Spring, 2016
"Good morning!" Hifumi called as Ren trudged down the stairs and into the kitchen. The sizzle of eggs scrambling managed to excite the often unexcitable Ren, leaving him eager for food as he took a seat at the kitchen counter. "How'd you sleep?"
"Best time in a while, actually."
Hifumi turned away from her frying pan, giving him a suspicious yet playful look. "Really? Is it because all that fun with the Kitamuras tired you out?"
It's because you had sweet dreams of infidelity, you lying bastard.
"Maybe," Ren answered. "I'm not really sure. I just feel like today's gonna be a good day."
"Huh. Haven't heard you say that before." Hifumi's words would've been taken as an insult if she didn't immediately follow it up with a perfect save. "So then you must be right!"
Ren smirked and watched Hifumi finish up the eggs. She divided them onto a plate for each of them, setting Ren's down in front of him before she took the seat next to her husband. Ren quickly got down to eating his eggs, but Hifumi only watched from beside him.
"I'm glad you still like my cooking. Jun didn't touch his plate last night."
"He's a kid; kids are picky eaters."
"I know… but…ergh," Hifumi grumbled to herself. Whatever she said, Ren missed it until his wife took a deep breath in and finally spoke her mind. "Do you think we'd be good parents?"
I'd be a good parent. Not sure about your incapable ass, though. I did good enough with you, right? But if you ignore me like you always do, that kid will hate himself. He'll hate you, he'll hate his gold-digging mom for marrying you, and then you're gonna have an expensive little shit that you have to keep around 'cause he's got your last name.
Ren stopped chewing. Setting his fork down, he turned to look Hifumi in the eye. "Why do you ask?"
"Jun was so well-behaved, and I have a bad habit of comparing myself to Manami. I know I shouldn't, but I was just considering how well I would do as a parent."
"I think you would be great."
"You do?"
Ren nodded. "If we ever have kids, that is."
"I thought you wanted kids."
"I remember saying maybe, not that I wanted kids."
The words hurt Hifumi. Ren understood why she cared and asked in the first place, but she had some understanding of her own to do. She knew about Ren's past, how the death of his parents left him in some terrible situations, yet she still wanted kids. That boggled Ren's mind, but they were two very different people with very different outlooks on life.
"Oh…"
"But I'm definitely considering it," Ren added to soften reality for his wife.
I dunno why you lead her on. She'll never be happy living with you, and vice-versa. Just fucking break up already.
Back when Ren asked Hifumi to marry him, the feelings were certainly stronger, but Ren never considered their marriage as an unbreakable union. To him, it was a personal ploy; a grab for normalcy in a life with none in sight. He did his best to believe his own lie, yet the sight of Hifumi always reminded him that it would never be perfect no matter how good the surface looked.
One of the few things Ren respected was parenthood. He knew what a lack of parental guidance would do, as the three people who tried to be his parents all ended up dead, and he also knew that his job left him in a vulnerable place. The kid would be turned into bait, or Ren would just be killed and the kid would be left fatherless.
"Today, I was thinking we could do some Spring cleaning. That maid you hired never-"
"Can't. I'm going shopping."
"Oh…" Hifumi left Ren with plenty of silence to fill with an invite to join him. "Why don't I come with you?"
Ren shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth, looking away from Hifumi in the process. Now that she'd reminded him of his task for the day, it would be hard to get it off his mind. Shopping always did that.
"Not that kind of shopping."
"I need…" Ren glanced down to read his hand-written shopping list. The list of drugs went on and on until he finally stopped, looking up at Tae expectantly. Emotionless, Tae stared back at him.
"You're really still using this stuff?" Their deal persisted since his late high school years and hadn't lessened in the slightest, no matter what Tae's opinion of him was. It only meant that Ren had to pay extra, which was a non-issue. "I'm longing for the day when you quit."
"Quit what? It's not an addiction."
"Yet something tells me that all these drugs aren't going to a good cause, but we'll leave it at that." Tae stood up from behind the reception desk and went into the back room. Ren followed her into the colder examination room.
Ren could feel the bitterness ahead of him but he didn't mind. Tae's hatred made itself very known and had for years—his high school self may have objected to it; his current self simply figured her out.
The Takemi Clinic's recurring emptiness kept Tae broke as a leaky faucet. Ren's monthly supply runs kept her afloat and they both knew it. Tae just hated it because she—like it or not—depended on Aka Handan Ikka money for her livelihood.
Ren watched her sort through cabinets and drawers for the requested substances. Quickly finishing up, she packed the drugs into a neat paper bag and handed it to Ren. "Cash or transfer?" Ren asked. His pinched fingers ran back and forth along the creased opening of the bag.
"Transfer, and double the usual."
"What?"
"Really? You're gonna ask why?." Tae sank down into her swivel chair, crossing her legs and looking up at Ren. "You put me at risk just a few days ago. Now, some hookup of yours knows that I sell to you. She came back to ask questions, you know."
"...About?"
"How she could reach you."
"What'd you tell her?"
"That your boogeymen would make her beg for her life after snatching her in the night." Neither laughed, but that was what Tae wanted. With satisfaction smirking on her face, she gave Ren the truth. "I told her that you would contact her on your terms. Does that satisfy Lord Amam—"
"No. What was she wearing?"
"You care? I thought she was a one-night-stand."
"She's a cop. Was she in uniform or casual clothes?"
Tae opened her mouth to speak, probably to remind Ren how much of an idiot he was, but she closed it before the insults could come. She didn't know what to think, evident by her eyes drifting around the room and her satisfaction vanishing. "Seemed pretty casual to me," Tae said without pride. "But a cop? Christ, Ren… What am I supposed to do, huh?"
The grip of the chance that the Aka Ikka were being investigated lessened around his neck, letting Ren breathe a sigh of relief. "Good. That's good…" Still, Makoto was investigating him. What did that mean?
"Hello, Ren? What the fuck do I do?! A cop knows about my ties to bōryokudan!"
"She doesn't know a thing. Relax."
"What if she does?"
"Then it'll be taken care of." Tae still doubted Ren. Even though she sat and he stood, she looked down on him with superior morals. Ren figured she needed a reminder of who he was. "Tae, seriously. It's fine. How long have I kept my work private?"
Tae rolled her eyes. "Too long. Something's gotta give, especially when your hookups are cops!"
"She's not a—"
"Yeah, that's what she said, but neither of you believes that."
Tae's outlasted her usefulness. She overcharges you and the quality doesn't back up her prices. I'd get rid of her in a heartbeat, but I know how much of a softie you are.
Tae spun her chair away from Ren and toward her desk. She reached for its far corner to grab a slip of paper. "If she wasn't a hookup, little miss one-night-stand wouldn't have left a gift for you." She stood and approached faster than most did with Ren, maintaining eye contact in the process. With both of them standing, Ren's height advantage became even more pronounced, yet Tae always looked down on him. She dropped the slip of paper into his jacket pocket. "Guess that is."
"A thank you note for helping the other night."
"Ooh, close, but she gave that to me." Tae swayed in her steps away from Ren, heels clicking on the floor, and sat back in her chair. "Actually, I don't want to spoil the surprise. Keep it safe, won't you?"
"Fine. Thanks for helping."
"No problem. You can pay me back by never speaking with me again."
"Today may be your lucky day. Yasushi Tanaka is apparently a stubborn quitter, so get your goodbyes in now."
Tae's confused expression told Ren to shut the Hell up. "See? That's your problem. You're always saying weird shit, or trying to pretend you're smarter than me. Don't you remember? I'm a doctor. That's a job you actually have to work for, which is something you can't even comprehend. Am I right?"
"You're right. I'll fuck off and attend to my much easier job."
Leaving the clinic on positively splendid terms with its proprietor, Ren's grip dug deep into the paper bag of drugs as he walked through Yongen's backstreets. Tae's words made no impact on him because she'd been a broken record for years. The only difference now was that she had a reasonable excuse to tell Ren to fuck off: Makoto Niijima came knocking.
But Ren couldn't worry about that now. He had quite a list of meetings to go through and only a few hours to do so. Time was of the essence, so Ren's hurried pace brought him to Leblanc in no time at all. The key took a few motions within the lock before the door finally opened, just to be closed and locked from the inside a few seconds later. The open/closed sign stayed in its position to refuse any customers.
Ren's home away from home was a shell of its opened version. He kept the lights off and the heating unpowered, leaving Leblanc as a dimly lit meat locker that happened to have coffee equipment spread throughout. Wood flooring and stairs creaked with every step, the barstools quivered when sat upon, and Ren believed the ceiling would cave in every time he walked under it.
For such a dismal shop, it transformed when Ren chose to open it. He would don an apron, craft brews as if it was his actual job, and make small talk with the few customers who made it through the doors, most of them elderly. All of them knew about the stairs to the attic, yet none besides Ren, Ryuji, and Yusuke knew the purpose of said attic.
Like Leblanc's exterior, the dusty attic's evil lay beneath its cracked surface. Ren, going through the usual motions, sat down in the wooden chair beside the regrettably unused futon that's wrinkles made it look like more than just a few years passed since its last use. The barren attic prioritized function over form and attempting to sleep in the futon would drive anyone to insanity.
The few things Ren did have in the attic—a workbench for tools, empty shelves, and a decaying plant—were mementos of the past when Ren actually had to put in effort to succeed at his "shopping."
Ren closed his eyes. Every damn time he went to the other side, he cherished the silence before leaving. The rise and fall of his chest, the pulse in his wrists, the stale air flowing into both nostrils; all of it was appreciated as Ren sat through what had the potential to be his final moments.
C'mon, get off your ass and get moving. Lotta targets to go through today, right?
Ren opened his eyes. The moments of silence always ended with the abrupt noise of his mind, thoughts, and, most importantly, his memories.
Getting his phone out, Ren procured his transcribed list from Ryuji. He sorted the names based on the type of items they needed.
Goods: Shig Koizumi, Dai Horiuchi, Naomi Sugawara, Ryuu Yasui, Yukio Suto
Food: Hisoka Nagamine, Asuka Amari
Money: Yasushi Tanaka
Oh, Yasushi, you little shit. I'll have fun with you.
Ren read and reread the list to himself over and over as he took his last breaths of pure, undistorted air. He navigated through his phone to the vengefully red eye tucked into the depths of his home screen, tapping on it just as he exhaled.
"Mementos."
" Candidate Found. "
Makoto watched the clock on the wall tick. According to that clock—which she mistrusted to give her coworker the benefit of the doubt—Tohru Adachi was four minutes and thirty-two seconds late to his introduction and counting. The clock continued to tick and Makoto continued to wait.
Her initial reaction was to consider it disrespectful. She had never met Adachi, a veteran detective who'd been on the force a half-decade longer than her, but his reputation preceded him. Makoto knew him as a cop who slacked off quite a bit but still managed to get his share of shit done, more than enough to be highly regarded by most of the department.
Makoto requested him for the squad as a shot in the dark of sorts. She didn't think he would agree, let alone send her a very enthusiastic email about his recommendations for the investigation and his thoughts on organized crime in general.
But showing up late on the first day… It just had to be an attempt to insult Makoto's leadership, right? A challenge towards her being given such a fruitful promotion at such an early stage in her career is what it must have been. Makoto told herself that she was getting too sensitive if she genuinely believed that to be the truth, but doubts always screamed over assurances.
The door popped open and Makoto's head jolted to see Adachi stumble in. His tie was flung over his shoulder, his undershirt not buttoned all the way up, and his black suit had a fresh brown stain on it. Someone spilled their morning coffee, apparently.
"Niijima-san! I'm so sorry!" Adachi plopped his briefcase down on the table and threw himself into the seat opposite Makoto. To say that Adachi knew how to make an entrance was an overstatement—Makoto never knew a grown man to be so unprofessional at first glance. "There was construction on my street, and—"
"Save the excuses for later." Makoto always wanted to say that. "What matters is that you're here."
Adachi breathed a sigh of relief and that forced Makoto to question herself. Was she letting him off too easy? What would a veteran detective do? Subjecting Adachi to disciplinary action on his first day would turn him against her immediately, but it would keep him in line. Letting Adachi get away with showing up late would set a precedent for the future with barely any upsides.
"Oh, that's great to hear." Adachi leaned back in his seat, put at ease by Makoto letting him off the hook. She regretted doing so immediately. "So, what's in store for me?"
"Let's see…" Makoto checked the little notepad she kept at work. "You know Hayase-san?"
"Eh, just a little. Met him a while back and we haven't spoken since."
"How about you work with him today to get adjusted into the team?"
"Sounds like a plan." Adachi sat, turning side to side in his chair as silence settled. "So, uh, what've you guys got so far?"
"Unfortunately, we're a bit lacking. We've spent our time doing basic field work while letting Chihaya-san go over past cases and incidents for missed details."
"Playing the waiting game, huh? I like it. Let them make the first move, then we'll get 'em from that."
"Easier said than done. The Aka Ikka are only mentioned in name and no affiliated members have been arrested, or even identified. In fact, we're yet to identify a single member."
"Yeesh." Adachi cringed at the lack of progress, but gave Makoto a confident smile, holding back his teeth with a polite curve of his lips. "That's the fun of it, right? Starting from ground zero… I've never done that before."
"Well, I know you'll be a great help no matter what we have. Thank you for joining, Adachi-san."
The code was easy to memorize. 'Goods' referred to targets needing a change of heart, or just a little push, shove, or violent threat in the right direction. 'Money' signified a traitor to the Aka Ikka, someone who knew a little too much when they decided to part ways with the clan. Lastly, 'Food' referred to targets serving as food for Junya's insatiable bloodlu—
'Food' was for everyday citizens, the people of Tokyo who got caught at the wrong place in the wrong time and learned something that they shouldn't have. They were the witness testimonies, the people refusing to cooperate, the self-righteous do-gooders that wanted to make a difference, and the lowlives who robbed stores without knowing who they were protected by.
Ren, black coat waving behind him, stepped through the gate into the isolated corner of Mementos. Directly ahead of him, Asuka Amari stamped around on the ground and yelled to himself. "I need it! I have to have it! They owe it to me!"
With a calm approach, Ren flipped his knife back and forth between his hands behind his back. The exercise kept him ready, while also giving the enemy a bit of a head start for when they attacked. Letting the opposition have the advantage was the only way to make things interesting after all the brutal, numbing years of Mementos excursions.
Maybe it was just a way to tempt death to finally catch up.
"Asuka Amari, I presume?"
The shadow spun at its name. Devilishly pointed features, slick black hair, and with a skinny frame, Asuka Amari was a lightweight compared to the other monsters Ren found over the years.
"You! Give me your money! Give it to me! Give me all of it!" Shadow ramblings weren't a concern of Ren. He'd adjusted himself, no longer finding the ridiculous indulgence, greed, or lust disturbing. In the end, every last shadow was the same. Well, those in Mementos at least. Palace shadows were a whole different world.
Asuka took one step towards Ren, triggering a reflex that had been the last image most shadows had of life. Ren spun around, flipping the knife to his dominant hand, and throwing it towards Asuka in one fluid motion as if he had been a figure skater in a past life. The knife flew with even more grace, landing in Asuka's foot with a thump.
"Ow! Owowowwoo!" the shadows howled.
Your aim's getting worse. When's the last time you just threw it at their head and ended it right then and there?
Ren couldn't answer the question, nor did he want to. If the voice had its way, every last shadow in Mementos would dissipate into black fluid after Ren threw a knife through it. Most of the time, he resisted, but when the stress got to him…
"Tell me your desires," Ren said, getting closer to the shadow. Asuka's demands shrank into cries of fear as his maker closed the gap. Every shadow fell from their confidence hard, some more than others.
"I want it!" Asuka cried. "I want the money! I need to take it every day! They owe me!"
"Who owes you?" Ren reached beneath his coat. He tapped the handle of his gun, going through the rhythm of a decade-old pop song from his teenage years.
"Eight-Ball, in Yongen! They owe me money ! All of it! I used to work there, but now I take it!"
Eight-Ball is part of the Aka Ikka, Ren, and you know what that means: this chicken-shit is blocking your cash flow. We can agree on what to do about him, right?
Ren drew the gun and stiffly held it against the shadow's face. "So you rob your old employers because you need the money?"
"Yes! Need! I need money!" Taking too long caused shadows to slip into old habits. They were like goldfish, having short-term memory and forgetting the most important facts, like the fact that Asuka had a knife in his foot and a gun in his face. "Give me money!" He lunged towards Ren, pulling the knife hard enough that it came up from the ground with his foot. The attack ended with stumbling humiliation at Ren's feet. "Please… Just give me your money." Not even a sadder version of a repeated sentiment could compel Ren.
He's bowing… Time to kill 'em and move on. Pull the trigger, stab him a few times, I don't care. Just fu-
Ren closed his eyes, counting to five with a deep breath for every passing second. The voice faded into the background, resembling Mementos's creeping ambiance enough for Ren to ignore.
No matter how much the voice pestered him and whatever bias Ryuji had in sending the list, the decision lay with Ren. He was judge, jury, and executioner, except for the times when the jury expanded to two people, one of whom was so outspoken to the point of giving Ren migraines.
"Asuka, when you stole, did you ever think about who it was from?" Pounding in both of his temples. Every pulse of blood that went through his head was an eruption of pain, a volcano being set off between his ears. His head wanted to detach itself from his shoulders just to explode into a million pieces, and he couldn't even grant it that wish.
"No! I wanted money! I needed it!"
"You stole from me, Asuka. I don't care what kind of person you were, or if you bring your mom flowers every week, or if you help every fucking old person who needs to cross the street. You stole from me, Asuka." Ren closed his eyes as the pounding in his skull took over. The barrel of the gun pressed right into Asuka's widow's peak, drawing a whimpered breath. Even deeper breaths came from Ren, who tried his very best to control himself but it was no use.
The instant the trigger clicked, Asuka's shadow dissipated with a bang. Wispy black liquid defied physics to pour down onto the ground, fading into the depths of Mementos alongside Ren's headache. Breathing clearly, Ren kept his eyes closed and focused on his senses.
Every breath in his chest, every pulse in his veins, every tingle from the damp air pulled Ren back to his reality. He opened his eyes to see nothing in front of him except for his unblooded knife resting on the ground.
Ren picked it up and ran back into the endless corridors of Mementos to find the next target.
Summer, 2003
Akira wanted to pass out the whole ride home. Not only was his interrupted sleep catching up to him, but the impromptu steak dinner shut down his body's will to move. Thankfully, Kaneshiro's apartment building had an elevator. They exited the parting doors, taking a sharp left turn into a rounding hallway. At its end, they found a stark white door. Kaneshiro stumbled forward to jam a key into the lock, forcing it in and grappling with it just so he could get into his own home.
After seconds of struggle, Akira watched the door swing open. Kaneshiro's breath heaved from the excessive effort needed to open a lock or from his evening of drinking. Probably both. He blocked the doorway so he could lumber into the apartment, bobbing side to side as he intensely focused on his legs so he wouldn't fall face-first. Akira followed him into the apartment.
As soon as he could, Kaneshiro flopped onto a long couch. It had rips, tears, and maybe a little bit of a smell to it, but Akira knew it would be comfy just by looking at it. Kaneshiro liked it enough to not discard it in favor of more luxurious furniture and that meant something.
Akira scanned the rest of the apartment. Barren walls were marred by peeling paint, stains burrowed in each of the few rugs and carpets laid out, and Akira knew an unbalanced chair when he saw one—that happened to apply to all four of the wooden chairs placed around a small square dining table.
The couch Kaneshiro's drunkenness led him to was the center of the apartment. On one side was the kitchen and dining area; on the other was a TV, a scratched coffee table, and a chair that went the distance in its last fight.
Akira wanted to go back to the limo.
Kaneshiro's arm extended upward, awkwardly bending over the elbow and curling around the backrest of the couch. "Ever thought about gettin' a better name?" he said through couch cushions. His voice captured the look, smell, and presence of the cheap couch in one choked-on, slurred, and coughed-up sentence.
Akira stayed by the door. "Not really." Mutatsu was slow to join them, transporting what Kaneshiro referred to as 'cargo.' He would come through the cracked door any minute to lock and trap Ren.
"Then today's your lucky day. Start thinking. Now."
The steak in his stomach didn't allow Akira to think of anything other than a warm bed. "...Why?"
"Why do people shit in the street? Who fuckin' knows. I say you have to change it, so you change it."
"No."
Kaneshiro's arm stopped rubbing the back of the couch. "No? 'No' isn't a word used under this roof." He rolled his head out of the pillows, now with his gelled hair sticking up, to eye Akira's disobedience with curiosity. He must not have been refused in years.
"I'm not changing my name. My parents wo-"
"Your parents are dead, kid," he growled. "I'm letting you start over and you're spitting in my face."
"Okay!" Akira saw Kaneshiro ball his fists; they filled with blood-red anger or over-exertion. Either way, they were intimidation sitting at the back of Akira's mind, reminding him to agree. "I'll go with… Ren."
"Ren, huh? Where'd you get that?"
"An anime."
Kaneshiro scratched his head. "Got another anime to pick your last name from?"
"At least let me-"
"Ah ah ah, you have to change your full name. No half-assing it." Changing his name… It would kill Akira's last connection to his parents, to his old life. Then again, he was stuck in Kaneshiro's care because of his old life—his weak life. "Think about the benefits. Play your cards right, and they'll be saying your name first for everything. Get what I'm saying?" Kaneshiro spread his hands apart like he conjured the name's lettering between them. "'Amamiya.' Whaddya think?" Akira hated it, but silence was acceptance in Kaneshiro's apartment. "Ren Amamiya… it rolls off the tongue, too. Here, try saying it."
Akira maintained his silent hatred. This time, Kaneshiro didn't treat it as acceptance. He stood, rising from the couch with a drunken lurch so he could dwarf Akira in front of the door. "This isn't some fucking orphanage where you can isolate yourself, kid. What do I look like?" Waiting for Akira to answer, Kaneshiro pointed at his face. "C'mon, I'm actually asking. Tell me what I look like."
"Someone important."
"Fuckin' horoscope of an answer. Vague enough to easily apply, while not saying anything at all. The correct answer was, 'A nice guy.' I like talking—who doesn't? As a nice guy, I deserve your respect, don't I? When I ask you a question, you're gonna answer. When I tell you to do something, you're gonna do it. So, when am I gonna hear you saying your new name?" Kaneshiro left his terms on the table and sat down on the couch. "It's only fair," he said.
"Ren Amamiya."
"Wasn't so hard, was it? See? 'Ren Amamiya.' It really rolls. Idiots will say that about other names, but this one literally rolls. I should be telling you to thank me, but I'm not because that's how fucking good your name is. Ren Amamiya." Kaneshiro shook his head and patted his arms. "Shivers."
Spring, 2016
Chains banging against cold, damp stone brought Ren back to focus. Finding a situation he'd seen before, Ren spun himself to recall his surroundings. Stuck in a three-way intersection of tracks, Ren was under siege.
The chains got louder and louder. Each crack against stone sounded like a stake driven into a sheet of ice. Ren flipped his dagger between his hands, spinning in the direction where the most recent crack originated. He'd faced The Reaper many times through the years for a varying list of reasons. Sometimes, he was forgetful of the rush of Mementos. Others, he wanted an actual challenge. One thing remained constant about The Reaper: every time Ren defeated it, it became twice the enemy it was for their next encounter.
With many Metaverse years under his belt, Ren still didn't understand the origin, purpose, or tricks of The Reaper. His sheer power kept the monster at bay, but there would come a day when he would be outclassed by the immortal.
A chain snapped around the corner. A wake of sparks floated down the wall and another slice against the opposite concrete wall repeated the effect.
This guy always knew how to make an entrance. Shame he always fucks off after you beat him; I'd love to see what's under that hood.
The tattered cloak followed the chains. Blood—with no discernable source because blood didn't exist in the Metaverse unless Ren really fucked up—covered the bottom edges. The few feet between the ground and the bottom of the cloak featured black dust swirling around the figure at the center.
Ren expected the chains to strike first. The Reaper may have been more powerful every time he fought it, but it didn't get any smarter. It always started with the chains; why wouldn't it repeat itself? It made a living off attacking slow wanderers again and again.
If I got to spend my days swinging around chains and killing people, I'd show them off, too. Damn, are those cool.
Trying to clear his head while expecting an attack from above, Ren missed the revolver coming out of the Reaper's side. A flash and an explosion in Ren's side—he'd been shot. The Metaverse's rules got thin when it came to bullets. They existed when they came out of a gun, but when Ren got shot—a unique result that only The Reaper could bring forth—no bullets were ever found in him. A quick healing spell and it might as well have never happened.
"Maria!" As Ren raised his open hand to command his Persona, chains sprang up in both directions. They slashed across his vision and into his hand. Metal tightened around his darkening arm, except the flash of red at the top; only his gloved hand escaped ensnarement.
Aw, over so soon? I wanted to see you bleed.
Ren tensed his arm and breathed deep as he could. His head silenced, his arm numbed, and the Mementos cold that seeped through the soles of his boots faded. "Beelzebub!"
The lord of the flies burst into existence in a freezing blue flame. If Ren wasn't the persona user in charge, he still would've felt Beelzebub's entrance into Mementos. The persona sucked the life out of the damp, desire-ridden tunnels. Mementos' heart stopped beating, replaced by an icy wind of death. The shadows knew, Ren knew, and The Reaper definitely knew—Beelzebub brought decay with him. Shadows caught in its presence withered, the walls around him and the tracks beneath him cracked and strained, and the unbearable weight of guilt pressed Ren's conscience into the depths.
Out of habit, Ren shielded his eyes before the explosion even started. Heat flared in front of him, no doubt from Beelzebub casting Megidolaon. One cast wouldn't kill the reaper, or any above-average Shadow for that matter, only disable it. The Reaper's immortality enticed Ren to an unusual thought for his Metaverse excursions: his best option was to flee.
Hm, the rare good business decision from Ren Amamiya. Congrats on not being an idiot.
The pile of bloodied rags and chains crumpled to the ground. Taking no time to breathe, Ren tossed his grappling hook to the pointless power line on the wall. He tossed the hook down the line each time his swing ran out of arc, keeping him moving at a fast pace while not draining his body too much. Muscle soreness was a healing spell away from vanishing.
He needed to leave. Something was wrong with Mementos, or something was wrong with him. Each name on the list that he'd checked off thus far weakened him. His head grew heavier and his shoulders got weaker—he had no choice but to succumb and shoot the first four shadows he'd seen.
Maybe The Reaper knew Ren was sick in the head and wanted to end the rampage. Maybe Ren was so desperate for answers that he created false narratives. Maybe he just wanted to pretend he lived a normal life where he didn't regularly visit an alternate dimension to torture, control, and erase the public's manifestations of their deepest desires.
Going home already? You got something to do? Couldn't even finish the list. You should be ashamed of yourself. I'm sick to my goddamn stomach, I can't even fucking look at you. Giving up business for some girl, especially one that's threatening your business.
Ren already gave his thoughts too much consideration—the four dead shadows were proof of that. Each time he gave in to the pounding rhythm between his ears, he received another reminder that he did the wrong thing.
He needed to leave and try to do something right.
With one final pull, Ren unhooked the grapple and swung it back to himself midair. Just as he caught the grapple, he landed on the train platform. Ren didn't look back on the railways for even a second as he walked up the unmoving escalator to the rest area.
At her desk, Makoto read through old files. Her elite academic past meant she knew what she was doing when scanning, annotating, and sorting the endless pile, but when done with school and meant to do detective work, it was sickening. She still did it, of course, and would take any progress she could get.
However, a problem chirped from Makoto's shoulder. She wanted to swat it away, cast it out of the building, and focus herself, but it wasn't the kind of problem. The problem she had to deal with was office gossip.
Chie and Chihaya made conversation a few desks away, the former sitting on the edge of the latter's desk. "Did you hear? Adachi joined up today."
"Adachi?" Chie snorted. "I'm surprised he's giving us his time."
"Probably just wants an excuse to hide from the bosses and be lazy."
"Hah, that's exactly what I would've guessed," Chie said, crossing her arms and leaning against her desk. Her stack of papers—all unvetted and unsorted—waited for her to shut up and work. Makoto looked up from her work but let the conversation continue uninterrupted. "I never really worked with him, but I've heard the stories."
Chihaya loved office gossip even more than she loved being a police officer. Makoto could understand valuing a social work environment, though she couldn't understand prioritizing it as much as Chihaya did. "Ooh, which ones?"
"The one where he called in sick because he didn't want to work a double homicide…" Chie paused, looking up to the ceiling as if it would help her remember the other story. "And I think he got transferred from homicide to organized crime because he hit on someone's daughter."
"Jeez. What a jackass."
"Yeah, well… It's not our decision to bring him here."
Makoto couldn't sit and listen anymore. "He's a good cop, you know."
"Hm?" Chie and Chihaya both turned, seeing their new supervisor glaring at them. One didn't understand the implication of Makoto listening, the other looked downright fearful of her boss.
"Adachi-san. He's one of the best in our department."
"Oh, s-sorry, Niijima-san." Chihaya straightened her posture as she addressed Makoto. She gave Makoto proper respect—a much-appreciated gesture in a department that seemed to look down on Makoto. "We weren't doubting his ability—just his attitude."
"I understand, but he's a part of this team now." Makoto stood up. She pushed her chair in before walking across the small room to her fellow cops. Chie slid off the desk and stood up properly. "And he's excited to work with us. He actually sent me a list of suggestions for the direction we could take the case in."
"Big surprise."
"Look, if you think he's lazy, that's fine. I know that he'll prove otherwise. Take a glance at his past two months of work and you'll see how much time he's given the department." Makoto looked back at her desk, knowing that she should get back to actual work. Still, keeping the team together rather than turning it into a fractured gossipfest was technically her job, too. "Maybe he's aware of his reputation and working to change it. Did you ever consider that?"
"No."
"Give it some thought while you're looking through all these files. Both of you, back to work."
Ironic. Makoto ordered others around as if wasn't ready to leave at the first ring of her phone. Tae said Ren would contact her if he cared, but the anticipation was killing her. Requesting official files and locating an address would have eased Makoto more than simply waiting around for Ren to call. She'd trapped both her lives—social and work—in a stalemate that she didn't dare end.
Part of Makoto doubted the existence of the possibility of success on both sides. A triumph in one necessitated giving up the other, and she couldn't decide.
Ren crumpled into the dusty futon, the soreness of the run catching up to him all at once. His heart and head pounded, though not like they usually did, and his feet burned as they hung off the end of the bed.
Age is catching up—can't heal that with magic.
No, he probably never could heal it, but he could remedy it with a simple trick: distraction. Ren's hand snaked into his pocket and pulled out his personal phone. Alongside it, he brought the slip of paper Tae oh-so-generously donated.
Put on a smile. People feel smiles through phones, you know. That's scientifically proven. I read it in this study where some… You don't give a shit. Eh, neither do I. Well, if you want to convince the girl to spill what she knows, play into her owing you a favor. Come on friendly, then maybe imply that you deserve something. What that something is—dinner, an envelope with TMPD's logo on it—I don't care. Just make sure that you secure a path to the info.
Ren typed Makoto's phone number in. One button press away, Ren exhaled the last thought of Mementos from his head and called. He counted the rings to focus on anything other than the careful instructions for manipulation repeating in his head.
Four rings and Ren heard the line open. "This is… Makoto Niijima?"
"Yes…" Ren only caught feedback on the other end with no discernable reaction from Makoto.
"May I ask who I'm speaking with?"
"Fuzzy Dunlop."
What?! I feel like an idiot for thinking you could do one thing right. Caught up in your fucking daydream, here you are telling jokes. I said to be friendly, not to make her laugh while sounding like a total jerkoff.
Ren had the same reaction. Surprise struck him, nearly slackening his hand enough for the phone to slip. 'Fuzzy Dunlop' was a cover name to make fun of a cop too wasted to know right from left, not an inside joke, yet Ren let it slip as if they were old friends fondly remembering a laugh.
"Oh… Fuzzy. Dunlop. I know your real name, you know. Your friend didn't keep your secret."
"I didn't think she would. What do you think of my real name?" Ren thought of Tetsuo Kitamura while he spoke. "It's a bit less interesting than having people call me Dunlop-san, isn't it?"
You damn socialite.
"I like it. It rolls off the tongue nicely." The more she talked, the more Ren felt things make sense. He needed to hear her speak, wanted to hear her smile through the phone. Maybe even make her laugh. Any business could be saved for later.
"You've been saying it?"
"Once or twice." Makoto paused. "Thank you for the other night. Most people tell drunkards to screw off."
"Most drunkards aren't cops."
"Oh, you were being kind to me because you respect the law?"
"I was being kind to you because I wanted you to remember that when I spoke to you sober."
When'd you get so talkative?
Makoto humored him and paused, putting on a sarcastic, playful tone that danced on the line in between. "I've remembered it. Will you tell me how this fits into your master plan?"
"It fits in just before I ask you to dinner."
Ren must have caught Makoto off guard. She breathed a bit too heavily into her phone and sent static into Ren's ear. "Uh… you're serious?"
"If I wasn't serious I would've asked you to dinner as Fuzzy Dunlop."
"Maybe that's who I really want to take me to dinner. Ren Amamiya is a little too secretive for my tastes."
"He opens up after a drink or two, I'll assure you of that."
"Oh, wonderful. And just where will these two drinks be had?"
"L'Effervescence."
"Sounds fancy."
"I was Fancy Dunlop in another life."
Fuckhead Dunlop in my eyes. Come on. What are you doing? What's your use for Makoto?
"I can tell." Makoto dropped the act, bringing herself back down to earth. "You're really asking me to dinner? The drunk cop who nearly walked through your door, who you had to dump off on your friend that doesn't seem like much of a friend?"
"You can be a drunk cop all you want. Just save a drink for me, alright?"
Makoto laughed. "Okay, Dunlop-san. I'll go out to dinner with you... But only if you promise to have better jokes than that."
"Good. I'll…" What the fuck did he just do? Lining up dates? There was business to be done, favors to hand out, and shadows that needed exploiting. Plus, he had a point for once. What was special about Makoto? "Text you the details tomorrow."
Makoto hummed approval into the phone and then hung up. She probably had a calm and collected reaction to what occurred; a far cry from Ren's aches of pain taking over as soon as she hung up. Still, he felt something new: excitement. Makoto was a mystery for him to figure out over dinner, on a date that he scheduled because he was an idiot.
Don't get attached. One wife is enough, let alone another one that the first wife hates. I knew this one guy, his wife caught him cheating on her with four other broads. She didn't do anything because… Well, I'll just say that he believed in old-school marriage and got pretty wild with the hitting. So anyway, this guy gets whacked for being an asshole—that's another story—so we have a funeral. All the broads get invited, end up arguing over who he loved most in his final moments. This being a funeral with—you know—our kind of people, one of those broads got stabbed and—
The phone vibrated against Ren's hand and made enough of a racket to quiet his head. Cautiously, and hoping to see 'Makoto Niijima' as the ID, Ren picked up the phone. Disappointment set in with bitter disapproval that he'd succumbed to Makoto's lure with barely anything constituting an actual conversation.
At least he could do business with Ryuji. "It's me. We got a problem."
"I'm at Leblanc."
The line clicked. Ryuji and Ren had their communication down to a tee. They'd conducted the same conversation so many times that they'd minimized their speech to only the necessary words. Ryuji would be by soon, they would discuss the problem, then Ryuji would leave with a solution in hand.
As important as the meetings usually were, Ren could barely afford to care. Makoto took him over and he didn't have the slightest clue why. She was a risk, a threat, yet he continued to invite her into his life.
