Chapter Text
“…I will carve my own path for myself. I refuse to accept a reality concocted by someone else, stuck under their control for the rest of my days.” Akechi doesn’t hesitate. He’s meant to be dead. He knows this. He’s come to accept it, as much as anyone can accept their own death.
“But then, you’ll…” Ren’s voice is so quiet, his expression somber. The ridiculousness of this situation strikes Akechi anew. He tried to kill Ren, and his perfect reality is still predicated on him being alive.
He wishes it didn’t send the thrill through him that it does.
Pathetic.
“Don’t ask such stupid questions after all this time. All you have to do is stick to your guns and challenge Maruki. Or, are you really so spineless that you’d fold over some bullshit, trivial threat to my life?”
“Don’t oversimplify this.”
“Oh, but it IS simple. Do you think I’d be happy with this? Being shown mercy now, of all times? I don’t want to be pitied—this isn’t something I’m debating with you! Your indecisiveness on the matter is essentially a betrayal of my wishes.” Akechi can feel himself getting flustered, as though it’s his fault. He’s talked of his death often, but never like this. He’s never begged for anyone to kill him, but this feels like begging. He hates it. He hates this world. “…I want to hear you say it aloud. What do you intend to do?”
Ren’s face, normally so impassive, may as well have the answer written over his face. There’s a pit forming in Akechi’s stomach. For once, he’s hoping that he can’t read Ren as well as he thinks he can.
“I won’t wait a moment longer. Answer me.” Akechi is trying to sound furious, but his voice quivers, slight enough that he hopes Ren doesn’t catch it.
“We’re taking the offer.”
Akechi is so stunned for a moment that he feels as though he can’t breathe, like all the air has been pulled from Leblanc. “…Are you serious?” Akechi can hear how disdainful his voice is, can feel the curl of his lip in disgust and the way that his nails dig into the skin of his palm. He’s stopped trying to temper himself in this reality, but right now he reins in every impulse he has. He’s not sure what he’ll do otherwise.
Ren nods. He won’t meet Akechi’s eyes. “I am serious.”
Akechi can’t feel his hands. Is that his real reaction, or how Maruki and Ren think he should react? He thinks he makes a noise, some sound to mark his shock or disappointment or mind-numbing rage, but he can’t say what exactly it is. “…Well, I have your answer,” he says at last. He can’t see straight, can’t even look at Ren.
Akechi turns towards the door, his head bowed. “There’s nothing left I can say. Our deal’s off.” As though that matters, after what Ren has just done. Tomorrow Ren will subject them all to being his puppets, his little toys that he’s keeping safe and sound in his dollhouse. Or, rather, Maruki’s dollhouse.
The cold rushes up to greet him as he steps out of Leblanc. Akechi pauses, tipping his head back to watch the snow. It is so beautiful, and so, so fake. He’s sick with horror, with rage and disgust and disappointment, with fear for what tomorrow may bring and also, in his most secret heart, he can admit that he’s almost pleased. No one has ever cared for him enough to ruin the world.
He doesn’t want it, but it’s proof that he has burrowed under Ren’s skin as much as Ren has burrowed under his. There’s no solace to be found there; just cold acceptance and the knowledge that tomorrow, Akechi Goro as he exists will be gone forever.
There’s nothing he can do about it. Not anymore. There’s a certain clinical, detached satisfaction in that, in knowing that he has done everything he can and it’s not enough. Infuriating, of course, but freeing, in its own way.
Freeing until he starts walking again and sees an impossible door in the midst of Yongen-Jaya, directly across from Leblanc.
A young girl stands outside it in a prim pencil skirt and blouse, her long blond hair loose and reaching down to nearly her ankles. “Young man! Your interview is about to start!”
Akechi stops. He’s heard those exact words dozens of times, but not once since he was transported to Maruki’s perfect reality. It’s been nice, in a miserable sort of way.
He’s done this before. A different girl, a different place, a different reality, but he knows what this is. He remembers the Velvet Room and Igor.
“You’re not who I spoke to last time.”
She shakes her head, tapping her foot impatiently. “No. I’m Lavenza. Your interview — you have to hurry. You don’t want to miss your time slot.”
Akechi laughs, jagged enough to impale himself on. “It’s pointless to even talk to me.” He feels sick, like there should be blood in his mouth or a knife in his gut. “You didn’t hear? He’s taking the deal.”
Lavenza’s amber eyes are expressionless, just like Ren’s had been when he told Akechi that he didn’t care about anything he wanted. “The Trickster is not the only one with the ability to influence this world.”
Akechi knows this. He remembers stepping through this door before, remembers being offered a contract. Lavenza had been twins then, but it’s clear that this is the same opportunity.
“I have no desire to form any deals with you.”
She taps her foot impatiently and leafs through her planner. “This is just an interview, according to my notes. A conversation.”
Akechi grimaces. He doesn’t remember if the twins had looked like this or not. It was a long time ago.
Lavenza lets out the beleaguered sigh of a much older woman. “You don’t need to form a deal. Like I previously stated, you’re scheduled for an interview. She taps one of the pages emphatically. Peeking over her shoulder, Akechi can see a neatly color-coded schedule.
“I’m not one of your puppets,” Akechi snaps. “Let me be.”
Lavenza brushes her long curtain of hair over her shoulder and steps carefully in front of him. He could brush her aside, but it’s clear that she’s trying to prevent him from leaving. “This world is wrong,” she says. Her voice is light, almost musical. There are snowflakes in her hair.
Everything about this world looks so real, but he knows better. If Ren has his way, it won’t matter what he thinks.
“It is.” Akechi admits. “It is.” He sighs, then straightens, his posture as perfect as ever. “Very well, if you refuse to leave me be, then I suppose I can make an appearance.”
Lavenza inclines her head and steps aside, gesturing for him to enter.
Akechi straightens his lapels, plasters on the smile of the Detective Prince, and steps through the door.
“Welcome to the Velvet Room!” The voice that booms out to greet him is warm and personable, almost grandfatherly. It’s not the voice that Akechi heard the last time he was here.
Akechi blinks, his eyes adjusting to the harsh glare of the studio lights. He’s standing on the manufactured stage of a talk show. There’s a chair set up for him, and a steaming mug of coffee waiting for him to pretend to sip it.
There’s posters plastered on the walls, and his own smiling face stares down at him from every single one. They’re done in the style of Good Morning Japan and every other trivial talk show he’s ever been on, flashy text advertising his next appearance and all. The Detective Prince, Crow, the Black Mask, every moniker he’s ever been assigned staring down at him.
Each and every one of them is smiling, although the grin that distorts Black Mask’s face can barely be called that. The Detective Prince is easily recognizable, as is the polite, restrained face of Crow and his princely outfit. There’s other aliases too, ones he hasn’t thought of in ages. The codename Shido’s people called him, the nickname his mother called him, a scrawny photo of him at the orphanage.
It doesn’t escape Akechi’s notice that there isn’t a single poster that contains just his name.
He doesn’t respond to the figure. He remembers the last time he was here, although it didn’t look quite like this. A prison, was it?
That makes more sense now. Joker’s distortion, not his. Last time he was here there was no real effort to convince him to stay. He was just a pawn in the plans of a false god.
Now, it seems that he’s a pawn in the plans of a real one. He is so goddamned tired of being a tool for someone else’s purpose.
“I am Igor,” the figure says, voice grand and proud.
“I’m well aware.”
“Then you must know why you are here, do you not?” Igor’s voice is rich and warm, almost gentle.
Akechi hates him instantly.
“I’m not interested in any deals you have to offer.” Akechi keeps himself as restrained as he can, but he’s in the Metaverse, and Loki lurks at the edge of his consciousness. They’ve both gotten used to having free rein here.
“You could have the same powers as the Trickster. The ability to have near hundreds of Personas at your fingertips. The power to break free of your shackles, to control your own narrative.”
Akechi’s lip curls. “You’re only telling me what I want to hear.”
Igor laughs, and Akechi’s hand curls into a fist at his side. “Is it working?”
“No,” Akechi snaps. “There’s no point in any of this. I told your little minion that already. Joker has made his choice. He has no desire to let any of us be free ever again.” He can taste the vitriol with which he spits his words, can feel his nails digging sharply into his palm. He hasn’t drawn blood, but it’s inevitable at the rate this conversation is going.
“Nothing is absolute,” Igor says. His voice is still gentle, but there’s an undercurrent of seriousness that slithers under Akechi’s rage and embeds itself into his skin, like a thorn from a briar patch. “You must make him see reason. You are the only one who can.”
“You want me to arrange my own death.” It’s pathetic, that this is how his life works. So pathetic that the only thing left to do is laugh about it, about the way that he must die and never be happy, no matter what.
Igor laces his fingers together and leans forward. He’s every talk show host Akechi has ever spoken to, every interviewer who has smiled and told him how impressive they find him. “I want you to make the right choice.”
Akechi scoffs. He’s up to this challenge, certainly, but he hates the way Igor speaks to him, hates the way that he feels pitied. Poor Akechi, ordered around like a puppet even after death. “I’ll do it,” he says, voice steady. “But I won’t sign your contract. I do this on my own merit, or not at all.”
Igor dips his head. “Very well. But be warned, Wild Card — this is your only chance. If you refuse to sign now, you will not get another opportunity, even if Lavenza and I continue to appear to you as a result of your…unique circumstances.”
Akechi doesn’t hesitate. “I won’t sign.”
“Hmph,” Lavenza says. “I suppose you will do.”
Igor’s mouth twitches. They seem amused, which is disgusting, since they’re here discussing Ren’s selfish, hare-brained choices and there is nothing about this situation that is particularly amusing.
“I’ll do it,” Akechi repeats. “Just let me leave.”
Lavenza meets Akechi’s gaze, and this time there is something like pity in her eyes. “The door has always been open. You are the only one keeping yourself trapped.”
Akechi scoffs and turns, heading for the door that had gone previously unnoticed behind him. This isn’t him. He shouldn’t be the one here.
His hand lingers on the doorknob for a long moment, and he almost glances back over his shoulder at Lavenza and Igor. Instead, he steels himself and reaches for the doorknob.
Akechi blinks, and when opens his eyes again, he’s in his own bed. His alarm beeps dutifully, and he sits up. He stops it, then checks the time. 9am, February 2nd.
Fuck.