Chapter Text
Kurusu Akira condemns himself to hell because of a single moment of pathetic, nauseating cowardice.
The audio from Futaba’s bug is a parasite – a worm that crawls into his eardrum so it can whisper the same words over and over again ad nauseam. We could say he stole the guard’s gun and committed suicide during his imprisonment – how about that?
As the rest of the Thieves let out a series of shocked yells, volume so loud Sojiro would have snapped at them to keep it down if he hadn’t taken one long at Futaba’s pale face and closed Leblanc pre-emptively, Akira is silent. Ryuji slams his palms onto the table, but the sound is muffled, as if Akira's head has been dunked underwater.
Perhaps it has been.
He’s so, so cold.
We could say he stole the guard’s gun and committed suicide during his imprisonment – how about that?
Akira lets out a small, breathy chuckle, completely drowned out by his friends’ panic.
He’s wondered for so long what Akechi’s game was.
It looks like he’s gotten his answer.
We could say he stole the guard’s gun and committed suicide during his imprisonment – how about that?
A word then snags Akira’s attention, dragging him back to the surface like a hook in a fish's mouth. “… Akechi…!”
More soon follow as the Phantom Thieves’ fear turns to fury.
“… The true culprit behind the mental shutdowns.”
“To think he would be this far gone…”
“… homicidal maniac!”
Akira stills, memory after memory flickering into his mind like the clips of an old film reel. A sparkle in Akechi’s eye as Akira noticed he was holding back. Polished words and a pointed smile that failed to hide the Detective Prince’s fury as Akira smirked, eying his expertly ruffled hair. A sly grin in the arcade, a cheeky – horrifying – joke followed a deep sadness as his rival brought up a childhood dream. A confession in the bathhouse, one which Akira could have ruined his whole life with.
Akechi has always been a liar, but does that mean truly everything about him was false? Can this really be all that his rival is? A one-note killer with motives incomprehensible to any civilised man? Are all his memories of all those outings - all those challenges Akira strove so hard to prove himself worthy in - mere forgeries, halcyon days designed to lull him into a false sense of security?
(If they were, they didn’t work – Akira never felt safe around Akechi. That was the entire reason he felt drawn to his rival like a moth to a flame. It wouldn’t have been fun if Akechi was safe.)
(Akira could understand him. It’s not like he’s a civilised man either.)
We could say he stole the guard’s gun and committed suicide during his imprisonment – how about that?
Akira swallows as he attempts to focus on the conversation again, and dramatically fails.
He doesn’t fear death. If Akira goes out guns blazing, a knife in his hands and a grin on his lips as he fights for something, anything in this bitch of a world that actually matters, he’d die happy.
He does fear getting his brains unceremoniously splattered all over an interrogation room wall, alone and weak and most importantly, powerless.
Unimportant.
Meaningless.
(Everything he’s done can’t have been for nothing, it can’t be.)
Clenching his fists, the first kindlings of rage he’s felt since the bombshell was dropped on him burn away the thorny vines of fear digging into his lungs. His nails cut grooves into his palms, but Akira barely notices, jaw set in a rigid line as he makes a vow.
No matter what, he refuses to die here. He’s not going to give some smarmy jackass in a suit – they’re always in suits – the goddamn satisfaction.
When the flame of Akira’s life goes out, it’s going to be on his terms.
How about that?
…..
Perhaps it wasn’t cowardice that damned him, actually, but trust. Or more accurately, giving his trust to the wrong person.
Futaba comes up with a plan, and after a long moment’s contemplation – too long, a nasty voice at the back of his mind whispers – Makoto tentatively nods. Her sister will save him, she’s sure of it.
Akira isn’t, however.
As they begin their first proper infiltration of Niijima Sae’s casino, Akira lingers, absorbing the setting of the Phantom Thieves’ most dangerous heist yet. He drinks in it all – the gaudy lights and floating cards and gilded gold as dozens upon dozens of people, defendants, are milked for all they’re worth. The Palace is a display of opulence as sleazy as the waitress Shadows that staff the wretched place, and it makes him sick.
He's too incredulous to feel relieved that Joker’s mask hides the way Akira’s brows rise to the ceiling. Is he really meant to gamble his life on this? That the woman who deep in her heart knows she’s no better than some tattooed yakuza thug will risk it all, to what, save a Phantom Thief’s life?
It sounds like a bad joke. Akira thought that was his job.
No – Makoto’s faith, based on nothing but blood and faded memories feels like even more of a lie than Akechi’s general everything does.
(Akechi, who isn’t just some homicidal nutcase for hire – Akira knows it in his bones.)
We could say he stole the guard’s gun –
Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.
Akira. Isn’t. Wrong. He's a murderer, yes, but not a monster.
(Deep in his heart, so deep he can’t even fathom it, deeper than Niijma’s tattooed back is even hidden in hers, a glimmer of anxiety is buried. Anxiety that perhaps he isn’t right after all. It’s a seed that lies unsprouted, but present nonetheless. He simply can’t afford to let it bloom.)
Taking a deep breath in, Akira begins to plot. Because he has to die in that interrogation room unless he wants a hammer to come crashing down on his friends. He’s just not going to hedge his bets on Niijima.
Firstly, the Phantom Thieves can’t know about the change of plan. Akira loves them, except he’s not sure they love him back enough to take his word about Akechi. No – his friends will kick up a fuss, wondering why he thinks a killer is more deserving of his faith than a far more mundane sort of evil. Especially if it means the end of them as a team, as it surely will- even if Akechi can be swayed to grant him the gift of life, Akira knows he can’t push his luck.
(It’ll hurt them, but they’ll forgive him once he comes back. Right?)
Secondly, he needs to figure out how to sway Akechi onto his side. He can’t just grovel at his rival’s feet. Quite frankly, doing so would be so pathetically nauseating, if Akira was Akechi, he’d shoot him there and then. No, he’s got to frame it the right way, or everything will be over before it's even begun.
Thankfully, he’s always been in sync with his rival.
…..
Maybe if Akira wasn’t so addicted to the idea of a challenge, he would have walked a better path.
But instead, Akechi asks to go to Mementos with him, alone, and Akira grins. Jackpot.
(Because he can’t capitulate to Akechi - he has to win his survival.)
Akechi then draws a gun on him – a real fucking gun, not the dinky toy he’s been using in the Palace – and Akira’s so delighted he could almost laugh. Judging by the way the detective’s plastic smile curls at the edges, he must notice the light in Akira’s eyes. As per usual though, he fails to see beyond Akira’s surface. Akechi thinks this is a mere mock battle. Akira, meanwhile, knows it’s nothing less than war.
As the intoxicating elixir of adrenaline rushes through his veins, he grips his knife and charges into the fray. The battle is nothing less than a masterpiece, a beautiful dance as two liars make each other bleed. Still, Akechi’s loss was inevitable, and always will be as long as keeps up the pretty lie that’s the Detective Prince. His rival steps backwards, the tension leaving his shoulders as Akechi lowers his blade.
If this was one of their normal duels, Akira would have put his hands in his pockets, a curt, but not unfriendly nod following. He likes to think he’s a good sportsman, even if every loss he has to Akechi and Akechi alone makes him smoulder.
This isn’t one of their usual duels, however.
We could say he stole the guard’s gun and committed suicide during his imprisonment – how about that?
Well, the joke’s on Akechi – two can play at that game.
Instead, Akira charges forward and slams him against the wall. Caught off-guard, Akechi chokes, and the moment is all Akira needs to frisk the detective, grab his gun – god, what a moron, he thinks almost affectionately – and dig the muzzle into the flesh of Akechi’s neck.
“… You lose, Akechi.” Akira purrs. “Twitch, and I’ll pull the trigger.”
His fingers dig so deeply into the detective’s shoulder that he feels it the second Akechi tenses. Still, even if his rival's expression is oh-so-wooden, its clear he doesn’t realise just. How. Fucked he is. “… There’s no need for that, Kurusu. I'm aware you have me beat.”
“No, you don’t.” Akira leans in so close that his lips almost touch Akechi’s ear. “One word: pancakes.”
Pulling back, it’s clear to see the moment where the detective finally detects. A furrow of the brows. A slight glance to the side. And finally, a flicker of realisation before Akechi goes awfully, awfully still. All hints of emotion flee from his face, and Mementos is so, so quiet, Akira’s heartbeat drowns out the sound of distant trains. Then, the detective cracks.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Akechi’s rich, baritone snarl sends a delighted shiver down Akira’s spine. His curled lip, wrinkled nose, and the deep, burning hatred smouldering in his eyes look so out of place combined with his princely Metaverse garb, and yet for the first time ever, Akira actually sees his rival.
“While I’m rubbing your failures in your face, you also shouldn’t have let Futaba get her hands on your phone.” He shrugs conversationally.
The switch is instantaneous. Akechi's fury drops away, replaced by what could only be described as horror. “No – absolutely not! Don’t you fucking dare go after him! He’s mine…!”
Akechi twitches, and Akira digs the gun deeper into his neck, all traces of humour dropping off his face. “Stop moving. I’d rather not pull the trigger, but I will.”
It’s not a lie. Sure, his friends would be upset – okay, well, with the exception of Haru and Futaba – but the situation would be salvageable… potentially. They’d have a few days grace before Akechi’s absence was noticed. Enough time to raid his apartment, dig deep into his belongings, and hopefully find the name of the man pulling his strings.
At the same time, that’s not the ending Akira wants.
The gamble would be even riskier than betting on Niijima.
(Akira wants Akechi alive.)
His rival is still. So, so still. Narrowing, his crimson eyes drill holes into Akira. “… Oh? Why not?” Akechi’s face twists into a nasty sneer. “… Are you stupid enough to think that all that time we spent together actually meant anything? That we’re friends? Don’t be so delusional – you’re just a piece of criminal scum living in an attic! Do you seriously think that an ace detective – a celebrity – would ever give half a shit about trash like you?!” By now, he’s spitting, screaming. “No – I was going to pull that trigger, and I would have savoured watching the light leave your pathetic, moony eyes!”
Akira decides to ignore the bluster and cut to the important part of Akechi’s little spiel. “You’re not my friend.” Akira likes his friends. Whatever he feels towards Akechi is very different from that. “You’re my rival.”
Mouth hanging open, for the second time this evening, Akechi is stunned silent. Akira’s gun bobs as the detective lets out an incredulous wheeze. “You… you really are beyond my comprehension. Is that seriously all you have to say?”
Akira shrugs. “What else were you expecting?” He knows Akechi was going to pull that trigger – that he’s chosen whatever ends he strives for over Akira’s life. That’s nothing new.
Akechi is quiet, quiet, quiet. Eventually, though, he lets out a small huff. “Truthfully, I haven’t the foggiest. I… I was supposed to win.”
“So, you concede?” Like a jaguar stalking its prey, Akira senses it’s time to strike.
A mirthless snort escapes the detective. “I’m no fool, Joker. I’m better than you – I have the weight of the law behind me, the support of the masses, and power you couldn’t even comprehend. Yet, I’m the one being held at gunpoint.” His voice shudders as if the words pain him to even say. “So yes, Joker, you win. If you’re planning to gloat, do me a favour, and just pull the trigger.”
His eyes narrow. “The only thing I’m interested in is claiming my prize as rightful victor.”
Akechi’s expression cools. “… Bartering for your life, are you?”
“No.” Akira’s heart begins to race – it’s vital he doesn’t fuck this up. “You really think I’d be doing this alone if the Phantom Thieves didn’t already have a plan of getting me out?”
The detective’s jaw clenches. “So then, why are you here? This is beginning to feel an awful lot like gloating to me, Joker.”
“Because I want to see where your justice lies, and that’ll never happen if I follow the script my friends created.” He grins. “So, here are my terms. Break me out of that interrogation room, and on the day you finally destroy the man who thinks he controls you, you bring me along for the ride. Alternatively, I shoot your brains out, and we both leave this altercation dissatisfied. Your choice.”
Akechi’s eyes narrow to slits. “… You’d really turn on your pathetic little sycophants like that? Aren’t you meant to be the champion of all the poor, lost little souls out there?”
Sweat drips down Akira’s back. He’s so close to the finish line – he can taste it. If he loses Akechi’s respect now, however, it’s all over. “I’m not a hero, Akechi, I’m a thief. I’ll break whatever rules I please if it brings me closer to my justice.”
“Pray tell me, Joker.” Akechi drawls. “If it’s not about being the saviour humanity doesn’t deserve, then what is this 'justice' you're prattling on about?”
Revenge. Reformation. Rebellion.
“Freedom.” Akira whispers reverently. “I fight for freedom. So I can do whatever the hell I want to do, no matter what society says. What anyone says.”
The muscles in Akechi’s shoulders relax, and relief crashes down on him as Akira realises he’s won.
(He’s lost everything.)
…..
They hash out the plan in Mementos that night – too many eyes are on them in reality, and if Akechi tips Futaba off that he’s found her bug, they’re both fucked. It’s with a vicious glare from Akechi and a smug grin from Akira that they depart, but that’s the way it was always going to be.
What rivalry doesn’t have a little bit of hatred in it?
(Because hate and love are two sides of the same coin, aren’t they? While Akira fights for the people, even the ones who don’t deserve it, and Akechi fights for no one but himself, both are liars and frauds and thieves who pull the wool over the eyes of everyone around them for the sake of what they deem righteous. The opposite, and yet, the same. It’s no wonder they’re magnetised towards each other.)
They never speak of the plan again in reality, but sometimes, Akira catches Akechi looking at him in the Palace. A narrow-eyed glare which he nods in return to when no one’s watching.
The plan’s still on.
When the 19th finally arrives, Akira is eerily calm. Morgana rubs up against his knees, purring almost frantically as he gets ready for school that morning, Futaba swings her legs, babbling nervously as they share breakfast together, and Ann greets him once he enters their class with a strained smile that fails to reach her eyes.
He gives her a soft grin in turn, ignoring the twinge in his guts as he takes his seat. It’s too late for guilt – this is the only chance Akira has to actually save everybody.
(Akechi included.)
As he enters the Palace, his eyes linger on his team as a thousand needle-like claws dig into his heart. Makoto gives him a firm nod, the circumstances making the rings under her eyes and her pallid skin not the dead giveaway they would have otherwise been if Akira had decided to stick to the original plan. Ryuji claps him firmly on his back solidly, confidently, as if he can’t even conceive that this might be the end. Haru gives him a smile both sweet and so, so sad in equal measures, one that makes his stomach twist uncomfortably given where their last private conversation ended off, and finally, Yusuke, who frames Akira with his fingers as if capturing his essence for one last time.
He takes a deep breath in. He’s doing this for them.
(He’s doing this for him.)
Akira turns to Akechi. “It’s showtime.”
He performs beautifully. Leviathan is tough, but the Phantom Thieves are tougher. No rigged games or roulettes can hold them back.
(Akira is stronger when he isn’t alone.)
The Shadow inevitably falls, the Palace is invaded, and jaw set rigidly, Akira volunteers himself to be the decoy. One discarded Treasure and dramatized chase later, the butt of a gun is smashed into his face, and everything goes black.
Still, that’s just part of the plan.
Getting the shit beat out of him in custody, however…? It’s not, but at the same time, it’s hardly surprising. These men are all part of a conspiracy that turns teenagers into killers so they can slaughter other teenagers. It’s almost laughable they appeared as humans in Niijima’s Palace – they’re monsters through and through.
The drugs, however, are a different matter.
As his vision begins to swirl, Akira's heart rate picks up, and for the first time this day, a slither of fear wriggles into his chest.
This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t part of the plan.
(He’s going to look weak, weak, weak. He can’t afford to look weak.)
We could say he stole the guard’s gun and committed suicide during his imprisonment – how about that?
…..
He signs his name, and Niijima Sae walks into the interrogation room. She calls her coworkers bastards, but even though Akira’s mind is a foggy marsh, memories scattered and buried deep in its depths, he knows in the depths of his soul that she’s cut from the same cloth as they are.
A catchy tune, the roll of a wheel, blinding lights.
… Then, the Judgement forms, and oh.
Akira swallows the bile rising up the back of his throat.
She was going to help him. Confidants always help him.
It’s too for that, however. He ignores Sae’s final pleas for info, and doesn’t even dare look towards the phone sitting on the desk and burning a hole in his periphery vision. If he does, Akira thinks he’ll crack, and it’ll be game over.
(It wouldn’t have been though if he’d just trusted his team from the start. He could have told Sae to take that phone, and she would have come back to save his life.)
As she closes the door behind her with a frustrated sigh, Akira swallows his guilt. It’s too late for that – he’s chosen his path, and there’s no turning back.
The door clicks open, and it’s not Sae.
Akira watches as the guard’s corpse falls to the ground with a thump, blood already seeping from his side. He’s never watched someone die before, but then again, maybe he has – does Okumura count? Somehow, this feels less violent. A grunt, a fall, then nothing. No hacking nor choking, sludge dripping from every orifice as the body sways, whites of the eyes visible for all to see.
(How strange it is that reality feels so much less real than the Metaverse?)
“Look at how the mighty have fallen.” Akechi purrs, not yet stowing his gun as his focus moves to Akira. “The indomitable Joker, brought down by some lowly pigs.”
Akira rolls his eyes and pretends the world isn’t shaking. Weakness means death, after all. “I wouldn’t call them lowly with you in their ranks. Well?” He asks, voice rasping. “Get me out of here. Unless you’re too chicken, that is.”
Akechi’s eye twitches, but he withdraws his phone, and as everything swirls, this time, it’s not from the drugs.
The second he enters the Metaverse, Akira clutches his head, ignoring his lack of mask as he searches for something deep in his soul, and finds it. “Kikuri-Hime! Mediarama, Patra!”
It doesn’t quite banish all the fog from his brain, the aches in his limbs, or the exhaustion weighing down his heart, but compared to before, the blessed relief is almost enough to make him feel reborn.
Turning to Akechi, he’s about to mockingly bow, asking his rival to lead the way, but then Akira sees the detective isn’t paying attention to him. Instead, Akechi’s eyes linger on the syringe on the floor, perfectly recreated by Sae’s cognition. His mouth is set in a grim line, a perfect mirror not of Akira for once, but of the woman they’re both taking for a fool.
He doesn’t give Akira an apology. Instead, Akechi offers Akira his hand.
Akira takes it.