Author's Notes: Good welcome, everyone! The pinnacle of Persona perfection presents itself yet again! Here we have plot development and fights and even a cat! Where else can you find such a variety of greatness, and all for the low, low price of free? Here, and nowhere else!
And speaking of Persona perfection, in the spirit of the release of Persona 3 Reload, if any of you haven't hit up my fic for P3, Change of Engagement, I invite you to do so. It's a great little tale that, in my humble opinion, still holds up great, and it is complete so you can enjoy everything it has to offer all at once. Pretty cool, right? I know, I'm a giver. No need to thank me.
Though I would like to thank my wonderful reviewers for their kind words:
Nicedoente: Thank you! I do what I can, and sometimes I do it well.
UltimateCCC: Indeed, we're moving right along. Thanks for the review!
A fair amount of work went into this one, and I'm quite glad with how it turned out. Many thanks to Firion for his input and hard work. I hope you guys enjoy it, and I'll see you on March 2nd. Cheers!
Going for a Steal
"We have a way in," Ann listed in her fingers that Sunday, "we know what his weaknesses are, we have the gear we need to steal his Treasure, and we have the element of surprise. Once we send the calling card, we can bring him down."
"We just have to get it to him," Ryuji noted, "when he's behind security and in guarded galleries all the time with the other high-society snobs. And we have to make sure we're not pointin' the finger at ourselves afterward when his people're already lookin' for us. That'll be a challenge."
The team had elected to meet at an outdoor eatery on Central Street in Shibuya to discuss the next step of their plan. All around them were students blowing money at the arcades, couples going to fortune tellers, and collectors hitting up their favorite stores for whatever had come in during the week.
"You're still set on doing this on Saturday at his exhibit?" Morgana asked around some small balls of fish.
"If it's at all possible, yes," Yusuke answered, savoring his sundae.
"We can make a lot of things possible," Akira replied. "We just have to find a way to do this."
They brainstormed ideas from that point on, considering disguises as guards or staff, sneaking in and stealing the painting to replace it with something else, hijacking the museum audio system, or even intercepting Madarame en route to the exhibit. Each idea, despite the similarities to various spy movies and action thrillers, ran into the same problem of execution and escape. They were just students, after all, so the schemes of students were what they were limited to.
After going around in those circles and others, Morgana put in, "It feels like we aren't getting any closer."
Akira nodded. "Agreed, but what do you suggest?"
"I think it's a question of scope. We're too caught up on doing things before or during Madarame's big reveal. We have to think outside of that."
"What other point is there to hit him at?" Ann asked.
"People are at their most vulnerable when they think they've won," the cat pointed out while licking his whiskers. "Leading up to a fight or right in the middle of one, they're on their guard, and that means any plan relies a lot on luck. We don't want to do that, so let's not. That leaves after. He won't be as cautious if he thinks he beat us."
"That works with his personality, and that's also when his security would be down," Akira surmised. "Unless there's an obvious threat or something, to them it will look like just another job."
"That is a good opening," Yusuke noted, "but we still have to deliver the calling card and challenge him, right? And we have to do it when you all have school. The police are already looking for Ann-san and Akira-san. How will you get that close?"
They looked among each other, no immediate answers to be found. Then a kid passing them nearby began playing with a mechanical plush toy. "See, Mom?! It records what you say and talks back to you! It can even do different voices!"
The mother replied with a weary smile, doubtless resigned to the many hours of hijinks her son would get up to with the new acquisition.
Ryuji watched, then an idea dawned in his mind. Kidd whispered of tactics involving decoys, and both Thief and Persona grew matching grins.
7 7 7
May 29th was one of those rare days when Ohya could be found at her desk. She didn't mind being at her desk, figuring that its size and location was proof of some of the stories she'd broken like Himura Sanosuke, a major league pitcher who she proved to have direct ties to the yakuza. Or the 'misuse of funds' in the latest blunder by the Tokyo branch of the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transit and Tourism. Her many best articles were framed and propped up where she could see them, her outdoor shoes for pounding the pavement were well used, and she had no complaints about her life just then.
Except for the fact that, for the first time in a while, there wasn't much to report. Everything going on was either already covered or barred to her, and the boss didn't want her rocking the boat.
The morning dragged, but just before lunch Kasumi, the office secretary, stopped by with the office mail. "Ichiko," she noted, "someone dropped this off for you. I figured I'd bring it up with everything else."
Ohya took what was offered, now curious. It was a simple piece of folded paper, nothing odd about it.
"Another anonymous tip?" Kasumi asked.
"I don't know," Ohya answered. "The person who dropped it off, what did they look like?"
"Probably male, dark hair, dark clothes. He came in and put it on the desk when I was doing something else, and when I looked up he was already leaving. I didn't get a good look at him."
That was no lead at all. Dark hair in Japan was as common as air. "Well, let's see."
Close examination told her very little. The note was printer paper, which could be found anywhere. Her name and nothing more was on the outside, and the message on the inside was made from cut-out letters, no signature or distinguishing marks at all.
The contents, on the other hand, immediately caught her attention:
All the best and hand-picked students of Madarame Ichiryusai: Nakanohara Natsuhiko, Niima Takemoto, Kakimizu Sumitada (deceased), Yaokawa Kaibo, Nitaira Hiruto (deceased), Korekuni Eikei, Sengou Maharu (deceased), Yoshihisa Rinzou, Sakeni Muni (deceased), and Tatekubo Makuro.
Madarame is a plagiarist, and his newest work was stolen from his eleventh protégé, Kitagawa Yusuke.
The unveiling ceremony is on Saturday, June 1st. You might see something there.
Ohya read the card twice more, perking up. Some of the names clicked with the interviews she'd conducted and the facts she'd dug up already, and others were entirely new. For there to be this many more was incredible. For four of them to be dead was revolting. Who would have this kind of information? She couldn't peg who might have sent this even through the process of elimination since she'd spoken to so many people about her theories on Madarame, including those high school kids at the gallery, that it could be any one of them or anyone who'd heard of her.
But if this was something that could lead to a breakthrough…
"Boss," she called over her shoulder. "Did we get access credentials to Madarame Ichiryusai's release event this Saturday?"
"Maybe, let me– wait, why are you asking?"
"I have a lead."
He shot her down. "And you think you're some kisha club hotshot? I know you, Ohya, you'll shoot your mouth off and then we'll never get another interview for any artist ever. Do you know how big Madarame is?"
"You saw my notes on his former students, right? That's a pretty big scandal."
"I also saw that you couldn't prove anything. What, do you think you've got a slam-dunk case on your hands that'll outweigh the business it'll cost us if no one talks to us again because of this?"
She got up and went over to his desk. "You put me on pop culture and entertainment. This counts. And if it's a big enough disaster, then that makes it worth it. Think of the sales we'll make and where this can go."
"On your hunch. With no provable evidence. The answer's no."
She pushed harder. "I won't ask any questions, then. He doesn't have to speak to me and you can check my notes before I write a single word."
"You think I won't?"
"I'm telling you that you can. Want me to sign something?"
Her boss stared at her, then pulled a form out of his desk and slid it to her. She autographed it without hesitation.
"This is your one chance," he warned as he handed her the event pass. "Don't blow it."
"Aye aye, sir."
June 1st was bright and sunny, and she was dressed in her most formal clothes – as formal as she actually got, anyway – and went up to the art gallery where the newest reveal event by Madarame Ichiryusai was about to begin. She went along with the crowds, and when security recognized her she showed them her badge and pass. "Official business, boys. You can call my boss if you like."
They checked her name. "You're known to us," one guard said. "Madarame-sama won't answer your questions."
"Then I won't ask any," she promised. "But I can see what his newest piece is and hear him talk about it, right?"
The other guards leaned in. "That had better be all you do, or we'll drive your puny magazine into the dirt."
She stared him in the eye. "My boss is already vetting my work. You want to see my notes before I leave, too?"
They looked at each other and then the first answered, "We just might. Go on, but we're watching you."
She walked by and was tempted to swing her hips just to mock those words, but decided against it. No sense in giving those jerks a show. She moved in among the attendees and kept an ear to what was being said. Those who knew of her and doctored their words merely expounded on how great Madarame was, but those who were talking freely were saying basically the same thing. Cronies, sycophants and boot lickers. Yes men, one and all, whether they wore skirts or slacks. She found a corner to stake out and wrote some innocuous points on what people were saying, using the margins to make notes in her own shorthand that looked like doodles. Between that and her trained memory, she never needed more than one chance to get a point down.
The man of the hour came, saw her and sneered without looking like he was sneering, and went to the front of the line where the toadies among the official press were located with their audio recorders and cameras. Those were the ones who would ask him softball questions and sooner hang themselves than print an unkind word for fear of losing their exclusive access. A bunch of platitudes were said, each more eager to polish this old guy's ass than the last, and she considered, not for the first time, quitting her job so she didn't have to be associated with these clowns. She went to the snack table and picked at the leftovers where a tall guy in a colorful suit was munching on cheese and olives on toothpicks.
"Pardon me," he said, moving out of her way.
"No, it's okay," she replied. "I just needed a place to be."
"Not with your associates?"
"I'm not one of them," she said, quietly and with venom.
"Ahh, I see. So you are here to avoid the fawning and keep their drool from getting on your shoes."
"Yeah, something like that."
"Most appropriate…" he looked at her name on her press badge. "Ohya Ichiko. I am Mamushi Takashi."
"Nice to meet you."
"Likewise. Ah, the obeisances appear to be wrapping up."
Indeed they were. The attendants had opened the door and were leading everyone in. Ohya was jostled to the side with her new acquaintance, but was still close enough to hear everything.
The museum curator and his cadre of important people and investors went to their spot before the audience, wearing expensive suits and trying to absorb Madarame's prestige by osmosis.
"It is not every day," the curator began, "that we welcome a great, prestigious artist to our halls. The standards are rigorous and the membership quite select, and so even the greats must be a cut above to see their work here." He paused for effect. "That is the case for many others, but not for Madarame-sama. He has been here so often that we have considered making him an honorary staff member."
The audience laughed on cue.
The curator continued. "They say that a frog in a well does not know the ocean, and so those who cannot appreciate Madarame-sama's talent could be seen in the same light. For what in the breadth of this country, coast to coast or even across the sea, can compare to a man who has created so much? And if creation approaches godliness, as any parent can appreciate, then are we not in the presence of near divinity ourselves? Guests, companions and friends, with the greatest humility I offer you Madarame-sama's newest, greatest work."
The curtain was pulled, the crowd gasped, and even Ohya, who saw far more artistry in a double malt whiskey at her favorite watering hole than anything at any gallery, could appreciate that the work was exquisite. A boy in a dark room, staring out a window with something like forlorn hope, and a crack of light on the horizon, so faint that it could be questioned whether it was really there. The title was highly appropriate: Before the Dawn.
She clapped without reservation right along with the others, though for a different reason. If Madarame had stolen this piece like his others, then the real creator – Kitagawa Yusuke, if the note was right – deserved nothing but praise.
Madarame lapped up the accolades, preening in the classy, socially acceptable way of the elite. Hardly fitting for a 'poor, starving artist,' but then he didn't need to pretend by this point; no one was going to call him on it.
A few minutes passed, and before Madarame could make a speech, a staff member rolled a cart up to him, the top covered with a sheet. "Instructions were to bring this out after your work was revealed, sir."
Madarame smiled indulgently. One of his guards checked the cart, then pulled the sheet off.
Cheap party poppers went off, red and black streamers fluttering and twirling around him. A mouse trap snapped and two mechanical plush toys perked up and spoke, one voice male and the other female in their cartoonish audio.
"Madarame Ichiryusai, once known as Madarame Ichitaro, is a sham and a criminal. In his vanity, he has stolen the works of his students and portrayed them as his own. He has taken the credit for art that rightfully belongs to them and then discarded them on the streets once their purpose was served. None have recovered. Some have died. He used these vulnerable people for his own ends, maliciously and with wicked intent, and so the blame for their plight lies entirely with him.
We have found irrefutable evidence of his crimes against these eleven people, but we will make him confess on the widest possible circuit with his own mouth. We will steal his sin and end his stranglehold upon the art world, and all will hear the truth of these crimes and others.
As for you, Madarame Ichitaro, we know the truth about your students and we will ensure that they receive justice for what you did to them. We are the Phantom Thieves of Hearts, and your time has come."
The last echo of the voices faded from the room, and no one so much as breathed or it would have been heard. Ohya perfectly understood why. A challenge like this toward someone of Madarame's stature, the accusation of such crimes at a place where there was no way to filter the message or cut it off, was the sort of directness that this part of society didn't get very often. And there was no mistaking the authenticity of the message since propped up in the middle of the cart, the size of a full sheet of paper, was a design that had emerged in Tokyo only recently: a burning mask and top hat against a red and black background.
The calling card of the Phantom Thieves.
It was at that point that the whispers began, here and there and then everywhere. Empty consolations and support went to Madarame, but he was turning white and red so fast he looked like he might be sick, and had anyone in attendance been sensitive to 'that place,' they would have seen Madarame's Shadow emerge and rage in the place of the original.
"They dare say that to me?! Those ingrates! Those utter vermin! I am Madarame, and no one makes a fool of me! Steal my Treasure, will they?! Hmph. Such filth can come and try. They will find that I am not so easy a mark as to fold because of some mere words. Instead it will be their screams that will echo in the halls of my Museum for eternity!"
But no one heard it. The guards tried to clamp down on everything, the whispers continued, Ohya scribbled her notes, and next to her Mamushi watched and looked upon the many paintings around them and bit into another olive, chewed slowly, and smiled.
7 7 7
Akira left class a few hours later with his gear over his shoulder and Ann and Ryuji in tow. They passed a haggard-looking Mishima in the hallway, none paying him any mind, and then they were out onto the street. They took the now-familiar route to Shibuya and the park by Madarame's shack, finding Yusuke already there hiding in the trees.
They checked their surroundings, nodded decisively, and crossed over.
Madarame's Museum was immediately different from their previous runs. Rather than the electric charge of anticipation for the exhibit's opening day, now there was a predatory sense where every corner and cranny had hunters' eyes. It was the same degree of danger that Kamoshida's Castle had possessed after the calling card was delivered.
"Looks like we're in business," Joker noted with a wild grin. "I would have given a lot to see his face."
"Same here," Skull put in. "If someone was streamin' it then it has to exist online. Think I'll dig it up when we're done here."
Fox shivered, looking around. "Is this what this place is really like?"
"When the Treasure is threatened, yes," Mona replied. "It's how we know they took us seriously."
"None of the line ups are there," Panther observed, "so maybe they're inside waiting for us, guarding the Treasure."
"And huntin' us, if we let any of them see us," Skull added.
Joker tugged his gloves, checked his pistol and made sure his Persona cards were within reach. "Well, let's not keep them waiting."
They nodded, got ready and crept forward. The absence of any crowd at all at the front door was the first big difference from the norm, and the novelty put a tense edge on the Thieves. The news vans were gone and there were roaming security guards along the streets. The team waited for the openings and raced forward, grappling up the Museum side and pulling the ropes up after them. They skirted the skylights, only peeking over twice and with great caution. Both times showed rooms full of Shadows patrolling and itching for a fight.
They got to their marked air duct and slid down as quietly as possible. The catwalks above the Treasure were clear, but that might have also been because the Treasure was covered by a sheet as one might do with a valuable painting. There it sat in the middle of the display room, the prize of the Palace.
"No security?" Fox asked. "This can't be right."
"Either Madarame thinks his guards are enough," Joker replied, "or it's a trap. But there's only one way to find out."
"Let's do this," Panther urged.
Mona stopped them with a paw, sniffing the air and rotating his ears. "Wait. This isn't the same as before."
"How can you tell?"
"Treasures feel a certain way. How they sound and smell, it's distinct. I'm not picking up anything like that here." The cat looked around, stopping on a section of the wall. "He probably baited us with a trap, and if we grab it we're going to get locked in or swarmed. He thinks we're as caught up on our egos as he is on his. Let me check something."
Mona roped down from the catwalk and padded around the room, minding the floor for wires or pressure plates and checking the most and least obvious places for anything different. He scored, pressing a hidden button and waving them down, then nudging Joker to help open the hidden door. Once they did, Joker could feel the Treasure's presence. Mona was right, the real thing had an indescribable authenticity to it that cheap tricks couldn't conceal. They had it.
Or they would once they got through the grated metal door and the two complex locks in front of them.
Mona had his picks in paws and went to work. He nodded to the other side of the door where the second lock was set. "You've been practicing, right Joker? Get to work."
Joker smirked. Mouthy little fur ball as always, but that was a hard challenge to turn down. Arsene guided him more than in the real world, and while he wasn't as swift as Mona he was still competent enough to crack what he had in front of him. The cat held off so they could open the locks at the same time, and the door gave way and swung open to reveal a small, secure treasury.
The Thieves entered and Fox froze. "Sayuri," he breathed.
There was the same portrait that Joker and Panther had seen in Madarame's secret room, but this copy was filled in. The woman felt more real here, more alive with the signs of care and wear on her face, the infinite tenderness in her eyes directed at a nestled infant in her arms. No mystery like what the copies capitalized on, no cynical sense of holding back to speak of.
"Who was she?" Skull asked in hushed tones, for such were fitting for such a sight.
Joker touched the frame of the portrait and the Treasure shed its golden light, forming a vision for them.
A young artist, abroad in the city seeking inspiration to make a point to his materialistic master, stopped in a park and saw this woman out with her baby. No man with her, no family or friends nearby, no ring on her finger, all she had was her child. But that child was her universe, and the fires of inspiration consumed the artist. He sketched her, drew for hours after she left until he was working by the light of the overheard lamps. When the police came by to tell him to leave, he ignored them. When muggers found him, he threw his wallet at them and continued. It wasn't until the break of dawn that he finished, capturing the essence of what he'd seen. He never caught the woman's name, never saw her again, and return visits to the park yielded nothing on her. Sayuri was the name that most fit her, and it was certain to be enough to satisfy his master. This time he would see.
The vision faded and they all knew what had happened next. Madarame's instructor hadn't been swayed, had instead discarded this work of passion for the certain security of a scam, and what could have been the great work of Madarame Ichitaro became the split that birthed Madarame Ichiryusai. Once the altered version of Sayuri became the mainstream, the original was shredded and burned, existing only here as the reminder of one man's fall to vanity.
"What a waste," Skull muttered. "Havin' it hard is somethin', but sellin' out right down to the core when you were on the right track the whole time…"
"This is where he cracked," Mona observed. "Everything he has is built on this one lie. How terrified he must be of letting this out – he really has nothing at all of his own."
Fox shook his head. "This was the man I wanted to learn from, someone who believed so strongly in himself that he would bring down the heavens to channel his art. That was how he seemed at first. How appropriate, that he should plagiarize even himself to be something he isn't."
Mona took the portrait down, gently and with great care, and slid it into its nearby carrying sleeve, then grabbed and gave out the stash of other gems and treasures stored with the painting. When he was done, he turned and nodded, saying "Let's go."
They left the side chamber, squared their shoulders, and headed out the front of the vault.
"Are we ready?" Joker asked.
The others nodded, but Fox asked, "For what?"
They came to the exhibit leading to the vault and overhead spotlights snapped on. Shadows materialized, guards approached, and the golden mockery of the Museum's master stepped forward.
"To deal with him," Joker stated.
Madarame's Shadow looked offended. "Hmph! Deal with me?! You're brazen, little Thieves, coming here and stealing from me!"
"Thanks for saving us the trouble of looking for you," Fox noted, clearing the tanka of his sword.
"Yusuke. What a shame. But if this is your path, then I can only encourage it. Your friends have chosen destruction, and you will choose subjugation at my feet after you beg for forgiveness."
"Careful," Mona warned.
Fox demanded, "Beg for forgiveness? You think I'll just magically obey you again?!"
Madarame intoned, "Yes, Kitagawa Yusuke. You will obey."
Fox doubled over, clutching at his head. The words of the Shadow crashed into him, ripping past his defenses and buckling his resolve. "No…" he grit out, but the words faltered.
"We've got you, Fox!" Mona declared, pulling his sword free. "He'll have to go through us first."
"All of us," Joker vowed, glowing blue.
Madarame smirked. "Challenge accepted." He snapped his fingers. "Eliminate them."
The Shadows closed in hard, and the Phantom Thieves met them.
One side of the battle detonated in flames. The Shadows were smart enough to advance behind riot shields or the cooking corpses of their own. Carmen manifested behind Panther, guiding the girl's shots in arcs that bypassed the defenses and struck true, then caught and burned whatever was nearby. The carpet at her feet and the art on the walls around her sparked aflame, feeding her even as Madarame screamed in rage. His image wavered, and he painted furiously on an easel to replace the fakes she incinerated.
Skull covered a second side, wading into the melee with pipe and boomstick. Blasts and beatings blew the Shadows back, and his mask had darkened to the likeness of a thundercloud, lightning forking up the face as he supercharged himself to fight like a demon. His reaction times were faster than ever, he hit with the force of a storm, and he knew that the wariness on the faces of the Shadows was all due to him.
In that handful of moments, humming with voltage and killing fury, his bad leg responded to his commands. He could move, roll and fight the same as he used to – better than he used to – and he felt alive again.
In the middle, Joker and Mona twisted and tumbled in a teamwork tactic of both offense and defense. One struck, the other covered, then they shifted around the attacks or fired shots and formed a moving, fluid shield that kept the enemy guessing and Fox safe. Personas were summoned and blows were landed with ferocity, and they gave no ground.
Combined, the efforts of the four slowed the Shadows, then stopped them entirely. Hits were taken and wounds were suffered, but the Thieves fought with bloody-minded fervor and intensity leant to them by their conviction and their long hours of practice.
Until Madarame took up his brush, painted himself a parasol, and opened the sprinkler system.
Water rained down on them, dousing Panther's flames instantly. Even with the force of a Persona behind it, fire was still fire, and with her flames banked and fuel drenched, even Carmen couldn't fight back.
Almost as bad, Skull and the ground around him were soaked. The electricity he'd been charging himself with went wild, draining him and arcing at the others. He had to retreat to Fox's position and shut his powers down before he was pinned. Without the necessary support, Joker and Mona fell back until they were shoulder to shoulder with their allies, backs to the proverbial wall.
The Shadows advanced, and while Panther tried to brute force her way past the water, even cooking the air around her and radiating steam in raw heat, she was in trouble. Mona went to her and called the winds to push the water back, but the weight of it all dragged him down.
Joker called on his Personas and fought the Shadows, but caught sight of the sprinklers on the ceiling. Fighting until he caught an opening, he pulled his pistol, aimed, and fired at the ceiling in one smooth motion. Two or three shots each turned scattered showers into focused streams. Panther radiated heat to dry them out a bit, but couldn't call on a tenth of her fury yet, leaving Skull to fire and reload his sawed-off as fast as he could, buying the others time to realign and fight.
Getting soaked had done one thing in their favor. Fox staggered and moved as though carrying a bullet train, but he shook his head and stared with growing malevolence at Madarame's Shadow. "You would go this far… when you are nothing but a fake?!"
Madarame grunted. "Authenticity is determined by the viewer, Yusuke. So long as people say I am the real thing, who are you to argue?"
"I'm the rightful creator of something you stole! I and the other artists you've defrauded!"
"You speak against the one whom the people have decided is correct. They will follow and support their idol, no matter who says otherwise." Madarame turned and called over his shoulder, "Isn't that right?"
The walls of the Museum went murky and black, then reformed into audience stands like at a sports stadium. Faceless figures filled the seats while facsimiles of Madarame's students – the useful idiots who hadn't been burned by him because they had nothing to contribute – led the cheers. "Madarame! Madarame! MADARAME!"
The noise echoed and grew, rolling in on itself and hammering the Thieves on the level of physical pain. Mona covered his ears, as did the others, and the Shadows advanced.
Fox ground his teeth together. "Even against the world, we stand. We are right, and you… you are wrong, Madarame!"
Fox's voice countered the sonic assault for a second, and he slammed his hands into the ground. The temperature plummeted and locked solid the water around them. Ice erupted along the floor and up to the sprinklers, jamming them shut. It then arced up the sides of the room between the crowds and the Thieves, cutting the noise down and granting them a reprieve. The sudden loss of warmth drove the fans back to seek shelter – imitations of people still acted like people, and sub-zero temperatures were threatening to all of them.
Shaking from ringing ears and the absence of the noise, the Thieves stood again and regained their footing, ready for the fight again.
The Shadows had changed, though. They weren't just guards now. The people from outside had arrived, and all wore blinders like what would be seen on a horse. Moving as one, without any clear thought or intent of their own, they attacked and tried to swarm the Thieves with their numbers, rushing to overwhelm with no thought of safety or wounds.
The answer was unbridled force in return. Joker and Mona fought and shot back as fast as they could. Freezing the water and air had dried it out in a flash, giving Panther the chance to burn hot and bright once more. She ignited everything around her and fed the flames, aiming high to ignite the art on the walls to give her a contingency if needed. Skull fought wherever he was needed, which was almost everywhere, humming with power and killing intent and he beat and blew his way into the melee. Fox drew his blade and joined them now, struggling against the suppression field and cutting into the Shadow ranks with merciless efficiency. He flashed here and there, fitting in with the Thieves and making up the difference against their foes.
The Shadows didn't just bleed as they died now. The muck they usually dissolved into or the blood they spewed was now ink or paint, and Madarame waved his brush about like a conductor's baton to command it. Blades and spears, snapping jaws and swinging clubs and ensnaring whips or ropes, formed from the fluids and now assailed the team. The Thieves bit down their pain and used Takemi-sensei's meds to stay in the fight. Fox lashed out to freeze some of them and Skull arced lightning into them to fry them fast, filling the air with the reek of ion and burnt muck.
But stopping the attacks wasn't enough. Madarame spun his canvas to show them. The lines and colors of an ancient Japanese scroll painting warped and writhed, then bulged outward into the Museum as ink and Shadow goop swirled and coalesced into a monster made manifest. It was a giant oni, complete with armor and club and steel mask, ready to kill for its master.
"Anything is real," Madarame instructed, "if it is in front of you. What you see, hear and feel. If your senses tell you this, why would you disagree? The same is true here. Just ask your body when your bones break and your flesh tears – you will beg me for death when he is done with you."
The demon attacked and the Thieves scattered. Panther was limping and had to put room between her and the attacker, and it knew her to be the greatest threat and rushed her. Mona tried to distract it, but it brushed him aside, and Joker's attacks impacted its armor but didn't break through. It was an unstoppable mass of muscle and malice, its eyes glowing red as it turned and attacked, dodging strikes and sending them tumbling or ducking from fatal blows. It was faster than it had any right to be, and it knew which targets to prioritize. That would have been bad enough alone, but the other Shadows continued to pick at their flanks, and without the attention to spare them, the Thieves were stuck bleeding or scrambling under that huge club.
Fox cut and ducked and then spoke to Skull and got a nod. Skull stepped between the demon and Panther as she fired on it. The demon grunted in fury and rushed forward. Skull stood in its way, pipe up in a block as he supercharged himself so much his muscles were cramping and multicolored light flashed before his eyes. Fox raised ice around Skull to bolster his defenses.
The demon took the invitation and swung with both hands.
Its club smashed into the ice, blowing through it and arcing down onto Skull's pipe. The Thief shook under the force of the blow, felt even that diminished force through his whole body. His arms nearly sheared from his shoulders. His leg creaked and rebelled against such force, bending and giving out despite Skull's adamant will. For an instant, Skull was back in school on that day, on the ground as Kamoshida loomed over him. He saw that son of a bitch, watched as his foot came down, and felt the hammer blow above his knee. Then as now, his force of will cracked in the face of such great malice, but he dug as deep as he ever had and stood fast.
This time, it was just enough. The club stopped, and the oni flinched as lightning ran up the weapon and cooked its hands. The demon snarled, drew back again, readied the club for a killing sweep–
–then shrieked in pain as Fox sliced into its calf. He'd used Skull as a distraction and gotten behind his foe, cutting to cripple. A slice to a hamstring and a thrust into the opposite knee, then a vicious twist and a yank out sent blood and ink everywhere. The oni swung at him desperately, but Fox ducked the blow and cut deeper yet, bringing the beast down. Nothing bipedal could stand with those injuries. Joker and Mona raced in to cut and blast where they could, and Panther brought her flames to bear on the beast's unguarded side. It couldn't fend off any one of the attacks, stumbled forward with a roar–
–which was cut off by Skull jamming his shotgun into its mouth. "You lose," he grit out, and squeezed the trigger twice. Two blasts, almost simultaneous, thundered through the room, and brain matter and gore showered the Thieves and the walls. Its wounds gushed open, the force of Madarame's will no longer enough to hold them closed, then erupted as it morphed back into ink and paint that circled them in a half dome. Colors shifted in a kaleidoscope of cityscapes and wildernesses that wavered and warped, from crowds of people so real that they moved right up to the Thieves before vanishing to forests accompanied by the scent of pine to coral sites underwater accompanied by the crushing pressure of the water.
"He's caught us," Mona bit out as the scenery shifted to a battlefield. "Don't swing, we don't know what's really there."
"Or who," Skull added. "Is he gonna copy us, too? Try to make us attack each other?"
Joker moved until he was touching the others. "Backs to backs," he answered. "Don't let him show you any lies, and don't attack unless you know what you're hitting."
They did so, but the scenes were as real as life, and the foes lunged and snarled like Shadows really would. The blows came in from all angles, almost too fast to block, and they took the hits rather than leave their allies unguarded. "Anyone got a way out?" Panther asked shakily.
Fox watched the scenes change again and again, then looked at his blade. "In all things, purpose," he recited. "As the mind stills, the heavens reveal. Through superiority, harmony; through harmony, justice."
His sword iced over, giving it a silvery mirror sheen. He spoke in Taoist haiku of emptiness and the flow of water to the sea, then, between one breath and the next, lunged and cut through a shrine wall.
Except the wall wavered and buckled, broke in on itself, and rather than crush them under tonnes of rock and structure, the images dropped like so much paint, splattering everywhere.
And it stayed inert this time, for Fox had not only cut through the thread maintaining the illusion, but through Madarame's brush as well.
The Shadow reached for another, but Fox was on him, smacking the tool aside and punching him hard in the face. Amidst the curses and bloody nose, Fox punched him again, and again and again to knock him down. He stomped on Madarame' painting hand to break the fingers, then stood over him with the edge of his blade to the Shadow's neck.
The Museum went quiet except for the pained pants of the Thieves, and after checking their surroundings one more time they approached.
The Shadow held its free hand up in surrender. "Yusuke, my boy–"
"Don't call me that," Fox growled, fully free of the Shadow's suppression field. "I'm not falling for your tricks."
"You've proven your point, and your version of the truth is the right one. Clearly, or you wouldn't have won."
Fox's hand tightened and shook on his sword. "My version of the truth? Did you truly just say that? You think the truth is fickle enough to decide on the victor through force of combat?"
"Is it not?" It wasn't a taunt, but a question.
"Are you so deluded that you think I won because my truth was better? What does that even mean? Your victims suffered because of you, and you're a manipulative monster. All those days and nights I worked, all those classes, all that crap you told me that could have made me the same as those people who are now dead, you think that's all just a whim of the fates?!"
The Shadow watched him without guile or presumption now, its flaws clear right to the very core of its character.
"This is too much to take," Fox vented, his sword trembling with faint restraint. "Filth like this shouldn't exist, not in this world or any other."
Joker stepped up next to him, hand out in warning. "Don't kill him."
Fox spun on him. "Why not?! You heard this thing, how it thinks and what it would do to us! What it has done to us and so many other people! It's beyond redemption! Why should it live?!"
"Shadows are the warped, broken parts of the human mind," Joker explained. "They're the worst sides of ourselves cranked up to eleven. They're not meant to be redeemed, and you'll go crazy if you try to find a positive trait in any of them. But this is still Madarame's heart. If you kill him here, you kill him on our side."
Fox grated his teeth. "For what he's done… he has the lawyers to get away with it. The social clout, the political support. Even if we make him confess, what will the impact be? What prison time will he serve?"
"Dude," Skull put in, "I get what you're thinkin' – we felt the same way with our last mark – but this ain't right."
"Yes, Yusuke," Madarame beseeched, "listen to them."
Fox whirled. "SHUT UP! Why should you live when four people are dead?! Good men with hopes and dreams, artists better than you ever were, gone and cold in the ground! The lives you've ruined, the damage you've caused, what could balance that out?!"
"Nothing can," Mona answered. "That's why he has to pay for it for the rest of his life. He can't get away from what he's done, he can't lie about it even to himself, so he's going to face all the damage he's caused and the lies he's told up to now and he'll never get away from them. Never, Fox."
"That's even worse than what Kamoshida did, in a way," Panther remarked. "Madarame has nothing outside of his lies, remember? When this crumbles, so does everything he has or ever was, and all his supporters will probably trip over themselves to throw him away so they aren't dragged down with him."
Fox trembled. He shook so hard his teeth rattled, and his sword was one cut from ending Madarame's existence then and there. But through a titanic force of will against his own sense of justice and revenge, he leaned back, then stepped back once, twice and then more until he was out of striking range. "All right," he finally said. "We'll do it the right way. But you," he commanded of the Shadow, "will return to our world. You will admit what you have done, you will repent, and you will suffer the consequences of this for the rest of your life. I hope it's as long as humanly possible."
The Shadow rose to its feet. "I understand. I will return, and I will repent." It glowed bright until its outline disappeared, then vanished.
A collective sigh went through the Thieves. Then Mona told them, "Let's get going before this place falls apart on us."
Fox looked surprised. "That can happen?"
Joker nodded. "It's about to. Madarame was all that was keeping this place stable – it's his world, right?"
Panther was leaning on Skull and Joker helped Fox back to the rope up to the catwalk. It wasn't until they were on the roof when the whole building started shaking. They ran faster than their injuries would normally allow, dashing madly for the exit and making jumps that would have definitely hurt more if the adrenaline weren't pumping through them.
But the fractures of light appeared on the edge of the Museum, and the Thieves tumbled through and back into their world.
Akira rolled on the landing, then grunted as Morgana collided with him at the chest. The others sprawled or stumbled on the playground sand, but they all made it through. Luckily there was no one there to see them appear from nowhere.
It was a few minutes before they caught their breath. Akira got up and handed around water to his crew and they recovered as best they could. They all touched phantom wounds and winced, favored one foot or found something to lean on and moved very carefully. Ryuji in particular was gritting his teeth, keeping off his bad leg and clutching it with a fist, turning so it didn't seem as obvious.
"What now?" Yusuke asked after he caught his breath.
"We rest and recover, first," Morgana answered. "Those hits we took 'over there' will take some time to heal, even if you aren't bleeding from them."
"He's not kiddin'," Ryuji added. "Those'll hurt hard soon, like your body knows there's a problem but you can't fix it yourself."
"Then we wait for Madarame to confess," Akira finished. "Kamoshida only took a few days, so hopefully we'll see or hear something soon."
"Until then you should stay in hiding," Ann suggested. "No knowing what the cops will do until we're sure you're in the clear."
Yusuke nodded. "Wise words. I will do that. I don't think I will have trouble sleeping tonight."
"Maybe," Ryuji warned. "Keep in touch, yeah? Actually, I'll walk ya back. I know how much it takes outta ya."
"Thank you."
Those two went off one direction, Ryuji limping harder than usual, and Akira, Ann and Morgana left down a different route. They avoided Madarame's neighbors to keep from being recognized, made slow but steady time to the train terminal. Ann winced as she moved, popping meds to take the edge off the pain of being beaten and doused and chilled to the bone, and to take the edge off the blooming migraine from pushing Carmen as hard as she had. "I need to train more if we're going to keep doing this," she noted to the two, "or we need to up our tactics or something. Fights like that are murder if we're not ready for them. And how can we be? It's not like we could have known what Madarame would throw at us."
"Agreed," Morgana put in. "A new Thief will help with that, but we'll need to work better as a team if we don't want to get seriously hurt. Will Ryuji be okay? He didn't look good, and he's trying to hide how bad he was hurt."
"I'll call him later," Akira promised. He was considering the local hot spring that had opened up in Yongen-Jaya. If it eased tension and helped with injuries like the advertisements said, he'd offer it to his friend and the others. "He might not take any help, but I'll at least try."
"Thanks," Ann said. "He can be stubborn when it comes to his leg."
Once they were on the train, Akira advised, "Let's keep an eye on Madarame if we can. Kamoshida made a big production, so I wonder how far Madarame will go."
"He's got a lot of resources," she noted. "Might be even bigger than we expect. It'll be good to see if this all holds true, too. I don't doubt your instructions, Morgana, but it's all still really new to us."
The cat nodded. "I understand. It will work, and then Yusuke will be able to get back to his life."
"That's the hope," Akira answered. "Get some rest and we'll see what happens. Hopefully it's soon."
7 7 7
As it turned out, 'soon' was four days later. Wednesday, July 5th was a normal day in the middle of the week for the Thieves. They'd mostly recovered from their injuries, caught up on their sleep, and were on lunch break, chatting in the hall, when ripples of conversation went through the students. Something about a press conference, some big deal from someone important.
Ryuji stomped up to one group of gossipers and asked, "What gives?"
"You know anything about art, Sakamoto?" one student mocked.
"Some, yeah."
A second noted, "Well, I doubt you know who Madarame Ichiryusai is, but he's scheduled to make a big announcement. Someone accused him of lying and plagiarism over the weekend so now he's going to reply. Probably gonna sue those idiots into the ground."
"Really? Who's carryin' the interview?"
"Why? You want to watch it?"
"Let him," the first student said. "Not like he'll get it anyway."
The students laughed, Ryuji cussed them out and left, but he passed the link onto Ann and Akira. Morgana popped out and they watched on their phones, reading the headlines on the bottom of the screen, Famous Artists Calls for Emergency Press Meeting. They shared a look, sent Yusuke a message, huddled further into a corner and watched.
A few minutes in, a disheveled Madarame dragged himself onto the stage. He looked terrible. Rumpled clothes, unshaven and gray skin, bent and bowed like he was bearing the weight of Atlas and eyes that had the same haunted look as Kamoshida. He ignored the announcer and the preliminary questions, came to the live mic, and spoke with none of his usual urbane class or polish. He sounded drained. Empty.
"Recently," he began, "I was accused of crimes most heinous for an artist. Plagiarism, theft, the abuse of those under my care. People defended me, or refused to print the matter because they believed I… because they believed me…"
He shuddered and wept, leaning on his elbows.
"I did it," he admitted, looking up and showing the camera and audience the naked self-loathing on his face. "I did all of it and more. I stole from my instructor. I stole from my students for more than thirty years. All my best works were theirs, all my accolades are theirs, and some were… were so traumatized by what I did that they took their own lives. They killed themselves! They're dead, because of me! Gods, what have I done?!"
By now the three could see other camera feeds. Some involved reporters madly scribbling down notes, others caught TV producers and officials yelling into phones to shut the live feed down. But the next few minutes were all Madarame needed as he continued. "It's all fake! I am a fake! All I have done and been credited for is not mine! Even my name is false, a creation that means nothing now! I ask– no, I demand that I be remanded for my crimes! I cannot – I will not – be free with these sins on my hands! I demand incarceration! There must be justice for what I have done! Arrest me!"
People tried to wave the cameras away or urge Madarame off the stage, but like Kamoshida he clung to the podium and microphones, shouting his guilt louder. A few seconds later the live feed went dead.
The four were silent, but for different reasons than their peers down the hallway. Mutterings of the Phantom Thieves began, and the comments on the webpage hosting the news conference brought up the calling card. Mention was made of how the art gallery exhibition was crashed by the Thieves, and in minutes the connections were made to Kamoshida's case at Shujin.
Yusuke sent them a message then. Not in words, but a simple thumbs-up emoji, and that said it all for them.
News of Madarame's confession spread like wildfire that day. Chatter and exaggeration in classrooms and hallways aggravated the teachers, making teaching basically impossible. Threats of more homework or detention fell on deaf ears as students found a recording of the challenge sent to the art gallery, playing and replaying it over and over. By the end of the day the teachers gave up trying to get through to their wards and sent them home in disgust. The student body was electric with supposition, with many mentioning the Phan Site and commenting on the Admin's indignant post regarding being detained by the police. Others were looking at the logo of the Phantom Thieves, asking art students if they could recreate it for posterity.
But the four real Thieves moved through the nonsense and noise like normal. They stuck together, got their things and left, and right before they went their separate ways for the day, they looked at each other. Morgana was out of his bag, nodding proudly at them, and Akira said it simply: "Good work."
7 7 7
Shortly after that time, Ohya had the recording of Madarame's livestream running on repeat on her phone. She had finished summing up her interviews and notes, the first of several articles she had planned as she dug deeper into the scandal that would rock the art world. Already she could imagine the rats fleeing the ship as it took on water, whether those vermin were high society or her peers who had published praise for Madarame for years. But her work was ready for the editor's office, the first publication to run the story and tell the truth.
It felt good to do right by those guys who confided in her and got the ball rolling. She could finally pay them back.
But as she got up and went over to her boss's desk, what she had to say didn't involve "I told you so." That was a waste of time that could be used for more interviews and digging deeper into this scandal. What she did say as he looked at her warily was simply, "I want the lead on this. Let me off the leash. Please."
She even bowed respectfully to make her point.
Her boss sighed. "A story this big, we can't ignore it. Everyone's going to speculate, but you've got the goods to go the distance. But there'll be hell to pay for this, you know. Even monsters have their fan clubs, and they'll try to drag you down the first chance you give them."
"They'll try," she agreed. "But they'll fail. What do the guys upstairs say?"
"That being on the cutting edge of a story like this is ink that will make us money. They say to harvest rice while the weather holds."
"And what do you say?"
He folded his fingers. "I say you're tap dancing through a minefield, taking the front of the charge like this. This might be your story first, and I know you put a lot into it before anyone else ever heard about it, but do you still want to do it?"
"Yes. Madarame's victims deserve justice. So do those kids attacked by that Olympic teacher from... Shujin, wasn't it? Maybe bleeding news is leading news, but if I can get to the bottom of this and bring attention to the problem, maybe help the victims, then I will. Whatever the cost."
"I figured you'd say that."
He watched her and she said nothing, just waited expectantly.
Finally he sighed again, this time with a smile. "Well, get to work. Your articles won't write themselves."
Her smile matched his. "I'm on it."
7 7 7
The recording of Madarame's confession played on a loop elsewhere in Tokyo the following day, specifically the office of one Niijima Sae. She examined the footage for any indication of falsehood, any show that Madarame Ichiryusai, a foundational player in the arts and culture world of the country, hadn't just sunk his own career in a singular move that surpassed Pearl Harbor. She'd even contacted the man's head of security to see if he'd been coerced, bribed or blackmailed to make this recording, anything to indicate that what she was seeing was a joke.
She came up with nothing. All she had to work with was that Madarame-san had been fuming about his exhibit being crashed one day, and then reclusive and deeply remorseful the next. None of his calls or visitors could explain this change of heart while his emails showed nothing that remotely resembled evidence. The next thing anyone knew, he'd arranged this press conference while telling no one what he planned, and then made his confession to the entire country and beyond. By then, the damage had been done. Entire galleries were now being examined for the authenticity of their contents, numerous boards of directors were in upheaval as everyone tried to shift the blame for propping up a man who turned out to be a sham, and the market value of art was in the greatest state of flux in Japan's history.
Sae tapped her finger on the printed photos on her desk. There were three of them. Two were the transcripts of the messages sent to Madarame-san and one Kamoshida Suguru, and the third was the image of a top hat above a burning mask, all courtesy of a webpage called the Phan Site.
The notion of the Phantom Thieves had been laughable the first time around. Sae had told Makoto that it was just some glory hounds taking credit for premium blackmail material, the result of which was Kamoshida-san confessing in front of his entire school. A one-off event, odd but not indicative of a trend. This second hit, however, spoke of intent and an emerging pattern. Not only was Madarame-san someone of even higher standing, but the heinousness of his crimes matched that of Kamoshida-san, and now the police were coming under fire from both enraged family members of Madarame-san's students and art investors, all who wanted answers for how this had flown under the radar for so long. This reinforced the vitriol of the parents of Kamoshida-san's victims who saw it as a growing trend of malfeasance, or even incompetence, on the part of law enforcement. The public were demanding to know where their tax dollars were going if justice wasn't being served.
Sae shook her head and got to her feet in a huff. Justice. What a joke. The Phantom Thieves were charlatans playing on the tired notion that both good people and bad got what they deserved. That was the intent of the legal system, but the public conveniently forgot that they had a court of law, not a court of justice. Rules were made by the victor, and what mattered most was outcomes that reinforced those rules. No system could be perfect, and so some people simply fell through the cracks. Such was life, and life didn't care who you were, what you'd gone through or what you had to do to put food on the table and keep a roof over your head. When the chips were down, all that mattered was the results and what people were willing to do to get them.
Otherwise someone would be invited to get bogged down in morals and concepts like justice. They would get caught with their head in the clouds and never think of what would happen if they got a different outcome from what they wanted, or of who would be left behind if they failed.
Sae turned to look at a picture frame on the book cabinet in the corner of her office. The frame was empty, the only one she had, and just looking at it left her tasting bile.
"Not like that," she whispered to the empty room. "I won't end up like that."
Author's Notes, Post Script: There was a culture-specific term in this chapter, so I'll explain it so no one's too confused. Unlike the notion of free press in North America, in Japan the press is subject to the approval of the government and the interviewees. Asking an uncomfortable question or printing something a company doesn't like can have that outlet blacklisted from that company's events or limited in what they are allowed to ask. The 'approved' journalists are part of what's called a Kisha Club (kisha kurabu), basically a collective of reporters that ask softball questions and print what is palatable to keep their access privileges.
This has the obvious problem of the press not reporting anything that might cost them their exclusive access. Government officials and business people know each other so a negative story can cost a reporter's parent company advertisers, prestige, the chance to be first pick at an event or to even ask any questions at the events they are invited to, and so on. As a result, there are cases of 'open secrets' regarding criminal activity that the press know about but are too afraid to report because of the possible backlash. One such example is Johnny Kitagawa, an entertainment mogul who sexually abused his male pop idols until his death in July 2019 because the victims were too afraid for their careers to come out about it and the press didn't dig into the allegations in the first place.
When Ohya's boss is grilling her on Madarame's event, it's because of this fear of being shut out of yet more events thanks to her snooping around. In a hypercompetitive market, media outlets need advertising revenue and stuff that sells, which includes pop stars and idols making appearances in their shows or magazines. Being a rabble rouser is a good way to be passed over for those opportunities. For those interested in this, I encourage you to read up on it – I found it really informative.
