"There was a sad fellow over on a bar stool talking to the bartender, who was polishing a glass and listening with that plastic smile people wear when they are trying not to scream."
- Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye
-ooo-
Please Note
This story is an Akechi counterpoint to 8:23 from Hamamatsu. In terms of timeline this one wraps around it to make these two stories into what is basically a rather bad-tempered Akechi & Kurusu PoV burrito. So, if you're wondering where this fits, this story begins that morning. This particular story is two chapters in length and the second chapter will be added soon. Thank you.
-ooo-
In the end, he hadn't had to do a thing.
Not really.
He'd barely brushed her elbow and she'd startled away from him like a frightened deer, tripped, and fallen right into the street.
And that was that.
He couldn't have stopped it if he'd wanted to.
He couldn't stop time, after all.
The squeal of tires, impact, the crunch of metal, the crack of glass, and the screams of dozens of onlookers as blood splattered across the car, the road.
There'd been so much screaming.
He doubted anyone had noticed a teenage boy slipping away during the ensuing panic as the crowd dispersed like a flock of pigeons startled by a child's shout. Some scrambled out into the street to help or -more likely- to gawk and still more fled the scene altogether, traumatized by what they'd seen or eager not to be caught up in things that had nothing to do with them. It was easy to blend in with those who wished to go unnoticed and unremarked themselves.
He wasn't certain when he'd broken from the pack. Only that he'd eventually found himself striding alone down one street and then another and another, turning at random, paying no real attention to his surroundings or the direction that he was taking so long as it was away.
The sound of the impact had been far too loud, so loud he couldn't seem to shake it, instead it was caught, echoing, looping through his mind over and over in time with his steps, steady and unwavering as a heartbeat.
Th-Thump.
Th-Thump.
Th-Thump.
-ooo-
When he finally stopped- out of breath, head throbbing- it was to brace gloved fingers against the lid of an ancient trash can for support and empty the contents of his stomach across the front page of yesterday's newspaper and an old brown loafer with a hole in the sole.
He couldn't remember what he'd had for breakfast, but whatever it had been had been bland and tasteless and, apparently, bright orange.
If he were more himself, he'd probably have been horrified by the lack of self-control.
It wasn't the vomiting that would have bothered him, of course. This wasn't the first time the things he'd done had made him physically ill and he was certain it wouldn't be the last.
No, it was that he was doing it in an alley, in broad daylight, directly off a main thoroughfare, where anyone might see him.
Less than fifty feet away from where he stood staring down apathetically at the mess he'd made, dozens of people were hurrying this way and that past the mouth of the alley.
He doubted they'd have spared him a glance even if they had noticed him, he knew better than most that people only ever saw what they wanted to see.
Plus, even if they did see him, they'd probably dismiss him as a drunken college student or some other undesirable.
No one of note, surely.
Still, that was no reason to take stupid chances.
Th-thump.
His heart was still racing, the vestiges of adrenaline lingering in his veins.
It wasn't supposed to be like that.
It should have been simple, clean.
But where there was usually power and welcoming darkness there had been... nothing.
Somehow it had never occurred to him that his power, such as it was, might not function outside Tokyo. That that shadow world that lay beneath Shibuya might exist only there and nowhere else.
It didn't make any sense.
After all, he'd felt those eyes on him long before he'd first ventured into Tokyo. Felt the weight of that gaze upon him long before he'd left Inaba and his last foster family behind with that key clutched in his hand.
Sometimes it seemed as if he'd always felt that way, as if there had always been someone staring at him from somewhere just out of sight. When he'd been small, he'd pretended it was a comforting feeling, the feeling of his mother watching over him, perhaps. When you're a child, it's easy to convince yourself that foolish, impossible things are true. As he'd grown older, it had made him feel uneasy, paranoid. It made it difficult to sleep, to eat, to bathe.
Now… now he thought it was probably God- or a god, at least- watching to see what he did with the extraordinary power he'd been given.
Some days that thought made him feel righteous.
Some days it just made him feel sick.
"Get it together before someone that matters sees you," he muttered even as his stomach rumbled and rebelled against him once more, the sour burn of bile, sharp and vile, filling his mouth once more.
His eyes stung and watered and his throat felt as if it had been scrapped raw.
He wasn't sure why this one had felt so different from all the others, but it had.
Perhaps it was because he hadn't had that place, that power to aid him, to give him distance and perspective.
More likely it was because he hadn't finished the job.
He couldn't have said how he knew, but he was certain that she wasn't dead.
Not yet anyway.
It had been an accident, unavoidable.
He couldn't have finished the job even if he'd wanted to.
Th-thump.
The street had been too crowded.
There'd been too many potential witnesses.
Escape had been his best and only option.
And now….
Now it didn't matter.
He was so close to the finish and that man… he was getting sloppy. So confident, so certain of his own triumph. If he told him the job was done, he'd never think to check.
And he could always come back and see to her later if it proved necessary.
Though he doubted it would.
Shido Masayori would have far more pressing worries soon enough, after all.
He wouldn't have time to worry about the fate of some woman in Hamamatsu, no matter what she'd done to piss him off in the first place.
Not that he really had any idea what it had been.
She was just a clerk, no one special.
The most notable thing she'd ever done had been to serve as a witness for an assault case and even that had been nothing special.
No one had been severely injured, the juvenile offender that had been detained had already been released on a year's probation and Shido hadn't asked him to kill him.
He barely even remembered her name though he'd just reviewed the police records on her just last night. Aoki, maybe? Akiyama? Something with an A. Or maybe an H.
Not that her name mattered since the damn cognitive world only existed in fucking Tokyo.
In some distant way, he was a bit horrified by how little those details like names and what they'd done mattered to him anymore.
In the beginning, he was sure he'd agonized about these sorts of things.
Or maybe he just liked to think that he had.
Maybe it had always been this easy.
Either way, whatever part of him could still be bothered by such matters was small and soft and easily ignored.
He'd already come so far.
What was the point in drawing a line in the sand now?
He'd already decided that there was no price he wouldn't pay to see that man suffer, to see him lose everything that had ever mattered to him in the most humiliating manner possible.
That would have to be enough.
For him and for everyone he'd sacrificed to make it this far.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, lips brushing a trail of filthy damp over expensive swede before he realized what he was doing and grimaced, staring down at the darkened swede in horror.
Those fucking gloves had cost half what he'd earned on his last case.
They were nice.
And now they were ruined.
Ruined.
Ruined like his image if anyone saw him here, if anyone knew.
All his plans, all his work, all the sacrifices he had made.
It would all have been for nothing.
Fuck.
Fuck.
No, maybe it wasn't so bad.
Maybe he could have them cleaned.
It was fine.
It was just an annoyance, not a tragedy.
He was making mountains out of...
And then he saw it.
A little speck of dark on his thumb, round and perfect and he knew.
He knew it was blood.
Her blood.
Th-Thump.
"There's no trap so deadly as the one you set for yourself," he murmured absently, hands quaking as he scrapped clumsy, trembling fingers across the gloves, scratching jagged nails over his skin as he removed them and tossed them to the ground at his feet.
Fuck.
He had to get rid of them.
This wasn't... they tied him to the scene.
To her.
Th-Thump.
They would ruin everything.
He needed to burn them.
That was the only way to be sure.
To be safe.
Th-Thump.
He just had to find a market, buy a cheap lighter and a little fuel.
He had some cash on him, not a lot, but enough for this.
He could light a fire in a trash can, any trash can, and tear the material to pieces, watch each shred turn to ash, as the rising smoke made his eyes water and ache.
Only then would he be sure.
Only then would he be safe.
Th-Thump.
The world shivered around him.
His skin feels tight, hot, he can't breathe, all the oxygen is gone, burned away, leaving him gasping in the aftermath.
Aches sprout like weeds as he dropped to the ground, back burning where it scraps across the wall behind him, shirt and jacket riding up.
Someone's crying.
Th-Thump.
He wished they would stop.
Th-Thump.
He fucking hates that sound.
Th-Thump.
Hates it.
Th-Thump.
There was no point to crying.
Tears never made anything better.
He was fine.
He just needed a moment.
Just needed to think past the incessant throbbing in his head.
Everything would be fine.
He was Akechi Goro, the second coming of the Detective Prince, adored by hundreds... thousands. He was helpful, he was needed, he was necessary.
Everything he'd done was necessary.
Everything he'd done was a means to an end.
Everyone had the right to seek justice in their own way.
He gasped and shook and clawed frantically for his lost composure.
He didn't have the time for this.
He had a schedule to keep and a train to catch.
This hadn't been any different from driving someone mad, from killing shadows.
He hadn't even done anything, not really.
She wasn't even dead yet.
Probably.
He was being stupid.
The blood didn't prove anything except that he'd been there.
Even if someone saw it, there was no reason they'd think it was blood and not just... grease or something.
He needed to pull it together.
He was better than this.
He had to be.
Time marched on, slow and inevitable, as he sat panting in that filthy alley, watching the sun's steady progression in the shadows that shrunk around him, retreating reluctantly back beneath the objects from whence they came as the sun rose overhead. The shadow that is cast on the ground beneath his bowed heads is dark and bulbous, it's shape growing firm and sharp.
When he finally roused himself enough to glance around, the alley looked different than it had, exposed in a way it hadn't been before the noonday sun enough to glare down heartlessly into that narrow strip of street in which he sat.
It was far dirtier than he'd thought it to be.
Because of course it was.
He'd be lucky if he hadn't accidentally sat in something truly revolting.
Or given himself hepatitis by scrapping his stupid back against the filthy wall.
Fuck.
He was almost certainly going to reek of the sour sweet tang of ancient garbage.
And it would be no more than he deserved for freaking out over nothing.
He slipped his phone from his pocket.
12:50
And he'd missed his train.
Because of course he'd missed his fucking train.
Normally that would have bothered him.
Today it just left him feeling cold and uneasy.
He'd been sitting long enough on the filthy ground that his butt and back and legs ache and tingle as he shifted and stretched the muscles tentatively.
His gloves lay in the dirt like dead animals where he'd thrown them.
Which, come to think of it, they were.
He chuckled a little at the thought, burying his face against his bent knees.
He was such a mess.
If anyone saw him now... he'd have to just murder them and toss them in the dumpster because there'd be no coming back from this.
Promising Young Detective Has Nervous Breakdown in Filthy Alley
The ink the headline was written in wouldn't even have time to dry before Shido sent someone to put a bullet in his head.
Maybe he could just live the rest of his short sad life in the cognitive world killing shadows and eating monster meat.
If he was very lucky he might even be able to sneak into Shido's palace and kill him before he finally went completely mad and topped himself.
Maybe.
The gloves were still lying on the ground, distressingly close to the splatter of tacky orange nastiness near the trashcan.
He couldn't just leave them there.
He couldn't burn them either.
What would people think if they saw him?
What would they say?
Maybe he'd get lucky and no would recognize him even if they did see him. After all, someone like Akechi Goro - model student, esteemed junior detective, general upright citizen- wouldn't be caught dead lighting trashcan fires in some shitty backalley in Hamamatsu.
Still... there was no point in taking stupid chances.
It wasn't worth the risk.
Not now.
Not after he'd come so far.
Not when he was finally so close to the end.
Releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, he climbed to his feet, muscles shrieking protest.
A sound like thunder rumbled in the distance and when he chanced a glance up at the sky, he found the sun had vanished beneath a sliver of mottled grey.
That was fast.
Still, it wasn't exactly unwelcome
The rain would wash away every last trace of his presence here so long as he was cautious. So long as he kept it together. He picked up his briefcase from where he must of dropped it when he came pelting down the alley in the first place and placed it reverently on the dented trashcan, glad to discover it had somehow escaped being scuffed by the tumble. It was expensive and he didn't want to have to purchase another. Bad enough that he was going to have to burn his clothes when he arrived home. He entered the code for the lock and opened it before bending to retrieve his gloves from the dirty ground.
He traveled light, he always had.
Fresh gloves, a few case files, his phone charger and a book.
The brilliant red cover was dulled by age, the spine cracked by heavy, careless use. He'd brought it along as much for the familiarity and comfort of the read as the good it would do his image. It was like his own private joke. A fictional detective reading about a fictional detective. Sure, some might find it a touch pretentious, but it served a practical purpose as well. It gave people who were determined to speak with him an easy avenue of discussion and it gave those who were less hell-bent on doing so an excuse not to.
Whenever anyone asked he told them he'd picked the book up in a secondhand bookstore.
A lie.
But no one ever questioned it.
Or even seemed to notice that he only ever carried the one book.
He'd read others, of course, but this was the only one he'd ever bothered to keep.
Not that that it meant anything in particular.
He'd just always liked this one,
He traced his finger across the cover, pressing his thumb over the little white splotch of a man penned in by the barrels of four different guns as if he could blot the poor bastard out, make him disappear.
-ooo-
"You don't mind, do you?" He had commented as he closed the file and offered it to him as if it were some grand gesture, as if he were doing him a favor by allowing him to do his dirty work for him.
The smile he offered along with that file was the same mixture of condescension and trite that he must have thought looked genuine for as often as he made use of it.
"You're the only one I can trust with such a sensitive matter."
Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies.
Looking at that smile always made him feel like he'd swallowed a bucket of broken glass.
"You're so dependable," he continued, cajoling and amiable, every inch the glad-handing politician.
Shido Masayori.
Man of the people.
Savior of Japan.
The headline practically wrote itself:
Political Maverick Murders His Way to the Top
The sun was bright outside the windows of his office, it's glare reflecting obnoxiously off the expensive metal frames of that man's horrifically pretentious glasses.
Did he think they made him look cool?
Plip. Plip. Plop.
There was a sink in the corner of the room that seemed to have a permanent leak.
Plip. Plip. Plop.
Sometimes he'd find himself so distracted listening to it that it was almost impossible to focus on anything else.
The blood had looked almost black against the pale floor, just a dark stain where it had soaked into the bathmat.
Her hand had seemed so pale, stained and sticky with thick, tacky red.
"Is there a problem, Akechi?"
He'd sounded impatient, annoyed, his voice always became more nasal when he was irritated.
He hated being ignored.
"No, not at all," he'd murmured, a weak smile frozen in place on his lips as he took the file offered without any further hesitation.
Plip. Plip.
Stupid, fucking sink.
Sometimes he thought about sneaking into the office in the early hours of the morning to fix the damn thing.
Plip. Plip.
He'd covered his unease by flicking the cover open and making a show of scanning the contents though the text might as well have been written in Aramaic for as well as he'd been able to decipher it.
Later he had discovered it was distressingly thin. Only a few points of interest and a location to go along with the name and a somewhat blurry personnel photo.
"Who is she?" He'd asked in the moment, because it was expected, not because he cared.
The anxious gnats fluttering in his belly were just the usual jitters he'd always had before he began work on a new case.
They were easy enough to ignore.
He'd had plenty of practice after all.
"Just some woman," he answered, his revolting smile slinking ever closer to a smirk. "Hardly even worth thinking about really, but she could cause me trouble down the line if we don't take care of her now."
Just some woman.
Maybe they were all just some woman to him.
Maybe they always had been.
Rage boils and bubbles and churns within him at the thought. It feels like it should be visible, like Shido should be able to see it leaking out of the cracks in smile, should be able to hear it like a scream of a tea kettle.
There's a gun in his briefcase.
In a hidden compartment beneath his school work.
It's the first and only gift he's ever received from that man.
Some nights he takes it out and sets it on the third-hand, well-used kotatsu he'd found and fixed up to get him through the worst of the winter's chill.
He doesn't keep it loaded.
Bullets aren't necessary in the cognitive world.
And in the real world... bullets are a dangerous temptation.
He was almost obsessive about cleaning it though he'd never needed to use it in the real world. Something about the ritual soothes his riotous soul.
Some woman.
There's no point in getting upset about something that doesn't matter.
And none of that matters.
What he wants, what he doesn't want.
What he feels.
He'd already made his decision.
And he had gone too far down that dark and winding path to entertain second thoughts or regrets now.
Sometimes he could still see the way blood pooled and swirled within the water puddled beneath the door, swirling dark across the surface like an invitation as it the it flowed towards him, turning the toes of his slippers pink.
Come and see.
Just some woman.
"I'll take care of it," he'd replied, smile never wavering as he snapped the file shut.
-ooo-
The earliest return ticket he'd been able to purchase when he'd finally arrived at the station had been on the 8:23 to Shinagawa.
It was his own fault that he'd missed the earlier train, but it was still... vexing.
He'd had the beginnings of a headache since morning and the medicine he'd purchased at the drugstore on his way to the station had done precious little to alleviate it.
A situation that had not been helped by being recognized by a trio of teenage girls who had insisted on posing for a half dozen selfies with him before they'd finally gotten bored with his polite small talk and refusal to acknowledge their not-so-subtle overtures. Any other time he would have enjoyed the attention, maybe even flirted back a little, but the day's events and the sour taste of bile - that still lingered at the back of his throat despite the dozen breath mints he'd eaten since his stopover in the alley- spoiled what joy he might normally have gleaned from such an event. His smile -when he looked the photos up online later- seemed weak and forced. It was almost certainly going to start up another round of concerned theorizing about his work/life balance on the forums.
Overworked Detective Prince Spotted In Hamamatsu!
He'd have to be careful about keeping his curtains drawn for the next few weeks until speculation died down, with the extra scrutiny there was always the possibility of another stalking incident or, worse, some ambitious reporter looking for a scoop catching a glimpse of who he truly was.
He could do without the extra hassle.
"Might I sit here beside you?"
He glanced up to find a bent old woman with a hooked nose and a wide smile hovering over him.
He must have been more out of it than he'd realized since he hadn't even seen her approach.
"Oh, um, yes? Of course," he replied with a smile that he hoped didn't look half as much like a grimace as it felt like it did.
The girls from earlier were still lingering on the far side of the seating area and- if he were lucky- they might take and post a few more candid shots before they left.
Not really news worthy, but maybe just the presence of such pictures alongside the others would be enough to make the whole trip look utterly unremarkable.
He'd take no story at all over whatever story his sickly appearance in those damned selfies might inspire.
And if that meant he had to spend the next hour smiling and nodding his way through that old bat yammering on about her damn grandchildren, then so be it.
Of course, by the time his train actually arrived -twelve excruciating minutes late- he'd been sincerely regretting that decision and seriously weighing how much damage shooting someone's doddering grandmother would really do to his carefully crafted image.
Not too much, surely.
He plastered on what he hoped was an apologetic smile as he gathered his case and coat, "I must apologize for cutting our conversation short, but I'm afraid that's my train. It has been a pleasure speaking with you. I do hope you have a truly wonderful visit with your family. Thank you again for keeping me company all this time."
He must have managed well enough as she was quick to return his smile with one of her own, "Oh, yes, yes, of course, you just looked so lonely sitting here by yourself."
Lonely.
"Well, go on then, I wouldn't wish you to miss your train. Such a kind boy, worrying about an old woman like me."
He laughed, light and high and polite and not the least bit hysterical, as if he were a little embarrassed by the praise and not at all thinking about accidentally stepping on her foot in his rush to catch his train.
Lonely.
How absurd.
He left her behind with a murmured thank you and another faint smile.
His head was throbbing, the light ache in his right temple that had persisted throughout the interminable day finally bursting into full blown pain as he stepped out into the light drizzle that peppered the platform and hurried onto the arriving train. He clutched his briefcase, grit his teeth and forced himself to focus on just getting a damn seat as he winced beneath the glare of the too-bright boarding lights.
By some miracle, he found an empty window-seat in the third car and planted himself in it, praying the old and infirm chose a different car to haunt so he wouldn't have to surrender the seat in service to his fucking image.
It would be nice if just one thing actually went his way today.
He turned to the window and the pale wash of his reflection barely visible against the brightly lit station outside. If he looked closely he was certain he'd be able to see the cracks in his expression, the imperfection of a smile worn too long and failing miserably around the edges.
Had she been able to tell?
Did he care?
His face ached.
It always did it seemed; no matter how long or how often he practiced the expression, it always made his face ache eventually. It was easier at school and work when he was expected to be serious and studious, when he could frown or look pensive without it being remarked upon or scrutinized. At least when he was using that stupid congenial smile at school or work there was something to be gained, this… this had just been pointlessly exhausting.
Much like the rest of his frustrating, disastrous day.
He didn't slump back into his seat, but it was a close thing. He closed his eyes and sighed, allowing himself a moment to relax before the train filled with people and he was forced back into his role once more.
All he truly wanted was to be back in his own apartment, his own private space.
Back to silence and the familiar shape of the water stains on the ceiling and the reek of burnt oil that drifted up from the izakaya below.
Back to his life, where a pile of homework and a dozen case files awaited him, hours of work to be done and school in the morning whether he liked it or not.
But at least, for a little while, he wouldn't have to smile for anyone but himself.
-ooo-
He was standing in the aisle.
There was a little girl in a blue dress curled up in his seat, fast asleep.
The line of people behind him was growing increasingly impatient as he stared down at her, a rising anxiety growing within him with each passing moment.
The unrelenting certainty that if he didn't act soon, they would all know he was a fraud.
He could hear them behind him, grumbling, discontent.
He needed to do something.
Anything.
He reached out toward her hesitantly.
To wake her?
Perhaps?
To ask her to move?
Possibly?
Something.
He was definitely going to do something.
He just hadn't quite settled on what that should be, he was still… undecided, unable to press forward or go back.
Stuck.
The train jostled around him, making the choice for him as it threw him off balance. He stumbled forward and his fingers brushed her sleeve. At the touch she shattered, burst into a thousand, brilliant blue and silver butterflies that flooded his vision and brushed against his skin.
He reeled back and his shoulders collided with his seat as something- someone- crashed into him, falling over him like a living blanket, warm and breathing and everywhere at once.
Panic seized him by the throat, shredding his composure to ribbons.
He was five and they were pulling him away from her, carrying him out of the house and no matter how he screams and kicks and twists and bites, they won't let him go and he needs to go, he can't leave her there alone.
He can't.
He's sixteen and he's kicking free of the grasping hands of monsters, running, tripping, falling through a nightmare world he can't begin to understand.
He's seventeen and some asshole practically sitting on him and all he wants is to get away.
"Get off," he snarled, shoving at their shoulders and chest to no avail.
How could anyway that skinny be so damned heavy?
It almost came as a surprise when the weight suddenly shifted and the person -boy, he realized belatedly- tumbled backwards into a sprawl at his feet.
He was still breathing too fast, his heart racing frantically in his chest, palms damp with sweat and head throbbing again.
All because some shitty kid wasn't paying any attention to where he was fucking going.
"Sorry, I…." The boy began, finally looking up at him, his voice hesitant before trailing off into silence as if something he saw in his face made him reluctant to speak further.
He had big dark eyes and messy hair and he looked like he'd just rolled out of bed and onto the train.
And he was also trying very subtly to untangle himself from the backpack straps wrapped around his ankles.
He looked ridiculous.
The boy shifted restlessly beneath his gaze, grimacing, apparently completely oblivious to the salaryman who was squeezing in behind him to steal the seat he must have been sitting in before he'd fallen on him.
There was something weirdly satisfying about that.
Something that made him smile.
He was certain it wasn't a nice smile.
And that just wouldn't do.
"Are you all right?" He forced himself to ask. Not because he cared- he didn't- but because it was the sort of inquiry Akechi Goro, would-be Detective Prince, would have made.
After all, Akechi Goro was polite- a little awkward, yes- but always unfailingly polite.
"Yeah, sorry I fell on you," the boy clapped back, his tone as dry as the desert, as if he'd been able to tell how cursory and insincere his words and taken question as an insult instead of as a genuine inquiry.
He must have been more out of it then he thought if he was being seen through so easily by someone like him.
His surprise must have shown on his face, because the boy smirked up at him, snorting out a laugh that wasn't the least bit amused.
-ooo-
Whenever he'd arrived at a new foster home, a new social worker would always come calling every few months to check on him, regular as clockwork.
His foster parents had always welcomed them warmly and served them cake and tea or sometimes coffee or just plain water. The flavor of the courtesies always varied from home to home, person to person. What never changed, however, was the way the social worker had always smiled at him over the rim of their cup, as if they were well-acquainted, as if they were old friends rather than complete strangers, and inquired: "Are you happy here, Goro-chan?"
He hated that question.
Hated how perfunctory and pointless it was.
Sometimes he wanted to tell them in excruciating detail what it felt like to be shuffled from place to place like the undesirable baggage he was.
What it was like to be unwanted, barely tolerated as a means to an end.
More often than not, he thought about showing the social worker the bruises on his back and telling them how his new parents had struck him.
Or showing them the cuts he'd made across the inside of his upper arms, his thighs and telling them they'd done it even though they hadn't.
He thought of dozens upon dozens of truths to tell them and hundreds of lies.
About adults with wandering hands.
About secrets and silence.
About how he thought about how he would kill them, each new smiling face, each new helping hand that tried to reach out to him.
How he wanted to hurt those who offered him kindness most of all, because at least the cruel ones were honest.
How he thought and planned and read books to figure out how he could make their deaths look like an accidents.
Detective novel after true crime novel after mystery novel and every book about forensic science and investigations and profiling he could get his hands on though he hadn't understood half the words and had had to look them up on the internet or in a dictionary at the bookstore.
So many books.
All useless.
Books couldn't tell him what he truly wanted to know.
Couldn't help him do what he really needed to do.
Years passed and he was shuffled from home to home to home and always there was someone who would come and ask him the same question.
Always that one stupid question.
As if it mattered.
As if they cared.
Liars.
He could tell them about how often he thought about running away. About just vanishing into the night. Running off into the forest or the city with a pocketful of cheap jewelry and whatever cash he could lay his hands on.
About how he'd buy a train ticket to Tokyo and live on the streets or sell his body to perverts or whatever he needed to do in order to survive there.
That the only reason he hadn't was that he had no idea what he would do once he got there.
No hope of finding one lousy scumbag in the sea of sleaze that probably populated a city that had always seemed impossibly, hopelessly large.
He could have told them that he still dreamed about her almost every night.
About how sometimes he would cut too deep and just to watch the blood flow, how he'd let it soak the ground until it ran sluggish and slow enough to be stanched by a handful of tissues.
How kicking dirt over the stains left behind turning the earth a muddy burgundy in the aftermath.
How every time he passes a river he thought about jumping in and letting it carry him away, drag him under, leave his fat and bloated corpse on some far away beach.
He could have told them anything at all.
But then what?
What good would come of telling them any of that?
What would it buy him?
Another stint in a group home? Another school? Another family? More people to look at him with pity or disdain?
Therapy? More therapy? A different sort of place to live with eyes on him around the clock and too much medicine and people constantly asking him how it made him feel?
His life already felt like a prison from which there was no escape, but at least here he could pretend he was free, pretend he had choices.
And so when the social worker asked whether he was happy he smiled the plastic smile he'd been practicing for so long and replied, "I have no complaints."
The lie was bitter and probably obvious, but they had always accepted his answer with a smile and a nod because that was what they wanted to hear. That was the easy answer. It was all anyone ever wanted to hear. That he was doing well, that he was fine, and- most importantly- that he wouldn't complain.
That everything was normal and there was no need for concern.
That he did not think about the bathroom or his mother or if he did that it was only ever in passing. Sadness there and then gone again, forgotten beneath the petty concerns of his school days. That he did not think about hurting himself, did not think about finding that man and hurting him like he hurt her, that he was a productive, good-natured child who'd gotten a raw deal and had risen above it to become someone… virtuous and good.
They could like someone like that.
And forget him.
Pleasant, but unremarkable.
He always left the room quickly after answering, because if he didn't he might have said something else.
Lie or truth or something in between, but definitely something that would expose him for what he really was.
"He's a little odd," his foster parents had often lied as he left, "but he's a good boy."
Lies because he didn't cause them trouble and he got good grades and he stayed out of their way and they needed the extra income the government provided for his care.
Pretty lies for their own good, though they probably told themselves they were doing it for his benefit.
That was just the kind of people most of them were.
And he never let himself forget that.
Always lingered outside the kitchen to listen as they made frantic excuses for him and if he sometimes laughed, quiet and disgusted and just for himself, it was mostly because there'd never been any point in crying.
-ooo-
He turned away only to find his seat occupied by that opportunistic salaryman who was very pointedly pretending as if his pointlessly expensive phone were the most vital thing in the world to avoid meeting the gaze of the teenager glaring down at him.
And he laughed;bitter and tight, shaking his head as if he should have never expected anything else.
Which was true.
Not that he cared.
And he shouldn't care, after all it wasn't really any of his business.
The boy snorted out another bitter laugh as if he were so disgusted with the world he could barely stand to continue existing in it.
It was a feeling he knew very well.
He shouldn't interfere.
And yet.
And yet Akechi Goro wasn't the sort of person who allowed such an obvious injustice to go unanswered.
His couldn't very well forsake his image just because he had a bit of a headache.
It was the only reason he could think of for why he found himself reaching across the space the boy had just vacated to tap a finger pointedly against the salaryman's cellphone and offer him his most charming smile, "Pardon the intrusion, sir, but I believe this seat is taken."
The man glanced up at him, brow furrowed with irritation as if it had never occurred to him that he would be called out for his behavior.
It probably hadn't.
Entitled asshole.
He slipped his cellphone from his pocket and flicked a finger across the surface to open the camera function.
Men like that were all the same, ignorant and utterly confident in their power until the moment someone did not yield before them.
It always thrilled him to see the way they folded like a house of cards to an unexpected breeze the second things stopped going their way.
He was really looking forward to seeing that man do the same.
The flash was blindingly bright as he took the man's picture and he spared a moment to admire the shock apparent in his expression before slipping the phone back into his pocket, "There we are. I'll add this to my collection. What did you say your name was?"
"What do you think you're doing?" The man sputtered, indignation already crumbling beneath the force of nervous uncertainty.
No one liked having their picture taken by a stranger.
It was the simplest way to throw someone off their game.
"Oh, I apologize, perhaps I should have asked permission before taking your picture. I do apologize, that was a terrible oversight on my part. I just can't seem to help myself when I witness such petty injustice. Pushing someone over in an attempt to steal their seat on the train? You really should be ashamed of yourself."
The man was looking paler with each new word, each new calmly spoken accusation.
It felt good.
Better than he'd felt in a long time, if he were honest.
"As to the picture," he continued, pressing his advantage. "I like to document all my trips and I've just returned from Hamamatsu. Unfortunately, as I was there for personal reasons, I didn't really have much to write about for my case blog this time so- when I witnessed such crass behavior- I thought perhaps I might instead post about such an obvious lack of basic etiquette and human kindness. It's obviously not quite up to my usual standards as it pertains to case logs and crime fighting technique, but I think this sort of social commentary might play well with my audience nonetheless. Don't worry, I'll be sure to leave your name out of it, if you chose to give it to me. Though I'm afraid I will need to post this picture to illustrate my point if you still refuse to return what you've so unfairly stolen."
He could almost hear it, the moment the man's resolve snapped, his will crumbling to pieces as he flushed with mortification. He was up and moving like a child fleeing a bully, pressing quickly past the boy, almost knocking him over in during his hasty retreat.
It might have made him laugh if he were the boy he'd been two years ago.
But he was not that boy.
He was somebody now and that person had a reputation to protect and an image to uphold.
And the Akechi Goro who solved crimes and sought justice was not petty enough to take pleasure in some salaryman's embarrassment.
Instead, he offered the boy a slim smile as he slipped back into his newly vacated seat and turned his gaze to the night outside, their business concluded.
The silence of that moment was a short-lived relief.
"Thanks for that," the boy offered, ignoring the dismissal as if he didn't recognize it for what it was. "And sorry again for falling on you like I did."
Dammit.
He'd hoped that would be the end of it.
Couldn't he take a hint?
"Ah, yes," he replied, scrambling for a response that fit his image. For something, anything, more suitable that the bitchy 'fuck off' that was floating through his mind on a cloud fashioned from a rude gesture and a dozen more equally rude remarks. "Well, you startled me and I was… less than gracious."
He shrugged helplessly.
It was, of course, the understatement of the century.
He was still mortified even thinking of how poorly he'd reacted, how his facade had crumpled like cheap tin beneath the weight of one clumsy boy.
"It was the least I could do," he murmured at last, managing a small wobbly smile that should have been enough to put his image to rights or win him a gold-plated statue of some sort.
Which did not in any way explain why that boy was still squinting at him as if he had mustard on his cheek.
It was irritating.
He was irritating.
Why the fuck hadn't he just let that asshole have his seat?
He was absolutely certain that the shitty salaryman wouldn't have been trying nearly as hard to ruin his already colossally terrible day.
"Have you ever seen Invasion of the Body Snatchers?" He asked suddenly, the question bursting out of him like a jack springing from a box and just as welcome.
"I- what?"
What the hell was he even talking about?
What the hell was Invasion of the Body Snatchers?
As if reading his mind, the boy was quick to answer though none of the words he said actually helped.
"The movie? Invasion of the Body Snatchers? Not the shitty remake or even the pretty good remake, but the original one. The Don Siegel one? Have you seen it?"
He said it all in an excited rush, so much so that it almost sounded like another language.
"No, I don't…" he began, grimacing.
How was he meant to take that?
It was just so... random.
He was used to people trying to engage him on subjects he didn't necessarily know anything about. Adults were constantly trying to trip him up in order to show him up, to bolster their own egos. He was used to it. He knew how to bluff his way through those situations. Made it a point to stay up to date on popular culture, restaurants, politics. He studied constantly, obsessively, so his practical knowledge of most subjects was well ahead of that of his peers.
But this?
This weird, random, bizarre enthusiasm for a movie?
What the hell was he supposed to do with this?
Was it a trick? A trap?
Or was he really just some sort of weird otaku?
"Why are you asking?" He inquired finally when the boy didn't immediately volunteer a further explanation, the beginnings of frustration straining his tone, gloved fingers curling against his knees.
The boy shrugged amiably and slumped down in his chair, a slow smile curving his lips, "You just made me think of it."
You just made me think of it?
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
Something about it- the way he smiled or the way he shrugged or the way he slumped so carelessly in his seat or maybe just the words themselves- grated against his nerves like nails dragged down the length of a chalkboard.
"What." The leather of his gloves creaked as he clenched his fingers, as he spat the word out from behind clenched teeth.
Fuck.
What was it about this stupid kid that made it so hard to control himself?
He forced himself to draw a breath, to relax, but it was difficult, painfully so.
"I'm sorry," he managed with difficulty, offering him a smile he didn't feel that he was certain didn't look anything even close to real. "I don't believe I caught your name?"
"Tell me yours and I'll tell you mine," the boy replied immediately with a smug, self-satisfied smirk that played across his lips like it was the only song he knew.
That little shit.
He wanted to reach across the space between them and wrap his fingers around his throat, listen to the leather of his gloves creak as he squeezed.
It was an incredibly gratifying mental image.
Especially when the asshole proceeded to make a great show of pushing his sleeves up over his elbows, of turning his hands over and spreading his fingers wide, palms up.
Nothing up my sleeves, the gesture taunted, carelessly.
Careless.
And why not?
For all that he knew he was simply teasing some random boy on a train?
Someone who'd been a little rude to him and probably deserved a childish taunt or two, in his mind.
And here he was, like an idiot, letting himself get worked up about nothing.
He had absolutely no idea who he was fucking with.
No clue who he really was or what he'd done.
He was just a kid.
Just a stupid kid.
And, even knowing that, it still took everything he had not to throttle the little shit where he sat on general principle.
"Why?" He asked, trying for curious and nonchalant and crashing and burning before they even leave his mouth.
"I don't have any friends," the boy admitted without even the faintest hint of embarrassment. "And I wouldn't mind making one."
He could not possibly be serious, but the admission brought an unwanted smile to his lips anyway.
"I can't say I'm surprised you have no friends. You don't seem a very pleasant person."
"I suppose not," the boy shrugged, as if that didn't matter at all. "Of course, neither do you."
He didn't laugh, but it was a close thing, "I have no idea what you're talking about. I am an incredibly pleasant person."
It was a lie, of course, but it was a lie no one else had ever seen through.
Easy to tell and easy to believe.
The very best kind of lie.
Except he wasn't even sure the boy across from him was even listening to him anymore.
He was too busy staring at his mouth like he was contemplating whether he might be able to fit inside.
Which... was... not what he'd expected.
It was weird.
And maybe almost, a little bit flattering.
Had anyone ever looked at him that way before?
Girls, certainly.
He had a lot of fans who left him chocolate in his locker and love letters that required polite refusals.
Still... this didn't feel like that.
Maybe it was just because he'd never cared how any of those people looked at him.
Not that he cared how this boy looked at him either, of course.
He didn't.
But it wasn't... awful.
It was almost like a physical touch, that look, so intent that he could almost feel it like a thumb pressed against his bottom lip, tracing the shape of it before slipping inside to tap askance against his teeth.
It's far more tempting than it should be.
He'd never had a playmate, even as a child, even before his mother had died and the whole world had changed, even then he'd always been a solitary child.
Not lonely- never lonely- but often alone.
"That's a shame," his companion sighed, eyes drooping as he slumped down further in his chair. "I think the asshole who was ready to toss me off the train for falling on him was way more interesting."
He didn't have a reply for that and his too chatty companion didn't seem to expect one as he shifted about in chair trying to get comfortable. It seemed to take no time at all before he'd nudged his face in against the cool of the window and fallen asleep almost instantly..
He wasn't sure what to think of that. Whether to find that ability to fall asleep so easily in the company of strangers foolhardy or enviable.
He slept with his mouth open.
And he snored.
It was uniquely unattractive.
He laughed a little under his breath as he drew his phone from his pocket and snapped a quick picture. He'd never had a use for all the silly, childish little features in the photo app before so it took a little while to figure out how to draw on the photo, to give the sleeping boy a set of devil horns, a goatee and a curling mustache before saving the image as his wallpaper.
He could use a good laugh from time to time.
Eventually he gave into temptation and opened his browser.
Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
It wasn't difficult to find the version he'd spoken of. To find summaries and critical reviews and even a few clips he could watch play out in silence, volume muted to avoid bothering the other passengers.
…replaced by emotionless imposters…
He'd never thought of himself that way.
Emotionless.
It seemed as if his life would much simpler if he were.
He doubted that was what he'd meant anyway.
He frowned and slipped his phone back into his pocket once more.
If he wanted to sate his curiosity, he would need to gather further information as what he knew so far was clearly insufficient.
Unfortunately the only source of information was still sleeping, body loose and limp across the seat.
His hair was frizzy, made so no doubt, by the drying damp and an uneven cut. It made him look different now that the intensity of his gaze was shuttered by sleep; younger… weaker. Like this he didn't seem a presence worthy of remark. If he looked at him too long like this, he might not even remember why he'd considered him a threat at all.
Not that he really had.
He was just a boy, after all.
A boy like any other, just another spoiled child who'd spoken too much and too abruptly about things he couldn't hope to understand.
Looking at him now, it all seemed... silly.
He didn't know him, didn't know anything about him at all.
No one did.
Not really.
He'd chosen his mask wisely and he wore it well.
The realization should have brought relief.
It didn't.
The old woman beside him shifted in her sleep, her snores getting louder for a moment before settling to near silence once more.
Huh.
Strange.
He was usually so conscious of his surroundings, of the people in them, but he couldn't remember giving her or any of the other passengers in their row more than a passing thought since the moment he'd been so rudely woken.
It was a potentially life-ruining oversight and he couldn't even summon up token embarrassment over it..
What the hell was wrong with him today?
To be so easily distracted.
So far off his game.
Ridiculous.
No one was looking at them, sleeping or caught up in their own affairs, the quiet bleep of cell phones, the rustle of newspapers and the occasional cough the only sounds that broke the silence.
He glanced back at the boy still sleeping against the window.
He must have never known hardship in his life to be able to sleep so soundly in such a public place. Never known fear or the sinister promise of a stranger'a hands.
Such innocence.
Such foolish complacency.
Such misplaced trust.
It made him want to ruin it.
Ruin him.
He fumbled a glove off before he could think better of it, before he could think at all of what he intended.
That dark hair was very soft beneath the light press of his fingertips and he had a brief mad desire to push his hand against it, to catch hold and coil those untidy waves around his fingers.
To tear it out or just use it to drag him from his seat and down into the darkness of the world beneath.
Into the cognitive world where he could press him against pulsing walls or pin him against oil slick floors, where he could rip his mask away and let him look his fill. Let him see him for what he truly was. See the fear in his eyes, the confusion, the revulsion and then release him back into the world a ranting, mad thing, spoiled and stained by truth.
He jolted back abruptly shaking the image from his head and clutching the offending hand back against his chest, panting as his heart leapt to a gallop in his chest.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He sent a furtive glance down the row, but no one seemed to be have been paying him even the least bit of attention.
Here he was not the famous boy detective.
Here he was just another teenager, just another face in a crowd, no one cared who he was or where he was going..
He glanced out the window, at the water streaking across the surface, at the fields beyond and the city lights in the distance.
From such a distance, on such a night, Tokyo seemed like a distant planet, mysterious and strange and not the least bit inviting.
He pulled his glove back on with trembling hands, fingertips still tingling with the memory of touch.
Foolish.
What was he doing?
Perhaps it had not been so foolish to consider him a threat after all.
Even if not in the more conventional manner.
He leaned his head against the window, the cool of the glass felt nice against the heat in his face.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
It seemed that he must have slept for a time, but if he dreamed he remembered nothing of it upon waking, only darkness and silence as if he'd closed his eyes for only the space of a breath, but when he opened them again the lights seemed far closer than they had been and his face felt cold and smooth where it had been pressed against the glass.
His companion was still sleeping, mouth open, glasses slightly askew, face squashed against the window.
Their feet had tangled together as they slept, supple leather pressing in against sneakers so worn the canvas was riddled with holes that showed the dark of mismatched socks beneath.
His t-shirt was ratty, his blazer faded, his jeans were worn and the backpack jammed behind his feet was a dark, misshapen bulge that reminded him of those hulking, beastly monsters that lurched through the pulsing darkness that existed beneath Shibuya.
There was nothing about the image he presented that explained the queasy squirm of heat in his belly.
Nothing.
"Next station: Shin-Yokohama."
The time had gone by both too fast and too slow and soon they'd arrive in Shinagawa.
He could let him continue to sleep.
Could disembark and switch trains and never see or speak to him again.
But if he did, he might still think of him sometimes, late at night, when sleep was elusive and the silence of his apartment became too much to bear as it sometimes did.
He might keep the photo.
He might think about how soft his hair had been or about the way his foot had hooked back behind a stranger's ankle while he slept as if he wished to keep him close.
If he were desperate enough- pathetic enough-he might even consider what might have happened if he had woken him.
Might stare into the dark and run down a thousand rabbit holes in his mind chasing a hundred thousand maybes and might have beens.
It would be a distraction.
One he could ill afford.
It only made sense that he should wake him.
Wake him now so he might never have cause to think of him again.
Surely he'd only seemed interesting.
And no one was what they seemed to be.
No one.
A fact he should know better than anyone.
He had fashioned himself from lies and deceit into something that could be respected and embraced and needed and loved.
For all the good it had done him.
He carefully shifted his feet away, pulling them free and back against his own seat before painting over the grimace he wore with an apologetic smile, cheap and perfunctory as a participation award.
Akechi Goro was a good Samaritan.
Helpful and generous and kind to strangers.
It would be rude to let this stranger continue to sleep and potentially miss his stop.
And that was as good a reason as any to rouse him and sate his curiosity in what little time remained.
He curled the fingers of one gloved hand around his wrist and gave it a gentle squeeze and- for just a moment- the temptation was there, a sinister hiss like a gas leak at the back of his brain urging him to tighten his grip, to squeeze until bone fractured and then shattered beneath his fingers, until the boy before him began to sob, to scream, to…
Stop.
Stop it.
There was no need to harm him.
There was nothing to be gained from it in the here and now.
Maybe later.
But not yet.
He forced himself to breathe, slowly, carefully, as he counted down from ten.
It didn't really help.
Nothing did.
He kept breathing, slowly, counting down again and again as he turned his gaze to the window once more.
Outside the brilliant lights of the city seemed so close now that he could almost reach out and touch them.
The train slowed to a stop, announcing their arrival at Shin-Yokohama which he assumed it must have been though the station looked like nothing so much as a poorly rendered blur through the rain-smeared glass.
They pulled away from the station as he continued to stare at his reflection, trying not to notice that the eyes that stared back at him were as hollow and empty as the spaces between stars.
"Next station: Shinagawa."
It was now or never and he still felt nowhere even close to prepared.
Fortunately, he had had plenty of practice maintaining his smile when he felt like doing anything but.
He drew a final deep breath and blew it out slowly before turning back to face him.
He still looked ridiculous.
So, at least there was that.
"You should wake up," he commented, giving the wrist in his grasp another gentle squeeze, pleased to find that his voice sounded as soft and pleasant as ever with not even the suggestion of a quaver. "We'll be arriving in Tokyo soon."
His companion blinked his eyes open immediately as if he'd just been waiting for someone to call out to him. Something about his glasses made his eyes seem unnaturally large, like an owl's. With eyes like those it seemed that he should be able to see everything there was to see, from the false cheer of his smile to the traces of blood that probably lingered on his hands, hidden away though they were beneath the thin coating of civility his gloves provided and he stared at him dumbly for a long moment before shifting in his seat uncomfortably.
He released him and sat back, not quite able to bring himself to look away as he took his sweet time working his neck and arms free of whatever kinks sleep had branded into his muscles before leaning over to fish a water bottle from his stupid bag and take a drink.
Every move he made felt maddeningly, purposefully slow, as if it were designed to annoy him.
It was only once he had put his water bottle away and tucked the bag back behind his feet once more that he finally, finally deigned to raise his gaze to meet his scrutiny once more.
"Thanks for waking me," he murmured, offering him a small smile before turning to stare out the window.
Soft, sincere, a little uncertain and almost painfully real.
Only it wasn't.
Because no one was ever what they seemed to be.
Ever.
He knew that.
And yet there he sat, like a fool, feeling as if he'd missed a step in the dark and barely caught himself on the verge of falling because of a smile.
"I have seen it," he blurted out, louder than he'd intended, sudden and abrupt and awkward and nothing like how he'd wanted to say it, how he'd intended to work it into the conversation.
Mainly because there was no conversation.
He'd meant to be subtle or at least not so... fuck.
What was wrong with him?
Why was he constantly embarrassing himself in front of this one stupid boy?
And the way he was looking back at him, expression shocked open, like he'd slapped him, heavy with confusion as if he hadn't the least idea what he was even talking about, made it that much worse. Made him feel like a fool for bringing it up at all. Made him to snatch the words back, wind back time and never say anything at all, just go back to watching, wondering, while he slept on, oblivious.
But that chance was gone and all he could do was cover his embarrassment with a smile and offer an explanation, mortifying as it was to do so, "The movie you mentioned, I have seen it."
"Have you?"
"Yes," he replied, clearing his throat, because he was many things, but he'd never been a quitter. "It's about people being replaced by emotionless versions of themselves, right?"
He knew it was.
He'd watched a handful of clips and scanned a half-dozen articles to be absolutely certain he had the right of it.
His lips quirked, head falling to the side, eyes crinkling at the edges, "Are you sure you didn't just look it up on your phone to make sure I wasn't insulting you?"
Dammit.
It should have upset him to be seen through so easily, to be seen through so thoroughly.
It should have, but it didn't.
Instead it made his stomach wobble uncomfortably.
"Of course not," he scoffed, heart pounding so hard he could barely hear himself speak. "Why in the world would I do something like that?".
And he was smiling at him again.
That slim, sly, secret smile that made it feel like they were doing something dangerous, something illicit, something they shouldn't be doing at all, "Sorry, you're right. I was trying to make a joke. Obviously my sense of humor needs work. So, do you like it?"
"Oh, I, um," he began uncertainly, his voice shoring up as he committed to the lie. He could do this. He'd done this so many times before. "That is, I don't remember it very well. I was quite small when I saw it, you see."
"Were you?" He replied, smiling still.
"Quite. Why did you ask me if I'd seen it?"
"Maybe I was just making conversation," he commented, still smiling.
"It didn't seem like an idle question."
"So, you like science fiction?"
"Not particularly. I don't have very much time for such frivolous diversions these days. I suppose I liked it well enough when I was young."
"What'd you like?"
He was six or seven curled up on their old couch, wrapped in a quilt, watching television while he waited for her to come home from work.
She'd gotten him a Godzilla toy and made him pancakes for his birthday that year.
There'd been shadows under her eyes that deepened when she smiled.
He still had the toy.
He'd taken it to school that day and it had still been in his backpack as he'd sat in the police station that night.
It had lost an arm somewhere along the way, but he still kept it on a shelf near his bed.
"Godzilla, mostly," he answered, because sometimes a little bit of truth made the lies go down easier.
"Me too. Which was your favorite?"
"The original, I suppose."
He didn't want to talk about this.
Should have told him something else.
Anything else.
"See, I always liked Mothra vs. Godzilla best."
"I haven't seen that one," he lied.
He'd seen all of them.
Even the new ones that seemed like a different breed altogether, vaguely dissatisfying, like watching a cover band perform your favorite songs just a touch off-key.
Sometimes he'd gone to see retrospectives at a run down movie house in Shinjuku late at night. He'd seen the newer ones there as well though he'd stopped going after a few of his fans had spotted him there and posted about it online. Cheesy science-fiction didn't really fit with the image he was trying to maintain and, to add insult to injury, they'd insisted on sitting near him, giggling and talking in hushed voices throughout.
He hadn't been back since.
It was just as well.
He wasn't certain why he'd ever really liked them in the first place.
"That's too bad," the boy commented, oblivious to his thoughts. "It's really good. School keep you busy?"
"Quite," he replied, relieved to be back on more familiar ground. "I also have a job that takes up much of my limited free time."
"Isn't that kind of frowned upon?"
"My school doesn't have any rules prohibiting it."
"And your parents?"
His expression feels frozen, wooden, "That's never been an issue for me."
It's not as if he isn't used to talking about his lack of family, it's come up plenty of times during morning show interviews and background pieces. It's a matter of public record and one he's made a point of using to his advantage.
He was well used to people looking at him with pity, sympathy, accustomed to putting on a good face. He's spoken of it so many times, he could likely recite the story in his sleep.
Talking about it didn't bother him anymore, if it ever had at all.
It's almost disconcerting when he doesn't ask, instead just nodding and plowing ahead, taking his answer at face value without asking for further detail.
"What do you do?"
"Would you like to guess?" He asked, strangely relieved.
"Stunt driver," he answered immediately.
The unlikely guess startled a laugh from him before he can catch it back, "What about me makes you think that?"
"That a no?"
It wasn't really that funny, but he couldn't seem to stop laughing about it, relaxing back into his chair in spite of himself, "No, not a stunt driver."
"Day care attendant?"
"No, I'm actually terrible with children."
"Are you?"
"Don't believe me?"
"I haven't decided yet. So that's a 'no' to day care attendant?"
"I'm afraid so."
It wasn't as if he was enjoying himself.
"IT specialist?"
"I'm decent with computers, but I'd hardly call myself a specialist."
"Ghost writer?"
"What would I write?"
It wasn't as if he was having fun.
"Self-help?"
"Absolutely not. I'm a mess."
"Science fiction? Cookbooks?"
"I suppose I might enjoy the first, but I'd be hopeless at the second."
"Don't cook?"
"Not really, most of my meals come from the convenience store, I'm afraid."
His budget was tight at the best of times. Living in Shibuya on his own was expensive. Just his rent alone was almost more than he could afford, but he still splurged on all those fancy little restaurants to keep up appearances, to have something to talk about, a way to relate and make himself more approachable. Still, there were plenty of times when his schedule and budget didn't allow for that sort of thing at all.
The boy was smiling at him again and it was doing uncomfortable things to his stomach.
"Mine too," he commented. "Though cup noodles have been known to put in an appearance from time to time."
She had always made them seem special, like a treat.
Serving them in fancy bowls and layering in extra ingredients.
He'd tried to eat them since, but they weren't the same even when he was certain he'd added all the same things she had.
Something of his thoughts must have been obvious on his face, because he was looking at him funny again, lips quirking in a strange little half-smile.
"Not a fan?"
"No," he answered shortly.
The boy shrugged amiably, "Your loss."
"You cannot possibly tell me you enjoy them. They taste like cardboard despair."
"Only if you don't season them properly."
"Or possibly you just enjoy the taste of cardboard."
"Or despair, hard to say really."
"I suppose that's true," he conceded, grasping frantically for a change of subject. "I'm not a ghost writer, by the way."
He smiled at that, tilting his head to lean against the window once more, "I can't imagine you behind a counter."
"Really? My manners are impeccable. I think I'd be well-suited for work as a clerk if I had the urge."
He'd worked hard on that.
Stolen books from the little bookstore around the corner from the house he'd lived in before he came to Tokyo. He'd stayed up late practicing his smile in the mirror, whispering greetings and working on his pronunciation, before trying it out at school. He'd worked hard to fit in seamlessly, to become the respectable individual he was now.
It had been years since he'd been the strange, sullen boy with no friends.
He'd worked hard to leave that boy behind, to bury him in a shallow grave in that little town by the sea.
"Really? I'm pretty sure you'd kill someone the first time they spilled something and you had to clear up their mess."
It took everything he had to keep his smile in place, to keep his voice steady, "Do I?"
"Yeah, you really do," he answered, his voice soft, almost solemn.
He snorted a laugh as he turned his gaze to the window once more, letting his hair fall to obscure his expression.
He didn't trust himself.
Didn't trust what his face might betray of his thoughts.
Every time he said something like that it felt as if he were chipping away at his mask, prying pieces off and casting them aside, leaving what lay beneath aching and raw and exposed.
Was he doing it on purpose?
Was he trying to ruin him?
He couldn't quite bring himself to believe that was true, but he didn't believe in coincidence either.
"You asked my name before," he began slowly, hesitantly, uncertain whether he actually wanted an answer to the question he was about to ask. "You don't know who I am?"
He couldn't quite bring himself to look at him, to see lies chase shadows across his expression.
"Should I? Are you famous or something?" He scoffed, just the faintest hint of laughter in his voice, as if the idea were completely absurd.
And maybe to him it was.
Maybe to him even the possibility of his being anyone of note were so painstakingly remote that he could barely manage to issue the comment with a straight face.
He wasn't certain what that said about him.
"Something like that," he choked out in response, feeling vaguely ill.
"That's okay," the boy commented, his voice soft and distant, almost sad. "Happens to the best of us,"
He glanced over at him out of the corner of his eye and found him staring out at the distant horizon, all but invisible beyond the city that had sprung up around them.
And he found himself wondering, not for the first time: Who are you?
Though he couldn't quite bring himself to ask.
Wasn't even certain that he truly wished to know.
-ooo-
ADDITIONAL NOTES:
I have many, many ridiculous theories about Akechi which have little to no basis in canon (mostly because canon deals with him pretty sparingly all things considered). Many of these theories are mentioned in passing here and will be explored more later on. That said, I am very fond of the idea that Akechi spent part of his childhood in Inaba, because if Atlus is going to play the 'Persona 4 and 5 totally occur in the same reality' game then I have absolutely no problem taking that thought to the next obvious conclusion.
Also worth noting, Akechi doesn't refer to the Metaverse as the Metaverse because that is Morgana's terminology.
I also (obviously) roll with the headcanon that Akechi's inner monologue just gets bitchier and more foul-mouthed the more tired and cranky he is.
Bullets in the Cognitive World: So, I have this theory that bullets are only actually necessary in the cognitive world because they think bullets are necessary and all their knowledge of the cognitive world is based on what Morgana tells them (and to a lesser extent what Akira gleans from the Velvet Room). Because the idea of your gun generating a finite amount of fake bullets is ridiculous. Because, from a world-building standpoint, if they were actually using pellets as their fake bullets that would mean they'd have to reload them each time they left the cognitive world and there would be absolutely no compelling reason they couldn't just carry extra pellets to reload on the fly in the same pockets they stick their infinite supply of freaking coffee. So, basically, I'm just assuming they're just going off what Morgana told them and Morgana, in this instance, was incorrect. As to Akechi, he's probably gained most of his knowledge through a combination of Wakaba's research and his own trial and error so he wouldn't be constrained by the same limitations as the others. That said, in this scenario, when it becomes obvious to Akechi that they think there's a hard limit on bullets he just plays along.
The briefcase book- quotes from which are referenced at several points throughout this chapter in Akechi's thoughts- is iThe Long Goodbye/i by Raymond Chandler.
