Akira had specifically asked for Futaba to not hack the cameras after he was detained. She has the interaction memorized, playing it on repeat in her head as she mechanically writes the coding that will save his life. There was determination in his silver eyes and a sharp turn to his voice, perfectly embodying his role as a leader giving commands with no room for argument. He'd already been arrested before, so of course he knew that there would be cameras, faceless and judging even as they proved useless as potential evidence. But he also knew Futaba, and he was well aware that she would jump at any chance to spy on whatever those pigs were planning to do to him within the chilling confines of a police cell. Expression intense in a way that she's never seen it, beyond being brotherly, beyond being Joker, he had asked her not to hack the cameras.
The flashing siren lights had burned into her vision as the police officers' shouts grated through the harsh ringing in her ears. She had been completely rooted to the spot until Skull had grabbed her arm and yanked them both into reality, barely escaping Sae's glittering Palace before the police spotted them too. He had ridden the train with her back to Yongen-Jaya too, because digging her fingers into Morgana's soft fur wasn't enough to calm her rabbiting heart from the faceless people crowded on the subway.
None of them speak. Ryuji's teeth are gritted, body tense even as he provides a barrier between her and the rest of the world. Morgana mewls, pathetic and cat-like, and huddles in her bag. Futaba stares straight ahead, wordless as she tries to remember the plan rather than the memory of a loaded gun pressed into Joker's dark hair. Ryuji walks her to Sojiro's front door, nodding once before turning on his heel to catch the last train back to his own apartment. It's nice of him to do, but it does nothing to make her feel any less miserable. The November chill bites into her skin even through her winter coat, and entering her house does nothing to banish the way it constricts around her.
Futaba hacks into the cameras. It doesn't matter that Akira said not to - he's not here. If she has anything to do about it, that won't be the case for much longer.
Her room is lit only by the harsh glare of her computer screen as she types furiously on her keyboard. Shrouded in darkness and hands aching, Futaba curls up in her chair as Morgana sits on the desk, watching the monitor intently as she easily bypasses the laughable attempts at security. He had tried, half-heartedly, to corral Futaba into bed, weakly insisting that all they had left to do was be patient, but she has a significantly stronger will than Akira against Morgana's bedtime fanaticism. They both know that no one will get much rest tonight, anyway.
By the time Futaba manages to pull up the camera feed, Akira has already been in police custody for over an hour. She swallows harshly as the animals in the room slam another syringe into Akira's neck. He's barely conscious, eyelids fluttering sluggishly even as he convulses in pain. From the gleaming, empty vials scattered on the ground, it's not the first one. She opens the group chat - the third one, created two weeks ago and containing all of the Phantom Thieves sans Akira and Akechi, neither of whom needed to know every message of doubt and panic about the plan - and hurriedly types '4 neeldes'. She barely glances at her phone as she texts, too engrossed with the live footage in front of her.
Her phone buzzes immediately, another angry response. Makoto is already trying to track down whatever drug Akira's been hit with using the limited police resources she can access. Futaba has been trying too, to no avail. Whatever the police are using, they are keeping it under tight, dangerous wraps. Paper evidence, not digital, because even the stupid authorities were able to use their one collective brain cell to realize that their proto-truth serum shaped war crimes were better protected in physical form.
It makes Futaba shiver just thinking about it. Her imagination runs wild, lightning fast as she tries to rationalize it. That was their trick, wasn't it? There was no such thing as a real truth serum: their plan was to drug Akira blind with some experimental concoction and beat answers out of him when he didn't have the mental capacity to lie. It's brutally, brutally effective, and Futaba can do nothing but stare helplessly from the other end of her computer screen. After weeks of preparation, she's finally rendered completely and utterly useless.
Akira had asked her not to hack the cameras. It had been for her sake, hadn't it?
Another insistent buzz. Futaba looks down at her phone - from Ann, this time, rather than another enraged message from Ryuji or an anxious one from Haru. It's simple: 'what if he overdoses'
Futaba blinks down at it, at a loss. Several typing bubbles appear and disappear, but it takes a distressingly long time for someone to actually answer. When someone does, it's a clipped one from Yusuke: 'They would never risk it.'
Ann types: 'it's experimental'
Against her better judgement, Futaba replies, numb: 'he just passsed out'
Ryuji, then: 'shit'
Futaba ignores her phone as more messages pour in, tucking her feet underneath her and hugging her knees as she watches the police finally abandon Akira, slumped and bound in a metal chair. Akira's the one who's trapped and drugged, but her own chest already feels too tight, breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps. The walls of her room are closing in on her, a claustrophobic tomb all over again. She squeezes her eyes shut and desperately holds back the instinctive urge to clamp her hands over her ears, as if the loss of one sense would protect her from the already silent footage.
Morgana tears his gaze away from Akira's unconscious, pixelated form to stare at her in concern, tail flicking back and forth anxiously. "Breathe, Futaba," he commands. "You're not going to get anything done like this, and he is not going to die. All you have to do right now is be patient, alright? He will be fine!"
It would be more reassuring if it weren't for the audible thread of fear in his voice, familiar bravado shaking at the sight of Akira getting tortured right in front of their eyes. Futaba's hands snake out, and she drags Morgana's small body closer to her, hugging him to her chest in a vice grip. For once, he lets himself be manhandling. He's shivering too.
Futaba is so tired, the mental and emotional exhaustion weighing down on her in a way that it hasn't since the rest of the Phantom Thieves changed her heart. But she can't afford to go to sleep. What if she doesn't wake up when she needs to? What if the plan goes wrong and Futaba does nothing but sleep through it? What then?
A few hours later, she's lucky that she stayed awake. It's rare for Makoto to type in all-caps, and even rarer that she makes typos, so when the frantic, vague message of 'COGNTIVE AKECHI' comes through, Futaba snatches her phone up like a viper, breath shortening into harried gasps.
Responses are already flooding in - she wasn't the only one unable to sleep through the worry, evidently - demanding answers. Seconds after Futaba sends her own, Makoto clarifies in a pointedly calmer tone, 'When Akechi enters my sister's Palace, he's likely to run into her cognition of himself.'
It's such an obvious flaw in the plan that, for a horrible second, it renders Futaba completely dumbstruck. Of course Sae would have a mirror cognition of Akechi! The whole plan hinged on her having one for Akira, so why shouldn't she have one for his murderer?
Mind blank, she watches the chat run its course.
RYUJI: SHIT
ANN: what do we do?
INARI: Is there a way to intercept it?
HARU: Could we hold him off in the real world?
RYUJI: if you need i could prob sneak out now
RYUJI: and track him down in the casino
ANN: me too
MAKOTO: We have to be careful not to disrupt Akechi's plan in reality
Morgana bats his tail against Futaba's arm to get her attention. She blinks up at him, attempting to sort through the static in her brain for long enough to hear what he's telling her. Eventually, she's able to make out Morgana's carefully enunciated, "Tell them that Akechi won't appear until Sae actually sees him. We need to find a way to get him after they start talking but before he actually enters the Metaverse." When she doesn't respond, he stares her down, electric blue eyes boring into her own. "Tell them, Oracle."
The use of her code name shocks her into action, and Futaba hurriedly passes the message along. Typing bubbles immediately appear beside Makoto's name, and Futaba fidgets impatiently. She drums her fingers on the arm of her chair, gaze flicking up to Akira's prone form. He's still passed out where the police had left him hours earlier, head lolling and slumped forward as far as his restraints allowed. There are mottling bruises on his face, and the needles gleam from where they're carelessly strewn on the dirty floor.
Makoto still hasn't answered, and Futaba snaps. She exits the chat and calls Makoto, fingers skating across the keyboard. Makoto picks up immediately. Morgana digs his paw into Futaba's arm, and she puts her phone on speaker. Sojiro might hear, but right now, who cared?
Before Makoto even has the chance to speak, Futaba grinds out, "What's the plan?"
"I-" Makoto's voice wavers before evening out. "We need to find a way to corner Akechi's cognition before the real Akechi enters the Palace."
Before Futaba can reply with something venomously sarcastic, Morgana pipes up with, "Sae will need to show Akechi the phone, right? They'll probably stop and talk to each other for a bit in the hallway."
"Right," Makoto says. "Futaba, when did you program Akira's phone to start talking to Sis?"
"Two minutes and fifteen seconds after her and Akechi's GPSs align," Futaba replies automatically. She'd pulled an all-nighter five days ago to get the timing exactly right for when Akira's MetaNav would pull Sae back into reality - she knows the complex coding like the back of her hand.
"Then that's how much time we'll plan to work with," Makoto decides. "We'll infiltrate the Palace and grab Akechi while they're talking. My sister doesn't know his true nature, so he shouldn't put up that much of a fight."
"Who's coming with us?" Morgana asks, frowning. "You can't leave me behind."
"I'm coming too!" Futaba blurts out. "I know the layout and everything!"
"Yusuke does as well," Makoto adds thoughtfully. "Haru will most likely be unable to join us, and Ann and Ryuji," Makoto pauses tactfully, and Futaba can imagine her delicate grimace, "are not the most subtle of people."
"A team of four, then." Morgana nods decisively. "Just like always!"
"Just like always," Makoto echoes, but Futaba is violently pulled from the conversation, attention snapping to her computer screen as the monochrome pixels of the live feed subtly shift, the sign of an oncoming shadow. Her breath hitches as three men saunter into frame, confidence oozing from their every step.
She vaguely registers the end of Makoto and Morgana's plan before the call ends, both oblivious to the rapidly changing situation on Futaba's cameras. Her phone continues to ceaselessly buzz, an unending stream of panicked texts from the group chat, but the distractions drain away to a single-minded focus on the bucket of water currently being unceremoniously dumped on Akira's head.
Morgana makes a sharp mewl when he finally notices what's happening on the cameras. Together, they watch as Akira is shoved to the ground, taking the chair he's bound to with him, and the interrogators circle him, carnivorous. He glances up from the floor, and for a moment, stares directly at the camera. His eyes are sharp despite the obvious haze of drugs, and Futaba slaps her hands over her mouth, eyes watering. He knows, echoes in her mind even as he's forced to look away to focus on an interrogator kneeling before him. He knows, he knows, he knows, he told me to do one thing and I betrayed him.
When the same interrogator slams a foot down on Akira's leg, Morgana whimpers. "We'll n-need to call Dr. Takemi."
"W-what?" Futaba croaks.
"Dr. Takemi, from the clinic down the street. Akira trusts her."
Futaba rests her chin on her knees rather than answering. A stupid part of her rebels at even the thought of calling a doctor, as if Akira won't need anything as simple as medical help. She feels like she's eleven all over again, throwing a tantrum because he won't be immediately okay, so she won't have to see all the evidence of how much she messed up. It's one thing to plan for rough treatment, but it's another thing entirely to see it playing out in front of her. Futaba's stomach rolls as she watches Akira on the screen, transfixed.
Did Akira know what would happen when he agreed to their plan? Was he expecting the police to relish the chance to beat up a teenager, or was there part of him still naive enough to expect them to hold back? When the police had blamed Futaba for her mother's death, the violence was all psychological. Then again, Joker's not as dumb as her.
When they were all texting last night, Akira had asked, quiet and serious even over a simple message, about the success rate of the plan. Futaba had replied, confident, 'either 0% or 100%'.
For the first time, she wonders whether or not he'd been referring to more than just the assassination attempt.