Author's Note: I don't even know why I'm doing this. The idea came to me in a dream (ironic, given what it'll be about) and I just couldn't... not... write it. There's very little Shinjiro/Fuuka on , and that makes my heart sad. Anyway, I don't own any of Shin Megami Tensei- do I really need to put up a disclaimer on ? I think we all know we aren't the real authors; otherwise it wouldn't be fanfiction!

October 5th, 2009- Iwatodai Dorm

It was almost winter, and Fuuka could smell the chill in the air as she sat on her bed, arms around her knees and the light of the waning moon filling her room. The dorm itself had felt cold- and not just physically; almost no one had left their rooms very much since the night prior. Dinner had been a personal affair, the food with little to no flavor; the Chinese take-out had felt like sand in her mouth and Fuuka couldn't stomach more than a few bites. Silence had fallen over the dorm, and even Junpei hadn't had the heart to break it.

The worst was the night. In that silence, it wasn't hard to hear the raw sobs coming from down the hall, the room at the end. Fuuka supposed she couldn't blame Hamuko. It had been a barely-kept secret, the relationship their leader had had with Aragaki-senpai; he was hard to read but Hamuko couldn't have a stray thought without it crossing her face and leaving its mark, and it wasn't as though they were particularly careful about not letting the others spot them sneaking out to talk over the past few weeks. For the most part, it had been something that most of them were fine with. Sure, Akihiko seemed to be alternating between happiness for them and something akin to confused jealousy, and Junpei wondered aloud more than once if it were really that good of an idea, but for the most part the dorm didn't particularly care about the relationships going on.

And of course, Fuuka had picked up on it quickly; Lucia constantly whispered into her ear, stray snippets of conversation and observation. It was something she'd grown very used to over the past months. Headaches were no longer a side-effect of her Persona, and if she needed silence she listened to music. Her life was a constant flow of information, a looking-glass into the people around her. Even in her sleep, she picked up on snippets of dreams: on Junpei's thoughts of Chidori, Akihiko's memories of fire and a white-haired little girl, Mitsuru's nameless longings for her father's love and her freedom, constantly at war with one another. Fuuka supposed she might know more about the rest of her dormmates than anyone else.

Even Shinjiro, kept alive by machines and the steady beep of a heart monitor, sleeping in the hospital bed he'd been placed in after Takaya's gunshots had tattered the cords binding his soul to his body, had had dreams- though she didn't prod at them as often. They were filled with blood and rage, his Persona wreaking havoc on his mind even as it did on the battlefield. Fuuka found herself less afraid of him after the first night in the dorms, when Castor had decided to push back at her gentle, subconscious nudge. The reaction had been so violent, so angry, that Fuuka had decided that she'd better not invoke it again. Instead, she set about getting to know Aragaki by more conventional means, eventually getting the nerve up to ask for help cooking after he rescued a stroganoff she'd been attempting.

She hadn't expected him to agree, but he seemed to make it a personal mission to surprise everyone around him. And once she'd gotten over his gruff, slightly angry manner, he was a good teacher- more hands-on than theory, always hovering over her shoulder with blunt instructions.

She guessed that had been when it had started, the beginnings of those feelings. She pushed them aside, shoved that heart-pounding nervousness away. First off, she was already detecting the tinges of thoughts of him from Hamuko, who was probably her best friend. Secondly, it didn't serve a purpose. Shinjiro didn't seem even remotely interested in girls like that- not that he was interested in boys, either, but his mind forever seemed to be on different matters, matters that made his eyes go shadowy below his beanie and his expression shift into sneers and growls that reminded her of his Persona. Shoujo manga tried to teach the mindset that hopeless love was the most romantic, but Fuuka wasn't really a romantic as much as she was a practical girl; quiet, shy girls like her didn't attract the attention of the brooding handsome boys.

No, that was for adorable red-eyed dynamos like their leader, a girl who was top of their class, involved in every extracurricular she could think of and friends with everyone from the slightly swishy transfer student to the host of the Sunday morning shopping network show. Hamuko was the complete package: socially apt, incredibly smart, fearless, and ridiculously powerful- a shining star of warmth and strength in Lucia's eyes, bright even in comparison to Mitsuru's iron will and the pure power of Akihiko. It wasn't something that could be changed, so Fuuka resigned herself.

So when Shinjiro had come so close to dying, his blood staining the concrete of the alleyways behind Tatsumi Port Station, it was no surprise that Hamuko had... well, not fallen apart; she held it together in front of everyone, even as Lucia fairly shouted their leader's distress into Fuuka's ear. But those sobs, those rawboned, gut-wrenching sobs, hadn't strictly been her domain. Nor Akihiko's, though he was somewhat worse at hiding how hard Shinjiro's fate had shaken him.

No, the report of gunshots had set Fuuka's head reeling, especially given the information afterwards that the only reason Takaya had accosted both Shinjiro and Ken had been in the interest of killing her, as retribution for taking Chidori away. And while the whole group- save a wailing Ken- had stumbled home to the dorm in stunned silence, climbed the stairs with plodding steps and went to their separate rooms to collapse in exhaustion and grief, Fuuka found herself awake, staring out the window and unable to do anything.

She couldn't even cry, and how horrible was that? That she couldn't grieve for a hero who'd thrown himself in front of the gun, taken bullets meant to kill a little boy who was busy trying to convince the overzealous leader of Strega that he fulfilled her role. For the friend who'd taken her under his wing, attempted to teach the worst cook in the dorms to cook. For the young man she'd harbored a very, very secret crush on for the past few months.

What was wrong with her?

Lucia whispered a response to that, but she couldn't parse it; the Oracle's voice lately had been distracted, soft- like she was focusing on something that Fuuka couldn't quite spot. It felt, actually, a lot like when there was a strong presence in Tartarus, further up than she could scan. Like there was something just out of her reach.

Well, the murmuring had one good effect, Fuuka thought. It was constant white noise, a soft sussurance that set Fuuka's mind just fuzzy enough to let her start feeling the exhaustion of the past few days, the mad scramble to be ready for the next Shadow. She stretched and leaned back against the cool cotton of her pillow, the moonlight shadowing the room but leaving her limned in gold as she closed her eyes.

She opened them on a strange shore.

The first thing to strike her was the warm, fragrant scent of salt and flowers. It wasn't October here, but the beginning of spring, by the climate. The second was the dark form with his back to her, a maroon overcoat that had to be deeply uncomfortable in the warmth of the sun. She knew that form- of course she did- and the first thing that it told her was that she was clearly dreaming.

/No./

She started. Lucia's responses to her had never been direct responses; in the true form of most Oracles, she wasn't the greatest at direct communication. Before, it was murmured thoughts, disjointed and open to Fuuka's interpretation.

Now, it was as if she were speaking directly to her.

/You have a responsibility. That is why I have been permitted to speak to you like this./ Lucia didn't seem to be patient enough to answer any questions, though. /You must help them. You must right this wrong./

The insistence of that thought was almost blinding, and Fuuka almost missed Shinjiro moving, stepping forward into the roaring surf. He walked forward... forward... If he kept that up, he'd drown! Panicked response took over Fuuka's mind as she darted forward, trying to catch his arm and stop him. Predictably, she wasn't any match for his determination, but she caught a glimpse of his face- tired, almost hypnotized. Despite her normal hesitance to do so, she reached out with Lucia's power, touching on his mind.

Nothing.

That wasn't normal.

/Into the sea of memories you must follow. The Somnambulist leads the Maimed Twin, and at the end of that path lies Death. You have this chance to save him./

"The chance... to save him...?" Fuuka murmured to herself. If that chance were there, there was no way she could refuse it- to pay him back for his sacrifice, to help him and Hamuko. But how...

/The Somnambulist cannot kill him. He can only lead him, deceive him into giving up. You must intervene- you must be the dawn that awakens him. His dreams are all he has now; you must enter them, you must awaken him./

His dreams. Of course! Shinjiro was alive, comatose in that hospital bed. He was sleeping, dreaming. But then the truth of what Lucia was saying struck her. I have to go into his dreams. But Castor... The berserk Persona had attempted to break her mind last time she'd touched on Shinjiro's dreams. What would happen if he found her in there this time?

/He should not interfere./ That 'should' was less than comforting, though. Was Castor sleeping, as well? Lucia reaffirmed the idea.

Shinjiro was shoulder deep in the water.

There wasn't time to think much further about the idea. Without any other option, Fuuka dove into the surf- and into the Sea of Memories.