Birds of a Feather - ComposerEgg (2024)

It hurts.

The light burning his eyes.

His wrists. His hands.

His ribs and legs as the cop’s foot connects with his body.

Don’t fret, Mon petit voleur.

We remain with you, little Raoul.

Akira winces at the voices in his head. Arsène is always a comfort, a brush against his mind. But wings do not weigh on his back right now. Not as he signs his name—what is he even, truly, confessing to?—and not as he struggles back to the chair.

His thoughts are syrup, sliding across his brain. The other one.

The not-Arsène.

That one is important.

Little Raoul, and he should know, should knowthis mask of his, even as the name slips from him.

I am thou—

—Thou art I.

Even if you don’t remember my name, you still stole me away, Akira. I am yours, and I know the commands you have given me already.

It hurtsto think, to touch the knowledge trying to slip away. He doesn’t know. Everything, the words, it all is—

Hard.

The needles on the floor don’t bring surprise, though.

Neither does Sae Niijima walkingin and takinga seat across from him.

Good. She is part of our plan.

Our plan?

My protege, you will dazzlethem.

In his mind, just to the right of himself and the as-of-yet nameless one, Arsène shineswith anticipation.

“Tell me everything,” Niijima-san demands.

Through the haze of drugs, one hand clasped on the metal chains hanging at his throat, Akira knows he must comply.

He has to convince her if he wants to live.

Only the truth will do. In this fight for his life, putting it all on the line, he needs her to understand.

Understand what weighs him down, no matter where it settles on his skin. Weight that always, alwayspushes him forward.

Ever since he first felt those wings Akira knew he needed to soar.

This is truly an unjust game…

“Arsène!”

Akira calls the name as the skin of his back splits open. Wings with feathers that would blend with the night sky burst forth as his persona rises to meet him. Blue flames lick at his skin, reforging him in Arsène’s image.

There is pain. There is fury.

And there is the power to rip Akira’s past helpless self to shreds.

When all is said and done, the king is locked away in his own dungeon, and the clothing flickers. The wings remain. Feather-light against his back, he can still feel them anchored on his spine, even as they phase through the fabric as if it weren’t there.

(They exchange names. Ryuji makes no mention of his new appendages.)

The not-a-cat does, however. Raising an eyebrow at the wings, as Akira eyes his cloak. The outside is black, with a white Z cutting through it. The inner lining is blue. A soft blue on the edges of his memory.

But there’s no time to chat, not with more of those… thingsarriving. Morgana steps to the front, looking back at Akira and saying, “You can fight, right? Most people don’t have those.”

He reaches for his mask, and the warmth of those blue flames fills him again. The exhilaration of being freeas he tears it away.

Even as they exit, Akira knows. Knows, standing in front of that twisted castle, that these new appendages are not so easily dismissed.

People walk through them without a care once the world has returned to normal. Each person makes him flinch away, shivering from the brush that should not be real. When Ryuji wants to investigate this bizarre world, Akira can’t say no.

Not with the weight pulling at his shoulders. Weight that Ryuji can pass through without blinking.

(It feels heavier in the real world. No one notices.)

Igor praises the ink-black feathers.

The twin wardens only say that his rehabilitation is under-way.

Pixie shimmers with glass wings and shards floating in the air around him.

Electricity bounces between the sharp-edged glass, threatening to shock and cut.

(Morgana’s eyes track the light when there’s no need to be on the lookout for enemies.)

(He’s sucha cat.)

When Ryuji rips off his mask, the blood flowing freely from his face coalesces into chains. Wrapped around his torso, twisted so the anchors secure them. He has earrings to match.

The other end of the longest chain flows from the ship floating in the air at his shoulder.

“Hey!Why do you have WINGS?”

And what can Akira do but laugh as his new friend takes in the sight of the night sky flowing from his back? What can he do but grin when Zio flows from the metal to strike the enemy?

Oh, they’re soin business now.

“No, seriously, why do you have wings? Whydo I got these?” Ryuji gestures at the chains and earrings.

Akira leans back in his chair at the ramen shop, the two of them debriefing. Ryuji had shared his tale, and Akira matched him with his own. Arsène’s wings stretch out behind him, cautious of bumping into someone who would never notice. “I think… The persona is part of us. The worlds aren’t completely separate, they influence each other, and these,” he flaps his wings, “echo from the other to ours.”

Frankly, he has no idea if that’s true or not, but it feelstrue. It resonates with the pieces of himself. The masks he’s claimed so far.

“So how come ya got more than one? It’s wicked as hell, but…” Ryuji tilts his head, trying to puzzle it out.

(He’s sucha dog.)

It’s not a question Akira has an answer to. Not definitively.

The Velvet Room lingers at the edges of the waking world, but it’s not something he can explain. It doesn’t feel like the reason. It feels like a consequence.

“I… Don’t know.”

How does he explain it? Could he ever explain it?

The way Akira has never felt whole. Never felt like one unified person.

He’s a shattered mirror, and each broken piece reflects the person who picked it up. Each broken piece has only ever made others bleed.Why else would they turn tail and run away when he doesn’t show them what they want him to be?

Reaching out to wayward scraps of human consciousness comes easy to him. All he really does is show the shadow itself, and capture the image in his glass. In his soul. To make it part of himself.

The shards never had names before. The only faces used to be his, distorted by whoever he looked at to form it. Now, power thrums behind the names he can call.

“I just… resonate with them. I can feel the shape of what they are, and I echo it back until they see themself in me.” Jack-o’-Lantern was more smoke than wings, shrouded, and breaking that veil would do no good. Pixie had personality, but shook beneath, searching for a touch of understanding to accept that static.

Agathion would hide away and lash out unless you found a way to draw it out of its pot (really, being stuck there, of course it would choose torment rather than attempt kindness). Once freed, however, those carved copper wings were alight with electricity, lightning bolts carved into the metal and singing in the air around him.

Agathion is close to him now, lingering near the front of his mind, almost as if begging to come out and play.

Arsène… Arsène felt like a home he’s never known. Arsène was a bonfire under the stars. Arsène was a torch to light the way, and the sparks that follow the click of his heels. Swift fingers, never the same face, but oh so sure to sweep you away.

“Well, if it works for ya it works!” Ryuji gives a thumbs-up, before slurping down more ramen.

“Hah. What is Captain Kidd like?” Akira digs back into his food, and rests as he listens. He has an idea, and as Ryuji speaks, it only solidifies.

If the whole world already expects the worst, embrace it to spite them.

Akira knows the feeling well.

The tip of one of his wings brushes against a dangling anchor. Still just as heavy as a moment ago, but now not unmoored.

(The longer a persona sits in the forefront of his mask, the more solid it becomes.)

Neither of them notice the second look a stranger on the street gives when they walk by.

Neither of them would have been able to see his horns or wings, anyway.

A beautiful rose doeshave thorns.

Petals drift around Ann, falling from the roses that sprout from the vines trailing across her skin. They’re sharp, lined with points to cut and draw blood. But Akira knows better than to worry that those thorns have dug into her skin. For all his myriad appearances, none of his own personas have injured him.

There is something wrongabout the man at the elevator.

The words he says don’t register, even as Ryuji gets pissed. He knowsthat voice.

What he failed to notice in their first encounter is the slight shimmer that surrounds the nameless man who ruined his life. He doesn’t seem aware of it, but the shield shimmers in the air around him.

It might not be wise to make him a target. Not now. Not when he doesn’t know what protects him.

Akira could choke on that smoke.

He doesn’t, of course, as Goemon appears. Yusuke would have, if it weren’t such a part of himself.

Folds of silk drape across his body, layers of the fabric that would be perfect for a traditional kimono—if they weren’t so rebelliously hanging open and untied. The edges dissipate into smoke, trailing off his figure and hanging in the air. The flecks of ice refract light, painting colors in the clouds.

A magnificent sight for an artist.

“So, that mist, does it hurt you if we touch it?” Ann asks, eyeing Yusuke up and down while they stand in Mementos.

“I admit I am unsure, though you are welcome to test it.” Around him, the cloud is a soft grey streaked with blues.

Ryuji grins and darts out, swinging his hand through it. A touch of yellows and reds swirl into being, but no other reaction happens.

“Hm, I admit I barely felt that.”

“Well, good to know we don’t gotta avoid that when we spar, then!” Ryuji says.

Orange scatters through, and it’s almost like seeing a cat’s ears perk up. “A spar, you say? Would you care to demonstrate? It could be wonderful inspiration. What would that have to do with the smoke?”

Akira chuckles, and steps forward. “Let’s stick to shadows for now.”

Morgana at his side nods. “We’ve got missions to do! Fox, during spars we don’t go after each other’s persona traits. Protect them well in battle, too. They’re more vulnerable, and they hurt a lot.”

“Fascinating. I wonder what other characteristics they have.” The cloud around him shifts, then, and floats to hover only around his hands. It lights up with more yellow, but when he stares and focuses, it fades back to that standard off-white.

It sparks something in Akira. If any could shift, if he could make them disappear. The closest he’s gotten is with Regent, the wings gone and diamond sparkling across his skin.

As they make their way through the levels of the day, he tries different shapes. Arsène’s wings always remain, but the rest of the outfit can be waved away. Eligor’s yellow cloak shows in his wings, feathered, and those remain, but the horns can flicker out of view. Ippon-Datara has the framework and shape, but nothing filling in the wings, and the metal protecting his face and skin is solid, but not enough to stick when willed away.

His wings may change, but the fact that they exist is what will always remain the same.

(Almost always.)

Goro could laugh at how stupidlysimple these so-called Phantom Thieves have made his job. He’d already spotted them months ago, he knew where to keep watch, but now he doesn’t even have to hunt them down.

Three Shujin students standing in a hallway might not be questionable to anyone else, even with the reputation of these three being mixed in with the Kamoshida case. But no, these foolish thieves are flauntingwhat they have.

The girl has vines twirling around her arms, roses in bloom with petals fluttering to the ground. The one blatantly breaking dress-code with his t-shirt has chains and anchorscrossed over his chest, with a cloak made of a ship’s rigging.

The third takes him a moment to process. On one level, a plain boy in his uniform blinks blankly at Goro. But layered overhis clothes is a black corset, and despite wearing normal shoes he has thigh-high stiletto heels long and sharp enough to make a person bleed as crimson as the jacket that covers his arms.

Flaring from his back is a set of wings. If the night sky in the country were distilled into ink, it would drip from those feathers, with galaxies of stars splattered in rich hues. It takes a moment to realize that the bright colors actuallyfloat from the wings, curseenergy swirling in the air as the wings take up the entirety of the hall.

It almost makes him want to show his horns in return, just for the satisfaction of seeing that one shocked.

(He doesn’t, he knows better than to jeopardize his plans for a moment of satisfaction.)

This prey shall be fun.

Loki purrs in the corner of his mind, the scent of new blood in the air. It would hardly do tocall this a real challenge, but a long-term game outside of his with Shidois rare.

All it takes to suppress the heat of blood is a breath, and he’s plastering that smile back on as he bids them goodbye.

The realfun is when Goro looks out at the crowd the next day, and those same students sit in the audience.

Except—

The one with wings yesterday…

He has wings today, but they’re dyed red. The feathers shimmer with the gold that lines his skin, the gold spun through his hair. He wears a white scarf, edges decorated with black diamonds.

Perhaps he is like you.

Goro knows better than to react to Robin Hood’s words. He’s on stage, smiling as the host chooses that boy to talk.

He wonders, as they talk, what garnered such animosity toward the cops. Not out of disbelief, but it’s more weighty than a passing encounter. The weight of those wings against his back speak to having a far more storied past.

After the show is over, he waits until the one that answered is alone before walking up to him. It’s just for observation, of course. Keep your enemies close. Akira Kurusuis the name his new phone contact bears. There’s no reason for the light to cast a golden halo off his hair, and yet it does.

A second-year at Shujin, his research later says. A transfer student with a criminal record for assault against an unnamed man. He wears no glasses in his mugshots, and those steel-gray eyes are as sharp as the tips of Robin Hood’s arrows. They burn. The fury simmering underneath the surface clearly wants to rage like the fires Loki brings forth.

His two weapons know better than to comment for now. Brought to heel at the force of Goro’s own will.

He can still feel their silent judgements being weighed.

When they meet for a round of billiards, Kurusu’s wings are a soft yellow fading to mint green. A cloak covers his back, and the cue stick seems to shift in the corner of his eyes, becoming a holy guiding staff.

Goro carefully ignores the silver strung into his hair as he remarks on Kurusu noticing he’s left-handed. It is impressive that he manages to catch that, after all. The silver accentuates his eyes.

I see a lot of things.

It’s Goro who first throws down the gauntlet. Issuing a challenge Kurusu doesn’t back down from. He can see that stubborn look in his eyes. Glinting as if he knowswhat Goro’s full poweris, though there’s no way he can. Goro keeps that part of himself tucked carefully away from the public eye.

It’s Goro who issues the challenge, but it’s Kurusu who’s smirk can be heard through the phone as he says as rivals?

It’s lucky it’s a call, or he might risk a glimpse of horns being revealed.

Loki always hasloved a good fight. The more drawn out, the better.

Makoto rips off her mask, and a metallic cloak unfurls from her shoulders. It whips in the wind as she rides Johanna into battle, glowing with a slight irradiated haze. An idle thought crosses Akira’s mind that the visor over her eyes will help during sunny days. Already assuming that she’ll keep it once they're out of here.

The way any shoes can work like rollerskatesdoes make him laugh, wondering how it looks to others who can’t see. The student council president could hardly be caught with those on. She also shouldn’t be caught with the brass knuckles or the spikes that appear over her clothes, but none of the people who can see would ever dare tell.

She’s one of theirs, now.

Of course, taking Kurusu out to a cafe was a bad idea. Being such a public figure is useful (is nice, being seen and so highly regarded even as it fails to scratch that itchin his chest). But being recognizedwhile trying to gather more information about the nature of his foe is hardly useful.

It’s a simple joke when he says it, and yet moments later Goro finds his hair messy and glasses over his eyes.

Non-prescription, though he’d noticed that before. It’s an interesting fashion statement. It hides the way those eyes cut through whatever they look at. With his record, maybe that’s the point. A simple student, studious and unremarkable. Because anyone who saw the way those eyes spark when catching something worthy of Kurusu’s attention would know better than to truly think him plain.

Or maybe it’s the fact that Goro felt the way gold rings caught on strands of his hair while Kurusu messed with it, the faint links trailing up his arms and studded with sapphire where chains meet. It’s the same look as before.

It won’t matter, in the end. Everyone’s eyes look the same when they’re dead.

In the employee break room of Crossroads, Akira stares at himself in the mirror. It’s his first time putting on an outfit like this. A slick black dress with a matching choker, and fishnets running up his legs. The heels are ruby red, and not as sharp as Arsène’s. Easier to walk in.

A sharp clink of glass from the room outside makes him wince, even as his pointed ears swivel toward the noise. The tail that’s sprouted from the base of his spine swishes.

Nekomata is always clever and crafty, and he’s been wanting to feel out her stance more. Standing on the balls of his feet feels natural like this, feels right. The tail helps keep his balance, too. He wonders if he’d purr if given the chance.

He’s putting on the sheer black shawl when he hears movement behind him. It trails off his shoulders, and he thinks he likes it.

“Oh, honey, you’re looking lovely.” Lala-chan says from the doorway, giving him a once-over. “Have you been practicing the makeup?”

He nods, careful not to dislodge the silver star-shaped hair clips holding his bangs back. Her instructions had been clear, shared guides well-written. She steps closer, inspecting his work. “Your blending could be a bit better, but that’s a fine cat’s eye. The crimson lipstick was a good choice, too. It’s bold, but you certainly don’t seem like one to shy away from anything once you’ve set your mind to it.”

Lala-chan had told him when he started that he didn’t have to dress up. She’d seen the slight disappointment in his eyes, then. It took a few shifts for him to raise the question of if he could, anyway, and she had laughed and called him sweetheartand welcomed him to come in early so she could show him the ropes.

She couldn’t see his fangs, or the slit pupils, but she certainly seemed to decide that he was catlike in nature if her gifts had been anything to go by. The choker is more of a collar, and it has a small silver bell dangling from it. When he sways to the side, it jingles.

“Not going with a wig tonight?” she asks, and he shakes his head. Maybe another time. “Then, I have one final question for you, darling.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, and she grins. “What’s your name?”

She knows. She’s already made the nametag. Still.

“Ren.”

“It’s nice to meet you Ren-chan. Now, come on, we’ve got work to do.”

Lala-chan hands over the new nametag, and Ren pins it to her dress.

Her parents had never really understood. They always saw Akira as a girl, but it wasn’t right, not like this. He preferred to be seen as a boy. But sometimes he missed the jewelry, the dresses. He wanted to bea girl. He didn’t want to give up being a boy for it.

When he told Lala-chan, half-whispered, she simply nodded and pulled Akira into her arms. Told him that this would always be a safe space to be whoever he wanted to be.

You have claws, my kit, but it is good you do not need them here. She will wield hers for you, little one.

She smiles at Nekomata’s words, and tucks a stray curl behind her ear.

Tonight, she’s Ren-chan. A beautiful lady. Not nota man, but a woman on top of that. And she is determined to shine.

What is Goro even thinking?

It’s been about a week since he’d seen Kurusu last. He’d encountered both him and Yoshizawa-san on the street. Kurusu had been smeared with ash, orange and blue feathers sprouting along his skin and fire in his eyes. Something about that look, standing by Yoshizawa, had made his temper flare. He’d kept it down of course, pleasant (always pleasant). But that has led to this.

Thisis sitting across from him at the Jazz Jin. The soft music plays as they talk. Kurusu is stillsticking with the silver accents against soft yellows and greens with drops of blue. It’s curious, when he sees Kurusu out and about, he’s often wearing a different skin. Whether he has a tail, or phantom extra arms, or a metal mask, or ever-growing threads wrapping around him again and again. But never when Goro asks about meeting ahead of time.

There’s something about the way Kurusu relaxes under the dim lights, smiling as he says this is my kind of cluband asks for recommendations. He can feel it chipping away at his defenses. A smile slips onto his face while they talk about the place Kurusu stays (he knows about Leblanc, he can’t not, but it’s useful to be told so Kurusu knowsthe information is known).

Which brings him to the point: what is he thinking, spilling words about himself to the person he knowshe’ll need to deal with. The Thieves have taken down Kaneshiro, they’re learning about the world they’ve touched and keep picking up members.

Goro is going to have to do something.

Sharing his poor attempts to filleta fish can be passed off as being relatable, getting closer, but then his mouth keeps moving.

He gets out of that conversation smoothly, and when they part Kurusu hasn’t noticed a thing, but Goro can feelRobin Hood laughing.

He’s good for you. He makes you happy. This is not a bad thing.

You know to be quiet, he thinks back, ignoring the teasing lilt.

Maybe he can be friendlywith Kurusu, but that changes nothing. He’ll do what needs to be done.

Friendly and friendsare different things.

Frankly, Goro has no clue what the Thieves are doing to try and avoid the cleanse. They don’t seem too panicked if Kurusu has time to go to the arcade with him.

(He’ll understand later, when he sees Futaba Sakura in Leblanc, with green lines against her skin and tentacles at her feet.)

Kurusu at least is differentnow. Matte black wings with red accents. It’s a less obvious persona, no visible armor and a simple red circlet on his head. Though, what seems like an octopusis branded on his cheek.

Somewhere between wondering how Kurusu has somany personas and making thinly-veiled threats as jokes, he ends up talking about his past playing hero. Old, faded images of laughing as he rescues his mom from imaginary villains float to the forefront of his mind.

He redirects, asks about Kurusu’s views of a hero instead, but later that night as he microwaves a meal, he dwells.

(He’s not supposed to dwell).

There were so many villains he could have been fighting to protect her. It wouldn’t make a difference now. He’s not the hero swooping in to save anyone.

It doesn’t matter.

You don’t need to be a hero, you need to make him pay.

Loki snarls in his brain as he eats, and he bites back a remark out loud as his nails sharpen. It doesn’t need to be said, it’s not worth arguing with Loki about how pointless the reminder is.

His dreams are as crimson as Kurusu’s circlet, and that head is just as stained with it.

Futaba is electric.

Not in the way Ryuji is, where he shocks people around him on accident still. No. She glows neon green. The tentacles seem to move between sprouting from her body and growing in a circle around her feet depending on her mood.

Akira laughs with joy, letting her hold onto him however she can. One wrapped around his arm or leg whenever he’s near.

(More, when Akechi visits and she hides behind him. He can barely move his limbs with how tight she holds onto him.The grip loosens when she finds her voice, but he knows better than to stray far and takes her hand anyway).

The coffee Sakura-san makes doesn’t taste as good as Kurusu’s.

It’s annoying.

At least he’s not waiting for Kurusu to return to Leblanc for long. The bell chimes above the door, and in walks his goal for the evening.

The moment Kurusu’s eyes land on Goro, he startles. The red corset and black wings flicker and catch flame, blue swirling and consuming him until it fades away and leaves another look in its place.

One like a Featherman ranger.

He’s careful not to react to the gauntlets on his arms, or the metal wings that resemble what he once had to glue back onto his figurines when they so easily snapped off.

It hasn’t escaped his notice that when Kurusu spends time with Goro his stature turns more angelic. He can trace the shadows he’s fought back to the way they appear when Kurusu wields them. Does he think himself holy? Virtuous? Does Kurusu think himself above everyone, above him?He’s flaunting his freedom in Goro’s face, and Goro can’t even retaliate.

(Not yet, anyway).

Even now, a warrior for justice, for righteousness. It makes him sick. The fool has no idea what game he’s playing at, no idea how far beneath Goro he truly is.

It’s almost worse when the blue engulfs him again while they change. Seeing those wings disappear, when he’s never been without some version of the limbs before. The light is fast, and settles around his head, shaping itself there, until the fires fade and a crown is left in its place. The centerpiece diamond is dazzling.

Does Kurusu think himselfroyaltytoo? Better than him, fit to be crowned?

Irritation pulses under his skin. They’ll bathe, and be done with it, and soon enough Goro can be done with him. He’ll ponder the disappearing wings and adornments of treasure later, when he’s not so busy trying to keep his glances hidden.

… He doesn’t know why he tells Kurusu about his mom.

Maybe it’s the steam, hiding that offending face. Maybe the way the anger bleeds from him as the heat sinks into his bones is to blame. Maybe it’s the way this pulls old memories to the surface. No matter the cause, a dead man will tell no tales, and Kurusu will meet his end soon.

Mentioning his loathing for his father is close. Far too close to discussing the reality of what they’re doing.

So he distracts himself and Kurusu both by making a game of seeing who can survive the heat. Seeing who can dress the fastest.

(Seeing those wings spring to life again out of the corner of his eye.)

When he walks Kurusu back to Leblanc, he’s invited inside. He should decline. He almost does.

But Kurusu looks…. Frustrated. Perhaps he can get some information.

So he sits at the booth across from Kurusu, and says, “What’s on your mind?”

He’s met with another sigh. “I appreciate our outing today. I… My cat is missing. He ran off. I’m just… Worried.”

That cat Kurusu is always lugging around. How he manages to get it into so many places, Goro has no idea. He hasn’t gotten a good look at it. “Morgana, right? I can keep an eye out.”

That gets him a smile. Small as it is. “Thank you, Akechi. I’m sure he’ll be back in no-time, but he’s been with me since I moved.”

He takes his leave after that.

It’s good to know the Thieves are having a spat.

(He wishes the sincerity behind the thanks didn’t burn).

Flowers bloom from Haru’s arms and shoulders, coalescing in fingerless gloves. Most are dark as night, but as she chooses her path golden petals bloom over that backdrop, suns with solar flares erupting to bring light.

It is a beautiful betrayal, watching her stand against her father with the light of those stars illuminating her.

Morgana is with them again, and they all stand tall.

Reunited, they’re unstoppable.

“Don't worry your pretty little head, detective,” the woman at the bar gives him a grin when he walks in and sits down, and, wait—"Lala-chan isn't breaking any rules here, I promise. I don't serve the alcohol.”

Sure, he’d come here in the hopes of catching Kurusu with that reporter to figure out what those two have been getting up to, but this? “Kuru–”

He is promptly bopped on the noseas if this meeting makes any sort of sense. “I’m Ren-chan, Holmes, surely you can read my nametag, can’t you?”

It does, in fact, read Call me: Ren-chan <3. It is very clear. The nametag is very visible, pinned on his chest. Which he is leaning against the counter. Goro can’t tell if the extra… flesh there is from a persona or if it’s fake. It could be both.

“I’d say you’ve only ever seen me bind, but… You’ve seen me bathe, sweetie, you ought to know these are quitereal.” Rentrails the finger down from his nose to his chin, and tilts his face up with a grin.

Goro quickly reassesses his prior deduction.

“Should I be flattered that you never noticed?” he asks, and Goro blinks, giving himself a mental shake to focus.

He leans back and gives a (practiced) smile. “Perhaps you should. My apologies, you simply took me by surprise… Ren-chan.”

“Lala-chan doestell me I’m quitethe beautiful girl, it’s only natural for a boy such as yourself to be stunned by the sight.” She giggles as she answers the other question he’d been pondering without him having to ask.

He’s gained a few secrets from this visit, even if it’s not the ones he was hoping to discover. He can offer one of his own. “Perhaps that would be the case, if girls held my interest. I wouldn’t know.”

Ren twirls a strand of what mustbe a wig around her finger. Last he saw, her hair didn’t reach down her back, after all. The bat wings that sprout from her shoulders flutter, and he’s certainly never seen those or that tailflicking behind her before. He doesn’t tend to watch their battles, but between those and the forked tongue, he gets quite the impression of the Lilim he’s faced down in the past.

The rest of her outfit must be done herself. Sticking with the theme of reds on black. A short, tight black dress with embroidered red roses, a choker with a red teardrop pendant, and matching earrings. Two bracelets on her left wrist as well, silver bangles with rubies inlaid in the band.

“Well, darling, it’s a good thing we both know the truth then.” There are fangs in that wicked-sharp grin. Leaning close and dropping her voice to a whisper, Ren says, “Just because I’m a girl right now doesn’t mean I’m notstill also a boy, if those are what docatch your eye.”

He doesn’t bother answering that.

“You’re quite chatty like this,” he says instead.

“Oh, an astute observation!” That might be the most sarcasm he’s ever heard from the one before him. “I’m at my job. You’re a customer—one who hasn’t ordered, by the way! The chattier I am, the more people stick around, the more money gets made. Lala-chan is verygood about rewarding her employees when they go above and beyond.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. Of courseshe wiggles her eyebrows. He’s not going to rise to the bait. “Any recommendations then, Ren-chan?”

“That depends. Are you going to be posting it online, or do you want something tailored to your actual tastes?”

It’s only when she says it that he realizes he hasn’t been acting. Too stunned at first, and then he relaxed enough after figuring it out that he didn’t feel the need to. It reminds him of the few times he’s stepped into Leblanc by now.

He shouldn’t be getting this comfortable around a Phantom Thief.

He still can’t help but issue the challenge, “I’m curious to see what you think would suit my tastes.”

“I only know a few drinks, so I’m limited in my choices. All non-alcoholic, promise.” She grins and moves around the bar.

Goro can’t help but watch. Her black heels click against the tile as she walks, steady and firm, tail swishing in the air behind him. He thinks one of the ingredients she grabs is mint leaves, but she moves with confidence and he isn’t close enough to read some of the labels.

Soon enough, a glass is placed in front of him, and yes, that is mint in there. It’s slightly cloudy, but otherwise a simple clear liquid with ice. There’s definitely some lime slices mixed in as well.

He doesn’t hesitate before picking it up and taking a sip. It’s a sharp citrus, but the mint makes it feel refreshing, and there issomething sweet cutting the acidity. None of it is overwhelming, though. It’s not like anything he’s put on his blog, but it’s not something he’d necessarily keep off it.

“Interesting. It’s alright. What led you to this decision?” he asks, propping his head up with his palm as he leans forward.

Ren smiles and leans closer, both elbows resting against the counter. “You don’t hatesweets, or you’d never stand to run that food blog the way you do. You’ve accepted the coffee at Leblanc no matter what I serve to you, but you’ve definitely liked the Guatemalan Antigua blend. That has a softer acidity, but is known for the fresh aftertaste. So I figured a mojito would suit you well. Something refreshing. Something that makes you feel better, so you can keep working, or so you can relax. You don’t relax often.”

The read is impressive, if he were going to be honest. He hadn’t realized that Kurusu was paying that much attention to his reactions to the coffee.

The fact that he haspicked up on it irritates him though, so he doesn’t voice the praise. How dareKurusu have this information about him.

It doesn’t make sense, really. A worthy rival would haveto be able to match his own skills at least somewhat. And yet, it grates on him that Kurusu can read him. That feeling makes him itch. So seen.

“Not bad,” is all he’ll say about that.

“My logic, or the drink?”

Fine. He sighs. “Both. It doesn’t offend the senses, so I can see your logic.”

“You certainly know how to flatter a girl. I’m verywooed,” she deadpans, before glancing around. It’s been empty all this time, but Goro supposes it’s better to be sure before hopping up to sit on the counter.

“And here I thought we established that girlsweren’t who I’d be interested in wooing,” he responds, sipping again at the drink.

“Other girls, maybe. Are you going to hurt me and my poor little feelings by rejecting me like that?” She’s sitting sideways, one leg dangling off the edge while the other is bent inwards. Showing off a drop of the flexibility she most definitely has.

“Hm. You’re not like other girls, I suppose.” It’s a blatant setup.

“I’m not! I’m alsoa guy. You just have to get yourself a man that can do both.”

He resists scowling. It’s just some lighthearted teasing. She certainly can’t meananything by it.

(He’s seen the way Kurusu flits about his friends, and he wonders if any of them would be jealous).

“Or,” she continues, meeting his eyes, and the glasses can’t hide the intensity at this distance, “do I have to earnit? A kiss for the victor. If I win, you face me with everythingyou have, after all.”

“Do you flirt with all your customers like this, or am I special?” He keeps his voice neutral.

She laughs, voice lilting as she responds, “Why don’t you puzzle that one out yourself, Mr. Detective?”

Goro wonders how much she suspects him. She mustknow that her and her little group are his number one suspects. With the way they all flaunt their extra traits, they must either think it’s pointless by now, or don’t suspect him of having a connection to the metaverse at all.

“I’m assuming if you’re feeling so flirtatious your cat returned.”

She nods, and drops the sly look that had been making a home in her eyes. “Morgana came back a couple days after we talked. I think that night with you was the only time I went out while he was gone, when I wasn’t looking for him.”

“I’m glad to hear it, even if it means your determination to tease has returned tenfold.” He’d expected the new member, and the plan is going well. The opening had already been given and taken.

She laughs. “It’s your fault, really, for sticking around me while I’m at work. I made myself clear at the start.”

“You’ll have to educate me on how that logic works at some point. You arethe one still taking these actions.”

“Come chat with me after my shift, and we can do a lotof educating.” She slides off the counter, and moments later the proprietor of the bar walks in. “Hi Lala-chan! It’s been slow out here.”

Lala Escargot takes stock of the nearly-empty room and nods. “Keeping our customer entertained, I hope.”

“Ren-chan has been good company,” he says, before she can say anything for herself. “Though with how much of a flirt she is, she’s quite the menace.”

“Oh, don’t listen to Akechi-kun,” Ren says, shaking her head with a smile before Lala can ask. “He knows me, so he gets specialtreatment. He still hasn’t told me if this visit is for business or pleasure, though.”

Lala chuckles, deeper than he expects. “Well, if it’s for business, I’d hope he doesn’t bother my part-timer over it. You’re a friend of Ren-chan, then?” she asks, and he feelsher eyes flick up and down him.

“Yes, a friend,” he stresses. “Truthfully,” he lies, “I was curious and ducked in here to kill some time before a task nearby. It was by chance that I found Ren-chan working the bar. But ah, on that note,” he checks his watch, “I do need to be going.” Goro gives the both of them a smile that could dazzle any of the cameras, and takes their goodbyes before slipping out of the bar. It’s about time for the regulars to start showing up, and he’d rather not stick around.

He wonders how much Lala knows about Kurusu’s escapades. Romantic or criminal, he supposes. She seems like the type who’d enjoy either. She also seems the type who’d never spill to someone like him.

Kurusu inspires that in manypeople.

Akechi has made his speeches, hastold them what he wants. He doesn’t leave much choice.

He does leave.

Akira can’t help but dwell on the bright new white wings that had sprouted from Akechi’s back since the last time he’d seen him. The golden arrows floating just above his clothes and the accents in his hair. The soft blue light at his fingertips.

Things don’t add up.

He’d seen Akechi more recently than a month ago at Crossroads.

Akechi hadn’t had any wings until today.

They’d all seen those wings on stage. Knew what it meant. Knew he was going to pull them aside.

But his story is wrong.

“He can hide his persona’s traits,” he says, unable to let the thought sit in his brain any longer as they all rest in Leblanc, planning.

At least two necks crack as they swivel to look at him. He’d place his bets on Makoto and Yusuke. They’d been looking away, having a side-argument about something. He lost track of that conversation when it was about financial habits, and last he heard a snail was involved.

Also, those two often hunched, whether for studying or art. Their necks made a lot of noise.

Oh, he needs to elaborate.

“I saw Akechi this month. October 5th, maybe? He didn’t have wings. We were done with the palace by then.”

Morgana pipes up from his place in Akira’s lap. “I remember when we met him back in June, he said something about pancakes! I was the only one who mentioned pancakes.”

Ann looks at the two of them. “You’re right. I didn’t think it was weird then, but he made a show of noticing you spoke today, Morgana. Good catch.”

He can feel the purr at the praise and smiles, giving him a scratch.

“I’ve tried to hide my traits, it hasn’t worked. If no one else has managed, it’d point to a persona with a special ability.” Makoto’s eyebrows are furrowed as she frowns. He can practically hear the cogs in her mind turning.

“Arsène is supposed to be a master of disguise, and I’ve never been able to do anything like that.” He still tests each one, just to see what he can change. Of all the masks he’s worn, he never has been able to do anything to make them disappear. The most he can do is find one that is very subtle.

The others all sound off. No ability.

Okay. He can work with that.

“Futaba,” he says, looking at her.

She perks up, and grabs the idea right from the air. “Done and done. Let me get my hands on his phone and all his secrets will be revealed!”

Akira nods. That’ll give them access to a treasure trove of information. He looks at Haru next. “If he is…?”

Haru grits her teeth, and he can see the way her nails dig into her palms. In the end, she lets out a slow breath and nods. “I can work with him. I won’t give anything away with impoliteness. If he is my father’s killer, I would see him held accountable, I would not rob us of that chance by acting early.”

He takes her hand and gives her knuckles a kiss in thanks.

He wishes he could ask that they try to understand why, if given the chance. He doesn’t know the reasons, if Akechi is the black mask, but he knowsAkechi. Maybe not every aspect of him, but he knows that there would be reasons, even if the reason were distorted and warped, it’d be there.

The small glimpses he’s gotten of sincerity beneath the surface point to similarities.

Akira thinks he might be Akechi’s first friend.

It’s heartbreaking, almost.

It’d be more heartbreaking if Akechi weren’t planning to assassinate him.

For someone so used to hiding his wings, Akechi is diligent about making sure they show whenever they meet these days.

For someone so intelligent, he’s diligent about laying out his plans in heavy-handedmetaphor on the billiards table.

You eliminate your target without ever directly connecting yourself to it, is an alarming enough sentence from someone you know is planning to kill you.

What’s moreinteresting to Akira, though, is when Akechi says: And despite the player's best intentions, the ball may strike many unrelated obstacles in its path.

He wonders if he’s an unrelated obstacle.

He wonders, as he takes his shot, if Akechi would prefer him out of the way. In safety, rather than the path of destruction.

It doesn’t matter. Akira has made up his mind long before now. He doesn’t miss.

“You’ve become quite skilled,” Akechi says, and he grins as the cool night air flows around them.

“I’ve had to, I couldn’t let myself lose.”

Dominion is silent in his mind, but he can feel the calm waves of promise, of protection. He needs to keep himself under control, and this is one of the best masks for that.

“We're both victims of unjust adults,” Akechi is saying, discussing their similarities. And yet… “Yet I'm doing so as a detective, and you're acting as a phantom thief. Our stances couldn't be more different.”

He knows it’s pointless, but Akira still puts a smile on his face when he asks, “Sure you don’t want to join us?”

“Is that a serious question? Then, why not join me instead? All you'd have to do is abandon the teammates you have now.” Akechi’s eyes meet his, and where for others the gaze might pierce them, pin them in place like a butterfly on display, Akira only sighs.

He wants to be pinned, perhaps against the wall, but not like this. He’s already resigned to not getting his kiss.

(Some—namely all his thieves, already—would question why he still wants that. Any answer he could give simply isn’t enough).

“You’re my rival.” It’s everything and nothing at all, and all he can do is hope Akechi gets it. He usually does.

They’re both too bound in what they believe to deviate. Akira could never leave his thieves. Akechi has something that binds him just as tight. He has such a strong sense of right and wrong. He wouldn’t be doing all of this if he didn’t have a reason guiding him. He’s not so weak-willed as to go along with something if he didn’t see a point.

I think a relationship of equals suits us better, he says, and Akira has to agree. The challenge and the mystery of Akechi Goro is something farbetter than any alternative.

They depart, but Akira makes sure to lean up and give Akechi’s cheek a goodbye kiss.

“I do hope you didn’t forget that,” he says, voice pitched higher. “I want to see allyour power.”

Okay, so maybe everyone is right to call me insane, Akira thinks, staring down the barrel of a gun in Mementos.

Morgana had been hesitant to let him go alone.

It’ll be fine. Akechi can’t kill him yet. They’ve got plans. Even if he doesn’t know that Akiraknows about their scheduled date in an interrogation room.

He’s a little amused that Akechi is pointing a realgun at him for this show, though. Really, after all his time with Iwai, he knows how to spot the difference. He almost got shot by Yakuza over this sort of discrepancy in quality.

So maybe Dominion won’t be sticking at the forefront of his rotation right now. It does resist curse and block bless, which is useful enough, but he needs to deal damage.

Is it my turn to play?

He laughs at the voice that pipes up, and tosses a grin across the field. It’s a terrible idea. Alice is weak to bless, and yet…

“Crow!” he calls. “Would you like to meet my newest friend?”

Joker is sure he can survive oneattack.

She hasn’t gotten to taste battle yet, fused only a couple of days ago. Such a sweet little thing, even as she reeks of death.

It’s a shame he can sense that Die For Me!would be pointless. He’s sure it’d be quite the sight. As it is, he throws his mask to the sky and lets her twirl onto the battlefield, all smiles and politeness.Akira’s wings shift and spring forth as he does so, made of bone with velvet blue fabric draped across the skeletal structure, rips and tears letting that white shine through.

“Do you want to play with us?” she asks as she curtsies.

The smoke of Maeigaon blazes through the air and Akira can seethe damage it does as Akechi falls back. Not enough to win, not by far, and he’s already switched his mask this turn, so he simply takes aim and fires off all his bullets instead.

“What the f*ckis that, Kurusu!” he calls back, and Akira can only laugh.

At least until Akechi’s attack connects. The Kouga that hits him in return hurts, bless burning at his skin. He doesn’t have time to dodge the followup strike from Akechi’s lightsaber, either.

“Hey, I bought you that sword! And her nameis Alice!”

“All’s fair, it’s my sword now!” he calls back, no doubt about to remind him of his need for lethal intent, but Akechi doesn’t get the chance. He’s too busy dodging a Maeiga from White Rider. Damn, Akira had hoped that’d connect.

At least this is one of his lesser-used personas, because the next bless attack is blocked. He doesn’t want to use resources here, but the space after the attack lets him toss back a Recov-R and silently thank Takemi.

It does not give him enough time to dodge the bullets (the laser beams), but then again, those are pretty hard to dodge anyway.

He returns the attack with his daggers, sliding low and striking out. He feels them connect, and knows there mustbe blood on his face, even as Akechi pushes him away and summons Robin Hood again.

Megidola is a bitch.

The next Maeiga connects, giving him a chance to call forth Kaguya. Satellite wings take shape, arms covered with cybernetic pathways. Her skills are taxing, but the soft green light of her healing magic washes over him, and it’s worth it.

Especially since Akechi knows that he’d need to spend another Megidola or get in close again for any attack to connect.

Between his dagger and Akechi’s saber, blood spills from their cuts and stabs and splatters onto the floor between them.

Akira has the advantage, though. Of the two of them, he has access to a healing spell that doesn’trequire dying first.

If Akechi had more healing items, he might have been able to win. Akira keeps stock for the whole team. Akechi only stocks for one.

In the end, a well-placed critical downsAkechi, Akira swiping his legs out from under him and stabbing into his stomach. He withdraws the blade from the wound and pins him down, holding the sharp edge against Akechi’s throat.

“I win.”

Akechi raises an eyebrow at him. “Not going to prove it?”

Blood pools as he lightly presses down. “Not enough energy for a recarm, and I’m not spending a revival item on this. Those cost money, you know.”

“I suppose you’ve proved yourself,” he rasps. “I concede.”

With a nod, Akira stands, and offers his hand to Akechi, helping him up. Akechi hesitates, but takes it.

Once standing, Akira tosses a bead to him. “Stop bleeding out.”

He has no right to look so annoyed as he pops the bead into his mouth. Akira knowsAkechi used up all the items he brought with him here, or he would have healed three turns ago. He’s impulsive and tends to attack rather than pay attention to other factors, but he’s not stupid. He came well-supplied, and knew better than to let his health drop toolow.

Akechi fights like he has no one to rely on. Quick and powerful, or ready to draw out the battle until the combatants can taste iron in the air and his opponent is massacred.

“Satisfied?” he asks, opening a bottle of water for himself, holding another out.

Akechi takes it. “Of course not. But if we went any further, we’d both go beyond the point of no return, wouldn’t we?”

Akira laughs, and leads him out of Mementos, back to the cool night air of the surface. Words are said that Akira knowsare going to linger in his mind, long after they’re done lingering outside.

He’s switched back to Dominion, reflecting Akechi’s Justice, his brutal efficiency in pursuit of his goals. Angelic beings are not gentle creatures, he’s come to learn. Fast and vicious, glorious as they break what stands in their way. Revering something above all else, willing to sacrifice it all for what sits on that pillar of divinity.

Akechi’s guiding light is hidden from him, that fuel for his determination, but Akira is certain he’ll crack the code.

Maybe that’s what he holds highest like this, learning what lurks beneath the surface. It would explain his answer to Akechi’s question of who would win, no holds barred, is, “Remind me, who had a blade to their throat and a stomach wound three inches deep? I definitely wouldn’t lose.”

Akechi is hiding something. Even as he rolls his eyes and talks of hate, something morewants to claw its way free from that skin. Akira is certainthat the Black Mask is standing before him, not because of the blackmail or planned assassination, but because of the way he shifts and finds himself leaning towards ruthlessness.

Maybe that’s why he catches the glove and Akechi’s eyes, unwavering as he accepts the demands for a rematch.

“Make certain that you never forget: I am the one who will defeat you.” There’s a fire in Akechi’s eyes. Barely contained, ready to burn everything to the ground in order to get what he wants.

The question, then: what does he want?

Before Akechi can finish his departure, Akira grabs him and pulls him back. He’s well aware that his nails are sharp against Akechi’s skin. Dominion is many things. Soft is not one of them.

He yanks Akechi closer, one hand grasping at his hair as he shoves their mouths together.

The phantom taste of blood lingers on their tongues, even though it was all left behind in the Metaverse. Akira doesn’t care. A kiss with Akechi was always going to be bloody.

To make that clear, he uses one sharp tooth to cut against Akechi’s lip, staining his own red and licking at the mess.

It’s a victory that it lasts multiple seconds, potentially double-digits. He wasn’t counting. Akira was relishing the fact that he shocked Akechi into stillness, into forgetting whatever hangs between them and reciprocating, even if just for a moment. The sharp gasp of pain turns to a growl, and Akira is sure that if it took two seconds more, he’d have been pinned to whatever surface Akechi could take.

Instead, fingernails more like claws slice into him as he’s pushed away. He catches a glimpse of black coating, but it fades too fast for him to be sure. Not with the sensation of winning.

“What. Was that.” Akechi hisses out, not letting go of his arm.

“Didn’t we agree, Detective?” he whispers. “If I prevailed, I’d get a kiss. I certainly think I earned it.”

The only response he gets is a shove as Akechi turns on his heel and storms away.

Well.

That could have gone better.

But it alsodidn’t go worse.

Akira’s head hits the table with a thumpas Sae Niijima walks out.

Everything is swimming. His head is filled with cotton. She took the phone, he knowsshe took the phone. That was important.

He reaches a hand up and clutches at the two necklaces around his neck. One of them real. One of them a persona. The latter is sharper as metal digs into his skin. Sparks of pain grounding him enough to surface from the murky depths.

You did well, little one. We are here to protect you.

The words flow into his mind, and the cold metal surface of the table helps. Thank you, Queen’s Necklace, he manages to think back. It’s not necessary. Every mask is him. Pieces of himself shaped from shards into whole selves ready to be given name and form. Queen’s Necklace is soft, yet mischief lines her being.

When itemized, the necklace is the same as that which rests around his neck as a persona.

He can only hope it’s enough.

Goro glides through the halls.

It’s easy to give Sae-san a smile and answer her questions as he heads toward his destination.

It should be harder than it is.

Not stealing the gun from the guard and shooting the man dead, no. That was easy. The guard falls without much of a fuss.

No, what comes next is almost tooeasy.

Kurusu is staring vacantly at him. Has been since he walked in. There is no alarm in those eyes, distant and foggy. No witty retorts from that mouth. There are syringes littered on the ground, and disgust curls in his stomach. The tactics aren’t unusual, but it doesn’t sit right, seeing Kurusu drugged out of his mind and left so empty.

It makes him itch.

He knows Loki’s horns are showing, but it doesn’t matter. Kurusu is a dead man on borrowed time who wouldn’t even remember this otherwise, and he’ll hide them before he leaves this room.

It is curious, though, seeing him so lightly altered by his personas. All Goro can see is a necklace. One filled with jewels aplenty, fit for royalty, but a necklace alone. He remembers seeing it, a treasure demon that Kurusu was fond of. From what he remembers of the skills, it had Endure, and was built to heal in emergencies. Ridiculous, because treasure demons don’t work that way, not even for Kurusu. He’d seen Orlov accept its place embedded in his right hand, wings vanishing in the fiery wind. He’d never seen any of them in battle on Kurusu’s side, never seen them active.

Passive healing doesn’t help when they’re not in the Metaverse. It’s pointless to wear it now.

(He wonders if Kurusu reached for it when he hit the ground, falling from that ladder. If it healed any of the injuries or the concussion obtained from his capture, before he was removed from the cognitive world).

(It’s pointless to speculate about the actions of a dead man).

Kurusu’s head hits the table with a thunkas its only fanfare. Blood oozes from the wound, staining his face and the metal beneath it.

It’s done.

Akira Kurusu is dead.

He shot Akira.

He won.

Idly, he wonders about the chain still resting around his neck, but he’s sure it will be gone soon. He’s never gotten to see how a persona fades from a body.

This scrap won’t make a good trophy if it disappears.

He doesn’t needa trophy, and he reminds Loki of such, but the impulse is there now that the words have been thought. It’s a shame this form has no wings, a shame that Arsène’s feathers aren’t his to pluck, but he’d run into the same problem then.

With a flick of his knife, usually hidden in a pocket securely away from sight, he cuts a lock of hair from that head.

The scene is set. It wouldn’t be missed by anyone but him. Since the original owner is dead.

Kurusu is dead.

Goro slips back into the hallway and makes his phonecall to Shido, reporting the deed. He needs to get out of there. Needs to be far away from the scene. Needs to not think about the way the blood smelled the same as when they fought, as when they kissed—

Would it taste the same, too?

He huffs, making his way back to his apartment. That doesn’t matter. He won’t get to know. Kurusu is dead. He killed him.

Goro won.

He won. The news will report on the suicide of the leader of the Phantom Thieves, and he will bring his plan to completion. He will see his father’s helplessness at knowing Gorois the reason he has everything he dreamed. Knowing he has power over that piece of sh*t. A hollow, pyrrhic victory. Knowing exactly what winning cost. Knowing the exact way Kurusu’s brains splattered when expelled from his skull. Knowing that he’ll never hear that annoying, gratingvoice or laughter which he can’t get out of his head. That those eyes will never meet him with their sparks of defiance again.

Knowing that the body is already cold. Warm lips will never again meet his own.

Stop that.

He wrenches his thoughts away from Kurusu, away from the empty eyes and the pool of blood. There’s no turning back. There’s no pointin mourning the dead. He did what needed to be done. He won.

It’s not until he’s sitting on the couch in his (empty, far too empty) apartment that he opens his hand and realizes his trophy is gone.

f*ck.

If your Maid Marian yetlives, is that not a good thing?

Shut UP, Robin Hood.

Kurusu needs to be dead.

He needsto be dead.

If he isn’t, himand his foolish friends will ruin everythingif given half a chance.

Everything hurts.

Akira whines, and feels Morgana purr at his side. He thinks Morgana would be on his chest, except more than one rib is probably broken.

He has hazy memories of getting home, of hearing Takemi say that she couldn’t give him painkillers. She doesn’t know what’s in his system.

At least his throat wasn’t dry anymore. Did she get him to drink, or did she use an IV?

He’s not quite sure what day it is.

The thought of going to grab something downstairs crosses his mind, and then promptly stops crossing his mind as the bruise on his leg makes itself known.

Morgana blinks, stretching and standing up. “Akira? Are you awake?”

He manages an affirmative hum.

“Stay here,” as if he could move, “I’ll grab Futaba. She’s downstairs. You’ve been out for a day.”

Huh, that makes sense. The others probably can’t stand guard without being too suspicious. If it’s night, then Futaba would be best at staying up between her and Sojiro. It’s sweet that she’s camping out here, rather than watching from her room—

Akira is holding the dagger he hides under his pillow and sitting up before he consciously registers the sound of the window creaking open.

It doesn’t do much, because his vision goes white as he hisses in pain before he can see who it is.

The cold metal of a gun against the side of his head is enough to give him a solid guess.

“I will puke on you.”

Hm. Not the threat he was hoping to say. The nausea in his stomach from being forced up is very convincing, though.

“How?” Akechi growls.

“Do I have to explain how drug side-effects work?”

Oh, the room is spinning.

It takes Akira a moment to realize that’s because Akechi just slammed his elbow into the back of his head. Rude.

“My room is verybugged. I think it’d be bad for you if footage of you shooting an injured teen got out.” Yes, that’s a much better threat.

“If Oracle comes up here,” Akechi says, voice raised enough that the microphones will pick it up without trouble, “I’ll shoot her in the head first. I have more than enough bullets for you and all your vermin.”

As if to ensure they’re not further overheard, Akechi takes out his phone with his free hand, and the world ripples.

Ugh. That is not helping his head.

His head. Which feels far too empty.

Being in the real world, his personas tend to be quieter by nature, less of the clamoring to speak. But in the Metaverse they alwaysbecome loud.

It’s silent.

Akira yanks himself away, falling from his hands and knees onto his side when his limbs fail to support him. His stomach wants to violently protest, but there’s not enough in him to make the attempt.

“If you— If you want answers, you owe me a bead.”

A flash of pain.

There’s a ringing in his ears. And then everything is gone.

Even damaged as he is from people not Goro, watching Akira drop to the ground after struggling is far, farmore satisfying than before. Whatever that thingwas in the interrogation room had no life before Goro got there.

There’s a vicious, bloodthirsty creature in his chest that wants to bring him back so he can do it again. All fangs and claws and wanting to see every single way he can snuff the life from Akira’s body. Wanting to see every single escape attempt, every single moment of that futile struggle to get away, knowing that he’s going to be caught and killed no matter what he does, but still hoping for that unreachable escape.

It takes force to show away the black and white patterns, force to make them fade from his arms. He snarls as he calls forth Robin Hood, casting Samerecarm.

Kurusu will live. For now.

He can hear the way bones crack back into place, watching as his leg straightens from its awful unnatural bend. See the way he inhales and breathes again. Unhindered by broken ribs.

It’s not perfect. The pain will still linger. The damage dealt in the real world is not as fully healed as if it were done in the Metaverse.

But Goro gets to watch as black wings dipped in the hues of a galaxy fade back into existence. As Akirasmears the blood away from his eyes and sits up, coughing enough that if he feared at all for Akira’s health, he’d worry about a lung coming up from that mouth.

If that were to happen, all you’d have to do is kill him and bring him back again.

Maybe I could try choking him, next time. He wants desperately to see how Akira struggles, to feel that frantic pulse slip away underneath his fingers. Helpless in his grasp. Blood underneath his blackened claws.

Hush, the both of you. He holds the answers you seek.

“Ren-chan,” Kurusu croaks, “never got to see your wings. And you faked noticing Morgana speaking in October. You responded to what he said about pancakes in June.”

“So you’ve known since the start of our time working together, then,” he mutters. f*ck. How could he miss those details?

“Mhm. And you let Futaba hold your phone.”

Well. He’ll have to get an entirely new disposable number, because Goro is certain that whatever she’s done to his device in the time since is impossible to undo without creating a new digital identity on a fresh device.

Then he stops.

That was before the details of the mission were hashed out.

That was before Kurusu beat him at billiards.

“You’ve known. The entire. f*cking. Time.”

It’s more of a wheeze than a laugh that answers him as Kurusu pushes himself up into a sitting position. “I knew what I was saying, when I said I wouldn’t lose. I knew what I was saying, when I said we were rivals. Morgana didscold me for the duel, but it’s not like you were going to kill me beforethe convoluted faked-suicide plan.”

The confidence Kurusu has in that statement makes a stupid amount of sense.

Goro growls, and stalks forward. He yanks Kurusu’s head up and by the hair and inspects it.

The place he cut a lock free is hale and whole.

There’s also a smug grin on Kurusu’s face, so he tosses him back to the ground just to remind him who’s in charge, here.

(The scrape on his cheek from the impact is beautiful).

Nope.

“That was Sae-san’s cognition, wasn’t it?”

“The hardest part was getting the necklace through security so she’d see me with it.”

What will it taketo beat this unearned confidence out of this idiot?

So they didn’t steal the treasure, Kurusu managed to convince Sae-san to help, they sent him to her palace, and he shot a f*cking cognition. And he didn’t question it. Because the treasure demons barely change Kurusu’s appearance, no wings to be seen. Because the necklace appears the same as the persona when Kurusu turns it into an item (somehow). Because they made sure Sae-san would see him wearing it.

Kurusu tries to hit him with a wing when Akechi’s foot pushes his chest down, but he catches it with a clawed hand and yanks.

It’s considered poor form to go after someone’s persona traits in a spar among the thieves. Goro knows the pain is blinding.

Kurusu doesn’t scream as he goes limp. He does cry, but his throat is silent. Too overwhelmed by the sensation to make a noise.

The handful of feathers pulls free in his grasp, and he takes one step back from the sudden loss of the anchor he was holding.

Perhaps this trophy will keep better than the last he claimed.

He doesn’t get to savor this victory, however, because a leg shoots out and sweeps his feet from under him, falling onto his back.

Kurusu can barely move, barely focus, and yet he pins Goro’s legs down with his knees and pulls his dagger, staring him down even as his hand shakes. Eyes reddened and cloudy, breath coming in gasps, and yet still he fights.

“What’s the f*cking point, Akechi?” he asks. “Why are you doing this?”

He knocks the blade from Kurusu’s hand and flips them, another gasp choked back. “I am going to thrust my father, Masayoshi Shido, into a personal, living hellof my own design. I will have my power over him, and your lifegets in the way.”

“The f*cking politician? How, exactly, does acting as his personal cognitive hitman accomplish th—” Kurusu cuts off his words to whine as Goro uses Kurusu’s own blade to pin his hand to the ground.

“Once he is at the height of his power, I will tell himwho he owes all his success to, the child he threw away, and drag him down.” He will. It’s so near. So close he can almost taste it.

“And— howdo you— know he won’t— won’t just kill you, too? Wipe his— his hands of this hitman so the dirt can’t— can’t be traced back to him?” Those ribs might have been re-broken with the force of Goro’s knee slamming into his chest.

His only answer is to slam his elbow into Kurusu’s throat, before wrapping his hands around that skinny neck and doing exactlywhat he thought of earlier. He lifts Kurusu by the neck and slams him against the cold concrete ground of this empty space in Mementos once. Twice. Again. There’s a sickening crackof a skull splintering, and his fingers dig into the soft flesh protecting those vital veins and pathways, drawing blood and cutting off oxygen.

Goro wears no white gloves or black gauntlets. Only the thickened skin and claws Loki gives him. So he can feelthat strong pulse struggle.

Falter.

Slip.

Wings fluttering helplessly to move, not strong enough to dislodge. A baby bird unable to escape, beating against his hands. And all he has to do.

Is.

Crush.

Him.

Akira struggles and struggles, but he is far, far too weak to push Goro away. His free hand tooweak to even make contact against Goro’s body as he tries to throw a punch.

Soon even those faint movements cease. The harsh, failed attempts at breathing become a mockery of themself, before the lungs give out altogether.

Akira Kurusu’s heart ceases a second time. He can feel the moment it trembles and stops under his fingertips.

It takes longer, this time, to focus his mind in order to summon Robin Hood for another Samerecarm.

He leaves the dagger embedded in Kurusu’s hand. Just as a reminder.

He makes sure the bruises in the shape of his hands around that neck don’t fade, either.

The first words that leave Kurusu’s mouth when he comes around again are: “I should have actually punched that bastard in the face. If I’m going to have an assault record I should’ve earned it.”

“... What.”

“Your father. Shido. I remembered his face while you were busy. Maybe the suffocation was helpful.” He wheezes at his own throat, like a cat trying to dislodge a hairball. It’s the worst attempt at a laugh Goro has ever heard. “He’s that bald asshole. We were considering going after him, but I wasn’t conscious enough earlier today to contribute to that conversation, and now, well,” Kurusu does not gesture. He lets the pause and limpness of his body speak for itself. “He’s the one that got me my record.”

It makes a horrible kind of sense. From what he knows of Kurusu’s story, his father is exactly the type of person to fit the bill. Who could get him charged with assault without being named in the case at all? “If you think I’ll let you ruin my plans, I’ll f*cking leave you dead.”

Kurusu is silent for a few minutes. All Goro hears is the shaky breathing, and grunts of pain as he shifts to be able to remove the dagger. He watches as Kurusu takes out bandages from a pocket and clumsily wraps his hand.

Once done, those steel eyes meet Goro’s, clearer than they’ve been since before the interrogation.

“Come with us.”

“What. No.” What?

Kurusu coughs, and Goro is sureif his throat wasn’t so brutalized it could have been a laugh. But he steadies himself quickly, before Goro’s rage flares. “No, listen. He’s powerful. Influential. They are studying cognitive psience. He has special defenses. So, join his enemy and ruin him.Show him that for all he tries to protect himself, the snake in his midst will ensure he fails.”

His voice is harsh, acidic, and maybe it’s not just because of the damage he’s been dealt. “Take away everything he’s ever wanted to be, and turn him into a miserable husk of himself. See what the inside of his mind is like. Probably see what he sees youas. And if you change your mind, you can still kill him, or try to kill us. Have a proper duel to try and reclaim your glove. See who wins. But you can get more information, working with us. And you can have time to consider alternate available options.”

It’s…

Tempting.

He shouldn’t letit be tempting. “You want me to throw yearsof work away for this? What makes you think you can convince me?”

Kurusu grins, teeth and fangs glinting. Even with his wings still damaged (feathers still clutched in Goro’s hand), even barely able to move, he refuses to waver. “I have a few reasons. I think what I’ve laid out might appeal. I think you deserve revenge just as much as the rest of us, and seeing him face consequencesmight be almost as good, and, well…

“I’ve noticed you haven’t kept me dead twice now. Maybe you like me more alive.”

Little Sigyn’scaught you there, hasn’t he?

Shut the f*ck up, Loki.

The command does nothing to stop the laughter of his persona.

“Is Loki your other one, then?” Kurusu asks, voice pitched like he’d be leaning forward if he could, and f*ck, he said that out loud, didn’t he? “The black and white one. He gives you very sharp claws. Probably the one that lets you hide your traits?”

“Go back to being in too much pain to think,” he mutters, but he’s lost some of the venom in his voice.

He can seethe impulse to say kill me again, thencross Kurusu’s face. Apparently the bullet, blunt-force trauma, and oxygen starvation haven’t killed enough braincells to make him actually say it, at least.

Instead, Kurusu says, “I think Samerecarm is messing with my perception of pain, or my adrenaline, or something. I am still in so much pain. I don’t think that’s gone down much. I can just ignore it more.”

It could be a good idea, seeing Shido’s palace. Determining his patterns of thought and his regard for youmay give greater insight to how to handle him. It need not stopour plan to work with them.

He pauses, frowning. Robin Hood raises a decent point, but—

Let’s tear that f*cker’s head to shreds.

Loki’s point is better.

He can destroy Shido from the inside, and make his pyrrhic victory all the stronger when he dangles the truth before him. It would be bestto have him in the palm of his hand, the ever-present threat of a change of heart dangled in front of him. Unable to hurt Goro without the rest following through with the plan. Trapped, no matter what. Victorious only because he was allowedto be. A worthless win.

(He doubts the thieves will go for this, but some brute force might convince them).

“You’re very hot when plotting your bloody path for vengeance against someone who actually deservesit.”

Goro stops pacing as he considers his options, and spins to stare at Akira once more. “What is wrongwith you?”

“I think I have a preferred form of death now? Sexiest but most painful was the choking. Being shot was quick. I’d like to not be drugged again. That didn’t quitekill me but zero out of ten, it was the worst thing these past couple days.”

He kneels down and grabs Akira’s face, squinting. He still flinches from the claws. His eyes are still lucid, though he looks a little manic.

“I was wrong, dying twice has broken you.” Goro drops him again.

Kurusu flops back onto the ground, and starts, of all things, patting his pockets. Soon enough he pulls out a bead, a bottle of water, and a Hiranya.

Immediately, he’s laying on his back. “Oh. The Hiranya was a bad idea. Being manic is better than being tired. Also, how long have we been here?”

Goro pauses. “Perhaps… half an hour? Why?”

Kurusu hums, rubbing his eyes. “You have like five minutes to get yourself under control. Did you not think Futaba would call for help?”

Right.

The phone he used to get here is still bugged.

“And here I thought I was being offered the hand of friendship.”

“From me, yes. If Haru decides to pursue you with her axe, you’re lucky if I lean toward non-interference. I can, in fact, separate my desire to kiss your stupid face from my loyalty to my thieves.” Kurusu shrugs. “I just also think you’re a lot like us, and if they saw that, they might agree to more… cooperation.”

Againwith those comments. “Why do you keep doingthat?”

It takes a second for Kurusu to think through what he’s been saying. Then, he just huffs. “You’re— You’re a detective,” he stresses. “If someone repeatedly flirts with you, I’d hopeyou’re smart enough to figure it out?”

“I can pick up on your intent, but not your motive.”

“I enjoy your company. Competing against you is fun. I’m curious to see more of you. You’re very hot, especially when we fight. I like a man who keeps me on my toes. I think if you had more people who actually f*cking cared about you, then you might not hurt so much. I can keep going. If you let me keep going it’s going to get painfully emotional for the both of us. You can tell me to sto—”

The kiss is bloodier than their first, more bruising. Their teeth clash together initially, but he uses that momentum to tear at Akira’s lips. Goro yanks on his hair, pulling him up, pulling him closer, boxing him in with his knees.

Goro pours all the fury and hatred he’s felt for monthsinto the kiss. He digs his hand into Akira’s feathers and relishesin the gasp of pain. If he could, he’d take Akira apart bone by broken bone. Sever each nerve, just to make him feel each individual loss.

How darehe.

How dare he barge into Goro’s life and try to make it better? How dare he challenge every building block he’s laid in his path for vengeance?

(How dare he be able to offer this kindness, as if it won’t be taken away?)

Akira breaks the kiss first, and Goro would shoot him for that, except the words he whispers are simply, “we have one minute.”

So he pulls back, forces his form to be under control. Lets Robin Hood’s wings sprout from his back, and—

Akira reaches out and plucks one.

“f*ck, that hurts.”

He turns to glare at him, soul still screamingas he ignores the pain, to see Akira sitting there smugly holding it. “If you’re keeping mine, I get to have one of yours.”

And then he tucks it into his cleavage.

The arrival of the rest of the Phantom Thieves is almost a relief, just to avoid dealing with that.

Almost.

Later, later.

After Shido’s palace. After seeing the cognitive double. After the change of heart.

After disappearing into nothing.

After felling a god.

Akira holds Arsène’s feathers in his hand, plucked from his own back, stolen from Goro just yesterday.

With careful, steady hands, he threads them onto a necklace. Waiting for his unplannedvisitation.

It’s December 25th. Everyone else will be getting together later, and Goro is of course invited, but Akira can’t be sure if he’ll show or not. Which is why it was essential to steal the feathers. He’ll know who took them. He’ll want them back.

(Akira knows he’ll be lucky if the only ones Goro claims are the ones on the chain, when there are so many more open to the dangers of being plucked).

The dagger he was using to cut the hole sticks into the wall above the window as he hears it creak open. He grins.

“You could use the door like a normal person, one of these days.”

Goro huffs, grabbing the dagger and stepping into the room. The next second, the necklace is in his hands, and he’s eyeing the rest of the feathers like he could take them all, just to see Akira squirm and scream.

“And deal with the infestation downstairs? Unlikely.” Today he has horns striped with black and white, three long cords of braided red hair falling against his back. Akira has half a mind to cut one of those for his own necklace, one of these days. There’s also black claws with crimson undersides, and a golden chain wrapped around his neck and torso. The striped pattern stains his hands and trails up under his shirt, though how far it goes Akira isn’t sure.

“Makoto, Yusuke, Futaba, and Sojiro so far, if I’ve heard right?” He’s been paying attention to the voices floating up from the stairs. He’ll join them in a bit. He just had to be approachable, first.

“If you try to make me stay for the festivities, I will stab you,” Goro says, and Akira knows he’s entirely serious.

He still reaches out and threads their hands together, grinning. “A fair trade. I’ll let you get more than one attempt if you actuallystay. At least for a little bit?”

“... Fifteen minutes.”

“Two hours.”

“Half an hour.”

“Hour and a half.”

Goro grits his teeth. “Forty–five minutes.”

“An hour and you get at least three stabbings.”

“Deal.”

Akira laughs, leaning against Goro’s side. He’ll count that as a victory.

For now, they have some time until everyone else arrives.

He doesn’t know what the future holds. At least one of them might get pulled into the proceedings, and Akira is fine with it being him. He doubts Goro will let that rest, however. And either way, it could very well take them both.

But Akira remembers. Akira remembers seeing the berserker rage he inflicted on himself. Akira remembers seeing Goro almost die at the hands of his cognitive double. Akira remembers the panic as everyone around him flaked away into nothingness. He’s not going to lose anyoneagain.

(Goro remembers the gut-deep feeling of knowingthat Akira was dead, and there was no turning back. He remembers the blood and the lifeless eyes that should hold fire and steel.

He refuses to lend his voice to those words, those thoughts, those memories. That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

The only person allowed to hurt Akira is him, because Goro can bring him back again.

He is greedy. He refuses to risk losing the little good he’s found in this world.)

Akira pulls his boyfriend into a kiss. One of the softest they’ve had, no blood between their lips.

When they break, Goro looks at him, and says, “You haven’t been shifting as much, lately.”

He understands the question. “It’s easier, when I reflect what people want to see back at them. All those personas, those masks, they’re still here. But… I’m tired. They’re all me, but Arsène is the easiest meto be.”

If it were anyone else, any of his thieves, they might say something about loving him no matter what, or wanting to be there as he continues to explore.

Goro, though, just nods and grips his hand tighter. “I’ll be sure to collect more for my necklacewhen I get the chance, then.”

It’s one of the sweetest things Goro has ever said. He holds back his fainting heart so he can reply, “You’ll have to catch me, first.”

“As if you could beat me.”

“Guess I’m sticking with Arsène for a bit, then. At least until the end of the day. I’d win, but I don’t feel like letting you tryuntil you’ve socialized.”

He laughs at the flicker of annoyance.

Akira doesn’t know what the future holds, doesn’t know what the Metaverse might still bring, given he still has wings. But he knows he won’t be alone.

His broken pieces draw blood, but so does Goro. The reddened warped reflections don’t push him away, they show him how to stay.