Chapter Nineteen: The Doom that Befell the Phantom Thieves of Hearts

Once upon a time, a group of eight gathered, united by the pursuit of freedom from the chains that bound them, to change the world, and deliver justice for the unheard. Their tireless struggle against the distortions that corrupted the shadow selves at the core of every human heart led them eventually to face the conflict's author. And his name was Yaldabaoth, the God of Control. The eight Phantom Thieves closely met a tragic fate, but their end was not to be. At the end of this saga, human kind – through its hopes and drive to autonomy – nurtured the form of the vanquisher, the reverse equal to the Lord of Control.

And his name was Satanael. This was the hidden form of Joker's Persona, Arsene. Its power, imbued by the rebellion of the masses, unmade the paradigm of submission. If this was the true might of a Trickster, it could surely suffice to defeat the foes that stood now before the Phantom Thieves in a foreign, strange world. Joker's corrupted double was a formidable adversary alone. When seven new copies sprouted from the soil, each one as tainted as the next, necessity begat desperation.

Akira did not get to see if the ultimate trickster's power could indeed ravage all eight of their foes. The Demon Lord never materialised to his command, instead mocking Joker with an ephemeral flicker, and an excruciating wave of pain extending from his chest, outward to every limb, which drained him suddenly of all power. It could have been a dubious boon for him to lose consciousness from the experience, but he remained awake and aware as he doubled over. He got to see how each of his doubles summoned another being into matter.

Personas, the like of which he had never seen before. Each looking as menacing, as broken as the feral summoners. One by one, their names infected the air, uttered from diseased throats: Apollo, Artemis, Konohana Sakuya, Chronos, Polydeuces, Devi, and Nike. It took great effort and cooperation to defeat dark Chernobog; now in recompense, they were to defend against seven just as powerful as he.

As Akira desperately tried to regain his strength to counterattack, he got to see how each enemy, borne in his very likeness, used their might against his friends; against his love. In this state, the events appeared to play out quickly – too quick, in fact, for him to do something about it, but with the just detainment for him to feel powerless. The corrupted Personas invoked the cruellest, most vicious iteration of the old adage 'divide and conquer', by picking one Thief each and vanquishing them one at a time.

Ryuji, his oldest friend, was the first to fall.

Akira only saw it from the corner of his eye when it occurred, but it was then as if all his senses were playing him the cruellest joke – for he heard it, and almost felt it himself, all too close. Skull was not as drained as he. He still had a lot of fight inside of him after doing his part to bring Chernobog down. Determined to make himself a wall of defence for the rest, Ryuji clung to Seiten Taisei's cape as he rode his furious stormy cloud.

"Blitzkrieg!" Ryuji roared out a war cry, distorted, turned monstrous by the crackling thunder of his Persona. If for a few seconds, it seemed as if his intent would prove successful. The crash of thunder and the powerful swings of the gargantuan club hit hard and fast enough to catch their adversaries off-guard before they got a chance to mount an offensive. There was no room for tactical discussion beforehand, but the scenario was clear: retreat while the enemy is confused among the black clouds, the sound and the fury.

But the veil of storm that impeded the enemy's swift advance also blinded him to the flight of Nike, ascending, bound to meet him, like an arrow. Skull never saw her coming, and did not feel the collision; in fact, he did not feel a thing even as he fell to the ground, eyes on the sky above, the right side of his abdomen fried by a dash of blessed light.

Nike hovered above as Ryuji fell, poised in arrogant, spiteful manner. Though in a pure, untainted incarnation, the surface of her skin looked an immaculate chrome, this Nike was covered all in rust so thick, it almost looked like creeping veins all over her body. The aircraft-like wings on her bag spouted thick, dark smoke, amassing around her, concealing her intent from the others. It was not obvious, not until her form appeared from beneath the smoke, plummeting down towards Ryuji to deliver a fatal strike.

"RYUJI!" The sound of Ann's scream in horror was one nobody could forget, not even after the following, deafening seconds. Had she delayed an instant longer, Ryuji would surely have been killed by Nike. But Panther blasted the aerial Persona out of the sky with a powerful burst of flame before she could make the kill. In order to save one who so many times had put himself in the line of fire, Panther funnelled everything she had left into this one spell, and left herself vulnerable to Chronos' gale as he led the vanguard out of Seiten Taisei's barrier of storm and thunder.

She did not make a sound as Chronos – broken, twitching clockwork-faced – put her out with a vortex of grey wind. Akira saw it all too clearly. Ann's face, frozen in a non-expression, eyes distant with long tearful traces, mouth agape as if her breath had left her. The beating of her heart was there still; but outside, she fell to the ground as if devoid entirely of life.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no." Oracle's panic poured out of her voice. "J-Joker! Joker!" Futaba, the sister Akira never had, called out to him. "Get up!"

Through the pain and the exhaustion, through the grief and the loathing, Akira managed to regain balance. The sounds of battle called for his attention all around him. Without knowing if he would even be able to summon a Persona, any Persona at all, he charged towards the first one he saw.

Haru did not fight alone. At her side, Yusuke cast spikes of ice at their foes while building an ice barrier to keep defence. Together they stood, and together they fell before the dual onslaught of Konohana Sakuya and Polydeuces. The former was a bird-like feminine figure, boasting a bountiful fan of red feathers on each arm, each ending in a hue uncannily resembling dried blood. Her dress fluttered in tatters at every sway of her fiery dance, tirelessly casting flame and embers at even the slightest motion. Meanwhile, Polydeuces' mighty, soot-tainted build stabbed manically at Fox's glacier of a shield, all the while he unleashed countless thunder strikes, wearing the two Phantom Thieves down, little by little.

Fox attempted to protect Noir with his body at the losing end of this war of attrition. Haru did not know him beaten until Kamu Susano-o disappeared into the ether. With Yusuke's limp, unconscious body in her arms, Haru's wrath was made manifest through Astarte, unloading a flurry of artillery and psychic waves made dangerously tangible by fury. But in the end, and not too long after, she too followed in defeat, having only managed to stagger Konohana Sakuya and Polydeuces.

At some point amidst the chaos, Oracle's Prometheus took ahold of Mona, hovering all over the battle field as the feline summoned Mercurius to heal their friends and cast a wind shear of an offence whenever he had the chance. But the enemy surrounded them all too quickly after Seiten Taisei's barrier of smoke dissipated that neither the navigator nor the healer could know where to focus their efforts first. To make matters worse, Devi noticed them and immediately cast her gaze upon them.

Devi's finned armour shone sinister, reflecting the lights of war around her, and beneath the marine-fashioned plates of her body, the machinery of her interior heated and shimmered in preparation of a coup de grace. Light flowed up her metal veins, dying her copper eyes bright violet. She took a second to aim, and that was all she needed. Sensing danger, Mona decided to take the brunt of Devi's attack. In spite of Futaba's tearful, screaming protests, Morgana let go of Prometheus, falling to intercept the psychic rail gun's trajectory.

And the world faded out of view, with no pain or awareness. It was only a guess, a gamble with no observable evidence to it. Morgana was not like the others; he was a being borne out of hope. As long as he were remembered and loved by his friends, he would not die. This was the theory gone untested until now. Had Futaba been the one to take the impact, she would surely have perished immediately.

"Mona…" She sobbed into everyone's field of communication as Devi's beam faded.

All this occurred in a matter of seconds.

Akira was back on his feet - still weakened, but standing. His insides twisted and contorted as if he was being unmade from within. Something felt broken in his mind. Still, he brought himself to think, and he cursed himself following the first words that came into his mind.

Who was still left?

Makoto was the only one still standing. But he was about to see the end of her resistance about to unfurl. Anat's silver clashed with Artemis' grey and blue; the sound that resulted from the ongoing exchange was unpleasant to the ear, like metal bending out of shape, screeching, screaming in a mindless, inorganic way. There was a brief moment of hope to be had, as Queen's defence met every blow flawlessly, even going on to anticipate the attacks, and parrying with deadly skill. But at some point, Artemis' hand penetrated through Anat's stance, reaching Queen herself, closing tightly around the lower half of her face. Makoto could only let out a muffled groan upon realising her back was against the ground. That is when temperature plummeted dramatically.

Akira saw it all. He ran as fast as he could, but it was too late now, as it would have been too late a minute ago. They were ruefully outmatched from the moment Chernobog appeared. No matter what variables he took into consideration, the battle would have ended the same way. And soon, the naiveté of imagining some way they could have made it became a distant sound, slowly dwarfed by one voice speaking to him only.

It was his own.

It was his fault.

Because of him, they were stranded in this alien world. Because of him, they went through exhaustion in foolish search for a way back. Because of him, they were brutally attacked by these spurious copies of himself.

Because of him, Makoto was now encased in a coffin of ice.

Akira was now back on his knees, next to the ice-bound body of she who was his everything. The pain and the impotence she felt was frozen, preserved on her factions. A testament to his failure. He could not help himself from embracing her in a hopeless attempt to free her, protect her as he could not do for the others.

And he wondered, of all the things he failed to do, could he accomplish this one?

Just this one?

No response came to him in a manner he could understand. He did not see faded, crimson Apollo looming over him, fixing him with bright yellow eyes. Akira marked his presence only by the nuclear storm the corrupted Persona unleashed upon him. Joker made no attempt to resist, to counterattack, to do anything but cover Makoto's frozen body with his own. The pain he endured but moments ago after the whiplash of failing to summon Satanael seemed a fond memory next to the pain he felt from Apollo's rage.

He was slowly frying Joker alive.

I deserve this, a strange awareness dawned on him. It felt alien, like a new set of memories and knowledge. His and at the same time not.

I deserve this.

I failed them.

I failed you.

Please wake up. Take the others and escape.

The words echoing in his brain were hushed instantly by the loud sound of the ice breaking. First one crack, then another, and another, until Makoto's icy prison could not keep her trapped longer. Chunks and shards slid off her body until she was finally freed. But her awakening was not the Queen's heroic resurging from the brink of defeat. Colour was not returning to her skin. Her breath was faint, normalising too slowly for her to move on her own. She spent too much energy breaking out of the ice; she was vulnerable.

Joker did not leave her side. He still shielded her body as best he could, taking most of Apollo's scorn. Despite the intense burning, he only held her tighter. By this point, he no longer perceived a thing; his senses all surrendered to the present horror.

Funny, he thought. He was sure he felt something; it was similar to the sensation of Makoto's hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing. It must have been his imagination.

"Akira…" She said weakly. Her eyes opened only a slit, perceiving something that did not make sense. She could not think fully yet, connect one incomplete notion with another, reach a conclusion. She could not even attain the awareness that Akira, wounded and broken, was dragging her across the grass in search for the rest of their friends. His body moved on instinct, independently from thought. The human animal compelled him to seek and defend those who were important.

Those he has lost.

"No." The first glint of awareness came back to her, only increasing at every instant, and eventually putting the big picture back together. Makoto started to weep bitterly.

Just his imagination. The nuclear fire burned and disintegrated everything but the now. His make, his thoughts, his memories, his past and future - all frail pages consumed in the fire of hate.

His consciousness soon followed with a few twitches of resistance.

His final thought before his mind receded into the dark: Why is this happening?

"STOP!" A voice echoed like thunder in the distance. It was so intense that it well could have been heard on every reach of this world. His command was heeded. All adversaries ceased their attack with no hesitation or protest – Akira's corrupted replicas merely stopped moving, with no sign of thought on the matter. Without the external stimulus of the searing pain, Akira's body fell to the ground, still holding Makoto, just a few centimetres away from reaching Ryuji.

Futaba could not stand keeping her eyes open to the scene below, but she forced herself to zoom in on the stranger that joined the scene.

Nothing about the individual looked noteworthy at all. A middle-aged man dressed in office attire, hair neatly cut close to the scalp, forgettable features. Aside from the fact of being barefoot, nothing about the man made him stand out in appearance. But that was exactly what made him stand out in this new world, where the dreadful extraordinaire took the stage. If there was anything to note about him, it was the look in his eyes.

Knowing, devoid of surprise but not of confusion. A touch of sadness loomed over him as he scanned the area, the maimed soil, the smoke, and the bodies lay prone all about. The landscape was that of a war, of a carnage.

"No, this is not how it's supposed to be." The man said absent-minded, barely minding his own voice. Then, he noticed the look of the bodies. They all looked so strange, but somewhat familiar, closely resembling shadowy images that appeared on the screens of Shibuya, one evening of the dying breaths of autumn. He knew who they were on the very moment his eyes got to Akira. He knew who this young man was, he recognised him all too well. "The Phantom Thieves?"

Susumu Kamiyama's heart skipped a beat upon realisation. A tidal wave of conflicting emotions rolled over him. He felt excitement, shame, surprise, horror. There was still much about the setting he did not understand: Akira Kurusu's replicas and their Personas. The very presence of all eight Phantom Thieves in this place was unintended, as per the design of his Benefactor and him. But they were gravely hurt, and they desperately needed help.

It would be a long time before he could deliver the new world he believed the Phantom Thieves of Hearts envisioned. But in this moment, he would atone for the world their generation inherited by aiding and protecting them in this unforeseen turn of events.

"Ozymandias." He called out.

Futaba attentively observed this new stranger's actions. Her most immediate reaction was dread, seeing a new Persona come into being. But she sensed nothing in common with the tainted Personas. In fact, this summoning felt very similar to her own Prometheus. This Persona was an overseer.

An enormous fallen idol carved in dark stone appeared behind Susumu. A massive crack along the King's sternum travelled across its body like a gate crudely opening outward. And from that gate, a shining, golden figure emerged, a spectral Susumu Kamiyama risen from the lifeless idol.

The crimson lights of the sky were penetrated by Ozymandias' light, bathing every square centimetre of the battlefield with warmth. Futaba felt it as well. What relatively minor injuries she got throughout the ordeal were all healed. The defeated bodies of her friends began to float upward, leaving injury and hurt below. Makoto felt Akira's body slide off of her as she started to float up. She panicked thinking gravity was pulling her away from him. But then relief settled in when seeing him follow shortly after – the bruises, the cuts, the burns, all faded from his skin.

But he was not waking up. She could hear her friend's voices, mystified and scared from coming back to consciousness like this.

But not a sound out of Akira's lips. No reaction to the sharp turn of events. Nothing but the slow, nigh imperceptible rise of his chest and midsection as he breathed. Like he had fallen in the lowest depths of sleep.

Gravity normalised soon after, and they were all back on the ground. No sooner she landed steadily, Futaba ran towards Makoto, crying her eyes out. Queen embraced Oracle with one free arm as the girl poured her sorrow out; the other cradled Joker's head. Futaba was soon joined by the rest. Though all of their wounds were undone, there was still pain lingering around them. Something more bitter than the taste of defeat – absolute powerlessness.

Then, they noticed Makoto and Akira.

"Is he…?" Panther's voice was shaky. She did not wish to even think of asking.

"No. He has a pulse." Queen answered with no comfort. "But, he's not waking up."

"No… this can't be." Mona said.

"Joker! Joker!" Ryuji called out his friend's codename more frantically every time. "JOKER!"

"You…" Susumu Kamiyama approached with hesitation, unsure of his role in this scene. "Are you the Phantom Thieves?"

"What's it to you!?" Ryuji lashed out, violently affected by his friend's state.

"Skull." Futaba placed her hand on his shoulder. "We could have died. This guy saved us."

"Then why is my friend not waking up?" His voice broke.

Makoto bit her lip in an attempt to contain herself.

"Are you… Susumu Kamiyama?" Haru asked.

"Do you know him?" Morgana questioned.

"Something of the sort."

"Yes… I am… I am him." He said uneasy. Susumu mouthed a few words, as if he had trouble deciding on the most appropriate thing to say. He thought to err on the side of caution and offer all the support he could, but something else took priority. "You are not supposed to be in this world."

"To that, what is this world?" Yusuke asked dryly. "And what are they?" He pointed towards Akira's doubles.

"You see…" Susumu began.

"Before you say anything further. Does this place, does this world…" Makoto interrupted aggressively, putting a spiteful inflexion on 'world'. She was finally giving in to the flood of emotions drowning her within for so long. "… have anything to do with him?"

"Yes." The older man said after a moment of silence, which was a suitable affirmation on its own. His eyes were downcast, as if he harboured a great shame within.

One white-gloved hand cradled Akira's head with care, the other gently pressed against his cheek. All of her love was focused on those two ends. But the rest of her vibrated with anger.

"How?" Her brevity struck like a bullet.

"His is the template." The word sounded odd in the man's voice.

"The template? What do you mean?" Morgana pressed him for a response.

Susumu Kamiyama's eyes strayed into the distance for a moment.

"It is a long thing to explain. And seeing this with my own eyes, there are aspects of it I am failing to comprehend. I can tell in this moment that it is wrong for all of you to be here, and it is wrong for this violence to have occurred. The process was always meant to be without harm. You see, this young man – he is important, he is essential for the creation of the new world. He was never meant to suffer." The tone in Susumu's voice changed. There was no shame or hesitation, only conviction and sober acceptance. This voice was his worldview conveyed into sound, his faith and his karma – it is with the spirit of this voice that he drove every mean towards the end he pursued: a new, better world. "You need shelter. Your wounds are not healed completely. Once they have, I will tell you everything."

"You will." Makoto said. Her voice was a sharp like a blade, and every bit as menacing.

Cold anger helped her suppress the shudder she felt as her suspicions poked. Having her boyfriend in her arms like this, unconscious in unnatural slumber; it looked so alike another time, when they were far from each other. Memory started to become clearer, hailing back to a call from Sojiro Sakura, one that froze her insides. Something happened to Akira back in Kawasaki, and she doubted it was actually stress as the medical consensus claimed.

Maybe she was losing it. Maybe it was all mere coincidence, a random succession of misfortune.

But, could that incident and this world be somehow related?

[]-[]

Author's notes:

For a while, I've been working a few times with a friend of mine, Bronson of God, and I've commissioned him to do a few pieces of artwork for this fic.

The ones so far all pertain to the events so far in this fic. You can see them here

post/181326116179/as-of-late-ive-been-getting-commissions-from-one

(If the link doesn't work, you can still look at his work at galleryofphantasms on tumblr)

And a few of the new "Personas" featured in this chapter, aside from the ones reprised from the previous Persona games.

post/182324222640/a-couple-of-persona-designs-i-commissioned-from

(If link doesn't work, you can look at this on my personal tumblr at blixalookscarsick)

Thanks for reading!