A/N: On a whim, and replaying both P4:G and P5:R, I've decided to do a remake of P3 set in London and updated version of the Social Links. I also set up a discord, which includes: Basic Info; Restrictions; OC Form; Character List and Arcana's Available.
I do not own the intellectual rights of Persona, nor am I affiliated with the developers Atlus and P Studio.
Enjoy!
ONE
KATABASIS
He'd often dreamt about his parents.
In this dream, he is six. In the car with his parents shortly before it suddenly combusted into flame. Wallace Wright does not remember much of this dream: Two figures in a fight. A gentle voice of a girl. Bright flames that were too cold by the touch. A full moon hovering just above the city. Far too real to be a fabrication of his own imagination, but almost unrealistic as though someone had just grabbed the remote and skipped different parts of the scene. Whether out of fear or boredom, he will never know. The movie flashes forward and he's now in the hospital, all wrapped in surgical bondage of gauze and cloth. Three different machines looked down on him with solemnity, their screens showed various numbers and lines his young mind would not understand, but clearly deduced he's very much alive, and very much alone.
He asked where his parents were whenever doctors or family entered the room. Most often, it's a rotation of either them keeping silent, or playing it cool. They want to make him happy. For him to be at ease. He hears comments like, "You're very lucky to be alive…" or "You're such a brave boy…" as a form of affirmation that he's well loved by everyone. Although, in retrospect when Wallace thought about it, they're most likely telling him what he knew all along: his parents are dead, and he's the only one left.
It didn't take long for him to know the truth when his older brother came crashing through the door, and threw himself onto Wallace, wailing at the top of his voice like an air siren. He remembered his cheeks feeling wet from tears that were not his own, and how he'd squeezed him so tight, afraid Wallace would suddenly vanish. "I won't leave you ever again!" Albert Wright declared as tears started to drip down his face. Wallace, again, could not remember what he did. He'd probably looked at his aunt, her figure cowering at the door frame. She had a dull glint in her eyes, and a look that Wallace (later on in life) disliked - pain and sorrow.
.:+:.
He wakes up, but where? He doesn't just think about it, he voices it out loud: "Where am I?" As if he didn't know the answer: He is here. In his life. A feature of the world that is his existence. Something Wallace had neither recalled or approved of, but at the sametime, generally complied with. Most days, he's just going through the motions and bare-minimum to let people know he is fine. There might be someone lying next to him, a guy or girl; their head on his shoulders. More often, he's just alone. Headphones and an iPod as his only constant.
Ten years have passed since that accident. "A lot has changed…" Wallace mused. It wasn't an understatement, but more so of confirming the knowable and unknowable facts that lingered in his consciousness. His aunt adopted him shortly after he was fit for discharge - a rushed affair that met little to no resistance as all the sympathy had dried up overnight like a puddle on a hot summer's night.
He never stayed at one place for long; usually two or three years. His aunt worked in tech, and rose up in the ranks quickly with her innate fluency in code and software. Often going from project-to-project with intense brevity, any friendships Wallace cultivated, immediately got plowed for a new batch of faces. He doesn't mind though; he knows how to keep himself busy and preoccupied: Cooking and cleaning and doing errands or chores. He once ordered a new dining table from IKEA for an old rental they lived in, and assembled it himself. Probably at the age of twelve. It kept his mind focused and not wander around, especially away from people who gave him those looks. The same one every time his aunt was in the same room with him.
They never talked about the accident. Period. Even when Albert was around. Wallace could tell the way his aunt's lips tenses into a firm line whenever he had a question to ask. Most often, those words never came around. He could see the relief whenever her back slumps forward ("She must've been holding it in…" Albert observed one time over dinner). Time to time, Wallace has dwelled if he was a terrible person: Was he denying her the opportunity for closure and gratification? Did she need his permission to grieve? There were moments she opened her mouth, at the cusp of wanting to say something, but closed it and thought that it's best to not mention it at all. That came crashing down one day when he came back from school. She was on the kitchen floor, sitting by the washing machine, staring at a polaroid - a family picture from their last summer in 2007. A basket of laundry was half-way being emptied, and she looked up. For a moment, everything stood at a standstill when their eyes met. Soon she began to wail, sob and burst open like a damn. Wallace once again felt his cheeks being wet from tears that were not his own, as he wrapped his arms around her.
.:+:.
London is distorted, far too large and wide to be a city.
Through his eyes, as the plane made its slow and gradual descent to Heathrow Airport, London reminded him of a gigantic creature. Or perhaps a collective of singular entities, complexly intertwined. Countless arteries stretched out through its elusive body, circulating a steady supply of fresh blood cells that go to-and-fro, cycling through old data and sending out the new. Absorbing the used, and supplying new consumables to enjoy. Cataloguing forgotten contradictions, and programming new ones to explore. Lights flashed and flared below- pulsating to its own slow, steady beat. Midnight is approaching, and he could see the moon looming high above.
A soft spoken announcement by the pilot reminded everyone to strap themselves into their seat as the huge 747 suddenly plunged itself through a dense layer of cloud. Katabasis - 'Go Down' in Greek: A slow, ceremonious trip to depths of the underworld. He looked outside, and watched as the surface rapidly approached. Glistened and drenched with heavy English rain. So - this is home?
The plane jostled as it landed. Panels rattled and creaked. Heads violently shook side-to-side; somebody was gonna get whiplash. Wallace wondered if he was destined to die from a broken neck? Or perhaps, a blaze of glory? The plane settled into a slow crawl, and soft music began to play: a honeyed orchestral cover of Petula Clark's 'Downtown'. Not the first song he'd chose, but at this moment of time, it somehow fitted perfectly. Unconsciously, he hummed: When you're alone and life is making you lonely, you can always go - downtown.
.:+:.
Wallace gathered his things and went through customs and ended up watching bag after bag going round in circles on a conveyor belt. It was only a minute before midnight when he managed to see his suitcase slowly slipping into his field of view. He approached and just grabbed his suitcase when the music suddenly stopped. The conveyor ceased to move. All the lights turned off. Everything around him took on a greenish hue that took time for Wallace to adjust. "Here we go again…" he began, and tottered his way to arrivals.
Wallace could not remember when or where this strange experience had began, but overtime, he had gotten used to it and accepted it as another facet of his life. His earliest and clearest memory was at age 8, when he was heating up a bowl of leftovers in the microwave just before midnight. One moment, the bowl was pirouetting. Next it stopped. Wallace did not gave much thought about it, and just ate it straight up. Only the day after, when he was playing video games late at night, something was wrong.
California, Rio de Janeiro, Tokyo, Ho Chi Minh and Melbourne - wherever he goes, it seemed to follow. Even London was not exempted from this phenomena. He wasn't bothered that much by it, besides the minor inconvenience it had made. So many last-minute assignments would've been completed quicker if his laptop weren't to shut-down suddenly. But this is normal to him, even though it should not be in the first place.
There were coffins everywhere - that's normal to him too. All dark and covered red stains, which either could be red paint or blood. Some had chains. Some were covered in dents. The moon, which always seemed bigger and casted rays of eerie light, distorted everything. Shadows were far too long and looked like they trying to reach out for him. It reminded him one of those arthouse films from Germany. The one about a vampire with long pointed features and dark cloak. It's name weighed heavily at the tip of his tongue.
"What was that film?" He asked out loud.
"Nosferatu." A voice responded.
Wallace, startled, turned towards the source of the sound. It belonged to a young man, around his age, garbed all-over in black and white stripes. He had scurffy black hair, a round face, and bright blue eyes - the largest he had ever seen on a person. He was sitting next to him, which Wallace had realised they were both on a bench, in the Arrival hall. More coffins dotted along the space - he trailed a line of them that were propped by the fencing by the door where people come out. Wallace wondered if his brother was in one of them.
"You're late…" he scolded, but there was a smile on his lips. "It's rude to leave a guy hanging."
"Sorry?" Wallace responded, unsure how to respond. "Do I know you?"
"Did you forget?" The mysterious man asked. Tilting his head to the side, visibly confused. "Then again it's been a long time."
"Sure… maybe it has."
The young man chuckled like he was listening to an inside joke. Wallace didn't know what he said, but he just rolled with it. This might be something new or hadn't yet experienced. Although, he was not expecting for a red notebook to suddenly appear from out of nowhere. He had to blink to make sure he wasn't just seeing things, but there it was, on his lap. Hand holding a fountain pen ("Who even carries one?" he thought).
"So I'll just need you to sign the dotted line with your name. This is just an agreement that you'll accept and bear all responsibilities in your new life. No need to read all the terms and conditions - pretty boring stuff, if I have to say so myself."
"Do you work with my brother?" Wallace asked as he began to sign the paper. It's an unusual situation, and under normal circumstances, would raise a bunch of red flags. Ponzi schemes. Money Laundering. Identity theft. Possibly a subscription to a newsletter he can't opt out, and would just need to use a new email entirely. However, when in his life has things ever been normal (relatively speaking)? And besides, the guy looked earnest enough; there was no harm in signing another piece of paper. So he went along and wrote Wallace Wright in clear, straight lines. The book clasped shut and poof! vanished. He was definitely sure it was no longer there.
"Pain is simply inevitable. Suffering is optional," the boy began. His words perfectly rehearsed like he had done it a thousand times. "Why resist time when everything is destined to end. It's easy to shut your eyes, cover your ears, and let the world around you drop dead. And so it begins."
Like that he vanished. A simple blink and he was no longer there. Wallace looked left, right and back to see if he fell asleep without realising it. That boy was nowhere to be seen, and he wasn't bothered to go searching for him. So he waited and waited for things to go back to normal.
Sleep seemed to get a hold on him when the telltale signs of life began to resume. Lights were switched on. People were chatting. He smelled stale coffee and a loud announcement: "The current time is now midnight."
CHARACTERS INTRODUCED:
Wallace Wright - Fool - CatTheAlien
Albert Wright - Hiephorant - CatTheAlien
Another A/N: If you're wondering whatever happened to LDS, it's still ongoing, but work and personal affairs had gotten in the way. I want to do this a form of creative release an exercise to improve my writing. If you want to know what's my inspiration (apart from P3) - I recommend looking at works by Haruki Muurakami and Jeff Vandermeer.
If you wish to submit, I'll be only doing it via discord. It's convenient for me to keep track, receive and discuss revisions for your characters. Do DM me if you're interested and I will hand over the link.