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Akira Kurusu has lost count of how many times he has attended Joker’s funeral.
Joker wears death far more gracefully than Akira could ever don life: laid on a bed of daffodils and black coat elegantly draped over slim shoulders. The Metaverse welcomes its chosen champion with open arms. Weary beyond his years, Akira can’t help but envy the peacefulness of his slumber.
How long has it been since he has known what peace feels like? Akira supposes it doesn't matter. Peace has become too abstract of a concept to grasp. A privilege reserved for the worthy.
Perhaps his jealousy is to blame—wilting the laurels of his glory and warding off his rest. Maybe the lingering echoes of past mistakes are at fault; his pathological need to be a hero and blasphemous obsession with defying the Metaverse gods keeping him awake.
The rotting flowers surrounding him tell Akira all he needs to know.
Despite all the grudges he harbors, his hands remain gentle as he hugs Joker close. Running his hands down Joker’s chest, Akira unfastens the buttons of his vest one by one. Tenderly kissing the stitches holding the corpse together, Akira pours all his devotion into running his lips along the pale skin. The limbs have been sewn with utmost care—Akira made sure to worship Joker with each thread of his needle. Cupping Joker’s face with the tenderness of a lover, Akira thumbs his jaw, commits what’s left of his handsome features to memory. “I’m sorry,” Akira whispers. “I’ve failed you, haven’t I? I’ve failed everyone.”
Featherlight, Akira’s fingers dance across Joker’s ribs, grazing the ridges and valleys of skin and bone. He peels away the flaps of skin holding Joker’s chest closed with reverence, fingers gliding into the thoracic cavity beneath. He strokes Joker’s lungs fondly, his thumb brushing along the delicate capillaries below. He undoes the stitches one by one, cradling his prize with shaking hands. Joker’s heart still beats, rabbit-like and desperate, as if instinctively knowing what Akira is about to do.
Akira closes his eyes. Joker’s cold body is his safe harbor of choice, the lifeline Akira moors himself with. His anchor against the waves of terror threatening to swallow him whole. After rising from the dead so many times—and desecrating the only version of himself Akira loved so many more—forcing himself to face Joker takes a great deal of determination. That much, at least, Akira has in spades—and hearts, clubs, and diamonds. It's all about seizing opportunities; humanity desperately needs a trump card, and Akira is nothing if not adaptable.
He built Joker from the ground up once. He surely can do it twice.
The first bite tastes like poison. Fire courses through Akira's veins as he swallows, burning him from the inside out. It's as painful as dying. It's as bitter as coming back. The second bite is easier, and by the third, Akira is devouring it with the debauchery of a sinner.
How poetic it is to cannibalize who he once was with such gusto.
“Goodbye, Joker.” Blood painting his mouth, Akira closes the distance between him and his past self. Kissing Joker is as sweet as Akira expects, and he stains his lips red in one last farewell. “Sleep well.”
Hands shaking and breath shallow, he can't bring himself to watch the fluorescent tentacles drag Joker's corpse down to his grave.
I am thou, thou art I—
Under Akira’s feet, red spider lilies bloom.
***
Akira’s loud cackles echo across the lower deck of Masayoshi Shido’s ship.
The Shadows surrounding him waver, reluctant to face an opponent who doesn’t fear their authority. Typical. The scum licking Shido’s boots and guarding his cruiser are used to relying on violence to subjugate their targets, and Akira is too much of a rebel to kneel so easily.
The steel ball attached to his chains whirls in time with his rolling wrist, whistling as it picks up momentum. Akira swivels, knife-like heels digging into the steel plating of the ballast. His teeth rattle as the chain goes taut, and bone staves in with a sickening crack. The manic glee of steel violently connecting with Parvati's sternum sets his nerves alight. He steps on her rib cage with deliberate cruelty and grinds his boot down on her chest as she writhes, begging for clemency. Morphing into an inky-black mask in one last attempt at survival, she chases his face with the desperation of a dying man. Disgusted, Akira kicks her away. He crushes her without thinking, shattering the mask until it crumbles to dust.
“Who’s next?” Chain swinging at full speed, Akira prowls like a predator, silver eyes zeroed in on the bristling Cerberus. “Come on, take a bite!”
Sidestepping the lion’s razor-sharp claws is easy. The serpentine tail, not so much. The first lash viciously strikes Akira’s shins and the second cracks at his ribs. Akira bares his teeth, snarling his raw, unbridled fury. He finds perverse satisfaction in how perfectly his coiled chain fits around the lion’s jugular, arms straining as he fastens the noose. Resistance is futile, but survival instinct is unrelenting—hind legs bulging with the effort of scrambling for purchase, the Cerberus’s claws uselessly scrape against steel. Akira’s chain winds tighter, and the Shadow’s eyes bulge from their sockets.
“Does it hurt?” Silver eyes boring holes in the Cerberus’ golden ones, Akira tilts his head. A mocking grin cleaves his face in two as the lion’s limbs spasm, tongue lolling out. Foamy drool drips on the lower deck’s floors. “I hope it does. If you sprouted here, you don’t deserve to live.”
Black matter splatters on Akira’s face. The voice in the back of his head cackles, delighted by the scorched mark left behind.
Dead-set on tracking down the Thieves, Akira doesn’t bother looking back to the carnage he left behind. Akira’s senses are keen. His instincts keener. The shadows easily erase his presence as he traverses Shido’s ship, covering his trail as he hunts down his target. Worse for wear or not, he knows the Thieves are still alive. And Akira will find them.
A stab of longing makes itself known. It’s hard to resist the temptation of reaching for them and wiping away their tears. Hugging them tight and never letting go. Akira misses their company. Their easy camaraderie. Their warmth. Akira might be a one-man army, but the depths of the Metaverse are lonely and the blood drenching his hands runs cold.
Would his Thieves grant him absolution if they knew his crimes?
Akira bites his lip before he can call their names.
He doesn’t dare to hope. Doesn’t dare to wish, either. Maruki and Adam Kadmon made sure Akira learned that particular lesson thoroughly. He doesn't have enough time left for wondering—body too worn down by the long trips to the Metaverse and mind playing catch-up with the monumental strain.
Akira wasn’t born to be a hero. Given the chance, he wouldn't have chosen to become one. But the Metaverse doesn’t concern itself with Akira's opinions, and burdens his shoulders with the weight of the world all the same. Akira can't say he regrets the outcome, though, and carries his friends' fates with the utmost pride. For them, Akira will be a hero. Their hero.
Saving his Thieves means saving all of them. No matter the cost.
Goro Akechi rains hell's own fury upon the Phantom Thieves, his voice ringing loud and clear across the Engine Room. Akira expected nothing less. Crow is a force of nature, especially vicious in Akira’s absence. His teeth are bared. His saber whistles. Loki cackles.
Akira misses him like he misses Joker’s heart.
Crow is a formidable foe. Were the Thieves in lesser numbers, he would have mercilessly killed them all. Outmatched, he is sent staggering by an exceptionally brutal strike from Skull's bludgeon, and a barrage of hellfire summoned by a livid Hecate scorches his feet. Queen’s fist catches him square in the cheek and the pommel of Fox’s sword connects with his temple to finish the job.
Crow doesn’t cry. He doesn’t beg. He looks the Thieves square in the eye and howls for them to fuck themselves with their ideals. Spits in their face how they are so incompetent Akira might as well have died by their hands.
Cognitive Akechi applauds his counterpart’s misery. “A truly pitiful display, I must admit. Did you really think you could win?” Mouth open wide in a poor imitation of a smile, his finger tauntingly caresses the trigger as he levels his gun at Crow’s forehead. “It doesn't matter, of course, considering he is planning to dispose of you after the election. You’re pathetic.”
Crow recoils, flinching as if he has been hit. Sparks fly as Noir’s ax grinds against the steel flooring. Zorro towers behind Mona. They can’t reach him in time.
Akira can.
His steel ball smashes the cognition’s hand, the resounding crack of shattering bone music to Akira’s ears. Crow and the Thieves balk as the cognition screams, gun loudly clattering against the floor.
Grinning, Akira steps out of the shadows. “I don’t think so, you piece of shit.”
The collective gasps of surprise tug at Akira’s heartstrings. Every cry of his name stabs his chest like a knife, puncturing his lungs and robbing him of breath. He refuses to look at them, eyes trained on Cognitive Akechi.
His throat seizes at Crow’s strangled sob.
“You’re alive,” the cognition growls. Irate, he cradles his broken hand against his chest. “Stubborn brat. I’ll make you regret crossing the Captain.”
The Thieves are wholly unprepared for the army of armed shadows materializing behind Cognitive Akechi. Akira’s dagger is in his hand in an instant, and blue flames erupt under his feet, burning everything in their wake. His laugh booms across the lower decks, a spectral echo rattling the cruiser’s steel plating.
Call upon my name and terrify their hearts!
“Come! Phobos!”
Phobos claws his way out of the roaring inferno with a ghoulish grin. Chains rattling, his skeletal body looms above, golden legs glinting under the flames. His shackled heart pulses in time with his ragged breath. An obedient bloodhound waiting for his orders.
“Phobos!” Akira commands. “Terrorize them!”
The neat row of stitches holding Phobos’s maw in place grows taut as his sneer widens. His blade-like legs whistle as they fall.
Cognitive Akechi lets out a bloodcurdling scream. His split torso bleeds black, and the foul smell of severed entrails fills the lower deck. Hugging his middle, he uselessly tries to hold himself whole.
“Aren’t you pathetic?” Unrepentant, Akira laughs. “Begone.”
Phobos rips his throat open with a savage hack of his claws.
The battle is over before it begins. The steel plating shakes under Phobos’s might, his knifelike legs and razor-sharp talons mauling the shadows his magic doesn’t reach. The Thieves, rooted in place by their terror, watch Akira and his nightmarish Persona annihilate wave after wave of Shadows with the same ease he tears Palaces apart.
“It was you,” Crow whispers, cutting the overwhelming silence left behind by the carnage. “You’re behind Shido’s associates’ deaths. You’re the second Black Mask. ”
“It’s not true!” Futaba balls her fists, angrily stomping her frustration. “Tell him, Joker! The Phantom Thieves don’t kill! You said it yourself!”
“I did what I had to do.” Akira’s eyes harden, his convictions iron-clad. “And I won’t stop before I kill Masayoshi Shido.”
“Joker—” Skull takes a step closer, voice strangled. “Come on man—”
“Shido is my next target,” Akira ruthlessly repeats. Phobos tenses behind him, body coiled like a viper’s. A predator ready to pounce. “Killing him is the only way to make a change.”
“You lied to us.” Haru tightens her grip around his ax. “Killing Shido won’t change anything. Stealing his heart will! You know what happened to my father! You know killing Shido isn’t justice!”
“Shido is nothing like your father,” Akira hisses. Phobos’ chains tense as his control wears thin, claws flexing with the need to strike. “Shido is important. If Shido survives, if Yaldabaoth rises and falls—” Akira shakes his head, gritting his teeth. “If Maruki seizes control—”
“Hold on, hold on!” Ann exclaims, incredulous. “Dr. Maruki? Joker, you can’t be serious. What does he have to do with all of this?”
“Everything!” The flames surrounding Phobos flare, his eyes narrowing as he carefully measures the Thieves. “I’ll doom myself if I need to, but I won’t let you die again! Move!”
“We cannot allow you to continue with such heinous acts,” Yusuke coldly says. “Stop this at once!”
“Joker, there’s still time, ” Mona pleads. “Listen to us. You can’t—”
“Then I have no other choice but to show you who I’ve become.”
Black matter streams down from Akira’s eyes, staining his lips with nightmarish darkness. Phobos’ smile widens. The chains fastened around his neck slither, tightly binding Akira’s wrists. As a dancing puppet controlled by the god of terror himself, Akira is humanity's worst fears taking shape. He is invincible.
Under Phobos’s command, Akira’s dagger dances. He forces the Thieves into submission one by one. Betraying them like this hurts more than any of his deaths ever did—but it’s not as if Akira has a choice.
Maruki won’t hesitate to kill them as many times as it takes to bring his utopia to life. He didn’t the first time. He didn’t the second, either. By the third, he tells Akira that as long as Adam Kadmon serves him, he refuses to stop trying to get Akira to join Eden.
What else can Akira do but deny him apotheosis?
“It seems some rats found their way to my ship.” The sight of Shadow Shido stepping over the threshold chills Akira to the bone. This isn't how it’s supposed to happen. It’s not. “And it’s my duty as captain to cleanse the country from such pests!”
The cruiser shakes as molten metal bubbles across the steel plating. Roaring his fury, an irate golden lion heeds Shadow Shido's call. It is upon Akira in an instant, jaw closing around Phobos's middle.
Phobos hollers in pain. Black spots dance across Akira’s vision, feeling the agony of his personas as his own. Gritting his teeth, Akira clings to consciousness with a vengeance. He can’t die in the bowels of Shido’s ship. He won’t die in the bowels of Shido’s ship.
Move! Phobos howls. Akira, move! Kill him! Now!
Akira’s sharp heels dig into the lion's hindquarters, and he drags himself up its back by sheer force of will. Gathering all that’s left of his waning strength, Akira looks Masayoshi Shido in the eye before he buries his dagger into the Shadow’s throat.
Flesh and muscle alike give under his blade, and black ichor scalds Akira’s hands. Shadow Shido’s screams are the sweetest symphony and Akira revels in pushing his dirk deeper, gleefully watching him writhe.
With a mighty shake of its head, the beast’s fangs sink into Phobos's exposed heart.
Akira breaks. He is falling, he is falling, he is falling, body violently connecting with the steel plating. Distantly, he hears the Thieves rush to his side, begging him to stay awake. Akira offers them one last feeble smile, clasping a clawed hand tightly before the world fades to black.
***
The naos Akira wakes up in is dedicated to Phobos. Oil lamps line the walls, casting long shadows on the dark sacrificial dagger, and bathing the offerings’ table where the god of terror himself sits in gold.
He instinctively knows this dream will be the last time they meet.
You foolish little thing. Phobos bares his sharp teeth, red eyes set ablaze. Did you think dying would make you a hero?
“I don’t know,” Akira quietly admits. “I don’t know what I want.”
I am thou, thou art I. Phobos' smile widens. I was born out of your worst fears, Trickster, and shaped them into your greatest strength. Don’t lie to me. You don’t want to die forgotten.
“Ha! I suppose you’re right.” Akira barks a loud, bitter laugh. It doesn’t sound fully human. “But I’m tired of fighting, Phobos.”
You stand in the Metaverse knowing dreams and reality blur and choose to waste such a powerful sacrifice. Phobos hums. How naive.
It hits Akira all at once, then, why he stands in a cognitive temple. Why Phobos sits on a sacrificial table, placid as a lamb to the slaughter. It’s in Akira’s nature to be a trickster, and humanity believes that sacrifices can reshape the world.
“Thank you, Phobos.”
Akira Kurusu plunges the obsidian knife into his chained heart.
***
Akira hovers at Leblanc’s threshold with shaky hands and gritted teeth.
The scent of coffee and spices wafting under the door is so painfully familiar that his entire being aches with desperation. Whether to run away or kick the door open, Akira doesn’t know. He takes hold of the brass handle on autopilot, and the chime of the shopkeeper’s bell urges him inside.
Several heads turn, and all mouths fall open at his arrival. Akira can relate—he isn’t sure of what possessed him to come back to Leblanc either.
Steeling himself, Akira sits by the counter, pushing his glasses further up his nose. He is well aware the flames of their friendship have been thoroughly smothered by his betrayal and rekindling that kind of spark will take time and effort.
Akira can’t say he minds groveling. If he can stay close and keep them safe, it’ll be well worth the wait.
“Good evening,” he quietly greets them. “Can I get a cup of coffee?”