The world is not as it should be. It is filled with distortion.
Ruin can no longer be avoided.
The title of Trickster is given to those who oppose fate and desire change.
It is again time to rise against the abyss of destruction.
You are held captive. A prisoner of fate to a future that has been sealed in advance.
This is truly an unjust game for your chances of winning are almost none.
The key to victory lies within the memories of your bonds -
the truth that you and your friends grasped.
For the sake of your world's future, as well as your own, you must remember.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for riding with us today. We will be arriving in - Shibuya - shortly. The doors to your left will open."
"What, are you kidding me? A mental shutdown? You just love that occult stuff, huh…"
The bright Nothing ends. Amamiya Ren* emerges from his trance as the ride does too. Language fails his burning brain as sight, sound, and sorrow reignite the chasms in his soul. Move, urges his numb spirit, and his body gathers his spartan belongings in a hurry. A cold smartphone whirs as soon as it enters his grasp. There, in the center of the screen, a crying black eye spins like a spur, winks, and the ominous app deletes itself. Two hellish voices arguing like jet engines compound behind Ren's ears and stop. The world returns to its full clarity.
The hollow boy blinks and stumbles into the city. His thoughts are slow to follow.
"Oh, right. They did say that was today."
Ren suffered a nauseous hour returning to Leblanc, plagued by strange, personal visions and anonymous despair. It took some time to notice the lack of Christmas decorations and his almost empty contacts list. There are no clues in his bag; in fact, nothing but the most basic possessions and a new notebook labeled with somebody else's name. Worse still is that it matches his identification. He wracked his mind for any reason why that could be, or why his phone claims today as the ninth of April despite New Year's Day next week. How dreadful it is being so alone and uncertain, hoping like a child alone on their birthday that this was all an elaborate hoax. He could only put one foot in front of the other, right up until he arrived at home. The aroma of fresh coffee answered his prayers as a bell heralds his return. Well, arrival.
"So, you're the guy." Sakura Sojiro judges with a tone colder than his regulars' leftovers. "Notokami Akimitsu*. I was wondering what kind of unruly kid would show up, and you're the one, huh?" The owner analyzes the juvenile from behind sophisticated glasses and clicks his tongue. Barely responds to his own name. Weird name, too.
"Thanks for having me," Ren mumbles, dumbfounded and floored between a sense of homelessness and his sudden identity crisis.
Sojiro sighs and starts from scratch. He goes over the basics, rattling the key to the front door as he stresses how important it is for a kid like him to stay between the lines. A ray of sympathy pierces his gruff demeanor. He says he gets the gist of his story.
"Just behave yourself. It's rare to find anywhere that will take someone like you," Boss says. He checks his phone with a click of his tongue. "Oh, by the way: your luggage rolled in an hour ago. I hauled it upstairs for you, so if I wake up tomorrow with a messed-up back, you're paying for my massage." Motioning for the kid to follow him to the back of the cozy cafe, past the opaque bathroom door, Sojiro mumbles under his breath just loud enough to hear. "This late on your first day; I hope that's not what you're planning on pulling at school, you know."
"I got lost."
The attic is a mess. A scale replica of the Tokyo skyline cobbled up from tarps, boxes, and cobwebs. More dust fills the air than a helicopter taking off in a quarry. A dreary houseplant begs for sweet release from this mortal coil, buried behind a shelf that keeps boxes as heavy books crush the mattress by the window. This is a cemetery of memories that would have otherwise remained undisturbed for generations.
Sojiro pauses at the last step and coughs at the chalky air. He gestures toward a pair of nondescript trunks shoved far enough to avoid adding another fire hazard. Having done his duty, Sojiro claps the boy's shoulder and makes for the door. "Now, I have something to attend to. From now on, I'm leaving you here alone, so just go to bed and don't try anything funny. We're not going to be late for our talk with the principal tomorrow if you want to stay here from now on."
Ren composes himself enough to call out as the man dons his off-white hat by the door. A gut feeling next to his hunger compels him to ask. "Have you seen… Food Table?"
Sojiro sighs, flipping the sign to 'closed' as he notices it. Teens and their odd TV shows. "No. I guess I can make you breakfast if you're hungry tomorrow, but don't expect it to become a normal thing," he says, locking the door behind him.
The young man leans against the wooden wall and slides down, stupefied. That name, on the edge of recognition and still invisible; more than just a name in his mind. 'Food Table' is related to this cafe, and somehow Sojiro, too. Ren pulls on his frizzy hair fruitlessly until heavy crates appear in his periphery. Crawling, he hesitates to annoy the chests as if they would vanish.
They look like touring cargo at first but the scratched industrial cover ripples to the touch, revealing rich blue fabric. Ren's fingers trace a different shape beneath the illusion as it shrinks like a puddle on a summer day. Gilded trunks standing on curled golden feet, immaculately lined and totally out of place in the dead attic. A silver plaque emblazoned with his new surname guards the lock, a low and comparatively small port for the broad indigo case. The other container matches this one entirely except its inscription: "Yoshizawa".
The first Trickster reaches out to inspect that which is not his and the thing disappears, sucked into a tear in space at its center with a deafening fzpa! An orb of force ruptures the room, sort of cleaning it, and causes the lights to flicker from building to building around town. The harmless explosion sends Ren tumbling head over heels onto the shoe-stained tile. The phone rings.
"Shit," he moans, groping his way up. "Shit." He manages to pick up before the fourth ring, likely its last.
"You wanna tell me what the hell that was or should I go down and see for myself?"
Ren's mind races for anything but his first instinct*. Here goes. "The batting machine?"
"..."
"..."
"... Go to sleep." Sojiro hangs up as a demure voice calls out behind him.
The receiver passes along a migraine that sends Ren spiraling to the ground on a barstool. He is elsewhere: waiting in a plastic labyrinth of computer parts and home appliances awash with customers as she breaks out of the crowd, waving a sleek green box like a piece of Hylian loot. Now they are messing with control panels and leaping through airlocks. He soars through the vacuum of space breathlessly as the nerd in the Necronomicon makes jokes he can't hear. Then Ren is back in the attic and it's the peak of summer, waiting for the rest of their accomplices as she giggles at her laptop. The tangerine-haired girl peels back the cover on her instant ramen, glasses fogging as she sets her food on the table*.
Ren gasps like a diver setting a new record. He cries out for Sakura Futaba, clambering to his feet and scouring the place for any trace of her. Glimpses of his old friendships shatter his concentration and squeeze his temples as he gets more and more frantic. It takes a fair amount of time and most of his effort to locate the first bug. A tiny microphone planted beneath the bar on the Boss' side, angled to avoid eavesdropping on boiling water. He reaches for it but an invisible hand stops him, the cold touch of guilt. Confused and beleaguered by the wasps in his skull, he caves in and retreats. Too soon, too tough to explain, too much tonight.
"Nice to meet you," he groans to himself. Shoving his bed clear of debris, the faithful fool collapses into an unpleasant dream with the lights on.
The off-duty prosecutor pushes her barstool in with her heel as she finishes an ikura roll. Niijima Sae ignores the polite waiter as she heads for the door with her phone to her ear. "What? No, sir, I'm not busy."
Her intern scoffs and pulls another red plate from the conveyor. The inquisitive sisters share an apartment so they trade their kitchen responsibilities by the day, agreeing to take the odd Friday out to a restaurant. Today should not be extraordinary: a quick bite after work - for her, one of two free hours before night class - hungry for a different conversational partner. They avoid sitting face to face as much as possible since it reminds them of home. In fact, they often choose sushi belts for their adjacent seating and this particular one for the soy sauce.
Something flops around in Niijima Makoto's gut and it's not fresh fish. It started as an offhand meeting or in the hallway to the restroom but by the end of the week, the insufferable Detective Prince became their third roommate. The reason is as clear as the pricing on the wall: for some unfathomable reason, he has to keep tabs on them. She sees no other reason why he would suffer this awkward meal as if it were a pleasant date. Her fellow Criminal Justice major waited: to recognize their routine, at the entrance to their building, and until the prosecutor left to chat. She sets her clay teacup down for fear of shattering it in her grasp. The only thing that the duchess of Judgement detests more than a liar is a sneak.
"I've been wondering, Niijima-san," Akechi says, taking an arrogantly polite sip, "you spend a great deal of time with your sister; why, one could even say you're inseparable. Between your training, education, and a shiny new internship, you must not find much alone time." He turns his head just enough that both his burgundy eyes fall on the girl. "Do you resent her for that?"
Makoto serves him a look that would make anyone else apologize for existing and leave. But it takes more than that to faze a spy so both he and his question linger like a dollop of wasabi.
"No," she admits, employing a fairly basic trick to frustrate the polymath. "I really look up to my sister's accomplishments. We both know too well that life isn't a fun little game and hard work might not be enough sometimes. But it is nice to be needed," the younger Niijima adds neutrally before taking another bite.
Akechi sours at those words. He barely catches his next quip by the tail as Sae returns to finish off her cocktail. "Hope I'm not interrupting." She spares a glance from an email to check the receipt, obscuring the total with a shiny card. "Makoto, I'll head back on my own. Don't be late. Akechi," The older sister nods and spins on her heel, already greeting the gruff voice on another call. Her long braid flips the brunette's ire on its head as it whips the young man's face.
Exit Sae-san, back to the grind.
The college students parry each others' glares across the empty seat like fencers en garde and enjoy salty disagreement for dessert. Akechi grabs a slice of cake to play it cool but the plate fears for its safety. An elbow next to Makoto guards the folded interview of a famous fast food company's young new CEO. What she does see are eager opportunists behind the press table and only part of the young woman's voluminous hair. How lucky, she thinks, to be born into the right family and fit right into place when it's your turn. Money, a big house, a husband, all for free. Her father's legacy was not afforded the luxury of retirement let alone anything resembling favor for his daughters following in his footsteps. It is nice to be needed, sure, but she often wonders what her life would be like if they didn't need to be so strong.
The check is paid and Akechi waves his gratitude to the nodding owner. They exit into the cool evening as the young man slips on brown leather gloves and his classmate wrestles with belated, intrusive anxiety. Something about that girl in the newspaper...
"Well, I had best get going. You know how it is chasing leads these days," he croons like somebody without anything to do for the night. The mischievous youth attunes himself to her vulnerable frustration, hoping the overworked girl is as irritated by circumstances as she seems. "Say, Makoto," he says, catching her close enough that it would be childish not to turn around. "If you saw anything unusual. Anything. You'd, tell me," adjusting a white-knuckle grip on his trademark briefcase, "right?" The murderer's eyes shimmer with gold as the night swells behind him.
The uncrowned queen does little to sugarcoat her disdain. "Of course," she lies.
"Oh, good. I thought so."
Tokyo proper is as Ren remembers it from his actual first day. All the usual attractions watch them pass as Sojiro drives to school. Trees one year older rustle alongside the belching street as its concrete veins conduct their daily flow past the city's windowed organs. A carcass of dreams infested by the faceless public and discounts from here to America. Nobody to recognize nor anything to revisit, just places where the past didn't occur. The very air misses its magic.
And yet, he thinks, these are all new sights to 'Notokami Akimitsu'. The gibberish name fits in his subconscious like a lake in a crater. He fondly recalls his parents and their hometown, but a thick dam of ice obscures uncomfortably long stretches of his past. The clearest memories show a bald man yelling beneath a streetlight; then it himself falling, screaming and bleeding, up into the sky; and recently, tempestuous alien voices whisper his past back to him in his sleep. This new name and all it brings is nothing more than an ill-fitted mask.
Shujin Academy is untouched, a polished egg amid this congregation of stone. They arrive a little after the first bell to avoid everyone but the administrative staff. Soon, the rotund principal beckons them into his shuttered office. It smells of cheap disinfectant and there is a moment of deja vu that Ren fails to ignore. More postured blustering about personal responsibility and his situation accented by a few stern looks from Sojiro. The door creaks open behind them as a frazzled teacher in a striped yellow blouse rubs the bridge of her nose with chalky fingers.
"... but I'd just miss and they'd laugh," she mumbles. The overworked woman crosses her superior's cramped office looking past them all. "Sorry, Principal Kobayakawa, I was t-"
"Yes, yes, that's fine; now: I'd like you to meet your newest student," he says, motioning at the dazed mop of hair. "The, uh, special case," polite demeanor cracking at her sigh, "so I'm asking that you keep a very close eye on him. Understood? Kawakami-san, this is, hrm," squinting as he checks a sheet, "Notokami Akimitsu. Not the name I would have chosen, but."
The brunette's shoulders slump even further. Why does she always get the troublemakers and weirdos? Gathering some professionalism, she switches into her superior role, gazing down at the boy with familiar disinterest. "I'm Kawakami, your new homeroom teacher. Just do your work and try not to get in trouble," she groans. Turning to the principal with her usual unease, she puts her hand up to his ear, whispering so loudly that even Sojiro can hear her opinion of the school.
The portly man rears back in surrender. "I am sorry, Sadayo, really. But I have many other irons in the fire. Renovations, our athletic programs; not to mention the steep retainer for that new counselor. Yeesh. We all must make little sacrifices now and then to keep this ship sailing. Besides," he says, patting her on the small of the back, "I have confidence that you can rise to the challenge." His eyes are closed in a smug smile as the underpaid teacher tenders her resignation.
Kawakami inhales sharply as she swats his meaty hand away. Tired eyes look the troublemaker up and down and she sighs as she shakes her head in acceptance. "Get here early tomorrow to see me before class. And I'm sure this goes without saying, but don't expect an easy 'A'. Or much else," she meekly adds. "Listen, if you get into any trouble at all, I can't promise to help you."
Sojiro scoffs at an expensive wristwatch. "Are we done here? I have a business to run."
The principal's tiny chair squeaks as it drags across the floor, released from his grip; thanks again, he cheers. The exaggerated smile drops like a paperweight as the nervous man bolts the door shut to fumble around his drawers. He procures a flip phone, redialing no less than four times as his sweaty digits slip around the secret combination. It rings five times before a voice holding a cigar in its fangs answers. Ice clinks in a glass.
"Go," growls the man on the other end.
Principal Kobayakawa tugs on the colorful silk noose keeping his white collar intact. "I-I got this number from a, a friend. He said to look out for transfer students."
Ren twists in his sleep, tortured by the inexplicable gallery of his now unrepressed former life. A year spent above the school, by a busy station, and even in cozy Leblanc as the seasons changed. Faceless friends in his periphery scamper past death as hectic jazz rendered by guns, knives, and crumbling desires interrupts all language and thought.
A beryl butterfly slips into reality from the darkness. It lands on his heart to deliver a ripple of relief and a whispered secret. The girl's voice is lovely and smooth for its tacit concern but muffled by his thrumming psyche. A silver droplet slides from the flickering, thin wings and cold comfort trickles around his neck.
… again. Your fr… -orrow, please. You cannot-
The message ends as the world freezes. The young man searching for Faith from his past is freed from the throes of anxiety, yet he remains a prisoner. Outside, the gentle breeze catches a broken leaf and an orange cat hovers in the space between fences. The luminous bug fled yet some hominid instinct discerns another presence lurking in the dark.
He jolts out of bed like prey and hurls a sweaty blanket at the dusty mess, missing the repulsive gentleman entirely. Anguish seizes the mortal and he writhes like a hound in a trap. Hellish forces drag him to his knees so the smouldering visage of his departed Persona can cackle at his gasping cowardice. A mockery of Arsene pouts and smirks as its sham voice invades the Trickster's consciousness.*
Mightily you have drawn me to you,
Long, from my sphere, snatched your food,
And now -
You beg me to show myself, you implore,
You wish to hear my voice, and see my face.
The mighty prayer of your soul weighs
With me, I am here! - what wretched terror
Grips you, the Superhuman! Where is your soul's calling?
Where is the heart that made a world inside, enthralling;
Carried it, nourished, swollen with joy, so tremulous,
That you too might be a Spirit, one of us?
Where are you, Fool, whose ringing voice
Drew towards me with all your force?
Are you he, who, breathing my breath,
Trembles in all your life's depths,
A fearful, writhing worm?
You're like the Spirit you understand,
Not me!
Notokami Akimitsu gasps, sore and slumped on the floor, to Sojiro's muted amusement. You're lucky I have to check on this place early, the gentleman remarks over fresh coffee and curry. Nothing spoiled in the fridge, a subway disaster on the morning news, and wouldn't you know it, the batting cage is closed for repairs. The groggy student drifts between thought and reality, sorting the sleepy muck for bits of insight like meat among vegetables.
Eerie truths occupy Akimitsu's mind as his awareness settles. Wordless determination coalesces like the primordial Earth, cracked by the devil from last night and its farewell omen. The mere idea of his departed Persona ignites his stifled past like a broth seasoned with secrets. The gentleman's final guidance pierced his master's mind to portend great danger. Perplexing, inflexible conditions; and myriad tasks that must be executed, lest ruin return.
He sneezes as he takes the time to investigate. Boxes of photos and business records, unsealed for the first time in a decade only to be set aside in search of any memento of his departed Persona. The desk provides a few ingredients for infiltration tools and junk for some cash but nothing so mystical as the illusory box. His sigh turns into a cough as he shakes a cape of dust off his shirt. Cold metal tumbles onto his chest. A velvet key on an iron chain, tiny and light as a feather; the blue butterfly's bauble.
The clumsy kid crashes over a low pile of junk before he manages to heave the mirage into view. Taking a deep breath, he aims the key at the simple lock and it zips into place like a magnet. It turns, undoing a series of mechanisms and the latch pops open. Sojiro calls out from the dirty dishes to hurry it up as Akimitsu raises the heavy lid.
The innards of the chest are lined with plush fabric that smells faintly of soothing herbs. It extends impossibly, like a chimney in a purse. Alternating shelves rigged to an unshakeable brass contraption obstruct the rest of the dark crevasse. A pocket full of weird curios: cases of beautiful, hand-painted trading cards and blank templates; piles of garish belts, rings, mail-order video game badges; stylish, glimmering robes and rich, freaky underclothes; an armory fit for Hollywood paired with battle-scarred weaponry like wine for charcuterie. It takes a minute but there is an end to the infinite elevator. A modified model handgun and a very real silver dagger set in an X atop silky briefs. Next to it, the only treasures in this entire trove: a lightly faded trinket from a Hawaiian layover and a well-kept journal.
"Don't mind if I do," he murmurs in equal awe of his understanding as he is to a pile of half a million yen. Grabbing a fistful of doodads and sealing most of the dangerous valuables back into their disguise, he tucks the little key under his school shirt. The transfer student heaves the essentials over his shoulder, accepts the stern blessing of his guardian, and flips the sign to 'Open' on his way out. It is once again the eleventh of April, but it is not Amamiya Ren that takes this first step toward the truth.
The subway is down due to a nasty incident so the streets are packed with pedestrians. The late student gambles his reputation and ankles on a handful of detours as a chill gathers in his bones. Fruit snacks, medicine, and an umbrella. He snags sweet drinks from the laundromat and the arcade, dashing past a hungover court reporter as she bumps into a politician distracted by the encroaching storm. A shady man with a gecko tattoo on his neck snickers at the sweaty kid darting through the crowd. Some people just can't handle the big city, he muses to the tall foreigner handing out flyers near his shop. Heh, you can say that again.
He slides to a halt beneath an awning as the rain starts to pick up. Any minute now, but what, he repeats nervously. What do I really have to do today? The thunder rumbles and there she is, standing next to him. The Lover, standing taller than he recalls, her long platinum-blonde hair free of its usual ties. She notices the confused boy and looks ahead, keeping a straight face that belies her irritation. It is in this instant that his control completely vanishes.
Then he is himself again. Akimitsu sees Ryuji, not Ann, right before entering the car he saw drive away one year ago. Fresh air helps after the near-silent ride, as does the light rain. The bitter man leads him by the shoulder muttering something about blocks. An obstinate homeroom teacher lingers outside to watch the school gate, tapping her toe as she checks the time. No new messages, but three fresh voicemails all saying the same thing. Kawakami tenses even more as she scrutinizes the dazed transfer student being led up the steps by the surly volleyball coach.
"Cutting it close," Kawakami sighs after he walks away. "Here," a thick, bound folder. "Coursework for what we've covered so far. Study it in addition to what we learn in class and catch up before midterms if you want any hope of passing. Got it?" Her fatigue is as clear as the confusion on his face. They each seriously consider asking the other to just go home. "It's not up to me whether you pass or not. I mean, it is, but - oh, you know what I mean. Ugh; come on, or we'll both be late. I guess we'll just have to meet quickly and go over the syllabus after your first class."
Akimitsu is led through the hall at a pace he is all too happy to match and her complaints put him a little more at ease. Introduces himself plainly, he meanders through the stares to the second empty spot by the window. Just about everyone from the past is here, save for a platinum-blonde girl. Just as it was then, all the faceless public will do is whisper and stare. He looks at the empty space in his desk, then to his suddenly disinterested classmates. Their exhausted teacher sighs as class starts and he begins to read his old journal.
"Omigod, did you hear he got arrested? For, like, murder?"
"Man, hee looks like he's on drugs, ho."
"I bet ya the police get him by summer break."
Sumire slams the indigo door behind her, noting how out of place the polished knob is here on the roof. She takes a step and nearly trips over the fire escape. Dizzying clouds above the casino contort into her own angered face and knock her off balance with a desperate cry. She is thrown back through the door, a little pocket between places, and through another to land in front of a construction site. She struggles to stand on weak legs, reaching out for a dark iron gate that tears the air to stay beyond her reach. The scenery around her crumbles with every aching step, revealing a dank underground haunted by cackling shadows and rattling chains.
She leaps for the metal handle and it falls away like a painting that hides a secret passage. The bespectacled girl leaps in and escapes a rushing blade, scrambling onto the slick pavement. The cacophony is over; all is as serene as water on the wind. She melts in the smell of bathing trees, her panic distracted by an umbrella bouncing across the street. Out of the fog comes the roar of an unstoppable vehicle and the taste of tears. The girl in the glasses runs as fast as she can, blinded by a twin's sore ego. Sumire runs until she falls, shoved from behind, crashing into the unforgiving future.
Then she is there again, right there, more than witness to that fateful second. A very familiar red-haired girl leaps across a suddenly busy intersection. Love possesses her legs to fly on pure instinct and save her sister as the bus honks like a charging ox. Valor rewarded with a shattering impact. The weeping clouds in her blurry vision fade as guilt and grief stomp madly inside the dreamer's skull. One quaking order sung with violent elegance: defy.
Kasumi shakes her sobbing twin awake and her tired concern grows to match the other's inexplicable fear. The tug on their unspoken bond interrupted her own bad dream - a limousine playing opera with the windows down chasing her through the fog - as if it were hers. Some time passes in the dark before she sighs, placing a firm hand on her shoulder to pull her in.
"You're okay, Sumi," she says tenderly. "It's all okay now, it was just a dream."
It doesn't take long for Kasumi to return to bed, resigning to the hope that her twin would relax by dawn. Tomorrow is their first full day at Shujin Academy and she aims to uphold their name as worthy of their scholarship's reputation. She slips back into sleep easily but it takes all night for her flustered sister to begin to relax. Hugging a pillow, Sumire winces as dawn pierces the blinds to strike at her ebbing migraine.
Strange names vie for Sumire's concentration, pieces of light too boggling to perceive for more than a moment. They coalesce around a brilliant crystal beneath layers of black wings covered in red eyes. The symbol of purity at its core clutches an engraved rapier with dignity, unable to dream or wake. A blue butterfly as bright as the moon perches on an uncovered patch of that massive gem. She stares at the braver Yoshizawa down to the bottom of her psyche as an ungodly voice murmurs from even lower still. A life-altering proposition recast by a bloody quill.
"Sumi, are you there? Earth to Sumi."
A hand waves in front of her eyes and Sumire notices a pair of bruised student athletes slink past, gossiping. The garbled announcement mentions something about melon pan and volleyball practice after school. Her backpack may as well be made of bubbles compared to the weight of her panic. Yet that ominous nightmare and its flood of insight are washed away in a snap of her sister's fingers.
"Yeah," she groans. "I'm here."
"Okay, good. You know what they say: early birds, something-something, worm!" She beams, adjusting their uniform jackets to match down to the floral button on their lapels. Despite being identical twins, moments like this overstate their differences. Sumire, sleepless or not, declines the hassle of contact lenses and a ribbon for her hair whereas Kasumi, the one with the beauty mark above her lip, adds height from cheerfulness alone before her signature ponytail.
Kasumi takes her unusually downcast sister by the shoulders to inspire at least half a smile. "Listen, I'm nervous too. But there's no audience or judges keeping score, just a quick thing to talk about. It's not a huge deal. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we get to use that sweet gym."
"The sooner we go home and eat dinner," she says, perking up a little as her sunny sister frowns.
Setting aside the delirium of a deadbeat morning, Sumire follows her sister into the faculty office and a chill passes up her spine. Principal Kobayakawa ushers the twins to their seats, glancing at the door and nearly bursting with relief as Coach Kamoshida enters with a toothy grin. Their overly civil welcome begins and eventually pivots to a fanciful menu of lucrative prospects that are virtually guaranteed for the successful Shujin graduate. The smug man behind him listens, leering.
"And that could be you," boasts the toady. "Um, both of you. All thanks to your magnificent talent and this generous scholarship."
Sumire lets her sister parry the formalities as her focus is stolen to another place entirely. She remains seated but at a much finer desk exuding sinister authority. Empty prison cells close in around fresh meat and a mummified guillotine scrapes at the unseen ceiling. A dark red quill floats before her as she notices her hosts: a gaunt older gentleman, also seated, accompanied by snow-haired officers - twins - standing at his beck and call. The shadows exaggerate puppet-like limbs and the golden glow of his bulging, bloodshot eyes. Low blue candle light illuminates his long, devious nose and every perfect tooth in his unnerving smile. The prison master rests his grinding chin on crossed white gloves, rumbling telepathically as the sister wardens stand at attention.
Welcome, new Trickster. I am delighted to make your acquaintance. This place exists between dream and reality, mind and matter. It is a room that only those who are bound by a contract may enter. Still, this is a surprise.
A simple contract in illegible script appears with a broad sweep of his bony arm. He rises, and in one motion, the keeper of this invisible room and his twin wardens bow. The nameless host towers over his awestruck guest, almost as tall as the wall around her heart.
In the near future, there is no mistake that ruin awaits you. You must be rehabilitated toward freedom, your only means to avoid ruin. Do you too have the resolve to challenge the distortion of the world?
The passive Yoshizawa, swayed by fatigue of the heart and that honest cinder in the gem, signs the damned page. Faith and curiosity foolishly outweigh mystified fear. An opportunity - a choice - to shine on her own, without her flawless sister's help. The harsh nightmare begins to fade as confidence peeks out from behind the edge of her soul, a mewling spark. The stately host retrieves the magic endorsement with a snap, his jaw clicking open like a robot having a cheap, disembodied laugh.
Allow me to observe your path. It is almost time. We will surely meet again… Eventually.
"I promise, she's not usually like this. What do you say, Sumire?"
The quiet twin blinks behind her glasses, surprised to find herself still being interrogated. The eerie cage is no more and the walls are back to their academic decor like a rotating billboard. However, the discussion is dead on the table. Three different expressions of concern but no hint at the question hanging in the air. Here goes.
"Yes?"
"Great! Just great. Then, um; well, one of my assistants shall contact your father for remaining documentation and photographs for your IDs. Now, I understand the two of you are technically excused until lunch. So, since we already have your new trainer here, why not enjoy a tour of our newly renovated facilities?" Principal Kobayakawa could not be happier if he tried, not unless somebody paid him more. The bell rings, scaring the imp from his seat. "If you'll excuse me, I must hurry back to my office. Lots of paperwork, as I'm sure you know."
The large man leaves too quickly to gather anything but suspicion, slamming the door shut behind him. Kasumi turns to her sister and chokes back the celebration, startled by her nauseous expression. Then they notice him. Kamoshida leans close enough to smell his sweaty polo and the breakfast on his breath, looking as delighted as a snake in a bird's nest.
Before they moved to Tokyo, the Yoshizawas took the time to review athletically-competitive schools from all over. Basketball, ping-pong, even bodybuilding; only this academy stood out. Last semester, Shujin declared plans for a gymnastics program after some of their volleyball players made the national team. Kasumi saw an Olympic medalist who, after taking decisive action with the failing track team, sculpted two professional-grade teams in just two years - no simple feat - and led very successful fundraisers for renovations and a junior instructor. Sumire found such consistent rumors of abuse that, like the stories about the ball boy and the old captain, suggest something heinous. They felt an obligation as students, young athletes, as daughters to their education, so they began to rationalize. Kasumi believes it to be gossip started by kids who couldn't cut it; Sumire wanted it all to be empty hearsay. But now as the man slithers around them, the twins spare a thought for those warnings.
The now-unlocked door slides open as a tired teacher enters past a shaggy-haired student, dismissing his question like a sly pass. "If I did, I wouldn't be here much longer. That I can say," she sighs, dropping the smirk as she notices the company. "Oh! Sorry, Coach. I thought this room would be empty."
Kamoshida swallows his ire and puts on his pleasant face, too slow for youthful eyes. "No, no, please. Come in. I, uh, I see you're already getting on top of the problem I mentioned earlier, Kawakami-san. Appreciate your support," he says with practiced civility, unable to hide his disgust towards the smug new kid. Calm confidence clashes with machismo. "Now girls, do you see him? I recommend you steer clear of the likes of this delinquent if you have any consideration for your future. Remember the discussion we just had? There are a number of students in this school you shouldn't-"
The dishonest monologue is cut off by Kasumi's curt scream as Sumire slumps unconscious onto the desk with blood dripping from her nose. Akimitsu watches from inside himself as the teachers surround the frantic girl and a faint fluttering beacon flickers out of view between them. A soft, kind whisper behind his ear is drowned out by an excited hiss in the other. He follows the group as they ferry her to the nurse's office, setting her down to rest. Kawakami fans herself with what is presumably the month's homework, her duty to the transfer obscured by Kasumi's palpable concern.
"Listen, I'm sure these two have a handle on the situation until our nurse comes back," Kamoshida says to assure the crying girl. "Why don't we go out to get some fresh air and wait?"
The other teacher stammers, appalled either at his lack of decency or that he would so readily dump this responsibility on her. The bell for her next class rings and she catches herself from swearing by the skin of her teeth. As much as she hates to do it - but not enough to not - she sighs and presses the papers into Akimitsu's hands.
"Unfortunately, I have a class to teach," Kawakami groans. "Besides, you really do look smart. I bet you can figure these out on your own. Stay here and work and- ugh, just come find me if you're still stuck here in an hour."
Kasumi begins to protest but her heart freezes as a firm hand clasps her shoulder. The last the startled twin sees of the room is her sister sleeping under the furious watch of an anonymous boy.
"You got it, teach! I'll show her a good time," winks Kamoshida as he leads the freshman away, hatred flickering past his bold smirk toward the newcomer. "Until next time, kid."
Akimitsu watches his teacher grapple with her overloaded conscience before she leaves with the rest of her problems. He looks over to the cot, wracking his charred memory for any trace of its occupant like looking for a rock he left in a riverbed. She is beautiful, bloodied nostril notwithstanding, yet not peaceful in her sleep. Sweat gathers on her ragged breath and her lithe extremities twitch in resistance to some subconscious battle. This girl, clearly on track for the Olympics herself, is a riddle to the first Trickster. He elects to recline, armed with a book of knowledge and an embryonic plan.
Arsene dissolves into blue flame as Ren welcomes the World. He, the primary guide for the soul that brought him into this plane, feels no regret at the culmination of their fast and loose year. The divine mission was a success; the Trickster survived and even flourished in his rehabilitation, surmounting all obstacles in his path. Now he, rebellion given form and bound to a single human will, must return to the sea of souls with nothing but pride. Perhaps there will be another. Perhaps this is the righteous criminal's ultimate purpose. The Nothing is as warm as the mask the gentleman grew to love.
An ebon claw punctures space and time to grasp his neck with unholy force. The essence of his being is drained like wine to a washcloth as the usurper steals the magic thief's form in the sliver between realities. The final sight afforded to Joker's departed Persona is a warped reflection staring back at him through golden eyes. A sanguine glow flares in those pupils as the devil coalesces. He is finally alone in the void save for three concepts orbiting each other. The whispering entity snaps fresh fingers and steps through time onto a train. The devil, invisible unless he desires otherwise, sits next to the comatose prisoner.
He shadows the fallen soul as Ren begins to navigate his recycled life. He sifts through Arsene's stolen memories to sow doubt and fear into the Trickster's new name. He feeds him knowledge as he struggles in his sleep. Noble and arrogant were the Phantoms, their leader's vision of justice ruined by passion at destiny's end. Life is not so easy, educated boy, and wishes are imperfect. All that counts is responsibility for one's actions, an original truth well known to humanity and demonkind. The Demiurge, hoarder of lost will and squanderer of powerful apostles, proved a poor challenge for the Velvet Room's tenacious champion. Despite the bet it forced into its favor, the proud and calculating Yaldabaoth fell victim to a few hysterical lambs. A pity, tuts the better as he watches Akimitsu begin to understand.
There was another like this one nearly five hundred years ago, on the other side of age and the planet. Like as now, the infernal agent was tasked to whisper reason beneath the scholar's ambition yet became enraptured as he too endeavored to steal his fate. In moments of mortal limitation, humans are wont to trade the most precious thing available for that which they believe to be paramount. Hearts, lives, the soul. What happens after that is up to them and their word.
Heaven and Hell once more invoked an ancient maxim to summon the collector of the already-damned: for difficult work that must be done, send the royal.
Almost an hour passes. Sumire shoots up in her bed with a heavy gasp, five dreams popping like carnival balloons. She again finds herself in an unfamiliar room and, again, there is a stranger. A debonair student waiting at her bedside, enraptured by an old journal presumably full of cursive notation and sophisticated diagrams*. Her phone squawks from inside her bag to shake them both into the moment. She shares a look with her captor and recognizes nobody else in the room. She retreats to furthest corner of the bed, stammering in embarrassment and unable to recall why her twin left her.
"It's okay," says the charming boy as if he were talking to someone on a ledge. "She should be back any minute. I'm R- Akimitsu." He blinks to admonish himself and continues. "How do you feel?"
"Where's Kasumi?" Her lagging senses gather around that vital concern to drag her from anguish. Nausea builds as she fights the urge to collapse. "Gone, why?"
"Outside, waiting for a nurse that never showed up. Probably still on a tour. I can take you to look for her, but I'm kind of new to Shujin Academy." Sumire watches as his confidence drains with each phrase; not lies, just unlikelihoods. He watches her doubt these words as he leans down to stow his notes. Settling his grip on his phone, Akimitsu suffers a strange form of relief as only hers chimes. Nervous eyes dance around the room like bees trying to slow dance.
Sumire rolls off the bed and shoves her nurse aside with surprising strength, breaking out into an unsteady stride. The walls blend into wood paneling and candelabra as the blinding fluorescence strikes her like a bell. A quick hand keeps her from falling into a stacked medical cart. She pushes off again, tripping as the evil grip on her heart subsides and Akimitsu watches an ethereal blue butterfly flit away. Clutching her ringing skull, the girl reaches for the door as Akimitsu clambers to his feet.
"Kasumi," throttling the handle, "I have to find my sister!"
The fascinated student does not stop her; instead, he scoops up his belongings in a hurry and catches the closing door with his toes. The halls are empty except for a determined gymnast and the delinquent behind her whose glee is dying by the step. Akimitsu checks his own home screen with mounting vexation, unable to find anything resembling the Metaverse Navigator.
"She should still be with Kamoshida, so probably near the volleyball court," he murmurs, keen to notice the second buzz from her phone. There should be a safe room if they jump in here. "But there's something I have to ask."
Sumire wheels around with tears in her eyes, ready to do something drastic. "What," she demands with a crack in her voice. "Just let me go!"
"I will. I want to help. But do you know who that guy is?" The first tear to fall answers his question and he shortens his speech. "Ok, ok, listen: I have a plan to stop that monster but it's gonna get dangerous. Might even take some time. But I'm already improvising as it is so I need you to go wait in the nurse's office or find Kawakami." Akimitsu takes a cautious step forward with his hand out, trying to sneak a peek at his watch. Man, assholes are never around when you need them. He sighs, well aware of the trouble he is inviting. "I'm just not sure you can help me."
Wrong answer. Sumire seethes at her incompetent acquaintance and makes a break for it like a cheetah searching for her cubs. She doesn't make it three steps before he arrests her and calls out a single word that makes her phone chirp.
"Castle!"
A squadron of wasps swarm their cerebellums, buzzing through dense thickets of neurons to leave them as a tornado leaves a tree. The lockers are now doily-dressed bureaus featuring chiseled volleyballs and hardcover fitness magazines; the off-white torture normally hanging from the ceiling is absent and instead, soft firelight licks at the vaulted wooden arches. The brightest change is in their faces. Akimitsu is struck by shock and incisive recognition, like he hit the jackpot at the front end of a hot streak. She looks like she was just born.
"Sorry, Sumire," the first Trickster says to the second, betrayed by the conceit in his smile. "Really, I am. Just stick with me and we'll find your sister in no time."
Footnotes:
* Amamiya Ren - "Rain", "palace", "lotus"; from the Etymology section of "Protagonist" on the SMT wiki.
* Notokami Akimitsu - "Bright" (aki) & "light" (mitsu); the surname is a pun on "no-Okami". Based on a rudimentary understanding of Japanese naming conventions (a quick search) and something between foreshadowing and irony.
* first instinct - "I had a little luau." ( watch?v=YzraQdp-AE8&t=937s)
* food on the table - I get that this only works in English and that 'works' is pretty generous.
* "Not me!" - The first summoned Spirit; Goethe's Faust, Lines 482-498 (A.S. Kline, 2003).
* silky briefs - In P5, they're Magic Resist (Med) instead of Royal's Endure. Boss-tier undies, worn only once a year during 'game time'.
* diagrams - Dick Butt