The Pope in women's clothes
She was strong. She was really, really strong. She knew that. She wasn't just a weak-minded, submissive little girl. She wasn't.
But then, why else did she just go with the flow? Why would she always hide her face, lower her head, and obey others? Was it because she really was weak, like everyone else kept telling her?
... or was it because, in the end, she was afraid? Because she was ashamed?
Her sister - beautiful, strong, responsible Sae - was always going on and on about how they shouldn't let anyone walk over them just because they were women. How they should work even harder because of their sex, because everyone would expect them to be weak, stupid and disposable...
But Makoto didn't see it like that. Yes, she knew women were often disregarded, she wasn't saying her sister was wrong. It's just that... Makoto never felt like that applied to herself. When she was thinking about it, when she repeated what her sister told her in her own mind, she just kept thinking, "no, no, that's not me. I'm not that."
I'm not a... I'm not a woman.
It was the same feeling she had, sometimes, when she looked herself in the mirror. Short hair, yes, but it was such a... a strange feeling, looking at her face. At the softness, the curves around her eyes, around her lips. Looking at her chest, like it was someone else's chest. Looking at the soft mounds of her breasts and thinking, "Why?" She would look at her skirts (chosen so carefully by her sister, because Sae said she had to dress smartly, she had to dress like a professional woman if she wanted to be seen as a professional woman), and she would despair. She would think about the cold feeling in her blood, the fear that pumped in her heart, and the looks that simply seemed wrong when directed at her.
This was not her.
This, Makoto, the younger sister that Sae nurtured since they were young, was not her.
... what was her?
... was she actually Makoto, as Sae thought? Was she the well-behaved, smart girl who went with the flow?
... or was she the girl who wielded weapons on her fists, who rode a motorcycle, who laughed at killing an enemy, at being called — mostly in jest, because they didn't know (except, maybe, Akira. Because Akira always knew everything) — the King of the group?
Was she the girl who smiled and pretended to be a star student, or was she the person who studied because it was interesting, the person who liked laws, but who wasn't afraid of breaking them just as easily? Was she the person who was afraid of standing up to her sister, or was she the person who wanted to scream, to punch people's face, to snarl and growl, show her teeth and challenge stupid people? The one who looked at skirts and wore them because she had to, or the one who looked at skirts and thought, "let's burn them all"?
... was she just one of them? Was she both? (Was she a she?)
... Was there a correct answer to any of those questions?
Maybe there was. Maybe the answer was in Akira's smile, on the way he would invite Makoto to hang out with him and Ryuji, on the way Akira would invite Makoto to train, on the way Akira would sometimes slap at her back as Makoto often saw him doing to Ryuji after a battle, the way Akira would smirk with all sharp edges and murmur, voice low and soft, "Your turn, King."
Maybe the answer didn't exist. Maybe it did.
Maybe Akira was the only one who understood. Maybe Makoto themselves still floundered, trying to find an explanation.
Maybe. But, maybe, it did not matter, because, in the Metaverse, Makoto wore pants, leather, dangerous weapons and an even more dangerous smirk. Because, in the Metaverse, Makoto was King just as often as she was Queen, because Makoto was somewhere in between, right now, but there was always a surety in the air that they would understand. Because they were already understanding, in the way they wouldn't really use "she" or "her" when talking to or about Makoto, and in the way they would include her in any activity, without ever blinking an eye.
Maybe it didn't matter, because out there Makoto was still a she, was still Sae's younger sister, struggling to be seen for herself — but, inside, Makoto was Makoto, Makoto was warrior, was King, was power because of Makoto's own prowess.
And Makoto would never know, because no one ever understood — but the thing is, Akira would know exactly when to stand by Makoto's side, because the voice, strange as it was, did not call The High Priestess, when he befriended Makoto. No, the voice called her The Hierophant (The Pope), and when Makoto's persona came to be Johanna, he couldn't stop himself from thinking: how suiting.
A woman that decided to be a Pope.
A woman who decided that she was much more than the expectations they had of her, of her woman nature.
Makoto was not a Queen. Makoto was a King.