(a/n: i bek)

Cop and Robber
RANK 13, STAGE 5

Courtesy of a certain catbus, Niijima Makoto arrived at an alleyway in Shinjuku with a still-blindfolded Akechi Gorou hoisted over her shoulder. She unceremoniously dumped him on the ground and knelt, sawing at his bonds with a pocketknife.

"Long time no see, Inspector," she said mildly.

"Is it really you?" said Gorou's puzzled voice.

"That," said Makoto, "isn't a very useful question, because you wouldn't believe me either way. But you'll find out when we get this blindfold off."

Gorou was silent for a moment. She could almost hear his brain turning over in his skull.

"Akechi Gorou," said Morgana suddenly.

Makoto shot him a confused look. Morgana surveyed Gorou for a moment, then sighed.

"Alright, good. He doesn't seem to understand me. That could've been bad."

Why? Makoto mouthed.

"I'm guessing that he didn't see my physical form in the Metaverse," said Morgana. "With a lack of visual cue, there was no change in cognition. So basically, he can't understand me because he hasn't seen me talk."

Makoto stared.

And stared some more.

"Oh," she said. "Oh. You're—talking. Holy. You're—"

"Shut up," Morgana hissed. "There's an inspector right next to you."

"Of course I'm talking," said Gorou, puzzled. "Did you think he would cut out my tongue?"

But it was a cat and it was legitimately talking even as a Felis catus in the real world, not even the Metaverse—

"Talk now, think later," said Morgana.

Gorou tilted his head and frowned. "What on earth is meowing so loudly?"

Makoto shook herself and coughed. "Just an alley cat. We're in Shinjuku."

"Shinjuku," Gorou mused. "So. I've scarcely been moved from when I was Black Mask. But you certainly put me in a car and drove quite a distance..."

"Tails," Makoto invented. "I had to lose them."

She finished sawing through the ropes, which fell to the ground. Gorou reached up and peeled at the tape that secured his blindfold. He winced at the bright sunlight, shielding his eyes until they adjusted.

His gaze turned to her. "Officer Niijima. Why are you operating alone?"

It should have been a keen accusation, especially from someone like Akechi Gorou. It should have carried weight to it: Why don't you have an alibi? Why are you disobeying protocol? What are you really after?

But it didn't.

It was tentative, puzzled. Something that seemed unusually hopeful, like he was expecting a specific answer, a special answer.

She didn't know what he was looking for.

But she did know how to appear innocent.

So she softened her voice, lowered her lashes, briefly touched the ends of her hair, and whispered, "Why do you think I'm operating alone, Inspector?"

Gorou stared at her for a long, long moment. His face was stoic, but his ears were gradually warming to beet-red.

He cleared his throat. Then cleared it again. "Because the Phantom Thieves have an insider in the police department."

The answer surprised her. Given his reaction, she was expecting something much bigger and grander. But she waited patiently for him to finish.

"You didn't want to risk leaking information," continued Gorou, "and you didn't know who to trust."

"They operated flawlessly inside the police station. It's not an unlikely situation," Makoto said.

Gorou's face flickered in disappointment, but he nodded. "Regardless. As an authority of the police force, I cannot condone operating alone. There is no accountability when an officer is allowed to do whatever she wishes without report or partner."

Makoto made a generic noise of assent. She felt a tinge of guilt, but not enough to override her concern for Akira and her desire to conceal the Metaverse.

"Where did you come from?" she asked. "You stumbled out of a door."

"A cellar of some sort," said Gorou. "We must retrace our steps at our earliest convenience. I made sure to memorize my exact path to—wherever I met you. It seemed like a front door to a porch? It took significant trial and error, but I am certain I would recognize the house if I saw its layout."

"I doubt that," Makoto murmured.

"Hm?"

"Never mind. What happened after you were taken by Joker?"

Gorou paused.

"You were taken too, weren't you?" he said. "I heard your scream..."

"Oh, um." Makoto cleared her throat. "I managed to fight back. Almost got some skin cells and blood for a DNA sample, but he fled before I succeeded. That's how the police found me in the parking structure."

"I see." His gaze was distant. "Joker took me to a cellar. He proceeded to interrogate me."

"Civilly, right?" Makoto said. She kept a mask of iron over her apprehension.

"Well, before he kicked me and sent my skull cracking to the ground, yes, he was quite civil." Gorou stopped to massage his temples. "It's rather miraculous that I suffered no brain damage. At least, from what I can tell. Perhaps I am blind."

"No," said Makoto firmly. "You're completely fine. Completely healed."

"Healed? That's an odd way to put it if no damage was done in the first place." Gorou turned his eyes to Makoto's, his gaze piercing and serious. "The Phantom Thieves are exceedingly dangerous, Makoto. I felt it when I spoke with him. Joker is temperamental. A figurative time bomb, waiting to explode."

Makoto was quiet for a moment. "Maybe he's not always like that."

"I have dealt with men like him. They are self-pitying, arrogant, hypocritical. They are quick to become drunkards and domestic abusers, terrorists."

"Gorou."

"Yes?"

"Please shut your mouth," said Makoto sweetly, "before I break your nose."

Gorou shut his mouth before she broke his nose. She could feel the gears in his head turning, wondering at her sudden vehemence. Why was she angry? Did she care for the Phantom Thieves? Was she a traitor?

He turned his attention to their surroundings, clearing his throat. She watched as his eyes took in the Shinjuku alleyway, synthesized the timeline, traced a mental path. He had no questions for her, because Shinjuku was expected; Yongen-jaya was not, but Shinjuku was.

"Why do you pity them?" Gorou said presently.

"Who?" said Makoto cautiously.

"The Phantom Thieves."

Makoto considered this for a moment. "Have you heard the story of a girl in a high school, Inspector?"

"That is a fairly generic descriptor. Which one?"

Makoto breathed. "A girl witnessed an immense bullying problem at her high school. She reported to the administration, but beyond a half-hearted campaign for the sake of public image, they did nothing. She told the community, but the community didn't care. She told the police, but the police couldn't be bothered to bring cases against minors. So she started her own group. If the school's administration failed her, if every figure of authority stood still, then she'd fight the problem herself. And she got in trouble for stirring up a fuss, for making a commotion, for being a Teenage Rebel. But she still did it, because no one else would defend the defenseless."

"Was this you?" said Gorou softly.

"No," said Makoto. "It's the story of the Phantom Thieves. Inspector, how has our administration been dealing with our school's bullying problem?"

Gorou's gaze was level. "You enjoy metaphors, I take it."

Makoto stared back.

"Then," said Gorou, "what do we do if this girl did not muster the school in a united front? What do we do if this girl did not operate with a nonviolent protest or a public speech? What do we do if this girl forms her own little gang and throws the school under a new reign of terror, where bullies are bullied, and the bullied find more to bully, until all is a vicious cycle? What do we do if the intention is pure, but the methodology is flawed?"

Makoto's eyes softened.

"I think that's where administration has to step in," she said, "and form a method that's right."

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Makoto drove Gorou to the hospital. Okumura Haru was waiting by the back entrance, the tips of her fingers tapping together restlessly.

"Gorou!" she hissed as he clambered out of the car. She strutted forward, somehow staying perfectly balanced on two nine-inch stilettos despite her swift pace. "What have you even been doing?"

Gorou chuckled drily and slipped his arms around her shoulders for a brief hug. "It's good to see you too, Haru."

She rubbed a hand over his back, but her glare was petulant. "Get inside. Doctors are going to check you up. If there is anything wrong, a-ny-thing, I will sock you in the face. Twice. Actually, three times."

"Duly noted." Still grinning, he disappeared into the hospital.

Okumura Haru turned to Makoto, who stiffened. The heiress of the largest food conglomerate in Japan was no force to be reckoned with. She seemed intense, driven, ambitious, like the stereotypical businesswoman.

Then her face melted into a gentle smile.

"I have something to give you," said Haru.

Makoto blinked.

Haru grasped something in her luxurious genuine-leather-with-pure-gold-clasps designer handbag—roughly ¥1,500,000 market price—and handed it to Makoto.

It was a phone. Makoto's phone.

"Gorou had me safekeep this for you when he brought you to my house," said Haru. "I promise, I never touched it or looked at it, except when I put it in this bag to give back to you."

Makoto stared.

Haru's voice grew soft. "I'd also like to apologize on Gorou's behalf," she said. "He was... a little extreme. You know how he can get. He just really, really wants justice, in his own way."

Makoto nodded slowly. She accepted the phone with two hands and an instinctive bow.

Haru slipped her a card. "This is my personal number. Please let me know if you ever need anything. You seem like a very good person, Officer Niijima."

Makoto spoke past her dry mouth. "You as well, Lady Okumura."

"Oh my. Lady Okumura, that sounds pretty intimidating." Haru smiled. "Maybe someday, we'll be able to call each other by our first names. Have a good evening."

She strutted into the hospital. The doors sealed behind her.

Makoto turned and left.

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Morgana was sitting quietly in the back seat as Makoto drove back to her apartment.

"I'm taking you to my home," she told him. "Since, you know, your owner's not around at the moment."

Morgana glared. "I am completely self-sufficient, thank you very much. I lived on my own before I met Akira."

"Did you really?"

"Yes. Who saved your sorry ass from Shadow Joker again?"

"Point taken," Makoto said primly.

Morgana stared out the window. His tail flicked idly, indicating a thoughtful mood. "Do you get why Akira's so upset?" he asked.

Makoto paused. "He was abandoned," she said quietly.

"Well, kind of. But there's more to it. Remember the house?"

"Of course."

"His distortion is 'home.' That means that Leblanc being home is a cognitive dissonance—it's not true."

"Leblanc isn't his home?"

"Apparently not, or it wouldn't be his distortion. And for him, that's crushing. Leblanc is the closest to a home that he's ever had."

"So if it's a distortion..."

"He can't imagine that he'll ever have a home. Because if Leblanc isn't his home, then no place ever could be."

Makoto's fingers tightened on the steering wheel all the way to her apartment.

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Makoto dreamed that night.

She was sitting on the rope swing in Akira's cognition, swaying back and forth on the balls of her feet, watching the sun set in ripples. The world was aglow, soft. She soaked in its warmth. She was barefoot, the spaces between her toes threading into cool grass, a white dress flowing like water over her figure.

Akira stepped in front of her, out of nowhere, and knelt before her.

"Hey," he said.

There was no pain on his face, no sadness. Just peace. She felt a pang somewhere deep inside.

"Hey," she said.

"Someone looks pensive," he said, his mouth pulling up in a teasing smile. "What's on your mind? Life, the universe, everything?"

"You," she said.

"I'm flattered."

"You should be."

He stood and walked behind her. His hands closed over hers and he pulled slightly on the swing, pushed, pulled, rhythmically. She rocked in the gentle, invisible beat, her skin tingling at the contact. She loved feeling his calluses run over her knuckles, his heat press between her fingers.

"What's this about me?" he said dryly. "Did I leave the toilet seat up?"

She blinked. Toilet seat? "Are we married?"

He chuckled. "That sounds ominous. Already regretting it?"

She leaned into his chest, heat flaring her cheeks. "Could I ever?"

"Everyone does at some point," said Akira. "The trick is to not act on it."

"I was trying to be romantic."

"I was trying to be practical."

She pouted up at him. He only grinned at her.

"Come on, Majesty," he said. The nickname no longer sounded condescending and vicious. It was affectionate, special, something that spread warmth over her chest. "What's on your mind."

Makoto frowned. Her thoughts felt hazy, like the troubles that had plagued her were suddenly far away. "I... I have a friend in trouble, I think."

"What kind of trouble?"

"He's trapped. In... a prison of his own making, I guess. I made it worse. I want to get him out. It's painful in there, agonizing."

Akira stopped the swing.

"What should I do?" Makoto whispered.

He was quiet.

"Majesty," he finally said, "a jailbreak is no use to a prisoner who doesn't want to leave the cell."

"I can drag him out."

He knelt behind her. His arms skimmed over her sides and connected at the front of her waist, pulling her close. She leaned her head into his shoulder, the top of her hair just under his jaw. It was comfortable there—too comfortable, cuddling in the fading light of the sunset. She could feel the beat of his heart fluttering in his neck.

"No one can drag him out," Akira said.

She nuzzled him gently. "How do I get him to want to leave?"

Akira paused. "Why do people normally not want to leave their current circumstances?"

"They don't know of a better way, maybe."

Akira looked at her. "Fear of the unknown."

Fear of the unknown.

Trapped in a prison, because the prison was known.

Outside could be worse. The rescue could be a lie. Hope could be in vain. He was used to this cell, he knew how to survive in it, he understood how it worked. Outside, he was helpless, powerless. He would be vulnerable again. He would be betrayed again.

"Then how can he overcome it?" Makoto asked quietly.

She felt Akira smile against her cheek. "Generally speaking, mankind is strained by the tension of two opposite fears. One is the fear of the unknown. It could also be thought of as the fear of failure. But the other—the other is the fear of missing out."

"FOMO? I don't think I can take you seriously anymore."

He chuckled, and the rumble against her back made tears suddenly shoot to her eyes. If only he could laugh forever.

"The fear of failure prevents people from taking risks," he said. "It encourages withdrawal from risk, the pursuit of safety, self-preservation. But the fear of missing out spurs people to take every opportunity, to always be connected, to never have regrets. So really, all you need to do is tip the scale."

Makoto bit her lip. "I don't like that idea."

Akira raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Either way," said Makoto, "it's using fear. Negative reinforcement. Trying to make him react to an aversive stimulus to get rid of it."

She almost expected Akira to be annoyed, but he only grinned wider. "Ever the starry-eyed idealist, Majesty."

"I'll use fear if I have to."

"No, you won't."

She paused. "No, I won't," she agreed.

"But maybe you won't find your perfect solution," said Akira. "Maybe you'll have to reach a decision, and even if you don't like it, you have to face it, because it's the truth. For example, you could register a new service pistol and—"

"Stop," she said raggedly. "Stop. Don't."

He was quiet. His arms tightened around her waist.

"I would never," Makoto whispered.

"Psychological Japan."

She turned and cupped his face in her hands. "Please. Stop."

His gaze was serious. "Is that your verdict? On the nation? It's a bit harsh, isn't it?"

Her breath caught, but then—

—your verdict?

She leapt to her feet, breaking his grasp.

"Makoto?" said Akira. His face was strained, like he was afraid and trying to conceal it, afraid that she'd turn her back and walk away and leave him one more time.

But Makoto's mind was spinning. Her thoughts were already far away, unraveling the giant, tangled mess that had been her mind.

Of course.

The fear of failure wasn't something that she should eliminate. The fear of failure wasn't something that she should attempt to overpower by force.

Courage.

Courage was courage because it moved despite fear. It was never the absence of fear. It was the acknowledgement of fear, and the desire to move ahead regardless, because there was something else on the line, something that couldn't be surrendered, something absolutely important—

Makoto had to make a strong stimulus, the strongest possible, something to spur that courage and move Akira beyond his fear of failure and to do that she needed—

A verdict.

Verdict.

Makoto's face split into a smile. She whipped around and dashed to Akira, crashing into his chest. Her arms were tight over his shoulders as she kissed his cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, thank you."

Akira stumbled over a few unintelligible words. "For. For, what?"

"I have it," said Makoto. "The idealist's solution."

"Which is?"

She tiptoed up and nuzzled his nose. "I guess you'll have to wait and see."

His eyes burned as he looked at her. "I'm not known for being patient."

"One week," she murmured. "Hold on for one week. You can do it, I know you can."

He slowly sank to the ground, lying on the grass. She rested her head on his chest, staring at the fiery sky. He kissed her brow lightly, patiently.

"I think I love you," she murmured.

"Well, that's convincing."

"I'll get back to you on a later date with incontrovertible evidence."

He chuckled. The rumble spread to her fingertips. "That's my officer."

She dozed off, lying on the grass, Akira's arm nestled around her waist, legs playfully twined together. The warmth of his skin was a blanket on her soul.

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Niijima Makoto smiled in her sleep.

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Huddled in his Palace—

Kurusu Akira smiled in his sleep.

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| THE POLL FUNCTION IS TEMPORARILY DISABLED.