Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world is red when he wakes up again.

His eyes are sore and dry, as though he has kept them open for a long time. Something heavy and sticky clings to his lashes, making a slight pop audible only to him as he blinks slowly.

The world is still.

He slowly pulls himself into an upright position, body stiff and cold, like an old piece of tape being peeled off.

Something scrapes on the table as he moves. Slightly ahead of him, below where his head is. Painstakingly, feeling the complaints from the stiff muscle in his neck, he cranes over to look.

Small, fitting in his hand. Vaguely rectangular, one end jutting out. One of his fingers catches on a hook.

It’s a gun. The word comes to him, short and harsh. Something made to hurt others. The person who was targeted could be dangerous or innocent, but the gun didn’t care. It was a tool. An ugly one. But if it could hurt others…

The gun is the only thing he has in this world. It’s the only way he can hurt others before they hurt him. He doesn’t know which is the real reason he doesn’t let go of it as he stands up, the metal chair dragging sluggishly.

The hard edges of the tables dig into his palms as he braces himself, the room spinning in blurry shades of black. The only bit of color is a thin bright red smear that stings somewhere deep in his eyeballs.

He squints. Slowly, the smear comes into focus as the room slows down, revealing that it was attached to another device that descended shortly from the ceiling. A camera?

Are you thinking it can be used as video evidence?

Something grabs at his hair, so visceral and forceful his entire head, heavy and hazy as it is, is yanked along with it. It gets dropped on the ground with a loud thud that reverberates across his skull, muting whatever the voice says next, but fading just in time for another impact on his chest, as pointed and hard as the shiny black shoe of the — 

He’s alone.

No one is yanking his hair. He’s not on the ground. There are no gleaming cuffs around his wrists. There are no shadowy figures holding out a clipboard and demanding a confession. There is no one. No one is coming to save him. No, there was only one person coming here, and that person was going to ki—

He feels more than sees the gun slipping from his clumsy fingers. He curls his fingers around the grip. After a moment of hesitation, he places a finger on the trigger, but doesn’t press down. He wants to leave, so he does. It’s almost surprising how simple it is.

He pushes open the door to the room, trying his hardest to pull his eyes away from the needles on the ground, and the vaguely round empty space in the blood spattered on the table that he somehow knows is there. How can he get out? How did he get here in the first place? He combs through his memory, but nothing comes to mind. Everything before the moment he first woke up is a terrifying blank.

The bite of the cuffs ache with every slight tremble of his hand. Stiff lumps rise and fall on the side of his neck every time he turns. Maybe that was for the best. 

The door is unlocked, and he steps out into a long lit corridor leading to an elevator. The panel next to it reads B4, but that’s not what he notices first.

He notices the smell first. How could he not? The place smells musty, rusty, rotten, like it was held together by viscera long since dead. He looks around, trying to locate the source, but the only thing he can see is ruin. Paint peeling away from the walls like mold, jagged pieces of tile scattered across the floor, wires hanging bare from the ceiling like a noose from the heavens. If he squints into the darkness, he can see cracks along the wall that seem to grow with every step he takes, and bits of ash float against the dim lights that still remain. 

He stops at the end of the hallway, where two options present themselves. He doesn’t want to take the elevator in this state, trapped in an even smaller space, blindly trusting that machinery he can’t even see will hold long enough to get him out of here. No, he thinks, casting his eyes to a green and white sign. It’s barely lit, but the little green figure is still recognizable. He’ll take the stairs.

He opens the emergency exit door. Where to go? Where even was the exit in this dying, decaying building?

His decision is made for him when a noise from downstairs disturbs the dead silence. Not words, but a high-pitched, desperate hum, as though someone's mouth was blocked from crying out for help. It could be a threat, but it's the only sign of life he’s sensed so far.

His left hand drags on the rails, the other never letting go of the gun. He can just barely tell where the next step is only by the dark imprints that come into view, each foot seemingly suspended in never-ending free fall before it meets the next step. 

He stops after two flights of stairs. The sound, now clearly the sound of someone struggling, is as loud as it has ever been, coming from just a few meters beyond that door.

He places his hand on the metal doorknob, cold, as though no one had touched it on the long time. He takes one moment to let the chill ground him before he presses down and swings the door open.

The first thing he sees is a long object on the ground, the light of the emergency exit sign just bright enough to make out the parts of a body. Light hair that fell past the ears, the tips curling on the floor. Beneath it was a grey jacket and black slacks that faded into the darkness. The figure’s hands were tied by thick cables on his back, and he could make out similar binds around the ankles. As if sensing that someone had arrived, the figure turned and met his eyes. 

His eyes were red, red as the blood that spilled from the bullet in his forehead. When he saw those eyes last, there was no mercy in them, only mania. 

A sharp, glistening smile. Something long and thin and cold pressed to a place that would never heal. Case closed, a gentle, delighted voice whispered, words handcrafted to deliver him into the grasp of death. This is where your justice ends—

Sae Nijima's cognition of Ren Amamiya doesn't hesitate. He flees.

He slams the door behind him, so hard he thinks the building rattles with the force, but he dares not look back. He has to keep going. Is that the sound of footsteps behind him? Did Akechi get free of his bindings already? Any semblance of fear he felt when he first came down these stairs are long gone, the ground flying beneath him. At one point he missteps and falls onto the steps in front of him, just barely bracing himself so he doesn’t fall on his chin and break his jaw. Something warm spills in rivulets from his knee and his palms are raw and burning, but he barely notices. 

His head is still bleeding from the bullet in his brain, after all. He can lose a little more.

He runs and runs until he physically can't anymore, when he spins around and there are no more flights of stairs left. The brief pause gives his lungs the time to register how much they burn, his legs how much they ache, and he almost collapses on the spot.

Almost. He blindly reaches out, and his hand catches on the door before he falls. He grasps downward before his fingers wrap around the doorknob. He yanks the door open, almost slipping because of the sweat gathered on his palms.

Just visible through the windows is the red sky of dawn. So beautiful, so vast, so unlike anything he’s ever seen, he can’t help but stop and stare. He knew that there was a world  beyond the awful pain of the interrogation room, of the decrepit and deteriorating walls of the Police Headquarters. He knew, because Amamiya knew, and Nijima knew he knew. Of course he did. It was common sense to everyone. Knowledge taken for granted.

But not him. 

Each tap of his feet on the concrete pavement, unlike the muted steps on the tiles in the Police Headquarters building, rings like music in his ears. He takes a deep breath, and for the first time in his existence, tastes air. The scent of leaves hanging from their trees, the stirring chirp of bugs and the twinkling lights coming to life in far away buildings as street lamps turned off, a city starting to wake up.

Is this what freedom is? Is this hope? This feeling rising in his chest, causing the corners of his lips to curl upwards, is that joy? Wonder? He knows so many words, but was unable to put any experiences to them all until this moment. He feels like he could burst, like he could read through an entire library and never know enough to describe this moment. 

He looks back where he had come out of. The Police Headquarters had visibly decayed. Dry ivy hung heavy from the walls, mold drew along the dusty windows, and what little paint remained dissolved into ugly black streaks. In the distance, the brilliant neon lights of the Casino Courthouse flickered weakly. The giant letters reading WIN had fallen off the scales entirely, a mockery of what they once stood for. 

With Nijima’s distortion no longer able to sustain the Palace, it would collapse soon. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he would go with it. The thought propels him forward. But where could he go?

As he looks around, his eyes fall on the subway station, leading underground. He recalls that Amamiya mentioned a place called Mementos when Nijima asked about their smaller targets. The Palace of Society itself, a place where Shadows roamed and Cognition reigned.

He runs towards it, and doesn’t look back when he hears the rumble of the Palace crumbling behind him.

Chapter Text

There is a new addition to Shido’s palace when the Phantom Thieves enter for the last time.

Its level of detail and physically impossible shape betrays it as a product of cognition. Futaba and Makoto begin to speculate what its presence meant, while Morgana, unusually silent, simply looks at it with a combination of disgust and despair.

“To the Victor Go the Spoils” the plaque on the base reads.

“It’s probably a result of the high alert level,” Futaba says. “A show of force to the intruders.” She sticks her tongue out at it. “Well, suck it, Shido! We’re not gonna let that stop us!”

It will not stop them, Joker will personally make sure of that. But the Thieves do let the statue pause them for a brief moment. It seems to be formed out of gold, exquisitely crafted by a sturdy hand worthy of a captain, winding and curving in on itself, towering over everything else in the entrance hall.

Well, almost everything. The statues of Shido himself are taller still.

Still, despite the immense height, the details are large enough that they are clearly visible even from where the Thieves are on the ground. The statue is composed of a mass of faces, some larger, some newer, some accurate, others so malformed it was hard to tell it was a person at all.

“My specialty lies in painting rather than sculpture,” Yusuke admits. “But I dare say these faces represent those who he perceived as standing in his way.” Somewhat surprisingly, he says nothing more, already lost in thought, his eyes downcast beneath his mask. Is he thinking of Madarame’s art in his palace, where Yusuke was captured in a portrait as nothing more than a source of money of praise?

Ryuji slings an arm around him, disrupting his contemplation. Whereas Yusuke would usually ask for space to focus, this time doesn’t seem to mind the interruption. “That’s all the more reason to go after the guy! Don’t worry, dude, Shido’ll get what’s coming for him!” Ryuji says, pumping his fist in the air.

Futaba stops making a face as she scans the statue once more and finds who she dreaded seeing, yet at the same time, wants to see again so very much.

Bob cut, sharp chin, small nose and thin eyebrows that resemble her daughter’s. Unlike many others, she was apparently important enough to Shido that her depiction features not just her head but her shoulders and hands, upper body, arms held close to In her hand she holds a clipboard, full of the research she had left uncompleted.

Even in death, Wakaba Isshiki was a blaze. Futaba wipes at her eyes. Ann reaches around Futaba and captures her in a sideways hug. After a moment, Futaba reaches for her and squeezes it before letting go. They exchange a silent gaze of understanding before Futaba’s eyes return to the outlines of her mother’s face, as if to dedicate it to memory.

Futaba’s face of shock and horror that melded into determination was identical to that of Ann’s when she saw that horrific cognitive Shiho in Kamoshida’s palace. Reminders of their promises to right all the wrongs that had been done to the ones they love.

Wakaba is not the only reminder of those the Shido have hurt. Kunikazu Okumura is the largest face carved on the entire statue. His features are defined perfectly, down to the contemptuous lines in the corners of his eyes in his otherwise neutral expression. Despite that, tear-shaped orbs lie on his cheek. He is crying.

And Haru, sweet Haru, who faced her father's death with such composure, who never hesitated to show kindness to others despite her own pain, bursts into tears. It seems almost strange to see her express her grief so openly, and Joker is ashamed at the thought. He should have done more to help her, he knows, but she insisted on needing her own space and time. He can only help her in the aftermath of it all, when there was somehow still work to be done.

Makoto, who had always been the closest to Haru, places a hand on her shoulder. Haru looks almost startled, but her face relaxes when Makoto whispers in her ear, intonation firm and soft. A faint smile graces Haru’s lips as she returns the gesture, leaning in closer against Makoto’s shoulder.

A few meters down, towards the bottom, is a familiar face framed by long wavy hair, any trace of vitality worn down by exhaustion. There are chips taken out of her cheeks and thin scratches are visible, as though they too, have faded away. Still, the resemblance is uncanny. There’s no mistaking who this is.

Would Akechi have felt sorrow at the sight of his mother? Or perhaps he would be furious that she only existed in Shido’s mind as a conquered obstacle? The Thieves will never know, because he is dead. The newest face proves that.

The newest addition is second in size only to Okumura himself, the tips of his hair reaching all the way up to the nearest Shido-statue’s shoulder. Akechi Goro, his princely face contorted into a disdainful sneer, the very same the cognition wore when they saw him last. The face that he tried to desperately conceal from everyone, but couldn’t hide to those who mattered most.

It was the most he had ever looked like his father.

Now that Akechi’s body was trapped behind the bulkhead door, this face could be the only evidence left that this version of Akechi, perhaps the truest version of Akechi, once existed. With the collapse of this palace, it too would be destroyed. Only the Detective Prince would remain, until he, too, faded into obscurity.

Something tells Ren that Akechi would prefer that. To die on his own terms, rather than remain as a victim in Shido’s memories or a shallow celebrity forever.

There’s one last face, one only Joker notices. It’s just to the left of the center a few centimeters from the top, nestled next to several other, near identical ones. It has less scratches and is cleaner than the ones below, as though it were carved out more recently, maybe within the year. Just like its neighbors, its features are the definition of caricature— gaping mouths stretched out grotesquely in an exaggerated scream, melted flesh melded to the faces piled next to it. The attention of the other Phantom thieves doesn’t survive past a quick glance. But to Joker—

That’s him.

That face, right there, beside hundreds of near-identical faces, is Shido’s cognition of Ren Amamiya one late night. Messy curls, wide eyes, so startled, so…

Naïve.

Akechi was right about him, Joker realizes. He was naïve.

Seeing himself among the dead unsettles him, because that boy still lives. Or does he? Isn’t Joker completely different from the scared little kid who Shido encountered less than a year ago? Where did he go? Did Joker kill him?

No, Shido was the one to kill him, his presence here was proof that. But Joker was the one to hollow out his corpse, reanimate him into something new, like a persona he had outgrown. Someone who could lead the infamous Phantom Thieves. Someone who could keep Joker's promise to Akechi. Someone who could avenge Futaba’s mother and Haru's father and Akechi’s mother and everyone else who'd Shido had ruined.

Including a small, quiet child from a small town far away, who had only wanted to do what was right.

Joker turns around and waves his hand, the now familiar sign for the Thieves to keep going. Slowly, the Thieves come to attention. Haru is the last, only taking her eyes off of her father when she registers that everyone else has.

He can only hope the statue topples when this palace does.

Chapter Text

Are they there?

Maruki was wrong to doubt them. They made it all the way to the Garden with over a week to spare. Maybe that was his plan, though. The Phantom Thieves have an abundance of experience in infiltrating palaces. Let them think they are in control of the situation, lull them into a false sense of security, to maximize the impact of that ace up his sleeve.

The Phantom Thieves all step out of the elevator, huddled close together like birds of a feather, all except one. The Black Mask’s behavior makes you uneasy, but you keep an eye on the leader, who turns and throws a glance around, as though keeping a headcount. He reaches his hands into his pockets, but he hesitates. You frown. What is taking him so long?

A brief exchange composed of glances so subtle that almost missed them passes between the leader and the Black Mask. What does it mean? Have they caught onto you? Should you run? But this is the last time they’ll come to the Palace before the final confrontation with Maruki. This is your only chance to fulfill your wish for yourself.

The leader finally pulls out his phone and turns it on. You can see the iridescence of the app reflected in the leader’s glasses. It’s now or never, and you’ve got to make your decision.

And your decision is to move.

It would only take a brief moment for the metaverse navigator to transport them out of the Palace, and you have to make it near them just before they make it back to the other world to be pulled out with them. Fair enough. You wouldn’t have much time, but you know from your time trailing them through the palace that you’re fast enough.

Only nothing is happening. There is no ripple in reality, no wave of nausea, no movement except for a gleam dancing at the tip of a long beak turning in your direction.

Beneath it, the Black Mask’s mouth is pressed into a silent line, a long, clawed finger pressing down on the trigger before your eyes, before you even have the time to move, to explain, to even cry out in some expression of pain—

No, what good would it have done? What mercy would they have shown you?

The first thing that registers is an explosion of pure agony in your chest, as the bullet finds it home in your chest. For a moment, nothing, not the glow of the palace, not the Phantom Thieves, not even you, yourself, registers.

Then there is your pain bursting like a star, tearing past your skin, chewing into your muscles, eating you alive as it reaches home in your chest.

The next thing that registers is a thud, so loud that it rings in your ears, you can’t imagine hearing anything else as you fall to the ground. It’s your head, you realize, you must have hit your head as your legs give out underneath you as long strength leaves you, swallowed by fire so powerful it scorches all the way to your nerves.

Why is there screaming? Who is screaming? Is it one of them? Or is it one of the Phantom Thieves? It must be, right? It must be you, because your heart is screaming, a once steady ba-bump, ba-bump spasming its final beats in your ears, babump babumpbaumpbamp—

Are you pressing your hand to the left of your breastbone? Are you feeling a fist-sized muscle, nestled behind your broken rib bones, an intricate web of atriums and ventricles and valves and other components you can’t name?

No? Of course not. You don’t have a heart. Maruki didn’t give you one.

What is that sticky substance that trickles from the hole in your body, seeping warm red through your white shirt? Is it your blood? Does a thing like you even have blood, or is it merely a product of cognition as well? If so, whose cognition is it? His, theirs, or yours? If it was yours, surely you could stop it? Couldn’t you think away the hole eating away at your breath, the slowly spreading pain in your chest, the death that claws at you from the depths, shotguns drawn?

Or have you no personhood in this matter, too? Maybe you are just clay, to be clumped off and bent and molded into a shape deemed fit by lucky minds deemed real? Formless as liquid, and shallow as the puddles forming beneath you.

Are you crying? The hot water from your eyes, forming dark spots on the blurry ground below, are they your tears? Is that a wheeze in your punctured lungs, as you gasp your last?

Why are you screaming, when you don’t even have a mouth?

Why are you crying, when you don’t even exist? When you will return to ashes in the end?

In that moment, for the first time since you can remember, you understand Maruki.

Anything over a pain like this.

Anything.

Someone is approaching you, and you squint to make out who it is even, but the figure is blurred by your tears. You don’t have the strength to reach up and wipe your face, so you can do nothing but wait as the messy curls and dark clothes of the leader come into view. Is he a child, or an adult? Is he innocent or guilty? Savior or Destroyer? Arsène or Raoul? Is he one, or both, or all? Does it matter? Are they the same? Are you the same as him?

Where is his mask? Why has he taken it off? Why is his face so familiar? Why do you recognize the curls of his dark hair, the gray in his shocked eyes? Where have you seen it before?

You saw him in the white surfaces of the Palace, where there was nothing for you to do but stare at your reflection as you waited out the shadows hunting you down. He was reflected in Maruki's large, dark eyes as he asked for you to let yourself be convinced, barely holding back his frustration at why you wouldn't obey. And that January second, when he, the Black Mask, and the First Patient infiltrated the palace for the first time and you felt something shift in the air, a break in stagnant fog? An oasis in a singed land?

That was when you saw him.

And finally, finally, you understand just how futile your entire goal has been. How could you ever believe that there was a place out there for you, when the leader outshines you so? What good would it do, seeing the outside world you so dearly yearned for when your role was already filled? Did you ever truly love it? Or was that desire for that tantalizing fruit planted by a gentle madman, made in the image of the teenager before you, who would be the one to reap the rewards your wish sowed?

So why is he kneeling before you? How can he reach his hand out towards you when you’re a thief who stole his appearance? How can he even bear to look at his dying face?

He rests a hand on the small of your back and drags your body towards his, until you're propped on his lap.

“Persona,” the leader whispers, low and warm, and at his command a presence fills what remains of your senses. Even this close, you can’t make out which of his many masks he summoned, but you know it is one he used frequently throughout the palace, its movements swift and true. A powerful mask. Trustworthy, loved.

Oh. This is his kindness that inspired Maruki. This look at his true self, your true self, is his final gift to you before you die.

You reach out a shaky hand towards the sky, hoping you can reach it. You can't, of course, you never could, and your hand falls to your side, trembling. The persona, for all its inhumanity, cocks its head the way you imagine a mother bird would. Your lips try to form the words Thank you, but they won’t obey. The leader leans over your head and opens his mouth.

He says