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Dampened explosions rock a valley deep beyond the sun's reach. A lithe hero dressed as some galactic pirate nimbly dives through a squad of shark-ssassins like track hurdles. He spins in mid-air to strike their leader down with a studded bat. The rest scatter as he helps the fair princess from her shackles. The kelp-haired mermaid falls into his arms swooning and points to victory with a kiss on the cheek. In a single leap, they soar to safety across a growing crevasse as the battle booms behind them. Suddenly, a buzzer rings and all turns to ice; the beauty in his arms melts.
The paralyzed dreamer descends into a jagged vortex of red-eyed shadows and overdue homework. An officious girl in a dress the color of midnight stands atop the glowing essence of this madness poking at her tablet. All her features are hidden by the light beneath her except two gold eyes glinting against the bright screen. Humming an aria to fill the void, she appears totally unconcerned by the horrors around them. The white-haired girl looks up abruptly to meet his round-eyed stare.
Choking on his last breath, the spiky-haired boy yells into the silence. Every bubble, tendril, and annotated page explodes into a different hue, a shower of brilliance leaving just the two of them. The Ruler over Power sighs, slowly shaking her head as she whispers a long prayer. The only sound in the world is his own heart trying to break free of his chest. She claps once and it all fades to white as the strange girl shatters into a glimmering blue butterfly.
"For real? Argh, just my luck."
Sakamoto Ryuji slaps a pillow onto his face to keep the dream from escaping. Muffled, angry buzzing nearby – and there it goes – reminds him of his responsibilities. He flails around to turn off the alarm, trying to recall anything before resigning to reality. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he looks at his phone. Not again!
Cursing, Ryuji scrambles around an empty apartment, his last chance to make it to school before the second bell. Sliding to his front door in record time, he pinches his nose to down the slurry of seasoned yolks he calls a protein shake. Someone on TV once said that each of these counts as a step towards manliness, tokens of positive karma to redeem in moments of irresponsibility. A lot of things sound deep with a throat full of egg; never mind that the advice is originally about aojiru anyway.
Being in his own head is one of Ryuji's things. A thing, to him, is better left alone; more trouble than it's worth to think about, let alone act against. Lacing up and hitting the pavement, his only means of control and freedom and the only thing in the world - besides Mom and shoyu ramen - that he holds dear. If only the world were fair; if only, instead of another day at that shit school waiting at the finish line, he could keep on going. Going until his lungs or his legs give out, a limit that lasts only until he can refuel. If only he could outrun regret.
Despite his efforts, running taught him a harsh truth: that a punk like him doesn't deserve a second chance at making happy memories. Laps before dawn and meets that fit thirty hours into a day, all worn down to sand and buried under rejection and humiliation. Win or lose, they always piled into a little shop to loudly eat their inventory. Half the team ordered the same few dishes every time, regardless of the spot, and the other half always made fun of them with the same flimsy jokes. Never since and probably never again would a group of people as cool as that want a guy like him around. A halcyon chapter in his young life left for dead almost two years ago.
Once the pride of Shujin Academy, these innocent kids felt genuine excitement that they would have an Olympic gold medalist as their coach. It did not take long for Kamoshida Suguru to reveal his ugliness, and shorter still for Ryuji to stand up for himself. All their lives changed on a school night, when a smug adult put a little too much pressure on the boy's leg. Goaded into defending his family honor, Ryuji was broken in body and spirit in front of his fellow runners.
Kamoshida slyly turned the narrative to his favor without hesitation and, for whatever reason, nobody disagreed. His teammates left him for Kamoshida's cult of personality, predator and prey taunting the outcast at every turn. Humiliated and villainized for the rest of his formative life, the young high school student accepted his fate and became a delinquent. He tried to heal in silence only to act out and spiral further into the prick's prophecy. Each day at that school is irrefutable proof that there really is no justice in the world and fuck you for trying. Even now, all the kid can do is walk away.
And yet today, on an overcast morning after a freaky dream, Ryuji feels like a fool carrying this baggage. Like it's important. But letting it go is unthinkable, too – to just live and let that shithead get away with it? Raising hell for his own sake got him into this mess but it might be the only way out. Years spent watching the same rusty key dangling inside his guarded heart. Never really out of reach yet its lock is always a little further away than it was yesterday. Maybe, he considers, change is like running on sprained ankles, and it's the running that helps them get better.
Put that in your egg aojiru and drink it.
Halting at a railroad crossing, Ryuji notices a still-defunct capsule machine, a halfway point from an old practice route. A deep, long breath washes away some of the fatigue chewing at his lungs. Urgency slips away like a balloon and the humid spring breeze keeps it out of his nose like perfume. For the first time in months, the sordid student pierces his clouded mind to bathe in the moment. Never again will he lose sight of something so natural and freeing. So this is what it feels like to have inspiration again, he thinks, to want to do something more than wait for tomorrow. The crossing arms raise with a series of dings but he stays to finish massaging the ghost of his injury.
In some other world, Ryuji is tight with the track team and on track for a scholarship. Just him and the guys: taking names, setting records, and getting numbers all over Tokyo. Not here, though. Not under the reign of King Shithead and his sweaty sympathizers. Sorting through the myriad rumors of his crimes would be an indulgence of filth and lust. No name at this school, not even the rare transfer, is absent from that mural of abuse.
Well, okay; maybe not everyone, he admits as thunder hums overhead. The erstwhile captain of the girl's team: the only victim who got it worse than he did. She is his age, an athlete that rose through the ranks of the girl's volleyball team by sheer skill and determination, even leading them to a championship in her second year. Maybe in his imagined life she ran track too; him, her, and the guys chasing a happier Ryuji. Not after the fall. Didn't tell anybody why she did it, not even her once lovely friend, but the entire school was abuzz with probable cause after the assembly. There's no way the adults didn't overhear something incriminating, but soon the news changed topics. Now her seat in 3-A remains vacant, free of consequences, but new gossip suggests that immoral harvest is back.
Kamoshida, bored of simply beating his players, set his eye on a trophy unlike any other: the unapproachable sports model Takamaki Ann. And there she is, alone and downcast across the street. Her presence seems to push back the storm as she stares far away with pale eyes hardened by secret pains. Stunned by the little rainbow in front of her, Ryuji takes a spill over a very secure garbage bin. Frustrated not by the fall but his past and lack of one with her. Rage against what never was but might have been and the bloody urge to tear apart his own helplessness gather in the dirty puddles staining his favorite shirt. He finds a cocky smile in his warped reflection and an unfamiliar voice in his soul singing along to every rebellious curse. Gathering his belongings to try and shake them dry beneath a shop curtain, Ryuji nearly drops them again as he hears the valkyrie's laugh for the first time in years.
They met in middle school, back when his hair was unbleached and she wore chic red glasses. She would drag him to every family-run store around town, each stocked with a variety of strange sweets and sodas, and he liked it. He was pleasantly surprised by how she easily outran him; she finally found a friend that would visit and watch TV. Hers was the inspiration for Ryuji to dye his hair blonde in the first place – a secret for the grave – the summer before they matriculated into Shujin Academy. Despite their history, they are not friends. Not really. Not enough to offer kindness for obvious sorrow, let alone stand up for the other in the tide of ridiculous smears that stain their peers' mouths. Even if they wear the same uniform, the rift between these third-years is wider than an empty school.
The tall girl in a surplus army jacket and red leggings reclines on the glass of a chocolate shop, staring forward without seeming to notice him. Sipping a can of Starvicks, she brushes back her camouflage hood to reveal a cascade of platinum blonde hair and earrings glinting like stars in the rain. Casually composing herself, she is uncaring or unaware of the awestruck Shujin boys. Her features are soft and striking when she lets her guard down, like an actress watching her favorite movie, but Ryuji reads the tension in her body language despite this veil of water. He hesitates to blink, scared that she is a mirage, until another flash and clap awaken him from his nervous trance.
The student next to her continues to talk as he unfurls a black umbrella. For a second, the rain stops in mid-air and a deathly chill makes the hair on Ryuji's neck stand on end. His primal instinct screams as his body is locked in place, imprisoned by a giant, invisible hand. The new guy's golden eyes stare into the pits of his soul and the rain resumes as they disappear behind the nylon cover.
Ryuji collapses against the storefront, his lungs and legs freed from the monster's grasp. Gasping in a cold sweat as the mysterious student talks to Ann, he starts to cross the street but stops at the edge of the sidewalk. The stranger emerges into the rain with a mischievous grin, waving not at the car pulling up but at Ryuji. He blinks and the ungodly glimmer is gone. Dark eyes, like chocolate but not the wrapper, totally different than they were a moment ago. The wink hidden in his greeting is free of malice unlike the exasperated driver leaning back in his seat. The door slams, revealing an even more imposing situation staring at him from under her new umbrella.
"No way," says the pilgrim of Temperance as he watches the smug guest zoom away with an abusive gym teacher.
"Hey, Ryuji! You coming or what?"
Sakura Futaba stretches among her pile of pillows and shirts. The blackout curtains do nothing to block the warping colors of her computer's flickering fan, so she relies on dusty shelves and a tower of instant ramen bowls to make this corner of her room a little darker. She waits for another dream to show up before heaving the weighted blanket aside. Groaning with grogginess more than effort, she expertly uses a novelty dinosaur toy to dredge her chair from the debris between her and her desk.
"Good morning, gremlies*," she yawns as her monitors blip alive. "What are we up to today?"
The shut-in savant checks on her work from last night: hacking into the SIU's secure database. Not her usual ballgame nor a paid gig, just unprofessional curiosity about the teenager that moved into Sojiro's cafe two nights ago. Her favorite kind of answer is the one she finds without having to ask any questions. So, she concludes, there really was no choice but to install some spyware after that ruckus in Leblanc last night. The bug, meant to keep an ear on her caretaker and his customers, caught this new kid - a convicted criminal! - calling out her name.
"Now how would you know about lil ol' me?" She scrolls around the scant information she did find, fixated on the lack of detail more than any one in particular. "You show up out of nowhere, nearly trash the place, and act like it's nothing."
The sneaking, done via remote access to the cafe's wi-fi instead of a nearby cell tower, added a friendly little tracker to his smartphone to look around for clues. No games; a few photos of his family and the train ride over, relatives as contacts; oh, and sizable chunks of corrupted data. Otherwise factory-fresh, just like his heavily redacted record on file with the police department. The 'public' file really only shows his face, hometown, age range, and basic description. For some reason, the full reports for his arrest and other court documents are classified at an almost top-secret level.
"Weirdo," Futaba mutters, sipping green tea from a Jack Bros. mug so big it qualifies as a bowl. She takes in every detail of the scruffy mugshot code-named P508954TS. Her BFG safecracker turns green and dings - complete with a tiled background of toast - much to her satisfaction. It proudly returns a nine-key password like a humbled dragon on a chain. The hacker's eyes grow wider as the less-redacted report for "Akimitsu no-Okami" appears under his portrait.
"Ahh, so it's like that, huh. I understand everything now."
Another of Futaba's tools steals her attention back from curiosity. This time, an error report: the spyware's signal stopped briefly, rebooting only to return blank data. Impossible; even if the app were detected, there are fail-saves and instant alerts set in the event of tampering. Her quickest and maybe best guess is a mechanical failure in the phone's accelerometer, in lieu of any good reason why a perfectly functional satellite would wet the bed like this.
"Pcsch," she says. "Not unless he walked into another dimension. Surprise, random dungeon!"
The orange-haired girl in pajama bottoms crouches on her chair, clutching a pillow with her knees as she pores over the sparse reward of her efforts. This third-year high school student allegedly shoved Prime Minister Shido into the street - a grown, likely muscular man - and started attacking a nearby woman as she walked home from work. No further struggle was reported - yeah, right - and no verbal testimony was presented but the defendant's, whom the jury seemed to disbelieve.
'In light of the proximity of his eighteenth birthday and otherwise unblemished record, we offer this minor a plea to avoid juvenile detention in exchange for a sentence of three hundred sixty-five days' probation under the supervision of an esteemed member of the community.' He took the deal last week and shipped out for Tokyo like an express delivery. The name Sakura Sojiro prefaces another long section of text denied the light of day.
"Something's real fishy here..."
The furtive Sun continues clicking down the rabbit hole as an ethereal butterfly lands on her headphones.
"I can't explain it any better than that," Ryuji mumbles as they weave through a dry forest of apartments and closed bars on their way to school. "So his eyes were... Normal?"
"Normal... He wasn't crying," Ann says as she recounts their brief meeting. They were honest. "Now that you mention it, it's pretty weird that he just gave me an umbrella. Like, I think I have fans, but- shut up; I mean, think about it. Today, of all days? He didn't seem to have a problem with the rain, so I guess... He was waiting there."
"Think he was waiting for you?"
"Maybe," she realizes, now visibly concerned. "It was just so quick. He said that Kamoshida would show and that he was looking for you somewhere nearby. Then he said that he wants to help me help Shiho." The words escape before she can deem them secret, as secrets are only shared with her best friend, yet she continues. "I found you right after he got in the car; which, let's be honest, is kind of the weirdest thing he did." Ann swings the gift strung around her wrist, unsure what to name this sinking feeling. She chooses her words as if this were a double or nothing answer. "Ryuji, I've never seen that guy in my life. I don't think you have, either. But he spoke to me like we all were best friends. And the crazy thing is, I think I believe him."
"I don't really get it," he responds, flinching as her frustration builds. "Didja get his name?"
"That's the other thing. I asked, and his whole cool cat persona snapped for a second, like he had to remember his cover. He said his name is Notokami Akimitsu, which-"
"Sounds like he made it up on the spot."
"Sounds like he made it up on the spot."
"But I don't think he was lying. And I'm pretty good with that," Ann warns, shooting eye beams with her fingers at Shujin's Most Hated. He doesn't laugh. They walk a little further as she looks around, distracted by her first impression. "What a weird way to start the morning."
"Wonder why he got in the car," Ryuji says after some time.
"Wonder why," Ann says with an annoyed sigh. "Let's just get past the last of this stupid rain and into good ol' Shujin Academy, or should I say: castle of the king of volleyball, Kamoshida 'Big Gold Medal' Suguru." She spins a sarcastic circle in the air with her middle finger as they emerge from a maze of apartments.
Ryuji's phone buzzes. A new app fills the screen, its icon a stencil of two eyes swimming around each other. The ring of black spikes around the banner clicks like a clock contrary to the green-and-white background. Three prefilled fields appear highlighting the important parts of her tirade in a stylish font. He taps at his phone, unable to stop the app or go home and crashes into Ann, crouched and lost in thought near the vending machines. Reflex tucks his body into the fall so his side eats the majority of the impact. Skidding to a wet halt, he clutches his knee to assuage the pain.
Ann gasps in shock, struck by a moment of deja vu. The energetic boy from middle school, honest and fun and sometimes a real sweetheart, dropped by the new track coach nearly twice his size. She looks back at the dead bird that caught her attention, a perfectly healthy crow that stopped flying mid-caw, its open beak drowning in front of the glowing boxes. Echoes of other visions in the rain, new, stronger memories scraping against her consciousness. They are not hers, but they are about her; another life of hers through her own eyes. Another Ann and another Shiho, yet another tragedy.
"What's your problem, Ann?! Don't just stand there with your butt out!" She throws his buzzing phone at him - "Ow! That actually hurt!" - and a deafening thunderclap resounds directly overhead. Ann presses her hands to her ears, crouching over her friend as they yell in surprise. The starry eyes gather speed and draw the three keywords in, spinning in a playfully cheap animation. A bordered speaker appears from the darkness as the app enunciates in a synthetic, feminine voice.
"Coordinates received. Initiating navigation."
A scalding wave roars through their minds but the discomfort is gone as quickly as it arrives. They rely on each other for support as the cold rain threatens to throw them around. Ann secures her hooded jacket, grabs Ryuji by the shoulder, and points to a drawbridge illuminated by the storm.
"This way!"
Looking for cover, Ryuji hopes to find the glow of the vending machine. Nothing. Just a moat where the fence would be and behind it, a brick wall drowning in ivy. He is led toward a lowered bridge, unlit braziers studding the wall. The buildings they walked through are now a shadowy army of thin trees, their brittle bark oily in the raging storm. The bike rack by the front steps is a small paper shrine on a hill, gently lit and completely dry within its circle of stones. Growing ever closer to becoming a typhoon, the sky itself jeers at the intruders. Ann leads them through the gate and approaches the base of the grand structure. Lightning and thunder attack their senses, revealing the imposing majesty for a long moment before returning to near total darkness.
"This is some kind of messed-up dream, right?!"
Ann attacks the enormous wooden doors with her slick boots, unable to dislodge or splinter them. The wind picks up and extinguishes the few torches that had until then hidden themselves from the rain. Ryuji grabs her by the wrist, almost running toward a dimly lit window just out of reach.
"Gimme a boost," she calls out. Unable to pull the slippery metal mechanism open, she sighs and drives her foot through the glass, clearing away the rest with her heel. So much for this pair. Ann manages to drag Ryuji up faster than he can climb, throwing him face-first into the study room behind them. Glancing back at the shivering forest beyond the wall, she retraces her steps with certainty.
They walked together in a city where nothing magical ever happens. She took all the same turns she usually does. Every stifled breath only affirms the situation as she nervously wracks her psyche for any sane explanation. A familiar voice calls out for her and her worries end. Ann reaches out without thinking, her focus stolen by the ethereal butterfly zipping into the falling rain. Its name escapes her but its fragrance is like a mother's reminder: trust your instincts.
"Hey, Ann! You coming or what?"
It takes a bit, but they emerge from the messy storage room. Ryuji gasps and Ann gags as they experience the full glory of the entrance hall. Choruses of gleaming trophies decorate the walls, gesturing away from the castle's heavy burnished doors. Busts and statues of its ruler's muscular body set in spikes, dunks, and serves welcome them with the same toothy grin. A noble caricature of the Olympian overlooks it all atop a crescent staircase. The oil portrait is easily ten feet tall and bordered by oak carved with an intricate volleyball motif, outright the worst gem in his collection. Muddy soles stain the red carpet as they proceed to the center of the regal cavern.
Ann pulls her hood up defensively and shakes her friend by the shoulder. "Ryuji," spinning slowly to take in the room, "Is this our school?" Not sure which is worse: the despair or a dozen bulging statuettes lining the place like horny torii. "Is that what this place is supposed to be?"
Ryuji spits on a mosaic of Kamoshida's face ready to swallow the tasteless volleyball chandelier. "Beats me. But if I gotta see this prick's face one more time, I swear…"
"Halt! Intruders!" A single knight jogs toward them, only shade behind its visor.
Ryuji folds his arms to appraise the armor, whistling at the dull sheen of the plate. "Dude, sick! Straight out of a Souls game. So, costumes are over there?"
The shriek beside him shatters his nonchalance and he spins to find four more knights, each wielding real steel. Ann grabs him to make a break for what she hopes is still the nurse's office but the knights effortlessly catch them with a swipe of their shields, striking with enough force to send the teenagers sliding against the stairs. The track star's awareness withers as a pentagram of swords descends upon them.
"Kasumi! Mail for you!"
Sliding across the wooden floor in loose socks, an auburn-haired gymnast bounces effortlessly into a dance down the stairs that would make a gazelle doubt itself. Yoshizawa Shinichi is there, cleaning his glasses with a microfiber cloth and enjoying his daughter's zest. It may be winter now, but her presence brings spring to every moment she touches. He uses his free hand to pass a pair of mismatched magazines and an envelope built to spill, likely to preserve postage.
"Thanks, Dad!" Watching her take off as energetically as she arrived, he doesn't flinch as she nearly slams into the wall. She never does. Yoshizawa Kasumi flies back up to her room to open her awaited correspondence. The green envelope, sealed by a wax coat of arms befitting a prestigious school, contains not one, but two generous scholarships to Shujin Academy for outstanding athletic achievement.
"Sumire! Mail for you!"
It takes a minute, but another redheaded gymnast appears. Sumire, a muted mirror to the cheerful girl holding two pieces of paper, rubs sad sleep from her eyes. They look almost exactly alike except for their preference in glasses, a birthmark or three, and the exact hue of their hair. The quieter twin's subdued reaction is genuine; not as explosive as her trailblazing sister, but just as honest. Hundreds of hours of practice and exhibitions, cushioned falls and frustrated refrains, the growing weight of her own expectations - it's all starting to pay off. Sumire looks to her guiding star and allows herself to smile as much as she wants.
"We did it, Kasumi," she says with pride. "One more stop on the way to the top."
"You know it," replies her twin with a pump of her fist. "And we'll keep going until we're the best in the world! You and me, Sumire!"
A symbol of power stands at the window of the Diet's highest office. He is this country's captain and commander of an armada of lackeys, lobbyists, and bootlickers. And he is without remorse for the mountain of corpses it took to get there. After all, they did not die by his hands, and history keeps no adage about the father suffering for the sins of the son, let alone a bastard. Speaking of which.
"Come to my office."
It doesn't take long, just longer than it should. Akechi Goro knocks as a polite nuisance and saunters into the Prime Minister's well-furnished lair. His well-kept and usually chaotic hair is brushed back to present an air of professionalism. How pathetic, Shido Masayoshi grumbles, the truly elite care not about how they seem.
"I trust your studies are progressing well."
Why don't you try balancing a full-time university schedule as both Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, old man. Better yet, pay for it yourself and get dragged onto insipid TV shows twice a week. "Splendid. The coursework is not at all complicated and-"
"I don't care. Do you have even the faintest idea why I would call you here to speak with you directly?"
Paranoia is a better look for you than greed, I guess. "You have something, well, special that needs doing. More of the same?"
Ah. Of course the boy is bloodthirsty. "Just the opposite, in fact. Our clients are not dissatisfied with your performance, nor am I, but we must change course. There are a few things that have come to light." Shido pauses behind folded fingers, deciding how much to trust his child. " You are to cease your usual operations in the field and switch to reconnaissance."
Akechi's instinct as a public figure restrains his disgust behind a pleasant smile. His revenge, kept to a simmer for years now, is again that much further out of sight. But he was making little progress as a soldier for his ungrateful father; there may be greater success in playing the spy for a bit. "Why?"
"Because you will keep doing what I tell you without question," he growls. "That's how I-" sighs, "we got this far. Do not make the mistake of thinking that our work concluded at the end of my campaign."
Never mind, paranoia is even uglier. "Father, I meant-"
"Don't you f-"
"Mr. Prime Minister," revises Akechi with a placative gesture. Some-fucking-day. "I simply meant to inquire about my new duties. As your loyal servant, of course."
Duplicitous Dobermann, more like. The vivid nightmare that stole him from his afternoon ego-stroke stands out clearer than many of the memories he'd made in the past year bouncing between galas and rallies. An argent angel spoke to Shido's black heart as if it were his own subconscious, whispering incisive threats about his self-granted desires. This country may be yours now, it said, but you shall soon encounter those who can steal it just as you stole power.
"Young man, I had a strange thought..."
Christmas Eve.
Lightning strikes itself and bathes the rapidly unraveling metropolis in its glowing blood. Seven righteous rays pierce the apocalypse as one. The rejuvenated Phantom Thieves rebel against the Holy Grail, destroying its guardian angels as the cognitive world oozes into reality. Determined to destroy the almighty puppeteer of their misfortunes - the Demiurge, self-anointed arbiter of humanity's desires and the patron of emotional corruption - the crew chase it to the sky. Standing far above the clouds on featureless platforms, silence reigns. An oasis compared to the hell underfoot. Their leader confidently tugs on his crimson glove as he orders his acrobatic troupe to have some fun.
The platinum effigy of the Absolute brings its entire arsenal to bear on its insolent opponents, yet they hold on like bees swarming a wasp. The public, rallying beneath a young man's cry of hope, begin to push back the creeping chaos. Everyone that the Phantom Thieves fought to save, even the ones that are just now beginning to believe, all cry out to aid the cognonauts with the sum of their desperate hopes. The heroes struggle against the onslaught until their own reserves run dry and soon, the sun sets on humanity's last surprise. One crushing example after the other and the ascended being proves too powerful for their scattered, unrefined strength. Verily, the end is near as fate falls to Mona and Joker.
The embodiment of hope stands between the false deity and his beloved charge. He looks around to find the rest of their teammates lying there, defeated. So close, he grimaces, so goddamned close. How many times their path nearly flew off the rails and all the work they put in to get this far – all in vain if they give up here. Four mighty arms aim at the cat's head, each sinful instrument shinier than the last. The faceless puppet master demands the pair's futile surrender, taunting them with the demise of their conspirators and promising doom or suffering. A firm hand grabs Mona by the collar to avoid the incoming blast but the shock wave nearly flings them both from cruising altitude.
Joker kneels with his heel over the cliff as he clutches his unconscious best friend in his arms. Wrath stirs in his heart as victory becomes a worthless word. The masses' cheers escape with the sun, leaving only charred remains and a torn poster fluttering in the wind. Nature herself hushes to hear the avatar of his heart, Arsene the Gentleman Thief, sing his last bittersweet praise before retiring to the sea of souls.
His white mask flares like a rocket engine and gives birth to an iron chain that convulses like a long dragon trying to eat its own tail. Catching it not a moment too soon, he cracks it like a whip with a heartbroken yawp, shattering it all in an azure rail of fireworks. The Demiurge's confidence dies as darkness fills the clouded sky behind the ragged pair.
The sharp sound shakes Mona from his stupor. The cat gasps not at the cascade of ignis fatuus but the vicious look in Joker's glowing yellow eyes. Persona sacrificed to the zephyr, the last resort of a soul that refuses to give in. He turns to their enemy, then up at the sky for a sign, still too dazed for full sentences.
"Mm… Then!"*
A bead of purity disrupts the blackening clouds behind them and erupts into a pillar that shines upon the battlefield. The false god flinches and holds a scratched hand up for cover as this majesty sears its silver skin. A noble titan with six black wings eclipses the beam as it descends. The portal shuts as it comes to rest behind the panting human, ending the spotlight. Satanael, angel of free will and symbol of Joker's truly awakened self, floats behind the pair as an uncanny complement to its stylish summoner.
Yaldabaoth recoils as it takes in the divinity's imposing form. "No! This cannot be!"
They act in unison as Satanael raises an ornate firearm to the entity's blank face. Their guns ready and a resounding bell sounds the only warning, stunning the Demiurge. Grave tension rides the bitter moment, disturbed only by the whispering wind and, far below it all, mad battle. The leader of the slain misfits spits at the evil shepherd of desires, loading bullets into his threat.
"Your offer in the Velvet Room," says the boy with burning eyes, "wasn't a bluff. I think you can. But I can't trust you."
Mona protests but his injuries pin him down by the lungs. His mind squirms, guessing at the specifics of this deal and cowering from the emotional tsunami hanging over him. The battle already cost the lives of six of their friends. There is no way around the truth: they lost. No victory now is worth this price. Treasured memories of the past year rush through his heart as tears snake their way along his whiskers.
O sweet Lady Ann, you and Haru the Beauty Thief were the most unfortunate. And poor Makoto, Yusuke, and Ryuji, each braver than the last, but too far apart for Futaba to do her best. Maybe if Akechi were here. Mona would do anything for a second chance, praying for some miracle to undo this hell. By the looks of it, that's his leader's plan. Every hopeful and broken breath cracks his battered chest like emergency glass. Latching onto the bloodstained trench coat for dear life, he looks up at an uncharacteristically furious face. As much as it pains him to admit, this really is better than nothing.
"Go for it, Joker! We'll deal with it, no matter what happens," Mona cries over his compounding despair. "Do what you think is right!"
The platinum weapons dissolve and the Demiurge raises its two arms to gather cosmic energy. "Blasphemers," it begins. "I shall honor this pact only because it is favorable to annihilation. As you beg, I can indeed grant your desire in full. And in return, Trickster, you and your allies must show mercy. Your city and all its people shall be freed from an otherwise certain ruin. And they shall reward their saviors, the impeccable Phantom Thieves, with unending gratitude and deserving praise."
"No." The masked gunmen step forward but their prisoner stares down the massive barrel, intent on its boiling magic. Joker makes his declaration with an usurper's authority, the urge to end it all prowling just under his demonic glare. "No – my desire is that you bring us all back safe and sound. Forget about the masses. Or else we'll take our revenge." The young man pauses to keep an excited sob from shattering everything. Torn between mourning and celebrating the miracle cut from the jaws of defeat, he senses the stars of rebellion and hope beside him. "That's more than you deserve. So do it, you lying bastard, or I'll kill you now."
The duplicitous deity considers this for a short eternity and bows slightly. "Very well."
Nearly defeated, the exhausted Mona perseveres and hops up onto his best friend's shoulder. A firm grip steadies him as he dangerously lists to the side. Even in the face of death, this brave boy inspires him with nothing more than a sincere smile. The reassurance evaporates the longer he gazes into Joker's abnormal golden irises, surely imagining the sanguine glow around them. Green glitter rains from his touch, sweet anodyne for the smallest fractions of their misery.
"We'll be okay," purrs the maskless hero as the ominous ball expands to its critical mass.
Mona pumps his heavy little fist, half-trying to smile past the fear. "Yeah, it'll be worth it. We're gonna pull through, no matter what. And when we celebrate, you're buying me the best, freshest sushi money can buy. Catch it if you have to!"
"All you can eat," Joker replies warmly as his Thief attire disappears in a flash. He scratches his roommate behind the ears, smirking as the wounded deity struggles to maintain the glowing orb. "Can't keep a promise on an empty stomach, y'know."
Satanael lifts its gun to its shoulder, generating a mighty gust with its black wings. It leaves for the unseen realm on a chariot of glowing dust, its ordained judgement locked onto the malign entity. The mutual departure evokes a sense of abandonment in his summoner, like arriving at the station on time but too late to say good-bye to a special someone.
Time stops and color drains from the world. Amamiya Ren struggles but the wind, frozen in place, keeps him there. A black door opens at the bottom of his periphery and a dazzling shadow approaches, never in one place long enough for his brain to focus. A primitive fight-or-flight response lashes out, determined to move or break the human's bones trying as the whispering thing gets closer. A chilling sensation trickles along the border of his ego as a sharp fingernail inscribes a forbidden mark into his skull.
A sudden, almighty force constricts their minds so nothing else remains. The instant message is relayed in symbols, an omen of the future delivered from Heaven on the final sunbeam.
Heed thy choice, World-walker,
Befouled Desire borne from despair.
Suffer nobly and endeavor,
For thou hath imprisoned many souls under thine own.
Know this, foolish mortal and strange Magician
Straying freely from thine destined paths:
Bright hearts nurture dark shadows.
"It is done."
Yaldabaoth's spell punches a black hole between them. Its triumph reaches from night to day as the personalized Conception feeds mercilessly on reality. Bleeding clouds drown the land in ink and streaks of red lightning wrestle among the surface like anacondas in a piranha nest. A subsonic, primordial groan rattles their bones into jelly as greater Tokyo peels up from the earth like an enormous orange stitching itself back together.
The event horizon consumes the three survivors to send them screaming, stretching, and swirling into the unknown. Time and space retire as their souls careen through the supernatural cyclone behind the cosmic curtain. Indistinguishable faces and alien scenes pass by faster and faster and faster and faster as their essences blur into the maddening kaleidoscope. There is nothing anymore save for dull fluorescent outlines of a cat, a young man, and a chalice. They spin slowly in a white abyss as they forget how they arrived.
Snow begins to fall on a tranquil world.
Footnote
* Then! - technically, they're still in Mementos.
* gremlies - this was a typo and by folly, I'm keeping it.