sentiment upon the bones of an ancient creature. A creature that died quietly, without fanfare, with only the sun above and time as witness.
Heat builds at the back of Goro’s throat. Perhaps this is what it means to be known: to be cut open, pined to the board, too much of a mess to be given a quick end and left out to dry until all that’s left is the history of something that used to cry.
wretched thief, wretched thief
“Is that right?” Goro asks acerbically, before he can stop himself. “Is resignation something you get your hands on frequently?”
Akira gives two startled blinks. Goro hasn’t given him any indication of hurt or any room to backpedal. “Pardon?”
“Here’s your sweet defeat,” Goro barrels on, fuming—and for what reason? Because a thousand warm deaths wasn’t enough to give him a way forward? Because of some distant dream of deserts, of saints, or murderers? What a farce. He should shut up. He doesn’t. He’s never been able to dream of the truth, let alone a future within it, and the words rush out, bending rusted bolts as they go. “I’m a pitiful creature, aren’t I? Someone more sensible than you would have left me well and alone. But no—the magnanimous leader of the Phantom Thieves never gives up, no matter how terrible the odds—!”
And here’s where Goro’s good sense finally catches up to him. The collision dislodges his… stupid, senseless ramblings from this throat and wrangles them into a festering heap.
God. What the hell is he doing?
Goro breathes loudly through his nose. He tilts his head upward, eyes pinched shut. “My apologies,” he mutters. “That was unbecoming of me.” He purses his lips. Be humble, Goro, or at least be—not a fucking idiot. “And… you probably didn’t deserve all of it.”
Confused steel shutters behinds Akira’s eyes. “Thanks?” he tries, wary.
It’d be pathetic to ask for an excuse. Goro massages the bridge of his nose instead. “Ignore me. I haven’t gotten much sleep, lately.”
“Ah. Well, it’s good I sent Morgana out. He’d maul you even worse if he heard you.”
“I’m quite satisfied with my currently mauling, thank you.”
It’s simple work to tie the conversation up in a shiny bow. Goro has spent most of his life allowing others to interface strictly with his pretty packaging; of course he knows how to grasp at excuses—so sorry, I’ve got to water the plants, do the dishes, perform a hit…
What Goro decides on is this: “You look exhausted. Let’s continue this conversation some other time.”
Akira’s smile gains teeth. Goro hopes he has more restraint than his cat, at the very least. “Sounds good. I’m…” Akira has to think for a bit. A few moments pass, and then he matches Goro’s gaze—warm, wary, and foolishly open-hearted. “I’m glad to have you here.”
Me too, Goro doesn’t think or say.
TAKE ONE
A horrible criminal is being sentenced to death.
His name? Goodness! Who would know that? He’s a criminal, you know. Common rabble, playing in the dirt and dragging innocents down with him.
Besides, I hear he’s got no family left. You know how it is with people like him. Treat them as kindly as you want, but only do it behind glass… keep them penned in, or else they’ll slit your throat while you sleep…
What? Poverty? Suicide? Oh. Well… that’s unfortunate, but that’s just the bid you get in life, isn’t it? You’ve got to flip a coin if you want to play the game. The more coins you’ve got, the better your odds. It’s all proper and fair. There are rules and regulations and all that. It’s a competitive market, didn’t you know?
So no, I don’t know his name. I don’t really care, to be honest. He tried to kill a saint! A saint! Do you know how evil you have to be to kill a fool?
Shh! Save the questions for later! Here he comes!
Before he goes to meet his mother, the people shower him in kindness. Let the Lord be our witness: the kindly people feed him, clothe him, read to him, listen to him, treat him with the greatest honest afforded to a man so wretched and vile.
But the criminal resists. In his despair, he has lost his sight.
Fear not, the kindly people say, for we will show you the way, and you will move toward salvation on your own two feet.
Ooh, there it is! Look at that stupid boy. Can’t he stop talking? It’s so stupid, to save your last words for a crowd. Nobody cares, and nobody will bother to remember them. We’ve got better things to do.
Hey, what are your plans after this? You headed anywhere? Wanna go for dinner, or something?
Huh? The spiel? That’s what they say to everyone. It’s only right. The best way to convince someone to go without fanfare is to convince them they’re worth special attention. It kills the child in them that’s been wanting forever.
Anyway—how about dinner?
And the criminal resists. And he cries. And he begs for release, forever a fool, unable to understand that a death is worth nothing until the soul moves past petty slights and unimportant failures.
I wish to be saved, says the criminal.
He actually said it! Damn. Should’ve known better than to bet with executioners.
You shall, say the kindly people. You shall, you shall.
And again. And again. And again, until one day the kindness finds light, until the criminal asks for pen and paper. Until he willingly confesses his crime and writes to the court on his own volition.
I am a monster, he says, having finally understood. I will go to my mother and beg forgiveness.
Huh? Is that it? Well… that wasn’t very interesting. I suppose I should’ve known better than to think anybody with so little to lose would’ve fought harder to keep going. That’s just how it goes with fools!
And look at our dear saint. He’s so sad! But of course he is. If the fool cries, then clearly we shouldn’t. It’s what we pay him for. He’s a handsome one, too!
Payment? Isn’t it obvious? We leave him alone. We don’t condemn his idiocy. It’s far more than he deserves, but that’s the price of convenience for you.
“Moral” convenience? Ha! You’re so funny.
So, hey—dinner?
TAKE TWO
A horrible criminal is being sentenced to death and for what? But before he goes to meet his mother who is dead and gone and forgotten, the people shower him in terrible kindness. Let the Lord be our witness: the wretched people feed him, clothe him, read to him, listen to him, treat him with the greatest disgrace afforded to a man so wretched and vile.
But the criminal resists. In his defiance, he will not submit.
Fear not, the wretched people say, for we will show you the way, and you will move toward salvation or we will carve a martyr out of what is left of you and feed it to the devils below.
And the criminal resists. And he cries. And he begs for release, forever a fool, unable to understand that a death is worth nothing until the soul moves past petty slights and unimportant failures.
I will not give my life for fools like you, says the criminal.
You shall, say the wretched people. You shall, you shall.
And again. And again. And again. And again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again until one day the world breaks. What is this worth. Why do I deserve this. I don’t deserve this. Don’t look at me with those eyes. I don’t need love. I don’t need anyone. Don’t do this to me. Until the criminal asks for pen and paper. Until he willingly confesses his crime and writes to the court on his own volition.
I am a monster, he says, having finally understood. I will go to my mother and beg forgiveness, and she will step away and ask my name.
And the criminal knows he is undeserving. His entire world is trembling, snapping apart seam by gentle seam, but this is the one truth he understands: unwanted child, ungrateful child—you are just like your mother.
This is the truth which rebounds against his skull as terrible kindness descends upon him.
He is fed. He is clothed. He is given every dignity and every right a wretched man can afford. He begs on his knees just to see what happens. He is guided to his feet, and in return, one of his saviours bows at his feet and kisses the ground and this is all wrong, it’s all so wrong.
“You are our child! Our son! Grace has descended upon you!”
The words pour out like honey-water. Saccharine gold dribbles down the corners of Goro’s lips. He smiles like a fool, the holiest of fools, a beautiful martyr, eyes shining, heart thrumming with revelation: yes. This is a good death. This is what it means to die!
“Yes, grace has descended on me!” His voice rings through the square. Camera-flash paints his teeth. A journalist takes down his last words so a better poet can kill himself in Goro’s name. “Through all my childhood and youth, I was glad to be hated, to be despised, to mean anything at all, and now, I am dying with grace!”
“Yes, yes, my child, go to your death!” the audience cries as one, voices rising as a tide. “You have shed blood and broken our hearts. It wasn’t your fault that you knew nothing, that you were desperate, that you were blinded and only now have realized it, that even now you wish you could cut the rot from your bones and boil the poison from your veins, but you are wrong, you are a monster, and you must die.”
And for what. And for what.
The truth—the truth—
The truth is that there was a life, and now there is an ending, and Goro has wasted both of them.
All this time he searched for a place to die, and life passed him by.
Goro’s nightmares look like this:
Akira’s face, so sad and gentle—
fades into the crowd as Goro sweeps away all his graves and memories.
Look! Isn’t the sky beautiful? “This is the happiest day of my life!” Goro cries, and he’s—crying, because he is so so so happy. “I am going away, I am going to my mother!”
“Yes,” croons the audience. “This is the happiest day of your life, for you may beg forgiveness from your mother!”
And it’s all moving toward the scaffold, in carriages and on foot, following the cart of shame that is bearing Goro. They arrive at the scaffold.
“Die, my child,” they people call, “die in our kindness, for grace has descended upon you, too!”
Goro’s nightmares look like this:
Akira’s lips form one word:
Why?
And so, covered in the blessings of his beloved saviours, Goro is dragged up onto the scaffold, laid down on the guillotine, and his head is cut off oh so lovingly, for grace has descended upon him, too.
Change is enough.
It isn’t.
Goro wakes up screaming.
Goro doesn’t resolve to change.
But he figures that he can… show a little more initiative when it comes to personal problems. It’s hardly rocket science. Drop a bit of vulnerability, some unimportant tragedy, and people trip over themselves to give their condolences. Good graces are valuable. Grace itself, evidently, is not.
Exhibit A: Sakamoto really does punch Akira’s plant this time, except his swing goes wide and connects with the wall instead.
Akira makes a vague noise of protest and hurries to check on his plant, apparently confident in both Sakamoto’s durability and stupidity.
“Ryuji!” Takamaki shouts from the couch, scandalized. “You can’t just go punching people’s plants like that!”
Sakamoto cradles his hand with a betrayed expression. “I wasn’t tryna! It just slipped!”
Akira nudges his glasses upward, offering a total of zero net benefit and more drama than necessary by any human means. “Kindness Plus forgives you—”
“You named your plant?”
“—But I am not a merciful man, Ryuji.”
Sakamoto deflates. “Sorry, man.”
Akira gestures to the abused plant.
Sakamoto deflates further. “…Sorry, plant.”
“You have to, like, buy fertilizer for it or something,” Takamaki says firmly.
“What? Why? That shit’s expensive!”
“As an apology! You buy me apology crepes all the time!”
“I don’t see leaves growing off you!”
“What, so Kindness Plus doesn’t deserve the ¥3,000 Mega Fertilizers Akira’s been feeding it since April?”
Sakamoto’s jaw drops in the distinct accent of broke students all across the world. “Akira, man, what the hell.”
Akira pushes his glasses up again. The glare of the shitty attic light gives him an insufferable glow. “I’m very good at budgeting.”
“Akira spent the last of his paycheck on yakisoba pan,” Morgana translates.
“Dude. That shit’s not even good.”
“You’re on very thin ice right now, Ryuji.”
“You know the only reason it’s exclusive is ‘cuz of exclusive marketing or whatever, right?”
“Those are big words coming from a man willing to assault another man’s plant.”
Goro stares up at the rafters. He takes a deep breath. Counts to ten. Feels the urge to either insert himself back into the conservation or appeal to the fucking gods. “You do know that I’m still here, right?” he says, after a long moment of regretting everything.
“Yeah, and you need to help us teach Ryuji basic human decency,” Takamaki insists. “You’d do something nice for someone you hurt, right?”
Goro is overcome with the urge to throw himself out the window. It’s a two-story fall. He’s willing to risk a trip to the hospital if only to free himself from whichever circle of hell this is.
Unfortunately, he knows that no matter how idiotic the Phantom Thieves are, they aren’t really this foolish. He knows, because Takamaki and Sakamoto’s tells are obvious—twirling hair and shaking leg respectively—and Akira’s smile has steel behind it.
Their idiocy is a kindness. Goro hates himself for accepting it. “If I were to ‘do something nice’ for every single person that I’ve hurt,” he says, “then my life insurance would have to be very, very expensive.” Which is most certainly a mood-killer, what with the way Takamaki and Sakamoto avert their gazes. Goro crosses his arms. “Alternatively, Akira could rob every single one of his part-time jobs blind. That ought to cover the cost as well.”
A tiny moment of silence, just long enough for Akira’s smile to slide into a lopsided grin. “Are you suggesting that I antagonize all of Tokyo as a get rich quick scheme?”
“Would you rather start a cult?” Goro asks dryly. “It’s a fairly simple process. You’ll have to be efficient, though. I refuse to let a perfectly good scheme collapse under something as pathetic as government oversight or legal intervention.” Goro lets that statement sit and simmer. “Akira, I fear you may have to cross-dress.”
Akira’s nods solemnly, accepting this as equivalent. “Lala-san’s got my dress, but she’ll forfeit it for the cause.”
Ann spits out her Calpis. Ryuji spits out his Calpis too, since idiots come buy one, get one free. Morgana makes a face no man, god, or cat should ever witness, then smooths it out for a more contemplative one after a moment of consideration.
Akira simply looks down at his Calpis-stippled floor, disappointed. He sighs. “If Sojiro bans snacks up here, know that I’m innocent.”
“I beg your pardon, but I don’t think that’s my spit painting your walls,” Goro points out.
“And Kindness Plus.” Morgana pads awkwardly toward the plant, scrunching his nose and taking a few careful steps back when he realizes the leaves are dripping. “Oh, gross.”
Akira steps away from the crime scene. “What’s the diagnosis, doc?”
“She’ll live. I diagnose her with a Ryuji-shaped restraining order and a Mega Fertilizer.”
Goro flicks a dismissive finger toward Sakamoto. “Then surely the offender covers the costs, no?”
“Yeah, Ryuji,” Takamaki says unselfconsciously.
And perhaps Sakamoto really would have been content to stare morosely at his shoes, but Morgana, ever the opportunist, chooses not to throw but ballista in his two cents by adding, “And I know you stick gum under my seats, Ryuji! Don’t think I don’t notice! That stuff has to come out eventually!”
“Oh my god, why do you always have to say it like that—”
The conversation devolves into nonsense of the typical variety. Goro rubs at his temples and laments the loss of the future in which he spilled his soul to the Phantom Thieves and received it back in pieces, which, frankly, would have been far more economically efficient than being roped in as an… acquaintance.
Akira relocates from within the blast radius of the verbal mauling to join Goro by the stairs. His face shows a smile, but his eyes shine with careful evaluation.
“Listen,” Akira begins, a current of sincerity beneath his words that Goro neither expected nor wanted to hear, “I’m really grateful that you were willing to share your situation with the others. I… know it was a lot to ask.”
I’m not about to disappoint you, so don’t you dare disappoint me. “It was necessary. Don’t flatter yourself.” Goro directs his wandering gaze to Morgana’s spirited attempt at amputation. “Besides, I might as well practice for when I’m inevitably incarcerated for my crimes.”
Akira’s smile folds into a neutral line. “You’re willing to accept that outcome?”
“It’s only right.”
“So that’s your justice, is it?”
Goro takes a deep, silent breath and reminds himself that his own ghosts have no interest in the affairs of others. “I’ll ask that you respect my wishes. I have no intention of running away from the future.”
“Stagnancy is not retreat,” Akira says, humour back on his lips when Goro throws him a thunderous glare. “You’re not usually this honest, are you?”
“I think you’ve just about exhausted your interrogation quota for tonight,” Goro snaps. He makes for the stairs and grinds his teeth when Akira’s arm blocks his path like a toll gate. “Kurusu, I swear—”
“I’ll let you go, I promise,” Akira says unapologetically. “But first, can you, ah…”
Akira gestures vaguely toward the shiny floorboards, the dripping plant, and the remains of Ryuji’s pant leg.
Goro stares.
“It’s incredible how much I hate you,” he informs Akira.
“There’s a mop in the washroom downstairs,” Akira says brightly.
Loki makes the world more interesting but less safe. He is the father of monsters, the author of woes, the sly god.
Loki and his children will be there for Ragnarök, the end of everything, and it will not be on the side of the gods of Asgard that they will fight.
loki looks down upon the world as it is.
loki exists within the soul, safe from corruption, safe from the truth, safe from the lie.
safety is a word loki has little love for. he revels in mischief, in violence, in trickery. his existence proves that the world is unjust. he upholds his own justice. he is his own law. he is never defeated. he is only ever waiting. watching.
he is witness to every beginning and every end.
he will be witness to this one, too.
show me how much it hurts, and then—
lift your head—
be proud—
Loki is the father of monsters.
Loki is the author of woes.
Loki is the sly god.
live your truth—
Loki is here, even if he is never seen.
Can you hear him?
(look to your right.)
Goro watches from afar as Kitagawa engages Takamaki in conversation (though combat might be a better word, what with the way Takamaki’s puffing up in preparation of a harpy screech).
Well—not exactly from afar. He maneuvers behind Takamaki and Sakamoto’s outrage and averts his judgement down at the pavement. He maneuvers a little harder when a decidedly suspicious car rolls up beside them.
For all Goro’s camera-ready charms, he’s never forgotten how to disappear into the crowd. It’s as a wise man once said: your ability to succeed in the world is determined not only by nepotism, but also by how well you can shut up and leave well alone. Goro’s got most of it down pat, except for the part of choosing when to do so.
Well, he thinks, gazing serenely at the ground while Kitagawa runs laps around an erupting volcano, everyone’s got flaws. Some more so than others.
Goro figures if he can’t afford an underground bunker, shielding yourself behind the loudest idiots in the room is a decent substitute. It’s like a lightning rod, or some comparably unlucky device.
“I bet you have no interest in the fine arts, but I’ll give you tickets too,” says Kitagawa, and—really, why is he carrying tickets on his person? Scrap paper, possibly? Tissues, given the hives he must be permanently inflicted with from living in the same residence as Madarame? Maybe Madarame insisted—but which self-respecting abuser expects their victims to have friends? It’s a whole circus, made only louder by the fact that Kitagawa passes over four tickets despite treating Goro like he’s invisible.
Attention is rarely laser-focused. Most of the time it’s ricochet. If you’re dealing with paparazzi it’s closer to an airstrike. Goro watches as Akira thumbs the newly-acquired tickets, probably stunned they aren’t decorated with more bullet holes.
Decidedly suspicious, Goro tells himself, watching Kitagawa shuffle back into the car. But Madarame would look better with a bullet between his eyes, wouldn’t he? You’d have to be an idiot to do anything but sit down and shut up. And it’d be an easy task, too. Point at the bad man, make a fuss, then wipe up the mess. A spectacular idiot—the sort that believes in justice and the infallibility of paper towels. Whether or not it’d be doing Kitagawa a favour is… contentious, but at least it’d do some good, and that’s better than no good. It’s all a matter of standards and whether Goro’s willing to trample over what few he has left.
He stares a little. Thinks some more. Types the license plate into a text and sends it off. As usual, if all of Goro's efforts will amount to nothing, the least he could do is feel a little better about it.
“Well,” Goro says brightly, “that was a fascinating conversation. It reminded me of an oil tanker colliding with a gas station.”
“At least we weren’t the oil tanker,” Sakamoto mutters, in a brilliant moment of self-awareness. All of it dies when he glances at a fidgeting Takamaki. “You’re not planning on going, are you?”
Takamaki makes a face.
Goro makes a face, too. “So long as Takamaki’s reasonable about it, I don’t see the problem.”
“You didn’t? He was right here a minute ago,” says Sakamoto, gesturing at the curb like it’s now cursed. “You saw his whole… vibe! It was weird as hell!”
“I’m weird as hell,” Goro points out dryly. Sakamoto gives Goro a look which communicates the curse might be contagious. “Look. Our newest… friend… would hit the ground unconscious if you hit him over the head with a chair. I’m sure we can trust Takamaki to decide when to resort to that.”
“I think most weaknesses can be exploited by a chair over the head,” says Akira, faintly amused.
“Exactly. He has the mind of a maniac and the physiology of someone suffering from several mineral deficiencies. If Takamaki wants to take him on, then more power to her.”
Takamaki’s expressions morphs into something a little more grateful, as if being lauded on your ability to start a bar fight warrants pride.
“That’s right,” she declares, with completely undeserved confidence. “It’s just a chair, anyway! I’ve been—uh, I’ve been trying to work out! It’s just smacking some guy over the head! That’s, like, ten pounds, max!”
“I think you’re worrying about the chair in lieu of the person,” murmurs Morgana.
“I think we’re a little too concerned with hitting people over the head with chairs,” Akira adds.
“You’ve been cheating your workout again?” cries Sakamoto, with genuine offence.
The conversation dissolves into an argument from there. It’s like playing with Silly Putty, except the putty really is silly. Goro opts to examine the timely chime on his phone instead.
Which is about the usual response one can expect with an individual wholly unconcerned with human wellbeing, let alone her own.
It’s always nice to know that your acquaintances find burglary entertaining enough to call it a “hobby”. Goro’s deciding to believe Yilan doesn’t actually make a hobby out of breaking and entering, otherwise he would be rightly disturbed by it, which would mean that he’d have to buy motion alarms for even his windows, and does it look like he’s made of money?
Ignorance is always economically efficient. Goro is more than willing to teach that lesson to Madarame.
Sakamoto, in the meantime, is trying to teach Takamaki the values of pacifism without believing in any of them. “You’re not hitting anybody with a chair,” he insists, a little desperately.
“For the last time, you don’t need to work out to lift ten pounds—”
“You sure as hell need to if you plan on sprinting away from the cops when you come at you for the guy you just killed—”
Oh, so it’s back to murder? That’s nice. Goro has the experience to back up his bullshit, at least. He also has someone who, in all likelihood, collects criminal records like stamps. It’s all a matter of making use of your resources.
Goro slips his phone into his pocket with deliberate ease. He smiles the Detective Prince’s smile, with the added edge of a thousand years’ worth of licence renewal forms.
“I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
“Akechi, I appreciate your whole paranoid deal, but you seriously need to calm down before you have an aneurysm.”
Surprisingly wise words, especially considering they’re coming out of Yilan’s mouth. Goro decides for once in his life not to take the advice as an insult, if only to stop himself from tackling Yilan off the roof.
“You want me to calm down,” he repeats instead, “while we’re breaking into the house of Japan’s most prolific art forger.”
“I’m glad you understand,” Yilan says absently. She tears into the base of the satellite dish, which… seems entirely unrelated to the security system. And Goro’s supposed to be the vindictive one. Yilan pauses in the middle of a handful of property damage. “Number one, only in Japan?”
“Yes,” says Goro. “He has—” a hotline to supernatural murder, and he’s got to fund it somehow “—contacts capable of making your life miserable very quickly.”
Yilan rolls her eyes, as if the threat of death that Goro’s been trying to hold threateningly over her head for the past hour is padded with foam. “Everybody has contacts capable of making your life miserable. Ever heard of friends and family? That vengeance fits like a glove.”
Goro’s mouth immediately goes dry.
“Anyone can trip their way into a mouthful of arsenic, a bullet in the head. That’s boring. It’s common.” Yilan rolls her eyes, as if everything Goro has done, all the red in his ledger, amounts to little more than shitty highlighter on a shitty fable. “Really, Akechi! You’re a mean little thing, aren’t you? You’ve got to be more imaginative. It helps focus your anger, for one.” Yilan flicks a knife out from her sleeve and severs the cables, serene all the while. “For a second, it means this sorry bastard won’t even have shitty cable television to drown out his thoughts. He won’t have internet either, but hey, one step at a time.”
Goro decides now is as good a time to shut up as any, or else he’ll really tackle them both straight to the emergency room.
It’s frighteningly easy work for Yilan to shimmy her way into the back door. She doesn’t even crack a mischievous smile at the prospect of antagonizing another legal system—and why would she?
“All in a day’s work,” whispers Yilan, slipping her tools back under her jacket. She jerks her head sharply at the door. “You coming?”
No. Absolutely not. Why did Goro even offer to accompany Yilan in the first place? His experience with breaking and entering amounts to reading aloud every other word in the dictionary to his phone. There’s something to be said about hubris here, maybe something to be said about friendship, but Goro would very much rather it be about hubris. At least that’s something he can control.
So Goro nods. Yilan, in complete disregard for safety and common sense, nods back.
Which makes two of them, at least. It’s always upsetting to be insane and alone.
Yusuke Kitagawa wakes to the sound of his sensei’s booming voice, resounding down the hall with accusation.
Yusuke Kitagawa wakes on the cold, hard floor of his study, dread condensing in his stomach, weighing him down like lead.
In the moments before the door slams open, Yusuke Kitagawa is allowed a moment of reprieve to stare down at the blanket pooling at his feet.
In Morgana’s experience, paintings of significant renown and, more recently, significant infamy, don’t materialize in attics overnight.
Then again, his experience is limited mostly to pseudo-magical realms where plagues are summoned if a few too many people sneeze too hard, so… probably not the best baseline. And how is he supposed to know how attics work, anyway? Akira pulled that space heater out of a cloud of dust bunnies. Who knows what else is hiding behind the veil of asthma?
Hopefully a good excuse, Morgana thinks, glancing at Akira’s sleeping face. Maybe it’ll turn out that Boss has a thing for stolen art. The bar is underground at this point, but hey—new décor is new décor, right?
…It’s too early for this.
Watching the Phantom Thieves fumble through Mementos is almost bearable through ease of long(ish) practice and sheer force of will.
Nobody makes trips into Mementos for leisure. You’d have to be insane. Which is why Goro only did it when he was feeling particularly out of his mind, and most of those memories are decorated with the haze of bloodlust and blurred by adrenaline.
Which is to say that the Phantom Thieves’ little… Morgana party car and eagerness to rob every Shadow blind are. Concerning. More concerning that Goro’s problems? Probably not. Concerning enough for Goro to wish there were seatbelts? Yes. Oh god, yes.
It’s nothing new, yet the horror lands every time. Particularly since the Phantom Thieves in May are still a bumbling mess.
While Sakamoto and Takamaki are dying to put their heads on the chopping block, Akira, the only with sense (and opposable thumbs, Morgana) is determined to keep everybody’s heads attached to their bodies, and, failing that, duct tape them back on. Which is a shame! Goro would prefer their heads removed if only for the added benefit of severing their vocal chords.
Goro is convinced that screaming arguments define Sakamoto and Takamaki’s absurd friendship. He is also convinced that half the entire human subconscious of Tokyo is now deaf. He would also judge, except his own “friendships”, complete with quotation marks clanging with irony, have been defined primarily by betrayal and murder. Not to say he isn’t judging, but he’s electing to do so quietly, given how a phrase such as it isn’t nice to verbally eviscerate your friends practically demands a heated says the teenage hitman who skips the verbal part altogether.
A headache probably won’t kill Goro, but he sure as hell is going to die with one.
This problem would be solved by allowing Sakamoto and Takamaki to poke at the guillotine until it takes off a limb. He voices this opinion to Akira, who laughs. Ungrateful bastard.
“And thus, I humbly request your assistance,” concludes Kitagawa, very much content living in his own head and who, for some godforsaken reason, has elected Goro as his financial planner.
Goro pinches the bridge of his nose before he realizes he can’t, because mask. He tugs the entire damn helmet off and hurls it at Sakamoto, who has spent the past fifteen minutes shouting himself hoarse at Takamaki, who—surprise, surprise—does not respond well to allegations of cheating her diet and workout plan.
The helmet hits Sakamoto square in the forehead, the expert rotation of the projectile clipping Sakamoto’s mask and sending it spinning off his face and out the window. Goro’s helmet rebounds neatly into his own hands. He drops it onto his lap while Sakamoto blinks away stars.
A moment of stunned silence. Goro could cry, except that would be embarrassing. He settles for dropping his weary face into his weary hands. Peace, at long last.
“See? Crow believes me!” Takamaki shrieks, pouncing on the opportunity and crushing all of Goro’s dreams in the process.
“No he doesn’t! He’s just pissed off at everything, like he always is!” Sakamoto shrieks in response, mask flaming back onto his face.
The look Akira gives him in the rear-view mirror makes Goro wish they’d all just drive into a wall and die already. The arc of the eyebrow communicates that Akira is having a grand old time at Goro’s expense, which, while infuriating, is at least not surprising.
Goro shoves his helmet back onto his head if only to get Akira to stop side-eyeing him, you idiot, you’re driving. “While your observation is astute, Skull, it doesn’t do a very good job at dissuading me from silencing you permanently.”
“Ha! You heard him!”
“Panther, it pains me to say this, but your bone-rattlingly loud comedy show comprises two people.”
“Aw, geez…”
“Crow’s got some moves,” Morgana summarizes smugly, his voice coming from everywhere. Goro guesses it’s a roundabout way of thanking him for the much quieter (still, not saying much) conversation that Takamaki and Sakamoto are furiously holding.
Having done his one good deed for the day, Goro turns to Kitagawa, whose response to the entire debacle was to stare in silent but obvious judgement.
“No,” Goro snaps, pointing an accusing finger when Kitagawa’s lips part. “I don’t want to hear it. I have had a very long day—” a very long eight months, actually, but time is an illusion and possibly a creation of his own mind, but he’s trying not to think about that “—and your budgetary concerns hurt both my brain and my heart, neither of which complements the splitting headache I now have.” He throws a venomous glare at the human megaphones pretending not to exist.
“Ah, so you understand,” Kitagawa says solemnly.
His stomach rumbles as if on cue.
And—look. Of all the Thieves, Kitagawa’s situation is… understandable. No, that’s not the word. Relatable is the word, but Goro doesn’t have a particularly good track record when it comes to seeing himself in others. It usually reminds himself of how fucking barren he is.
But Goro still remembers the hunger pangs of childhood. He’s cruel, but not cruel enough to blame Kitagawa for spending habits formed through forced poverty by some shithead who bound a child’s worth to their ability alone.
Goro turns away. The walls of Mementos thrum sleepily.
“I’ve got a coupon book,” Goro says, determinedly not looking Kitagawa in the eye. “It’s useless to me, so you can have my scraps, if you’re so inclined.”
Kitagawa’s entire presence lights up. Goro feels nauseous.
He leans his head forward until his helmet presses against the seat in front of him. Kitagawa begins rambling about how much of a difference this will make, your generosity is warmly received and greatly appreciated. If Goro pretends hard enough, maybe he’ll actually believe that any of his actions are worth anything.
He’s no saint. He’s always been selfish. He wonders, though, what it would feel like to invoke change. To change at all.
…It’s curious how Akira hasn’t said anything.
Goro leans back. Catches gunmetal grey in the mirror.
And Akira takes hold of something behind the shiny foil, behind the boarded windows, past the endless sands and the artifice.
The words are understood even if they aren’t said: Ah, so this is who you are.
“They’re fools,” Goro mutters to himself.
Flashes of heat-haze and jagged bolts streak across the tunnels. The occasional curative sparkle indicates that determination is more present than skill.
Goro tries to massage away the oncoming headache to little effect. “I’ll have to babysit them, won’t I?”
Behind him, Loki inclines his head.
“And what are you doing out here? Do you find this little circus entertaining?”
A gesture that might be a shrug.
Goro scoffs. “That makes one of us, at least.”
Darkness scythes across the tracks. Another Shadow gives its dying cry. Takamaki supplies a shrill cheer.
“What a farce,” Goro says, to a world who might one day stop and listen. “What am I even doing?”
Loki’s smile splits at the seams.
Endless dunes—
No, that isn’t quite right. There’s blue along the horizon, now. Something salty breaks the stagnant air.
A child sits atop a sandcastle packed with dark clay.
“How is it so far?” he asks, eyes sparkling. “Am I doing okay?”
Goro feels his lips part.
He says—