(a/n: eventually i ran out of witty things to say so. kek. what is time.)
Cop and Robber
RANK 12, STAGE 2
Sakamoto Ryuuji paced to the left.
Sakamoto Ryuuji paced to the right.
Sakamoto Ryuuji stopped.
"Alright, guys," he said, "isn't this getting ridiculous? Six days. Prissyma's been out for six days. No contact. Not even a dumb little text."
"It is ridiculous," said Officer Tohgou. "No one has claimed to the contrary."
"And we're just gonna sit around and do nothin' about it?" said Ryuuji. "Shouldn't we report stuff like this?"
"Inspector Akechi has a spotless record," said Officer Kawakami. "The chick's probably fine."
"Didn't Munakawa Asao also technically have a spotless record?" Officer Suzui pointed out. "On paper, at least."
"Akechi's a pretty boy inspector. She could punch his lights out in two seconds flat." Officer Kawakami waved a dismissive hand.
Ryuuji ground his teeth. "You guys ain't taking this seriously at all."
"Did you expect anything less from this squad?" said Officer Mifune in a rare moment of true wisdom.
Ryuuji stared. He sighed in frustration and gripped his jacket.
"Fine. Stay here. Play cards, play shogi. I'm gonna go out and do somethin', like what Queen would tell us if she were here."
"She isn't," Officer Kawakami said.
Ryuuji made a rude gesture with his hand and slammed the door behind him.
Officer Suzui followed on his heels.
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.
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Makoto was beginning to lose her sense of time.
Akechi Gorou had offered a digital clock, which told her that six days had elapsed since she first woke up in the wine cellar. Frankly speaking, it was ridiculous. It wasn't right. No police superintendent worth his salt would approve of an officer being idle for six days. This was a futile plan—wasted resources, wasted time, wasted everything. She had ample reason to shove this situation in his face and call off the bait, and she absolutely would when she next saw him.
But for now—now, it was time to think.
She'd taken the past six days for considerable physical conditioning. There was little else to do, though Gorou was accommodating enough to bring her any case files she requested. Most importantly, she had time to think.
She closed her eyes and imagined. She imagined she was in Leblanc, she was sitting across the counter, she was smelling warm curry. She imagined that she had her familiar notebook in her hand and she was waiting, waiting for a voice.
And then it came.
"Life," said the imaginary Akira, "is a box of chocolates."
Because his perspective on life could provide hints for his perspective on Leblanc.
She gave him a dour look. A box of chocolates could not plausibly be a Palace.
"Kidding," said Imaginary Akira. "Life is a circus. Everything that happens is a clown fiesta. People run around doing things to draw attention to themselves, make themselves stand out, with money, relationships, status, each one more ridiculous than the last, but in the end, they just look like fools. Criminals walk free and law enforcement bumbles, government is steeped in bribery, corporations care for seniority over competence. It's a gag concert of the best kind."
The cutting cynicism, spoken in Akira's dry tone, rocked Makoto.
It didn't sound like Akira.
It sounded like someone else.
"Or life is a coliseum," said Imaginary Akira. "A competition to the death, where people stake everything they are, everything they have, witnessed by an audience who just wants to see bloodshed and gore. And at the end of the day, their corpses are tossed away and completely forgotten, and it's like they never existed in the first place."
Makoto's throat was dry. "This... isn't what Akira would actually think."
"Isn't it?"
"It's not," she said firmly.
"Why?" said Imaginary Akira, and despite his cold words, his tone was gentle. "Because you know me perfectly? Because you can read my mind? Because I'm the trope of the Perfect Guy For You in your head, and you can't let it go?"
And she was speechless.
Imaginary Akira eased up the pressure, as considerate as the real Akira. "Then maybe life is a theater. No one really shows who they are. When they're alone, when they're with family, when they're with friends, when they're with colleagues—they have different masks for each, and they switch them out, put on an act, become entirely different people. No one shows actual truth."
Makoto regained her composure, taking in several controlled breaths before she responded. "It sounds very plausible."
Imaginary Akira raised a brow. "I'm hearing a 'but' in there."
"But Akira, I think he doesn't care too much about genuineness." She brushed her hair behind her ear. "He... probably cares about... justice?"
"Is that you projecting onto me?" said Imaginary Akira wryly. "Because I've never mentioned what was important to me."
Makoto hesitated.
She felt it, felt so certain, that his passion, his very core, was centered on justice.
Why?
But Imaginary Akira was already pressing on. "Or maybe life is... a pretty little police officer with chestnut hair and crimson eyes that pulls you in and makes you just a little bit crazy."
And Imaginary Akira suddenly rebelled against the strict boundaries she'd set for him and snaked an arm around her waist, pulled her in, tilted her face, and whispered breathily in her ear.
"I feel like you forgot what happened. Maybe I should remind you."
And Makoto frantically waved the illusion away, clamping a hand over her racing pulse. Kurusu Akira wouldn't do that. He was somewhat shy. Wasn't he?
Except when they'd first met, he'd flirted endlessly.
But Kurusu Akira was nowhere near as cynical as her imagination made him out to be. Was he?
Except he had wit and an endless pool of sarcasm, and those traits were often correlated to cynicism.
But there was no way, because if Kurusu Akira was bold, cynical, charming, a hint of rogue, then he was almost similar to—
Makoto shook the thought away before it crystallized in her mind.
It was impossible. There were movie tickets, there were alibis, there was untampered CCTV footage that showed nothing entering or exiting Leblanc.
Except Leblanc was a Palace. So the one person who could probably leave was—
Frantically, her mind seized onto another suspect. Mishima Yuuki. How inconceivable, how laughable. Yuuki was hapless and earnest and loyal and could not be any more different.
Except—
Mishima Yuuki had also been working with Akira for seven years.
The Phantom Thieves had operated for seven years.
Makoto's mouth ran dry.
She quickly shut off that entire portion of her brain, locked away every thought. It was impossible. It was mad. Someone as prominent as a Phantom Thief couldn't just coincidentally be the cute barista she fell for. That was a ridiculous turn of fate, that was the kind of event that surfaced in dramas. A police officer and a criminal, falling for each other with secret identities and missions playing in the background. It was the kind of thing that she'd marathon on a weekend with a giant bowl of popcorn, not something that would actually happen in reality.
She reached out for something, anything, to distract her.
"I won't hurt you," said her voice, and she remembered her hands reaching out and cupping her face, she remembered tiptoeing, she remembered—
Panicked, she shoved it away, but it came back. Vivid, hot in her mind like a brand. The tenderness, the desperation, the caress of callused hands on her face. How Akira's form slanted against hers in a chaotic symmetry, two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
She slapped at herself.
Pull yourself together. This is ridiculous. The solitude is getting to you.
Her id was sighing dreamily. But that was the best possible first kiss we ever could have hoped for.
Except it wasn't our first kiss, said her superego sulkily. It was somewhere in the corner, angry that romance had become a Thing. Romance tended to make the id win and the superego lose.
In my heart, it was our first kiss, said her id. The other one didn't count.
You loved the other one too, you Casanova, muttered her superego.
He was hot.
What a base woman.
Makoto pushed both of them out of her mind. Six days. She hadn't seen her squad in six days.
Or Akira.
By now, they'd be panicking.
So would Akira.
They'd think that she had abandoned them.
Like Akira.
If Gorou continued to insist on this arrangement, she might have to break out by force.
So when she next heard footsteps coming down the cellar staircase, she turned around. "Sir. I say this as a fellow officer of law enforcement. We can no longer tolerate this plan. It's resulting in wasted resources and idle time—"
But.
She came face-to-face with an angular, cruel black mask.
And a silencer pistol.
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.
Akira was swathed in Joker's clothes as he swung through the window of a large wooden shack. The walls were covered in colored canvases, each portraying a vibrantly different emotion than its neighbor. He made his way down the hall and turned the corner.
A thin, pale man, trim in an impeccable button-up and perfectly combed hair, nearly bowled right into him.
"Oh," said Kitagawa Yusuke. "This is an interesting surprise. You could have simply texted."
"Fox," said Akira shortly, "I have a rush request."
Yusuke's eyebrows furrowed. "What sort of rush?"
"Within the hour."
"That's not much of a rush considering your ordinary deadline, I must say." Yusuke nodded toward the shack's kitchen. "Care for some tea?"
"Not much in the mood for it."
"Tea is soothing to the soul and a great symbol of tranquility."
"Maybe next time." Akira handed a slip of paper to him. "Here's the message I need. Payment's by the window, as usual."
Yusuke examined it. "This appears to be nothing out of the ordinary. Why do you visit personally?"
Akira hesitated.
"I have a question," he said finally. "If someone went missing for six days, where would you think they had gone?"
Yusuke frowned. "To a creative retreat, naturally. A time spent away from man and man-made things to refresh inspiration."
Akira blinked. "Besides that."
"Then there is no place other than the arms of Death," said Yusuke.
Akira was silent.
Yusuke's gaze cut into him. "Something is strange with you this day, Joker. What arrests your soul?"
Akira looked at him.
Yusuke's eyes suddenly widened.
"I see it!" he said. "That's it! That's the difference! Eureka!"
Akira recoiled. "What?"
"This gentle, sensitive aura. I know it. I have seen its shape and color." Yusuke reached into his pocket and whipped out a brush. "Pink. Tinges of magenta and the deepest, purest blue. Oh, my friend. You are in love."
Akira opened his mouth dumbly.
"Your spirit animal is laughing," said Yusuke.
"My spirit animal?"
"The cat that follows ever in your footsteps."
"He's," and Akira turned to check, "he's not even here."
"Not physically, of course. But his presence is ever with yours."
Akira's inner Morgana was, in fact, bawling in laughter and rolling down the aisles helplessly.
Akira shook his head. "You're one of the strangest people I know."
"As it takes a different mind to see a different world, I shall endeavor to accept that as a compliment," said Yusuke. "Remain here. I shall have your cards printed within the hour."
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.
.
The calling cards were posted that night on the windows of Havington, a clothing company riddled with sweatshop conditions, embezzlement, and infusing clothes with illegal chemicals in the dye.
The CEO, Erizawa Kikue, had her days of corruption numbered.
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.
"You don't know anything?" said Suzui Shiho.
Mishima Yuuki blinked.
Officer Suzui waited.
"You changed your hair," Yuuki stammered.
Officer Suzui stepped back. "Huh?"
"It, it looks prettier this way."
She paused. "O-oh. Thank you."
A moment of silence.
Officer Suzui's phone rang. She glanced at it and turned away, blushing. "Sorry. That's Officer Sakamoto. We're supposed to meet up at the train station after two hours of recon."
Yuuki cleared his throat. "Is—is he your boyfriend?"
Officer Suzui looked at the ground. "No."
Silence.
"Are you open to getting one?" said Yuuki.
Officer Suzui pulled her cap over her eyes as she pushed out the door. "I might be."
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The seventh morning.
Akira had just donned his gloves when Mishima Yuuki bolted into the attic, gasping.
"Boss," he said tremulously, "there's something you need to see."
He jumped down the stairs and Morgana pounced after them. When they reached the first floor, he pointed frantically at the screen. A polished newswoman was settled at a desk, gesturing to a fuzzy picture superimposed by compositing software.
"...the Phantom Thieves fansite, where a video was forcibly uploaded by an anonymous user. We await reactions from the local police stations. Here rolls the clip."
The screen blew up with an image of a man in a sharp black mask, illuminated by a single flashlight. From his underlit jaw to his two-sided smile to the subtle hunch of his back, he seemed irreparably insane.
"Joker!" screeched the man. "Heed my words! Know me as Black Mask!"
Akira stopped in his tracks.
"Did," whispered Morgana, "did he just say, 'Joker?'"
Black Mask spun on the screen, theatrical and deranged. "Behold, Joker, for I have the ultimate trump card! Your precious little cop is in the palm of my hand, hanging from the strings of fate! I may cut her lose whenever I please!"
He panned the camera.
Akira's gut fell.
A large metal frame was hoisted upwards. At the top, a gleaming blade was set in a spring-loaded mold, ready and waiting to fall. Makoto was tied at the bottom of the contraption, struggling. Her face was chalky with terror.
"A guillotine?" Morgana choked.
The camera swiveled back to Black Mask.
"Come, submit yourself to my reign!" cackled Black Mask. "I give you two hours!"
The transmission cut.
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.
Makoto was tightly bound, weaponless, set out beneath a guillotine, and her id was not having a good time.
DEATH DEAD DYING DEATH DEAD DYING—
That, snapped her superego, is doing absolutely nothing to help our present situation. Think like a rational woman for once.
DEATH DEAD DYING PROBABLY DEATH DEAD DYING PROBABLY—
Everything in her was shaky and shivering. She worked to focus, pushing her arms at the ropes. They held fast, expertly tied.
Plan A, failure.
She tried shifting her whole body, but the ropes were anchored to the metal contraption. She could barely budge a few millimeters.
Plan B, failure.
She tried feeling around her pockets, but she felt nothing except a black cloth hood that had been jammed over her head.
Plan C, failure.
Goodbye, my beloved neck, mourned her id. It was lovely being attached to you.
No, she just had to think a little outside the box.
She was ungagged. She still had the power of words.
"Hey," she said. She sounded a lot more confident than she felt. "I know what this is about."
"Do you?" said Black Mask coolly.
"Your genius is withering in the shadows. You need the spotlight. An audience to appreciate you." She kept her voice steady. "You're bored, aren't you? Life has nothing to offer. This is the only moment you feel alive."
Black Mask looked at her.
"I've read profiles on psychopaths like you," she said.
Black Mask smiled. "So have I."
And he unveiled.
Makoto stared and her mouth went slack.
"My apologies, Officer Niijima," said Akechi Gorou placidly. "I needed a genuine reaction for the camera. The Phantom Thieves will be watching, after all. Fear not. The guillotine is a fake. The blade is made of styrofoam, and it is glued in place."
Makoto kept staring.
"Let's get you out of those ropes, shall we?" said Gorou. "They look quite uncomfortable."
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JOKER. Track it.
ORACLE. Five minutes.
JOKER. You have three.
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Sakamoto Ryuuji leapt to his feet, eyes transfixed to his smartphone.
"GUYS," he screamed, "WE NEED TO LOCATE QUEEN, NOW!"
Officer Mifune drew a card and frowned.
"That's strange," she said. "She's supposedly completely safe."
"That's paper and I saw her under a damn metal guillotine!" He reached out and tore the card from her hand. "We gotta get moving!"
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"Whoever this Black Mask is," ground out the Superintendent-General, "he dared to kidnap and bargain with an officer of the law. I want him in this office in twenty-four hours. Go!"
The helicopter took to the air and the SWAT teams jumped into black vans, heading out in droves.
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.
Niijima Sae watched the footage and shook her head bemusedly.
"You may be milking this too much, Gorou," she said. "If you don't get executed for this, it'll be a miracle."
She drank calmly from her tea.
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.
"Wait, Joker," Morgana growled, digging his claws into Akira's shoulder. "We sent out the calling card. The Phantom Thieves are supposed to strike today. Black Mask is forcing you to choose."
"We'll hit Erizawa afterward," Akira snapped.
"Black Mask has a video camera, Joker. If he catches you onscreen, not only will everyone know your appearance, but they'll know that Niijima Makoto means something special to the Phantom Thieves. A group that's had flawless operations for seven years wouldn't jeopardize it all on an unrelated civilian casualty, not when they've just carded someone. Every single person, from every cop to every soldier to every new enemy like Black Mask, will know that Niijima Makoto is a pressure point."
"Then we split," commanded Akira. "I take care of the card. You take care of Black Mask. No one would notice you on camera."
Morgana shook his head. "You know I wouldn't be able to help her. I have no powers here."
Akira swiveled with a furious roar, crushing his heel into the nearest object. It was a garbage tin, which punched into the wall with a sizable dent.
"Joker," said Morgana.
"Makoto is tied under a goddamn guillotine. She's going to be beheaded in two hours."
"If you go," said Morgana, "just throw in the towel while you're at it. Because from here, it'll all go downhill."
"She's terrified."
"You rescue her from this one, and she'll be targeted by the police. She'll go through endless rounds of interrogation. Everyone will ask what connection she has with the Phantom Thieves. Some interrogations will be less than friendly."
"She's alone."
"Everyone will go after her. They'll be looking to get their hands on the cop prized by the Phantom Thieves. Yakuza. Hitmen. Politicians. Accomplices of all your previous marks. Seven years of angry people showing up at her doorstep every day. If not her doorstep, then the precinct. With explosives. With gasses. With guns."
Akira closed his eyes.
He thought hard, harder than he'd ever thought in his life.
Makoto was held captive by a deranged stranger who called himself Black Mask.
Black Mask somehow knew the Joker.
Not just the appearance, but specifically the name: "Joker."
If he had seen Joker in the Metaverse, he wouldn't have known a name—just an appearance.
The only five people who knew the Joker's name were Makoto, Morgana, Oracle, Fox, and himself.
Akira idled on this point for a few seconds before discarding it. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't really matter. It was disconcerting, but not directly related to saving Makoto.
How had Black Mask captured Makoto?
She had been absent for one week, taken from the precinct by Inspector Akechi.
Inspector Akechi, when confronted with Police Squad 29, reassured them that everything was fine.
But clearly, something had gone wrong. Because Niijima Makoto was now in the grasp of a madman.
A little shard fell into Akira's grasp: Where is Akechi Gorou?
What happened to him when Niijima Makoto was kidnapped?
He took out his phone, his real one, and dialed a number.
"Hey, Officer Suzui," he said. "It's Kurusu Akira, from Leblanc. You left this card with Mishima Yuuki a few weeks ago..."
