Suzui Shiho tiptoed in the cramped storage closet of Shibuya Station, reaching for a dusty navy binder on the top shelf. Her fingers scratched across the spine, but the binder refused to budge.
"Too high up?" came a voice from the closet door. Shiho turned.
Mishima Yuuki smiled sheepishly at her, his head poking through the doorframe. He inched into the storage closet, propping it open behind him.
"Yuuki?" said Shiho, bewildered. "What are you doing here?"
Yuuki rubbed the back of his neck. "Officer Mifune and Officer Tohgou said you were here. I, uh, brought some lunch. For all of you. Your squad, not the department. The department... would be a lot of lunch."
She smiled. "It definitely would."
"What're you up to?" Yuuki said.
She sighed. "Squad 29's supposed to get a new acquisition tomorrow to replace Makoto. It's... kind of sad, because we all loved working with her... but life has to go on, I think."
Yuuki only watched her quietly. She shrugged her shoulders—shrugged off that vague moment of nostalgia.
"Anyway, I wanted to check up on a few things before the new hire, but the document I need to find is print-only. And all the copies are up there." She gestured to the top shelf, which was jammed with navy binders. "Cops don't really like paperwork, you know."
"I can help you out," Yuuki offered. "I'm tall. People say that's my only redeeming feature. I'm too tall and gangly."
Shiho blinked. "That's alright," she said after a pause. "There's a stool somewhere in here for a reason."
"You sure?"
"Just wouldn't want to cause you any trouble."
"It wouldn't be any trouble," Yuuki said solemnly.
Shiho ducked her head a little. "Then, um, sure."
Yuuki stepped close. "Sorry, I might need you to step out of the way."
Shiho tried as best as she could, but there was only around two square feet of free space. "I'll wait outside, then."
Yuuki glanced at her, then glanced away. His cheeks colored a little. "No, never mind, I got it."
And with unprecedented bravery, he reached up from behind Shiho. His other arm braced on the shelves, pinning her close.
Shiho didn't move.
His fingers curled around the binder and he brought it down. He placed it in Shiho's hands. "T-there you go. One binder."
"Thank you," she said. She kept her head lowered as she turned to face him.
Yuuki rubbed his neck. "Then... I guess I'll be... going."
He turned to the closet door, but it suddenly shifted, like it was pushed from the outside, and—
—the door clicked shut.
Mishima Yuuki and Suzui Shiho were left alone in the storage closet, accompanied by only the dim, flickering incandescent overhead.
"That..." Yuuki gulped. "That's locked from the outside, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Shiho. "It is."
"Oh."
The closet was cramped. Her body was just a touch away from his. The toes of their shoes were barely scraping together. Yuuki's arm, which was extended to the shelf to brace his balance, rested right above Shiho's shoulder. He felt her warmth like a current, smelled something sweet like vanilla and lavender that tingled his skin.
"Oh," Yuuki repeated. This time, the syllable was a little breathless, whispered from behind dry lips.
Shiho instinctively tried to turn away. Her hat bumped right under his jaw. Yuuki swallowed.
"There's, uh, not much room," he observed.
She turned back. Her ears blazed red, and her nose was right at his chin.
He looked down.
She looked up.
She was right there, her eyes big and warm and her cheeks glowing soft in the dim lighting and her lips, her lips were pink, gentle and understated. A deep flush spread across her face as she took in their proximity. She was so adorable, she was so shy, and it made him feel brave.
He placed his hand on the curve of her waist and slid it to the small of her back. She jostled forward with a soft gasp. Her palms pressed against his chest to regain balance.
"We could, uh, probably go knock on the door," he murmured lowly. "Someone would hear."
"Yeah," whispered Shiho. "We could."
His pulse was soaring, sprinting loops until he thought his heart would explode. He knew she could feel it in the heel of her hand. The heat was pressing on him, making him feel hazy. His arm tightened around her waist.
She broke her gaze.
Yuuki's nerves flickered, but he pushed them away. It was time to be courageous.
He reached up, slow and gentle, like he'd spook her. The tips of his fingers clasped the brim of her hat and eased it off, revealing a silky black ponytail highlighted by mint clips. Her fingers trembled, but she held still.
He leaned in and pecked her on the lips.
Her mouth was soft, sponging for a split second beneath his before he retracted. She looked at him with wide eyes, her fingers digging slightly in his sweater.
He watched her and waited for a word, for permission.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
He smiled brightly and leaned down. His lips captured hers. His hand came up to the nape of her neck, cradling the back of her head. His vision was soft velvet, warm candlelight. He could feel the cautious pressure of Shiho's mouth skimming over his bottom lip. Her fingers braced his jaw, pulling him closer until she was flush against his chest.
He reached out and gently wrapped his fingers around her hand. Her palm was toughened from work and his was dainty, but the lankiness of his fingers dwarfed hers. She stroked the back of his hand with her thumb, humming in pleasure.
A key turned a lock.
The closet door pulled open.
Yuuki jumped and slammed his head against a shelf. Shiho scrambled away and hit the wall.
"Told you," said Officer Mifune with a smug smile.
Officer Tohgou grumpily slapped a wad of bills in her outstretched hand.
.
.
.
"I appreciate this," said Kitagawa Yusuke, bringing Makoto gingerly into his art room. "Truly, I do."
He looked nervous and offset, slightly shifting from one foot to the next. His eyes were fixed on her face as he waited with bated breath.
Makoto's gaze swept over the room—from the paint splatters on the walls to the abstract mobiles hanging from the ceiling to the patterns of Yusuke's nonstop pacing etched into the floor. And finally, finally, her eyes stopped on the row of canvases before her.
There was Queen, the first, the precedent, Niijima Makoto. Spikes with liquid fabric, dark metal on a backlight.
Then there was just after her Joker. An angular form with power in the curve of his spine, a hand covering the crack in his beautiful white mask.
Next to him was Oracle, caught in a futuristic suit, half-boarded into a unique spacecraft, but with one foot still on the ground.
And at her side was Fox, an elegant figure sitting quietly by a rippled pool, watching his twisted reflection as the fireflies looked on.
Set aside were four canvases: Skull, Panther, Noir, and Crow, painted in rich hues and perfect compositions just like the others, but waiting at the far edge of the room, as if counting down the days until they could join the others.
And finally, there was Mona.
Mona's head was graced with a shock of black and silver hair, and he was wearing a contrast Letterman jacket and baggy khaki shorts and—
Mona was human.
Makoto swallowed, a hitch to her breath.
"Yusuke," she whispered.
These are amazing.
These are incredible.
You should sell them.
No, you should never, ever, ever sell them.
Yusuke's expression lightened at the tears in her eyes. Truly, it was only the privilege of an artist to take pride in the weeping of others.
"I am still pondering a series title," he said. A slight frown twisted the joy on his face. "I entertained the thought of calling it Thieves of Hearts, Confidante, Justice... but truthfully, nothing has felt right."
Makoto looked at the paintings for a long moment. She didn't know why, but suddenly she wanted to laugh and wail at the same time and—
She squeezed Yusuke in a tight hug, patting his back.
"Stained glass," she whispered.
Yusuke was standing loosely, as if he'd never been hugged and didn't know how to react. "Hm?"
"Stained glass." She drew back and looked at the paintings. The selective lighting, the colors, the intensity yet vulnerability of the figures. "Broken pieces, just trash on their own, but when the edges are connected, when they're compiled in a chaotic and flawed collage, they create something breathtakingly beautiful."
Yusuke reached up and touched his canvas, his face alight. "Stained glass," he echoed. "A window once shattered and separated, now brought together."
And he laughed, pure and joyous.
Makoto looked at the paintings and smiled with him.
.
.
.
In Conference Room #2 of Shibuya Station, Suzui Shiho waved her hands to gather the attention of her squad, which was no less unruly than before.
"Kawakami, away with the cigs. Mifune, clear out your cards—we need that table space. Tohgou, keep your shogi board at your desk and nowhere else. Sakamoto—Sakamoto?"
Sakamoto Ryuuji lurched upward, snatched out of the deep recesses of an afternoon nap. "Hungh? Yeah. Sure. Sounds good, Officer Suzui."
She rolled her eyes and rapped a ruler on the table. "Guys. Seriously, listen up."
They grudgingly tidied up the room and settled in their chairs.
"I've been informed that to replace Niijima Makoto, a new member of the force is joining our squad," said Shiho.
Ryuuji sat up straight, his brows barreling up to his hairline in excitement. "Is it a guy? Will I finally get a brother in misery?"
Shiho waved at the conference room door. "Come in, rookie," she called.
The handle turned.
The door sprung open.
And—
Takamaki Ann strutted through the door, dressed in fresh, iron-pressed police blue.
"Oh come on!" Ryuuji groaned.
.
.
.
On the terrace of an ostentatious mansion, two figures sat at a doily-covered table, scrumptious, bite-sized treats arrayed like blooming flowers around their plates.
"Gorou," said Haru, sipping tea with a delicate pinky extended, as was ingrained in her from the moment of conception, "do you think that we'll ever find other friends?"
"In terms of numbers, I believe we have plenty," said Gorou mildly. He was currently enjoying a light and fluffy stack of pancakes, courtesy of the Okumura chef.
Haru shook her head. "You know what I mean. People who really like us. Not for money, favors. Bribes."
"Where is this coming from?"
Haru was quiet for a moment. "I... think I had a dream."
Gorou paused. "Of what?"
Haru sipped. Her gaze was distant, guided to the gardens. Gorou caught an unusual vision by a trick of the light—a black mask, a cavalier hat, a corset and bloomers.
"Belonging," said Haru.
She turned back and the vision was gone. Gorou frowned, sipping his coffee.
"Belonging," he echoed. The word was warm, tingly on his lips.
Haru set down her cup. There was sadness set on her shoulders, a weight covered by professionalism forced from years of managing a food conglomerate. "Forgive me. Here I am, having idle daydreams again."
"Perhaps," Gorou said. "But it may happen at a later time. Not everything happens in a specified order, Haru. Some things get a little mixed up. The people we are destined to meet are tied to us, but there can be knots and crossed threads."
Haru's mouth pulled, and Gorou knew that she was trying her hardest not to cry. "Do you truly think so?"
"I truly do."
She sipped at her tea again. Her eyes cast over the mansion—its length, its breadth, the masterful filigree embedded in its porcelain sculpture, but beyond that—
"This place," said Haru distantly, "is always empty."
"How dismaying to hear that in my presence."
Haru giggled. "Oh, Gorou, you know what I mean."
They ate in companionable silence. But somewhere in the distant crannies of the broad, empty house, the future promise of laughter danced.
.
.
.
A window, once shattered and separated—
—to be brought together.
.
.
.
The newly instated Officer Takamaki Ann was brought on tour by the newly instated Squad Leader Suzui Shiho. It involved lots of newness and lots of instating and Officers Mifune and Tohgou marching behind them, blowing party horns like a royal fanfare.
"This is"—pfwoot!—"where you receive and turn in your service pistol"—pfwoot!—"which you've probably seen around"—pfwoot!—"but haven't experienced yourself."—pfwoot!—"Mifune! Tohgou! Put those away and get back to work before I report you for disturbing the peace!"
Officer Mifune and Officer Tohgou skipped away with one last large blast on the party horns.
Sakamoto Ryuuji was the next offender. He ran into them as he exited the coffee room.
"Oh right, the new girl," he said, sipping his coffee delicately like a connoisseur.
Then he leaned forward and stared intensely into Ann's eyes.
"He-llo," said Ryuuji, enunciating every syllable deliberately like he was talking to an alien. "My name is Ryuuji. It is nice to meet you. How are you?"
Shiho smacked him lightly over the back of the head. "She's been in the precinct for over a year, Sakamoto. She's not from outer space."
"Yow! Okay, okay, I get it." Ryuuji rubbed his head and disappeared down the hall to do something moderately productive.
Shiho rounded the corner and gestured to a cluster of thinly-divided desks. "This is where we work. Squad 29. And this is your new desk."
Ann's smile was bright as her fingers brushed the empty table. "Thanks."
"You're welcome. The last person at this table went rogue for two weeks, shot a civilian, and was discharged from the department, but at least she's not dead. So you might be haunted by bad luck, but not a ghost."
Ann stared.
Shiho stared back.
They both dissolved into strange, relieved giggles, because the sheer madness of Shibuya Station had finally caught up to them.
Shiho's face eased into a warm smile. "Hey. Wanna grab some coffee sometime?"
Ann grinned back. "I'm totally down."
.
.
.
Sometimes, things could get a little mixed up, things could take delays, but the strings were always there.
.
.
.
Kurusu Akira folded a three-tailed coat, crimson gloves, and a white mask into a modest cardboard box.
He taped it over once.
Twice.
And three times for good measure.
Smiling softly, he reached up and slid the box into the furthest corner of the closet, hiding it in the shadows, past the stacks of law textbooks diligently tabbed and labeled BELONGS TO NIIJIMA MAKOTO, past the post-it note screaming BAR EXAM: JUNE 27.
If the Joker was ever needed again—
—he would be waiting.
.
.
.
The Phan-site was hacked.
Backups of all data were courteously sent to Mishima Yuuki from an email address that self-destructed. The site itself was replaced with a single page that read in glaring block letters of red and black:
Change hearts yourselves, n00bs.
.
.
.
Perhaps,
indeed,
if there were less to stand idly by and comment,
less to criticize,
less caught in complacency piling burdens on others,
and more on the battlefield themselves,
the winds of change would stir once more.
.
.
.
Are you just?
.
.
.
FIN.
s.d.g.
