Chapter Five: Showdown at Juvie Hall

Everything was clear. Hours, days, weeks, months before, this would have seemed an outrageous decision, even to the judgement of a Trickster. But the sum of all that time, and the experiences it contained, summed into a wilful, deliberate course of action. Even as he walked towards the mess hall, Akira weighed the possible consequences. He could well undermine whatever chances he had to be released. If the warden or the guards placed the blame on him – something he thought plausible – his only recourse would be to claim self-defence.

But would that suffice?

Akira would use his silver tongue if there was parley for it. Otherwise, he was ready to get Yasunori to safety, no matter what. If Ryuji knew, if Ann, Yusuke, Futaba, Haru knew – if Morgana somehow knew, if Makoto knew – what would they say? Would they think this an ominous reprisal of the casino gambit? Would they reprimand or try to talk him out of it? Would they support him? Or would they watch him walk into the beast's maws, knowing nothing they said would make a difference? It is within the nature of a thief to be decisive in spite of all; perhaps this role started long before he first stepped into the Metaverse.

At the end of the long hallway was a wide clearing where the lighting from the ceiling made the inmates squint upon approaching. But before the sight registered the place, it was the noise what greeted the youths into the mess hall. Quite as expected, several of the inmates were making a racket over the latest turn of events. At that time, the inmates were supposed to be engaged in their assigned activities before lunchtime, yet almost two dozen young men were lounging about one of the fixed long tables, the one closer to the kitchen – Shogo's table.

It was quite a distance Akira had to walk between one extreme to the other; it afforded him enough time to measure his surroundings, look out for possible advantages and disadvantages, and plan accordingly. Unlike the Palaces he once infiltrated with his friends, this place offered little room for ambushes, and unlike those otherworldly sites, today there were no guards to be seen, no shadows either, only one vicious young man with many around his finger, and one victim under his thumb.

They saw him approach. Some sized him up as they held their gaze on him. A few stood up to greet him and break his face. Shogo remained seated on the table, toying around with something in his fingers.

"Hey, look who it is… Our dear Akira." Shogo declared with a mocking tone. Akira imagined this epithet came from Makoto's letter.

"Where is Yasunori?" Akira found he had little interest in cutting a witty line with a silver tongue.

"Rooster? I don't know. Anyone's seen him?"

All around the table, people exchanged devious looks, all feigning ignorance.

"I dunno, Akira-kun. Haven't seen him in a… Oh no, wait, I remember. Yeah, I had him cook us something. We're starving, and you know, that's the least he could do after trying to steal from me."

Akira felt a kind of anger they had no eyes to see. Even though his hands were relaxed, carelessly in his pants' pockets, and even if his features betrayed no emotion towards what he was hearing, he still felt it – a venomous anger rising within, directed both at Shogo, and himself.

"He's taking a while, no?" One of Shogo's companions asked.

"Yeah, I don't think he's a good cook." Shogo remarked. "A few of my friends here are hungry. I guess they could do with a snack." Three inmates stood up as he said this. They started their approach at Akira, who slowly took a few steps backward to make sure nothing restricted his movement for a radius of three meters. His hands were still in his pockets, closing into fists. "Fuck him up." Shogo commanded.

It began.

The lightest of the three hungry boys ran towards Akira. He prepared a hook to throw at Akira, strong and sure to knock him down, but all too telegraphed. The boy with the unruly hair evaded the punch easily, swinging his hip to the right to gain some room on him while his left knee rose to strike between the legs. The scream that followed made Akira wince to the point of almost being sorry for him – almost. The other two were taller and stronger, and most importantly, drawing near, and Akira had no intention of playing fair.

Akira pulled his fists out from his pockets and raised them into guard; left stretched out, right near his face. He was not expecting them to fight fair either, but how they attacked after seeing him go into fighting stance would determine what Akira would need to do next. Out of the corner his eye, he looked out for any hindrance, either table or bench, or some treacherous attack from behind. In the meantime, he started circling his adversaries.

The nearest one pounced forward. His shoulder could well have doubled as a battering ram. Akira could not entirely avoid it; all he could do was avoid being hit straight on. Though he managed to step partially out of the way, he was still knocked to the ground. Before he managed to get on top of Akira and disfigure him with his hands, the latter used his position on the ground to kick him behind the knee. Not as definite a way to take him down, but it bought some time.

Akira rolled away and got back on his feet before the third could attack. By now, it was obvious Akira had some fighting experience, so they could not afford to underestimate him any further. For this reason, the third hungry boy measured his distance, throwing jabs at Akira, who did little to reciprocate. The second was back on his feet and approaching fast from his right side. Thus, Akira quickly retreated to his left and back.

Trusting they would try and not hit each other, Akira quickly circled the one he has not yet been able to hit and made up for it by raining punches on his side as he paced to the left, using him as a shield against the other. His fists at such speed and proximity were not doing too much damage, but they kept him unharmed until he came up with a way to gain a better advantage. After a dozen pokes, it dawned on him, but he probably could only pull it off against one of them.

Akira kept punching and side-stepping, subtly luring them towards a table. Even if his plan worked, he would need to get back on his feet not a heartbeat later. Though he did not even pay a glance, he knew the long grey seat was only centimetres behind him. It was now or never; no room for hesitation of any kind. Akira quickly jumped back, using the table's seat as a step. The sole of his other foot caught the edge of the table right across. And then, it was all a matter of physics. Everything froze, contained in that fraction of a second in which Akira pushed himself into a jump, gaining almost half a metre over his closest adversary, whom realised too late what the young man's aim was.

And he could not do a thing to stop him.

The only precaution Akira took was using his forehead instead of his elbow. Still, the expressions of surprise, disbelief, and wild resolution all faded to the sound of arm colliding against head. For the slightest moment, Akira felt intense pain and thought he had broken his arm. He barely even took a glance at the tall youth, who lay on the ground, knocked out. He groped about the floor as he tried to stand back up, but the third was already on him, punching away in a frenzy.

For all the might of his flurry, he only managed to graze his head, resulting in a bleeding gash. Even when caught in such vulnerable position, Akira knew where to place his limbs. Belly up, his feet pushed against his opponent's stomach, keeping his punches at bay for the most part. The attack became clumsy and ineffective. Akira managed to grab the right arm and pull it towards him, and as he did so, his legs stopped pushing away, and instead wrapped around the mid-section. With his free hand, he punched away, directly at the nose. It did not take long for it start gushing blood and mucus.

And when it became clear he had broken his nose, he let go. The third of Shogo's lackeys staggered back, fingers on his nostrils trying to contain the flow. This was the definitive opening. Akira got back on his feet, rushed forward and kicked his adversary on the stomach like it were a rugby ball. If he cared for fighting, this could be called a victory. But the only triumph Akira wanted was to get his friend from under Shogo's thumb. With plenty of stamina, he turned towards Shogo's corner.

And his breath was instantly was tackled out of him.

Countless feet kicked and stomped on him. They caught on his ribs, his lower back, his hands, even his right leg, which got some special treatment from one ruthless detective about a month earlier. It was now that the adrenaline started to wear off, and the pain, thusly, had his nerves screaming. The only thing in his mind was the question of how was he to get himself out of this position, how as he to counterattack. He was drawing a blank.

"Whoa, whoa, wait. Wait, fuck!" Shogo yelled out from his seat at the table. "I said wait, you dipshits! I want him conscious a bit longer." His echo of his steps stung in Akira's ears as he walked closer. "Before my bitches turn you into my personal carpet, just know… this was all your fault. Here, a little memento for your troubles." He threw something small at him. It landed right by his eyes.

It was a tooth, still bloody at the root. He did not need any explanation. It was Yasunori's. Instantly, Akira's mind exploded into a rage trip. His scream did not obey the physical pain he was feeling; it was a suffering of the mind and the heart. It was the primal response to seeing the fruit of Shogo's vileness. It was the awareness, mercilessly sinking in, that Shogo was not actually wrong. It was Akira's fault. It would have been wrong to concede in the first place, but he could deny the logic of the situation, not even if it worked under Shogo's twisted view. Yasunori's suffering was tied to Akira's defiance.

Injustice. That was the very thing trampling on him now, as Shogo gave the order to carry on with the carnage. Injustice as what Ryuji, Ann, Yusuke, Makoto, Futaba, Haru, and all the people he held dear were made to suffer. Injustice at having his future snatched away almost a year ago. Injustice as circumstance demanding he be imprisoned, away from his friends, from Makoto, to ensure Shido's punishment, which should have come to be a long time ago, in even the eyes of the country's justice system. In Akira's scream was the harrowing awareness that he stared at defeat, eye to eye.

His senses went numb for a moment.

He could not know it, but at every ensuing second, there was one pair of feet less on him. The shadows danced all about the mess hall, and Akira could see only but a fraction of it from one eye unobstructed by a swollen eyelid. The screams slithered in, the alarm in voices that once gloated so gleeful. Hurting all over, Akira struggled to get back up; every effort was recompensed by one arm or leg giving in, making him fall back down. He would not give up, not even now.

"Come." A familiar voice said in his ear. It was grave and low, but calm still, and saintly patient. 'Sojiro?' Akira thought. As his mind became clear, he realised someone had come to his aid. The shadows came into clearer image now as a strong arm helped him back up. It was Daigo.

"Daigo-san?" Akira said, with a thick iron and rust taste in his palate.

"I failed once in the task I was given. I will not fail a second time."

Akira looked around the mess hall. There were considerably less people in it than a few minutes ago; whomever was left lay on the ground, groaning in pain from Daigo's rampage. Shogo was nowhere to be found.

"You did all of this?" Akira asked, already knowing the answer.

"You need to sit down. You were roughed up bad."

"Not yet. Where is Shogo?"

"Must have run towards the library. He got his friends to lock most doors in and out of the mess hall."

"Did he also get the guards to take early lunch?" Akira's question was met with a brief silence.

"Do not ask things you do not want answers for." Daigo responded.

Akira nodded in jaded acknowledgement. He began walking towards the hallway that led to the library.

"Akira, wait…"

"Go look for Yasunori. He may be in the kitchen…"

Akira did not hear a word from Daigo – neither acknowledgement nor protest. Soon enough, he was greeted by the darkness in between the lighting of the mess hall and the fixtures of the wall. His steps were close to a limp, but as he went along the hallway, his movements regained some of their poise and agility. In his mind, there was only one thing left to do. He knew whatever he chose to do would be nowhere as vicious as what Shogo would have done that day. Akira's actions, however, would still be doubtless and unyielding. He had to punish Shogo.

As expected, Shogo had gone to the library, for the one single purpose he would set foot in such a place: for an ambush. He expected someone to simply walk through the door, leaving themselves ripe for Shogo's attack with a paperweight, heavy enough to crush bone if properly handled. This way, he could gain advantage even over a brawler such as Daigo. If it were Akira, one such strike could finish what his lackeys had started.

But he did not expect that a pursuer would take such unorthodox approach as crashing in through the small window next to the door. The sudden crash and the sound of breaking glass took him off guard; the surprise turned him pale all over, too startled to attack as he meant. In a show of confidence, or arrogance, Akira used this moment to brush the glass off his shoulders, while completely downplaying the shards that did cut his skin.

Shogo finally went in to try and hit Akira in the head with the paperweight, but even now, after the fights and after the trampling he went through, he was much too agile. Akira disarmed him by punching between his chest and his shoulder. A second strike went in Shogo's stomach. The third was a vertical fist on the forehead, right above the nose, which sent him towards a nearby wall. A fourth, a fifth, a sixth. These strikes were different from what Akira had shown. This was not Daigo's training come to fruition, but a style unseen to most: it was the way of a Phantom Thief.

In just three seconds, Akira reduced Shogo to a bruised, swollen face. Curled up on the floor, helpless against one who seemed an unassuming newcomer, Shogo started to sob.

"I'm, I'm sorry! I was just fronting! You know how it is! It's just, being behind bars changes you!" Shogo fumbled with his words. His brain evidently looked for the most appropriate words to appeal to Akira's compassion. "I used to be good! I swear! You've got to believe me!"

Akira gripped him by jaw, with a hand as strong as an eagle's talon.

"You stupid, stupid boy…" Akira said with a slithering voice, much unlike the composed, polite youth he thought he had known. "You thought you could enforce your will in this little world by abusing my friends." The bale in his tone assured him this extended also to what he did about the letter that morning. "You will no longer disgrace this world with your words and deeds." A punch to the face. "You will make up for it all, for what you did to Yasunori and all the damage done today" Another. "You will rehabilitate, and you will grow up to become a responsible, righteous adult." One more. "Because If you don't…" Akira closed in, staring right into his eyes. "I will steal your heart."

Akira's hands dropped to his sides. He kept his gaze in silence for a second longer, and then calmly walked out of the library, closing the door behind him. Shogo lay frozen in shock for over ten minutes. He knew, by digesting the words he was just told, that he got off easy.

Out in the hallway, the lighting fixtures on the wall stung Akira's eyes, the dark spots were an abyssal black, and the resulting chiaroscuro of the scene held him in a trance. Dizzy, disoriented though walking in a straight line, Akira fell to the ground face first. Ahead of him, from his clouded vision, he saw two shadows running towards him. Each took a side, and carefully hoisted him up as they walked, back out into the mess hall.

When he finally came to, Akira saw Daigo and Yasunori next to him. Daigo looked serious as usual, though relief made a subtle, almost imperceptible difference. Yasunori puckishly smiled, looking the also the same, except for a bump in his mouth – a tissue rolled up into a ball to soak up the blood.

"Look who's come around." Yasunori said. "Shit, you look worse than me!"

"Debatable." Daigo added.

"Was that a joke!?" The disbelief, and the tissue, made his words hard to understand.

"Just a fact of life. Swollen and bruised Akira will never look as bad as regular Yasunori."

It was now lunchtime. The unhurt inmates sat at the tables like nothing happened. Shogo, actively avoiding looking in Akira's direction, was assisting the clean-up next to his associates. Yasunori and Daigo continued to bicker for a while, each in their own way, in a somewhat friendly manner. In spite of all that happened, the day seemed to be ending on a lighter note than he anticipated after breakfast. In a strange turn of events, Akira found himself wishing he would not be released for a couple of weeks more. On one hand, he dreaded thinking of his friends outside seeing him like this. On the other, he rather looked forward to waiting out his sentence alongside his newest friends.

"Oh, by the way, guy. It got a bit battered and dirty and shit, and… yikes, I don't know if this is your blood or if it's mine, but here." Yasunori handed him several sheets of paper. "I did manage to get it back. Only fair you got to read it since, you know, you were supposed to in the first place."

"I see." Akira took the letter, three pages long. He was at disbelief. Though the pages were mangled from loveless handling and dirty with dried blood, he still felt shivers upon having it in his hands. His heart beat quick and restless.

"If you want to read it now, I suggest you go to your cell. You will not have privacy out here. We will save you something to eat." Daigo said.

"Yeah… thanks." Akira responded. It was clear by the scattered demeanour of his words that he had no mind or thought for anything other than these three sheets of paper. He walked towards the cell he shared with Yasunori, uncaring about the curious gazes that fell on him as he passed by.

The afternoon light that poured in from the small window sufficed to light the cell. Akira sat on his bunk, with his aching back against the wall, and started reading. Despite it being typed rather than handwritten, he still knew who wrote what, far before it was expressed on paper. For twelve minutes, his expression was fixed in a type of joyful stupor. The fact that his friends were working towards his release only made it all the more touching. And of course, there were thTeir best wishes for the coming year.

He read the first two pages twice over. Afterwards, he felt convinced reading this letter was worth the pain, the blood, the physical strain of fighting without a Persona threefold at the very least. The third page waited at his side. Akira hesitated to read it; the echo of Shogo's words still bounced off the walls of his mind. However, after reading past the first words, the corrupting stain of Shogo's rendition was cleansed by the thought of Makoto reading them out loud. Even the very way she addressed him teased to steal the breath right out of him.

"My dear Akira.

As you know by reading our friends' input, we worked hard to make sure this letter reached you today, New Year's Eve. Therefore, you'll understand I can't really afford to structure my thoughts and feelings like I should, not within such short span of time. But even if I had a day longer, a week even, I couldn't possibly put it all neatly in order – my world is a new, different thing altogether since I met you, and thinking and feeling have become the same thing to me. It's scary. And I wish you were right here beside me to tell me it'll all be okay, that I'll do okay.

Even as I write, I imagine you sitting on my bed right behind me, approaching in that sneaky, playful way of yours. And then I imagine the touch of your hands on my shoulders, and your lips by my ear telling me that all will be okay, that I will be okay, and then something else – not sure what, you always have a way of surprising me. And you know what? I believe it, every single word. That too is scary, because I know you mean the things you say. That moment at the Culture Festival still makes my heart beat a little faster. Just know I felt the same way then, and I feel the same way now. I love you, intense and fiercely.

By the time you're reading this, we'll be putting our plan into motion. As you may imagine, everyone is vehement and resolute about it. Akira, please have faith in us – we're not giving up on you, we're not abandoning you, not now, not ever. I reckon you turned yourself in for an honourable reason, but I must confess I felt robbed when I heard the full story. I'm not sure my sister suspects you and I are a couple, but she still wouldn't look at me in the eye for some time. That's in the past now. She's also on board with this. I know, now that we're on the same side, we'll be stronger than ever.

I've never told you this before, but I took to listening to love songs during the time you helped me with Eiko. She actually would show me some of the things she liked. You'd be surprised; she's into very diverse genres. My sister noted that I've developed the habit of humming while I read or study. Between you and I, sometimes I like to sing those songs when I'm alone and sure nobody's around to hear. Even if I proved a bad singer, I'd like to sing those songs to you. I trust you'll be a sober judge, and if you turn out to be a mean one, do make sure to spoil me afterwards.

Though I could go on, I think I'll bring this letter to a close. I'm aware I've taken a liberty to go on a little longer than the rest, but I couldn't help myself. I needed to reach out to you. Please, do your best as you go through your sentence, as I know deep in my heart you will. My knowledge on the nuances of the penal system is not profound enough yet, so I cannot know what you must be going through. But I know, no matter what it is, you'll come out on top. And if you ever feel discouraged, think of your friends who will never give up on you.

And also, if you would, please think of me.

All my love, Makoto."

Akira read all pages to the collective letter in silence, but as his eyes hovered over the final lines, his voice involuntarily uttered a quiet "Makoto". Bathed in the contrast between dark and light inside of the cell, Akira Kurusu felt a furtive tear sliding down his aching face, then another, and then another.

That night, all inmates were allowed to see the fireworks outside in the garden and partake of the countdown. Some voices were livelier than others. Akira's was not, but not for a lack of trying. He was happy, though, that Yasunori and Daigo put forward enough enthusiasm for the three. For many of the youths, the dawning year represented their release, and a second chance. This collective spirit sufficed to balance Akira's state of mind, shining some hope into the sourness he recently developed. There would be time to meditate on the matter.

For now, he observed the spectacle, aware that his friends thought of him as much as he did of them.

BONUS: Someone commented (on ArchiveofOurOwn) how cool it would be if Makoto partook of the inevitable showdown, and I agree. Though that was never my intention with where the story headed, I couldn't help myself, so at least for the sake of how I think it would turn out, here is an alternate scenario taking place after Akira defeated Shogo's three lackeys. Just for reference, I wrote this while listening to Peter Gabriel's "Signal to Noise". If you would, imagine it unfolding to the tune at the 4:14 mark and onwards. I think it fits.

Sae reassured her the night before that the reputation of a correctional facility was grossly exaggerated most of the time. The potential for violence and abuse was nowhere nearly as high as it was for adult penitentiary institutions, and even that was portrayed badly in television and film. Those words flew in front of Makoto's eyes as it they were a cruel, ironic joke as she walked into the mess hall to see eight inmates viciously kicking and stomping another. But logic itself shattered when she saw who was on the receiving end of the abuse.

That morning, she woke up eagerly, enthusiastic, and even giddy at the prospect of paying Akira a surprise visit. Sae used whatever influence she possessed to allow for the Phantom Thief to receive a visit, but they would only allow one person to see him. The scene at LeBlanc the day before saw all six of Akira's comrades debating who should get to make the visit. Some arguments were more convincing than others, but in the end, everyone agreed Makoto should be the one – she was the second-in-command, after all. Beneath the sober exterior, she beamed with joy.

That sensation, the eagerness, and the surprise she meant for her boyfriend – all gone, and replaced by unbridled fury. At that moment, her mind and instinct were one, and they spelled 'protection'. Makoto ran forward, to the surprise of Shogo and a few of his companions. The initial response was product of not seeing a member of the opposite sex in a long time. That fact that Makoto was a pretty girl put a sweet tone to the surprise; for some, it appealed to their lower instincts. But for Shogo, it was a realisation that put a sinister smirk on his face. From his advantageous position, he retreated into the shadows, planning his next move.

When it came to the confrontation in the middle of the mess hall, things appeared to take an uncanny twist. Many were surprised to see Akira had such skill and imagination for fighting. Those same people were terrified to find that Makoto was even more apt, and more ferocious. The scene became a cacophony of Makoto's grunting as she kicked and punched, and the sound of bone and joint fracturing as a consequence. She broke the jaw of one who seemed to take the most pleasure in hurting Akira. The rest got quicker punishment, but not any more lenient.

One by one, Akira's assailants went down. Whatever attack they threw at Makoto was reciprocated mercilessly. The grey tiled floor was a canvas she painted with blood. Just when it seemed all resistance was cut down, several more ran into through a hallway. Makoto was not about to wait for them. She ran towards them, encountering the first with a stiff knee to the chest. The others suffered similarly.

Then, from the shadows emerged a vicious figure: Shogo, wielding a blade crafted in the welding workshop. His intention was clear in his approach. After catching Makoto from behind, he had unspeakable things in mind for her, all of which he would make sure Akira witnessed. Little did he realise, Akira did witness his design after the first step in her direction. With what little vitality remained in him, Akira threw himself at Shogo, catching him in a blood hold, with legs locked around his torso. This effectively put a stop to Shogo's plan as he fell backwards with Akira still clung to him.

Shogo struggled to break free, hitting Akira's chest and stomach with his elbows. It came to fruition soon after. Free to carry on, Shogo decided to get back at Akira before he moved in on Makoto. With Akira's back against the floor, Shogo climbed on top of him and started choking him with clear lethal intent. Within seconds, the blood flow to Akira's brain would be cut off, and the rest would be tragic science. But while caught in his bloody glee, he failed to realise Makoto was done with the incoming attackers, and was already homing in on his direction.

"LEAVE HIM ALONE!" She roared as she punched Shogo in the temple, breaking his hold and all of hope of ever gaining advantage. "NEVER! EVER! TOUCH HIM!" She yelled with each punch against Shogo's head, breaking nose, eye socket, cheek… When she was done, not even Shogo's mother would recognise him. He would live to see his face in the mirror and weep, and he would know the relation between his state and his deeds.

Makoto went over to Akira's side. She was horrified to see the number the inmates had done on him. The face she so loved was swollen and bloody. She hesitated to caress him for comfort, for fear of causing him pain. Still, his eyes met hers. And even beneath the product of the abuse he suffered, she saw the loving, picaresque gaze she knew and loved so well.

"Never fuck with the Queen…" He said with a wounded smirk.

"Please, don't…" Makoto was on the verge of tears, from relief, sorrow, and anger. "Akira, what did they do to you?"

"It'll be okay." His voice was quiet. "At least, I got to see you…"

Then silence.

"Fuck!" A slender young man walked in. "Akira! Yo, Daigo. Come help me!" He and a stout, well-built young man ran towards Akira.

"Are you two his friends?" Makoto asked, regaining her composure.

"Y-yeah… Fuck me… He did this to help me." Yasunori started to weep.

"Please, help me. Where is the infirmary?" Makoto held on to Akira's arm.

"I'll help you." Daigo said, putting Akira's other arm around him.

Together, they carried him as fast as they could towards the infirmary, led by Yasunori. An hour later, Akira lay asleep on a cot, bandaged all over. Makoto sat at his side, lovingly caressing his hair. Yasunori and Daigo walked in, with a concerned look on their faces.

"He looks to be stable." Daigo commented.

"Hey, are you Makoto?" Yasunori asked.

"Yes." She responded without taking her eyes off of Akira. "Why? Has he said anything about me?"

"Yeah." Yasunori replied, having witnessed the second half of what her visit turned out to be. "He said you are the best."

"Did he now?" Makoto smiled sadly, taking in the rhythm of her boyfriend's breathing. Slow and mending. She knew she needed to have a word with the authorities about what happened that day. The dreadful, horrendous notion that Akira might have suffered more grievous injury stalked her train of thought. He may even have died. Makoto struggled greatly to banish the thought, eyes fixed on Akira's slumber. The warmth of her gaze on him was as remarkable a sight as her warlike glare.

Silently and wordlessly, Makoto promised she would get him out of there.