Hi! This is the narrator, addressing you. Yes, you, the reader of this fanfiction.
(I am NOT Cardinial Kiril, the author of The Gauntlet: A Trip Through MEMEmentos. To oversimplify, I am just the voice in your head that you hear whenever you read narration in this story. Haha, do I share the same voice as the thoughts in your head?)

Anyway.

This thing is kinda old now, isn't it? We're just chuggin' along…

It's been very fun telling this story to you all! And I am excited to tell you about this chapter! I can assure you that it is extremely well told.

And isn't it crazy to think, too, that ALL the stuff I narrated to you, all those quotes and sidenotes and shit, that was all in the span of just two nights and a day for our heroes?

But who is surprised, really. You should know by this point how much I love to add detail to every tiny little thing for every scene. Who cares if, even though we are hitting year 3 or something, we have only now just FINALLY made it through the first day of No Nut November?

But I have a big disclaimer to make. If you people expect me to go into the same amount of detail for the rest of the month yall got me FUCKED UP HAHAHAHA

No. The age of every meticulous detail is over. But fear not, for nothing has changed. You shall still be told the story exactly the way I intend to tell it; as I have surely gained your trust by now that I am a master storyteller, you are most certainly assured of whatever direction I have chosen to bring this story and are now excited to jump right into the meat of things and get back to noble Akira and his friends from where last we left off.

Expect a disjointed yet still cohesive story. Have fun!

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Akira.

Akira… Kurusu.

Akira Akira Akira Akira Akira

Kurusu Kurusu Kurusu Kurusu Kurusu

"Akira… Akira Kurusu."

To find the words of a man or a woman who can stand, much less walk, in the middle of a busy street of some foreign land depicted and evangelized and simulated but never recreated, seen only through a glass, darkly; or glowing off a screen, buzzing with the low hum of modern electronics, but never to live, never to feel, never to walk those streets or veer down those dark alleyways like so many avatars from so many universes whose many eyes have gazed and absorbed and bore witness to the world around them even if merely a pale, pixelated imitation of those
City lights that have touched the souls of so many, reduced to a simulacrum of metropolitan parody; packaged, shipped, sold, consumed by those with no reference apart inadequate comparisons with the world of their own, who then soliloquize like a mountebank preaching off some tattered papyrus of ancient, nameless kings, projecting their own faults and insecurities and darkest deepest desires for all to see in such a mangled form recognizable to those of unified delusions

"That's my name, don't waste it."

It was a cool, breezy Saturday evening when Akira and Makoto made their way through the streets of Shinjuku towards the movie theater, the lights of coming attractions barely in sight as they navigated through the throng of people coming every which way. They made their rendezvous at the train station with just barely any sunlight still left in the sky before the night set over Tokyo.

The memory of their last day in the Metaverse had been a constant thought in Makoto's head for the rest of the week. The sudden appearance of the Reaper, the near-death experience they had just barely managed to escape, and, of course, the painful truth that it was her lack of leadership that brought their latest excursion to a compromise. At the time, she knew that letting Haru vent about her feelings to her friends was the right thing to do, especially during a mission that seemed rather mundane, despite the difficulty in scanning the floor they were on.

But Haru's lie about Makoto stopping everything to discuss her having a crush. Makoto would shoot it out of her brain, doing her best to prevent her face from burning bright red in embarrassment. She, the student council president and second in command of the Phantom Thieves, taking any time out of her important role to talk about some stupid non-existent crush she had? She peeked at Akira regularly as they walked, hoping to find some incident, an indication of his feelings. Disappointment? Anger? Betrayal? But, as always, her leader was as stone-faced around her as he had always been, not giving the girl an inch to decipher his intentions or thoughts. Her heart plunged as she knew her mission to restore herself in Akira's eyes, or at least discover what he thought of her and her position in the Phantom Thieves, would be all for naught.

Akira had never been on a date before. Not that he considered this to be a date, even though he put on his tightest fit and tried to lower his voice as much as possible to seem badass and weathered and slapped hair-growth formula on his face every day for the entire week in hopes of getting a manly stubble to make the girl of his dreams swoon (he could just barely make out some bristle on his chin this morning! Progress!). He even bought a special pair of lifts for his shoes, giving him the appearance of being an inch and a half taller than what he normally was, a fact that the girl seemed to not notice, despite all the dating advice forums he scoured in the days before assuring him that women only find men attractive when they are at least four inches taller than them. He tried to forget the fact that he could hear his own heart beating, or that his hands were incredibly sweaty, but this only led him to focus on his feet, which were smushed painfully by the new lifts and ached with every step. He again tried to distract himself by switching topics in his head, but this only led him to notice just how incredibly fucking gorgeous this girl was next to him, which caused him to sweat even more and wince at his steps and adjust his hair and straighten his back to look taller and clear his throat and look again to his right that auburn-haired beauty that inescapable unobtainable ever-present force in his life that made him cry, made him want to sing, made him love the world and hate himself, and, above all, make him

He caught a public bathroom at the corner of his eye, and his heart pounded louder. He might have excused himself and rushed in to deprave himself yet again, to compromise his entire manhood for the sake of a cheap thrill and a sweet release, were it not for a feminine voice ringing in his ear.

"Akira… Akira Kurusu…"

And like an angel bringing him back from the brink of annihilation, Makoto snapped him out of his thoughts.

"That's my name, don't waste it."

Akira regarded Makoto, and she was clearly deep in thought, not registering his words, the middle joint of her index finger held gently between her lips, an expression of pensive recollection.

"Well?" Akira did his best to smile at her in what he hoped would be a cool and playful and sexy way. "Any reason why you just said my name?"

Makoto gasped and covered her mouth, only now realizing that she had been articulating her jumbled thoughts to her friend, snapping her out of her deep thoughts. Oh my God, why is he smiling at me like that? Makoto thought. He looks like I said something completely stupid!

"Um, no reason," the girl murmured. "It's just… I never realized it until now, but your name seems oddly familiar to me for some reason."

Akira seemed to deeply consider his friend's comment, allowing it to churn in his head and give it the time it needed to be duly processed. "Could it be that it's because… you've known me for like six months?"

"What!? N-no, of course not!" By the time Makoto realized how flustered she was getting, Akira was already chuckling and shaking his head.

Is he- is he teasing me? She felt the need to retaliate somehow, to regain her compromised honor in the face of this boy, but all she could manage to do in her blushing, blustering state was a high-pitched grunt and half-hearted slap against Akira's arm. "You're the worst!"

Akira laughed, which made Makoto giggle despite herself, and the moment ended sweetly.

"So," Akira said, "what's the movie we're watching again?"

"I don't remember, actually. The title is French, but it could be a Japanese film for all I know. I just know that it has your favorite actor in it."

"Chow Yun-Fat?"

"No, not Chow Yu- he's your favorite actor?"

"One of them. Why? Don't like him?"

"Of course I do!" Her words were lost as a couple passed through them, cutting them off from one another. She quickly caught up with him. "Of course I do. I just had no idea you liked him too."

Akira stopped and faced her. "He's great." He tapped at his fingers and gazed up pensively, as if making a checklist in his head. "The Killer, Crouching Tiger, Hardboiled… Yeah, I saw each of those at least a few times since I was a little kid. A Better Tomorrow is my favorite of his though."

"Mine too!" Makoto's excitement surprised even her, but it was rare that she ever met somebody that had seen the movies she was so passionate about, especially from those of her age. "Wow Akira, I had no idea you liked classic action movies."

"Movies in general. Kinda runs in my family, though I did read this one book recently that got me thinking about them more."

Akira did not notice the sparkle in her eyes or the gentle pursing of her lips as she inhaled a soft breath of realization. "That's it! Oh my goodness!"

"What?"

"Your name! Akira Kurusu! Your parents named you after Akira Kurusawa, didn't they? The famous director?"

And it was at this that the boy gave a smile that put her at ease, one that she could rest easy with, comfortable with the knowledge that he was delighted with her company, and not judging her, not thinking about her in a negative light, not secretly formulating a way to demote her, or kick her out of the Phantom Thieves, thus losing her friends, her mission, her newfound meaning and spark of life. And for a first, finally, finally, she knew she knew she knew exactly what he was thinking and feeling and it was to her to her to her. So much old-fashioned honesty in a smile, a whole soul given on a platter in a single grin with cheeks wrinkling and dimples caving-in and an unmistakable twinkle in his eye that told her all she needed to know. She could not help but smile back.

"Took you a while, didn't it?" Akira laughed. "My dad always wanted to have a kid named Akira, practically begged my mom to let him name me that. My dad loves Kurusawa, like a lot. He showed me Seven Samurai before I was old enough to even know what a samurai was."

"So, I'm assuming he's your favorite filmmaker?"

"Eh. One of them. I'll watch just about anything, honestly, I've never been too picky about movies. But the ones I like, I really like."

In her transfixed state, Makoto could not help but admire how somebody's appearance could morph right before an onlooker's eyes as they learned about him. His hard edges softened, his cold eyes warmed. "I didn't know this side of you existed, Akira Kurusu."

"I should say the same thing about you! I didn't know you liked…" Akira took a moment to find the right word. "Stuff."

"And just what's that supposed to mean?"

He rubbed his head sheepishly. "Well, you know… Stuff! I mean, all I see you do when you're not doing Phantom Thief shit is study for your entrance exams and get perfect grades. Didn't think you had it in you, is all. Talking about movies and being, uh… Well, you know?"

Oh… now what is this? The girl took a cool, brusk step toward Akira, looking dead at his face. She locked her fists onto her hips and cocked to the side just slightly. She could see the confusion in his eyes, the worried, muted words on his lips, and… something else that not even thousands of years of studying and mastery could ever even hope to decipher but she was all too willing to let slip past her. The breeze of people walking past.

Just as Akira could finally formulate a word Makoto turned, nose in the air, and marched away, hands behind her back. Stopping before a boutique parlor, filled with the peacoats covering bodies of young, wealthy Tokyoites, she pivoted on her heel and pointed at the sign behind her. "Kurusu-san. I don't like things. I like ice-cream. And you're going to buy me some."

Akira tried to respond but whatever sound he made could not be considered a word. He took out his wallet and accidentally spilled yen onto the ground. He fell on his knees and harvested them from off the floor, apologizing to passers-by who stepped on his fingers and trampled on his coins.

"Later!" Makoto said through her giggles. "We've got a movie to watch, remember, Mr. Director?"

They finally came to the theater. Makoto approached the posters of coming and current attractions. "I know you're from out of town, so you might not be familiar with this place yet. It's my favorite theater because they always show classic and foreign films. Now let's see…" Her eyes glazed over the posters. "That's the movie! Ugh, my French is so rusty." She let her tongue play with the words, hoping to give the title its full pronunciation, to not butcher the sound. "Les… la… Le Sam…"

"Le Samouraï." Makoto turned and saw a transfixed Akira before her. She stepped aside, something telling her that it would be unwise for her to stand before boy and film.

She saw him come face-to-face with the poster: a hakujin with clean, black hair swooped to the side, wearing a cool, tan overcoat, facing the viewer with blackened eyes. Dark pits that showed no pupils but could make somebody lost if stared at too intensely, something that Akira was all too willing to do.

His mouth was agape. He turned to his companion.

"Le Samouraï," he repeated. "Directed by Jean-Pierre Melville." He regarded the poster yet again and shook his head in disbelief. "How did you know this is my favorite movie?"

"Uh… I had no idea. I didn't know you've seen this already," Makoto said, not able to hide the tinge of disappointment in her voice. "We can watch something else, sor-"

"How did you know that Alain Delon is my favorite actor?"

"I don't remember. I think I remember you mentioning it to Futaba?"

Akira rubbed his hands, his awful gaze morphing into an expression of pure joy, electric tingliness so clearly resonating throughout his body, giddiness that made him bounce on his toes. He rushed to the box office and immediately bought two tickets, not even hearing Makoto's protests at his paying for her fare. He propped the door to the theater open with his elbow, hurriedly gesturing for her to come in, as if tonight was the last time he was able to see this film before it disappeared forever. Just before she passed into the threshold, he grabbed her hand, not intent on letting her make her own pace, rushing her through the ticket counter and into the auditorium, just in time before the trailers began.

She did not say a word during the entire runtime. Intermittently, her companion caught the corner of her eye, and she could see him biting his fingers, tugging his hair, pulling his legs up on the seat, but his eyes never leaving the screen, the images reflecting off of his glasses before his inspired, all-encompassing eyes that glittered with every awful image, with every terrible death, at nearly every unpronounceable line of French dialogue spoken with harsh katakana and kanji and romaji superimposed on the bottom of the frame. She could not understand nor comprehend the film, and she did not even try. The drama, the words and story beats flashing before her eyes somehow fulfilling her desire to be occupied, replaced with each subsequent image as soon as they appeared, not giving what she had just seen a second thought, and not desiring to either. Moments came, moments passed, and she could not explain how but she did not even notice the hour-and-a-half-odd runtime pass.

The ending came. The handsome, troubled assassin enters the nightclub, foolishly making his appearance known to the wary barkeep. He strides to the center stage, where a majestic young woman sits before an elegant piano. The two lock eyes. She gives a sad, merciful smile. His stone face does not change. He brandishes his revolver and points it right at her. Still playing her sad song, the pianist asks, "Why, Jeff?"

"On m'a payé pour ça."

And the assassin said this but Makoto heard another voice say it in unison as if rehearsed to the immediate left of her. She turned fully and faced the boy, who seemed almost at the brink of tears, having perfectly imitated the French line that was to her so clearly etched deeply into his heart.

Gunshots pierced her ears and she turned back to the screen. Before the assassin could fire police appear in an ambush, filling him with lead as bar patrons scream and run away. Her life saved, the woman kneels down and picks up the fallen man's revolver: not a single bullet filled any of the six chambers.

The film ended, and the credits rolled. She tore her eyes once again from the screen and saw Akira choking back tears. He turned to her, looked her dead in the face, and smiled, ear to ear.

"Thank you, Makoto. I needed that."

And for the first time in years, she felt her heart skip.

Author's Notes

Some of the reviews you guys have left me, both on Fanfiction and on Ao3, have left me in complete tears of pride and happiness. I love this story and everyone who bothered to read it, especially those who 'get' it.

Thanks so much for sticking around. I'll keep writing.