You and Mariko make it back to your neighborhood without incident, and when her aunt answers the door, she lets out a relieved gasp and clutches her niece tightly. Mariko grimaces, but doesn't protest. Assuming that the things the Dreamweaver said were true, she's probably feeling somewhat bittersweet about how things turned out. All she wanted was to avoid causing others distress, and now everyone's hanging all over her. "Sorry," you say, but Mariko's expression softens and she shakes her head. It's fine, she mouths.
Her aunt, thinking you were talking to her, steps forward. "You don't have to apologize for anything, Tetsuo. I can't tell you how grateful I am that you were able to find her and that everything turned out all right." You and Mariko exchange a glance. "All right" is an extremely liberal summary of what the two of you just went through, but there's no way she'd know that. Her gaze returns to Mariko.
"Come on inside, get something to eat, and go to bed. I'm going to go ahead and let your father know what happened."
Mariko's eyes suddenly go wide and she cries, "No!" Her aunt shakes her head and purses her lips.
"Sorry, but you know the deal. If anything happens to you, he wants to know. That was part of the agreement for letting you stay in the first place." She places her hands on her hips, taking that familiar "displeased adult" stance. "You know, you're awfully lucky that he didn't make me put you on the first bus home the instant you showed up at the door. He would have been justified in doing so, if you ask me. He had no idea where you'd gone, and I had no idea you were coming."
Mariko's eyes fall to her shoes, and she mumbles something that sounds like an apology. You feel bad for her. If her aunt had any clue what she'd just been through, she wouldn't be giving her an earful right now. You decide to speak up.
"Hey, listen...it's not really her fault. I asked her to meet me for ramen in the city after school and forgot to give her the address for the place. If her phone hadn't died, this whole thing wouldn't have happened. It was just one of those weird accidents, and everything turned out okay in the end, right?" you say, talking to her aunt but looking at Mariko. Fortunately, she picks up on what you're doing and pipes up.
"You know I would have called to let you know I'd be home a little later if I could have. I was actually trying to find a pay phone to use when I ran into Tetsuo-kun, but, you know, how many pay phones are there nowadays? Anyhow, I wasn't hurt, and it'll never happen again, so do you really need to bother Dad?"
You're impressed. For such a sweet girl, she lies really easily. Of course, there's no way she could have told the truth, either (if she remembers any of it). In this case, reality is stranger than fiction.
Mariko's aunt casts a somewhat skeptical glance between you two.
"So that's what happened, huh?" The both of you nod and she sighs deeply. "All right, then. I suppose I may have overreacted a bit. If nobody got hurt, then that's what matters." She cracks a wan smile. "Besides, no sense in stressing him out if there's nothing to stress out about. He does a good enough job of that himself. Now come on inside. If you're really fine, then you still have school tomorrow. Chop chop," she says, and lifts her arm off of the doorframe to let Mariko inside. Mariko pauses and turns back to you with a grateful smile before disappearing around a corner and out of sight.
Once she's gone, her aunt drops her smile and pinches her temple between her index finger and thumb. Letting her cheeks puff out, she exhales long and loud, letting herself collapse against the doorframe. From the back pocket of her jeans she withdraws a carton of cigarettes, and with the other hand, she conjures a small, plastic lighter seemingly out of nowhere. With the practiced air of someone who's been through this routine a number of times, she flicks the underside of the cardboard until one pops out, ignites the lighter on her first try, and holds it up to the cigarette until it smolders a bright orange. Bringing it to her lips, she takes a deep drag, craning her neck upwards to blow the smoke away from your face. The acrid-smelling wisps rise silently into the deepening twilight, little specters reminiscent of a nightmare that suddenly seems so very distant.
"Sorry, hope you don't mind if I smoke," she says, despite the fact that it's too late for you to say no.
"It's okay," you lie, trying to choke back a cough that's rising in your throat.
"I'm trying to quit, you know. It's just that…life is making it awfully hard to. So when I say that I'm grateful to you for looking out for my niece, I really mean it. I don't want to sound cold-hearted, but we really have enough to worry about without having to deal with another kid…" she trails off and takes another drag of the cigarette. "No warning, no letter, no call even…just out of the blue she shows up and says she wants to stay with us, and I have no idea what to do but invite her in. She's family, what can I do? Then I call him up to ask 'What's going on?' and he blows up at me because he thinks she's at school and all the while no one wants to tell me what's going on…" Another puff of the cigarette, a small glowing beacon in the advancing darkness. Her aunt sighs and shakes her head.
"She's hard-headed, just like my brother, but neither of 'em will admit it. She's fortunate she caught us while we were home for a while, so it's not that much of an inconvenience. I do owe him a favor, so we'll put her up until one of them apologizes to the other. Until then, I don't suppose you'd mind just keeping an eye on her, would you? I hate to impose, but it at least seems like you're getting along."
You can understand where she's coming from – to some extent, she reminds you a lot of your mother – but that's one request you can't accept.
"No can do," you say, and press on before Mariko's aunt can interject. "I can be her friend, but not her watchdog. She's pretty tough – honestly, I don't think she needs one."
"Is that so?" Her aunt seems caught in between bemusement and irritation. "You guys are just teenagers. Right now you probably think there's nothing in the world you can't handle. Sorry to tell you this, kid, but reality's a little harsher than that." She removes the cigarette from her mouth and extinguishes it on the doorframe, dropping the butt into an ashtray on a small, wooden table just inside the door. "Nevertheless, you may have a point. Perhaps if she has herself a little social life here, it might help her calm down a little. As long she's making good friends, then I suppose that satisfies me."
Straightening back up, she suppresses a yawn with her fist. "Okay, it's about time I turned in for the night. Sorry to make you listen to all that. Your own parents must be wondering where you are, too."
You grimace inwardly as she says that. You haven't checked your phone all evening.
"No, it's…it's fine, really. I probably oughta get home then," you say, suddenly quite eager to turn in yourself.
"Of course. 'Night, kid," she says, and slides the door shut.
Overhead, red and orange and purple have been almost completely washed away the deep blues and black of the night sky. Constellations flicker to life in mirror image of the streetlights below, and your neighborhood is suddenly awash in a warm, yellow glow. A cool breeze whips down the street, causing you to draw your jacket tighter around you. Even though it's getting on in spring, warm nights are still a ways off. In the distance, the low hum of commuter traffic provides a comfortable urban background to the stillness of your neighborhood, a horizon of sound melding both city and suburb together. This time of day is a pleasant, familiar paradox; the ease of solitude amidst a mass of humanity. As you take this moment to savor the sights and sounds of your hometown, it's troubling to think of how this world and Clouds could possibly exist at the same time.
However, those worries evaporate as you approach the door to your house. Even though you know it must have been finished hours ago, you can still smell the enticing aroma of dinner: Dad's twice-fried rice. You let your fingers hesitantly hover over the latch for a moment. Carefully, you stalk across the lawn to take a peek around the house and into the driveway. Mom's still not home. With any luck, Dad might be more worried about her than you.
You return to the door and push on through, kicking off your shoes as you enter and making a beeline for the stairs.
"Hold it."
You wince at the severe edge to your Dad's voice and halt in mid-step. Gingerly turning your head towards the kitchen, you see him standing there in the doorway in his favorite "#1 Dad!" apron, arms folded, legs akimbo, expectantly tapping a large, greasy spoon against one shoulder.
"Check your phone," he says, pointing to your pocket. Silently, you withdraw it and swipe it open.
"How many texts are there?"
Five. Actually fewer than you were expecting there to be. Not that you'd say that part out loud.
"Who are they from?"
"You," you reply, deadpan.
"So then what's it take to get a reply from my own son nowadays, eh? I'm not asking you to end world hunger or find a leprechaun or – while we're on the topic of impossible things – get your mother to come home at a reasonable hour, just to let me know when you're gonna be home late. That way, I don't have to be wondering whether you've been mugged, kidnapped, or gotten dinner on your own," he says with the air of someone who truly believes that missing dinner is a bigger problem than being mugged or kidnapped.
"My bad," you say, "I was out with some friends and we just lost track of time. I'll pay more attention or set an alarm or something in the future."
Dad sighs. "I'm not asking for that. You're how old now – twenty?"
"Seventeen."
"Yeah, I know. Wishful thinking. But the point is that I don't care if you wanna go out and have a good time or – nudge, nudge; wink, wink – get a job after dark. When I was your age, I was at a different club every night of the week on the prowl." He curls his fingers into "claws" and bares his teeth in a wholesomely embarrassing gesture. "I tell you what, back then, the party never stopped for ol' Shin Katsuji. After a while, your grandma and grandpa just stopped asking where I was going, because on any given night I could tell them four or five different places and still be telling the truth. Good times. Good times…" he says, nodding thoughtfully.
"Anyhow, one night, I was puttin' on the moves both at the bar and the dance floor, when out of the blue, your uncle busts in with some terrible news. Grandma...well...all I'll say is that if I'd only been there, she'd still be with us now," he says, trailing off and bowing his head.
"Grandma's still alive, you liar."
He winks and clicks his tongue at you. "Just checkin' to see if you're still listening, bud. The point still stands. Moral of the story is: if you don't check your texts, you'll end up responsible for your mother's death. As long as it doesn't happen again, I don't feel like there needs to be any consequences. What do you think?"
"Okay, Dad," you say, slinging your bag over the back of one of the kitchen chairs and collapsing into it, letting your body mold into its shape. All of a sudden, it's as if all the exhaustion from your expedition in the Cloud has caught up with you at once, pulling your limbs and eyelids towards the floor. Today's been one hell of a first day of school. Dad slides a bowl of rice towards you from across the table.
"Been keeping it warm 'till you got back. Try to eat fast, that way when your mother gets back it'll look like you've been here a while."
"Thanks," you mumble in between huge mouthfuls of greasy rice, egg, and pork. The scent is intoxicating. Exhaustion's not the only thing that's caught up with you, it seems.
Then, from in the foyer, you hear the sound of the front door being slammed open, then shut, rattling about in its track. The noise draws the attention of both you and your father, your heads perking up like a couple of meerkats in anticipation.
Your mother emerges from around the corner, one hand clasping both the strap of her purse and the side of her head, while the other rests against the wall to steady herself as she kicks off her shoes. Heels fly across the room in different directions, but she makes no effort to gather them up and put them with yours and your father's. Instead, she lets her jacket drop to the floor and stumbles across the kitchen towards the living room, where she falls wordlessly onto the couch and drags her stockinged feet up onto the coffee table.
You and Dad exchange glances. You're both quite familiar with the protocol for this kind of situation by now. With a quick "Here," you flip on the television to a cable talk show (the vaguely trashy kind), turn the volume down to the point where it's barely audible, and flick off the lamp on the end table next to the couch. Dad moves to the cupboard and withdraws a highball glass and a handle of brandy, kept together for easy access. He plinks two (not one, not three) cubes into the glass and splashes three fingers of the brandy on top of it. Then, with a furtive glance up at Mom, adds another finger for good measure.
"Looks like that kinda night," he whispers to you in passing before turning his attention back to her. "Your elixir, Princess," he whispers, brushing his lips across her forehead and placing the glass into her waiting fingers.
"Thanks," she mumbles, and drains half the glass in one swig.
"If you need anything else, I'll be in our room reading." He yawns loudly, stretching his arms towards the ceiling. "'Bout time for me to turn in for the night, methinks. When you're finished, just put your dishes in the sink. I'll take care of them tomorrow morning," he says to you. "Hope you feel better, Princess," he adds. A flash of worry crosses his face, but it's soon replaced by his same old goofy smile, and he mounts the stairs, creaking out of sight.
You turn back to your half-finished bowl of rice. Somehow, your appetite has all but evaporated. In the living room, Mom stares vacantly at the television screen, absent-mindedly swirling the remainder of her drink around and around in its glass. Ever since she took her new job, it feels like you and Dad have been through some variation of this routine every night. She comes home positively exhausted, has a glass of booze, and falls asleep on the couch watching TV. During her first couple of weeks, the two of you would attempt to make small talk - asking her about her day, what her coworkers were like, what cases she was working on - but after a while, she'd always rebut with "Not right now." By now, you both know better than to try, and the small hours of the night between when she comes home and you go to bed often pass without a single word being exchanged.
That's why it catches you off guard when she groggily turns her head towards you and asks, "How was your day?"
"Huh?" You were just about to set your dishes in the sink and head upstairs yourself when you hear her voice.
"I just thought I'd ask how your day went...if you'd rather not say, that's fine."
"No, I, uh...it was all right," you answer. You suppose that in the end, it's not entirely untrue.
"Good. That's good." Mom turns her attention back to the TV and takes another swig of brandy.
You sigh. It was more than you usually get, at least. You give your bowl a good rinse out so that Dad won't have to scrub out any hardened food tomorrow before setting it in the sink and making for the stairs. Before you head up to your room, you hang back on the bottom step and take one last look back into the darkened living room, lit only by the flickering blue light of the television. Somehow, Mom's already fallen asleep in the short amount of time it took you to clean out your dishes. Her light breathing mixes with the muffled yelling of talk show guests.
"'Night," you whisper, and creep upstairs.
You're barely able to get your uniform hung up for tomorrow before you crash onto your futon in your shirt and boxers, staring up at the ceiling from under heavily-lidded eyes. There'll be no more holding off sleep tonight, no more worrying about your mother, and no more musing about Personas or Shadows or Clouds. A heavy, oppressive tiredness is crawling across your entire body, and you're powerless to resist as soft darkness edges into your vision.
When you next become aware, an all-encompassing darkness has surrounded your being. It's not darkness in the traditional sense, an absence of light that obscures sight. No, this darkness is something more absolute, almost womb-like in its mystery and totality. There is no sense of a world beyond the spot where you stand - it is as if nothing else exists in this space but you, and if you were to venture beyond into that darkness, you would tumble into an endless abyss. The only frame of reference you have is a sliver of light an indeterminate distance away which illuminates the edge of a door and patch of checkerboard tile. Were it not for that, it would be impossible to tell if you were even conscious.
Tentatively, you take one step towards the light into the darkness, and finding solid ground, take another. As you draw nearer to the doorway, muffled voices slowly resolve into slightly agitated conversation. You halt just outside the entrance. One of them you recognize as belonging to Elizabeth, Minato's attendant. The other you do not, a smooth, lyrical gentleman's voice with the slightest hint of an accent.
If Elizabeth is on the other side of this door, then you must be just outside the Velvet Room - which also means that you must be asleep. Within, it sounds as if Elizabeth and the man inside are in the middle of some kind of argument, so you hold off on entering for now and crouch down to the floor, leaning as far towards the opening in the door as you dare.
"...on the precipice between maintaining the status quo and inviting certain catastrophe." The man's voice.
"His power should stabilize once he has grown used to it, I should think," drawls Elizabeth. You can't tell if Minato is with them or not. "Is it truly so unnatural for Wild Cards to have such...peculiar reactions to their awakening?"
"I hardly think it appropriate to compare such drastically different circumstances. For better or for worse, you have found yourselves the midst of a highly delicate situation. Any lapses in judgment - or control - could result in extremely dire consequences. When next you meet, I would highly suggest imposing the importance of this upon him."
Are they talking about you? You inch closer, pushing the door open ever so slightly further.
"As you wish."
The man clears his throat. "Excellent! However..." A brief pause interrupts the conversation. "...perhaps I ought to bring it to your attention...this visit was not made by choice. You see..." His voice drops to an inaudible whisper, and you can no longer make out what he is saying. Then, Elizabeth's breath catches softly, a tiny squeak cutting into the stillness.
"Ah!..."
"My apologies. It is not my intent to imply that you require additional coercion, but simply to remind you of the vitality of our role. Were it up to me, I would much desire for your initiation to be under less difficult circumstances. However! The die has been cast, the cards have been read, and the chariot of fate has been sent rolling towards its ultimate destination. And in the end, our task is naught more than to ensure that it arrives there safely. Now, if you'll excuse me, I will be needed elsewhere shortly. Farewell!"
From within the Velvet Room, there is the sound of muffled footsteps crossing the room and another door opening and swinging shut. Then, silence.
For a while, you remain crouched behind the door, waiting so that your sudden entrance doesn't invite suspicions of eavesdropping. There's little doubt in your mind that the conversation you just heard involved you to some extent, but with your relative lack of context, it's impossible to extrapolate any real meaning from it. If by "difficult circumstances", they mean all that business with the Cloud, then they certainly weren't covering any ground you weren't already aware of. However, that man, the one whose voice you couldn't recognize, sounded awfully on edge, and knew something that even disturbed Elizabeth. It feels like it would be the wrong time for another conference with the residents of the Velvet Room, but you have too many questions to pass up the opportunity. Once you feel as though an appropriate amount of time has passed, you gingerly push open the door and step inside.
The Velvet Room hasn't changed one whit since your last visit. The scene is almost portrait-like in its constancy, right down to the position of the sun above the ship's prow and the direction of the wind as it blows faint whispers through the curtains. The only variables in the scene are the expressions upon its residents' faces - both Minato and Elizabeth's brows are furrowed ever so slightly with a faint distress, and their gazes are somewhat disconcerting as they study you.
"Ah...you've returned," says Elizabeth. Minato uncrosses then recrosses his legs. They seem to be waiting for you to say something, but now that you're here, you don't have much of an idea of where to begin.
"It would appear you've been quite busy since last we met," she resumes, arching an eyebrow expectantly in tandem with Minato.
"That's a bit of an understatement," you say. "How long has something like that been inside me?" You don't really feel like dancing around the point tonight.
"For as long as you have been alive, so too has your Persona. It is but one of many selves that reside within you."
"Wait. 'Many'? Just how many knights am I packing in here?" you ask, tapping your head. For the first time, Elizabeth cracks a smile.
"Each soul has many faces that they wear throughout the entirety of their lives. I have heard tell of a mystical 'hall of mirrors' in your world in which one person may see themselves reflected hundreds of times over." It may be your imagination, but you could swear Minato rolls his eyes slightly. Elizabeth takes no notice and goes on. "Just as the hall of mirrors reveals myriad reflections, your power, the power of the Wild Card, reveals myriad selves." Minato leans towards Elizabeth and places a hand on her arm. She nods and continues. "Many people may only awaken to no more than a handful of Personas over the course of their lives. Most may only discover one. Those with the gift of the Wild Card, however…" Elizabeth opens the book on her lap, and instantly, hundreds of small cards circle about her and Minato, each one emblazoned with the name and portrait of a different creature. "…are privy to the strength of as many Personas as their heart will accept." Then, with a snap of their fingers, the cards burst into plumes of blue flame and vanish, leaving no trace behind.
"Whoa...are you Persona users, too?" you ask.
Minato shakes his head and Elizabeth smiles sadly. "We are but residents of the Velvet Room. Nothing more. You may come to realize as many Personas of your own in time. However, as of now, the you are but an empty vessel. Your power may be limited, but your potential is near limitless. According to my master, there may well be over one hundred Personas lying dormant within your soul."
The thought of that nearly floors you. A hundred beings like Launcelot, a hundred incarnations of you...such a thing scarcely seems plausible. But like it or not, Minato and Elizabeth have had an eerily accurate track record so far when it's come to stuff like this, so you figure the time for skepticism is over at this point.
"However," Elizabeth says, her expression instantly hardening, "this power is not to be treated casually, nor to be underestimated. The success that you have in wielding the power of your Personas is directly tied to the strength of your heart. If your strength of will is strong, then so too will be your Persona. And if it should falter, then it may well devour you, and your journey will come to an end." Both hers and Minato's stares bore into the core of your very being, twisting and worming their way into some desperate, primal, private part of yourself lurks, gone into hiding after satiating itself upon the Shadow that took Mariko. You feel exposed, and fail to repress a shiver. Minato glances at Elizabeth, and she begins to speak again, as if cued.
"Remember, this coming year will be a crucial one for you. If you attempt to face it alone, I can guarantee that you will most certainly fail. But take heart! You are not alone. The soul yearns for those like it, and by opening yourself to others, you will discover the means with which to make it strong. I can see that there is the potential for you to create such ties already...all that is required is a for you exercise some of the other facets of your soul to make them a reality."
"I...I don't really have a choice here, do I?" you ask, a question that contains within it a host of uncertainties about fate, dreams, Shadows, and the now looming threat of unavoidable change.
Minato smirks. "Of course you do. But will you really deny it?" he asks. A pregnant silence descends upon the Velvet Room as you consider the implications of what has been imposed upon you.
"No," you answer. In the end, your answer had been decided from the moment you summoned Launcelot and for the first time that you can recall, felt truly alive.
"Very well then," says Elizabeth. "As long as you are confident in that, then our time together is close to its end. Hopefully, when next we meet, your Wild Card powers will have become more...well rounded. My Master and I are quite invested in seeing you succeed, and wish to be able to render assistance in any way possible."
The wish is surprisingly heartfelt for being made so formally, and a strange tingle works its way through your body.
"Until next we meet," she calls. A familiar blackness casts itself over your vision, and your consciousness slips away again to the sound of waves.
