The Bonds that Shape the Universe Again (A Persona/Batman Adventure)

Part 5: Fear (Adventure Zero: A Scarecrow's Lament)

[] Spend Time at School

The Library was empty, save for the librarian, who had long since given up on trying to restore order to the place, and the other kid—the weird one who was always here, hunched over a stack of chemistry books. You couldn't help but find it odd, his constant presence here. There were a million other places he could be, like with the other kids running around outside, or at least doing something more normal for someone his age. He was clearly smart, maybe even smarter than most of the kids in school. Yet, despite that, or maybe because of it, he was always alone, older than most of the kids in your class, maybe fifth grade, but never really there. It was like he existed on the periphery of everything, watching, yet never engaging.

You understood that feeling well because you knew if you were alone, no one could ever see you, no one

You'd seen him a few times before, always lurking in the corners, reading something dense and difficult for fun. He wasn't one of those kids who ratted on others or stirred up trouble. He just... disappeared into the background, quiet and cautious, like he was always trying not to be noticed, even when there was no one around to notice him. You had a feeling he tried his best not to be afraid, even though it didn't really work. The way he moved, the constant darting glances, it all pointed to someone who had grown used to expecting danger where there was none.

He was taller than you, lanky in a way that made him seem like he was still growing into his limbs. Long arms, long legs, a long nose, all exaggerated in that awkward, pre-teen sort of way. He almost looked like a character from a storybook, like a scarecrow brought to life. And yet, there was something undeniably human in the way he carried himself, like all that awkwardness was a defense mechanism.

"Hey," you called out, stepping closer before you had fully thought it through. He jumped as if you'd shouted instead, spinning around so fast you could practically feel the air move. His hands shot up, trembling slightly as if he was bracing for an attack.

"What do you want?" His voice quivered as he tried to sound tough, but the fear was there, just beneath the surface. His whole body seemed wound tight, like a spring ready to snap at the slightest provocation. His wide eyes betrayed him completely—they were filled with a deep, anxious energy that looked far too familiar to you.

"What are you doing?" you asked, raising an eyebrow, curiosity overtaking any desire to back off. You peered at the book in his hands, though it was hard to make out the title from this angle.

"Hiding," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He sank down to the floor, knees pulled up to his chest as if the act of sitting could somehow make him smaller, less visible.

You snorted, half amused, half sympathetic. "Not doing a very good job of it," you quipped with a small smile, leaning against one of the shelves.

He didn't laugh. Instead, he seemed to fold in on himself even more. Up close, you could see the exhaustion on his face more clearly—the way his hair stuck out at odd angles, uncombed and messy, and the dark shadows under his eyes, so pronounced they looked almost bruised. His fear was palpable, not the kind that comes from something external, but the kind that comes from within, the kind that gnaws at you from the inside out. His eyes darted up to meet yours for a brief second before skittering away, full of that same frantic energy, that constant, buzzing anxiety you were all too familiar with.

You wondered what he was so afraid of, though you didn't dare ask. Something about the way his shoulders were hunched forward like he was trying to shrink into himself, told you that the answer was too complicated for a single conversation. Instead, you sat down next to him, not too close, but close enough that he'd know he wasn't completely alone. The silence stretched between you both, neither of you speaking, yet it didn't feel awkward. If anything, it was strangely comfortable, like you'd both found an unspoken agreement not to push too hard.

"I know the feeling," you finally said, breaking the quiet.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, cautious. "Being afraid?" he asked, his voice still fragile.

"No," you said, shaking your head. "Being so alone, so disconnected, that nothing can come and save you."

Your words hung in the air, heavy with a truth you hadn't planned on sharing. Maybe it was because you saw something of yourself in him, or maybe it was because his fear reflected a loneliness you knew all too well. Either way, you couldn't help but think: This is what it feels like to be a hero. Not the kind who saves people, but the kind who keeps going, even when no one's coming to rescue you.

The boy stared at the floor, fingers tracing the edges of the book in his lap. "Why are you coming over to me?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm..."

You knew what he was going to say before he said it, but you let the silence fill the gap. You both understood what it was like to feel invisible, even in a room full of people.

You know how it feels to be alone. To be stuck in a hell of your own creation, where no one can reach you. To be truly alone when it feels like there's no way out.

"I don't know," you said, shrugging. "I just feel like you need someone to talk to. Or maybe just someone to sit here and listen. Sometimes that's enough."

He looked at you, skeptical, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You want something from me, don't you?" he asked, the edge of suspicion creeping into his voice. "Everyone wants something from someone."

You chuckled softly. "If you're trying to make this into some kind of business deal, I don't think I have much to offer."

That caught him off guard. For the first time, he smiled, just a little, but enough to soften the hard lines of his face. Then, surprisingly, he let out a laugh, quiet at first but real. It was as if the weight he'd been carrying had lightened, even if just for a moment. There was something hopeful in that laugh, a flicker of joy breaking through the cracks of whatever had been holding him down.

"Fine," he said, his voice a little lighter now. "We'll come up with something."

"What's your name Stranger?" He asked.

"Adam Romero." You said.

"John Crane." He replied.
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A few days later, he finally approached you, his request lingering with an unspoken urgency. There was something different about him now, something that made you hesitate, but curiosity and concern won out in the end.

Where do you go?

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[ ] His Home:
He had invited you over to his place after school, asking for help with a project. "Just come over," he'd said, sounding more relaxed than usual. "I need someone to help me study." When you arrived, the house felt strangely empty—too quiet. The walls seemed to swallow sound, and his room was cluttered with notebooks, diagrams, and strange contraptions you couldn't quite understand. Then you heard the front door slam, and his face lit up with an eerie smile. But it was empty, without control, and filled with terror in his eyes. "Ah," he said, almost to himself, in a trance, a daze. "A test subject... finally, I won't have to use myself for the experiments anymore." Before you could react, the door creaked open, and his father stepped in, towering in the doorway. His eyes glinted with the same unsettling curiosity as his son's. "Good," his father said, a strange satisfaction in his voice. "We've been waiting for this."

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[ ] The Library:
He hadn't shown up for school in the last two days, but you found him in the library, hunched over a pile of books that looked like they hadn't been touched. His hair was messier than usual, his clothes rumpled, and his eyes were wild with sleeplessness. When you approached, he jerked his head up, his pupils dilated as if he hadn't seen daylight in days. He barely recognized you at first, but then his gaze sharpened, and he grabbed your arm with an intensity that sent a chill down your spine. "They're after me," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "The monsters in the shadows... They're watching, waiting. Beware the Court of Owls." His grip tightened. "Beware… beware." His eyes darted around, tracking things you couldn't see, and for the first time, you wondered if maybe you were the one in danger.
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[ ] On the Streets
You hadn't expected to see him outside of school, but there he was, crashing into you as you turned the corner. His arm was bleeding, fresh cuts lining his skin like he had been in a fight or worse. Before you could say anything, he grabbed your shoulders, his eyes wide and frantic. "Do you see them too?" he asked, his breath ragged, his voice trembling with both fear and urgency. "They're following me… I thought I could outrun them, but they're everywhere." He glanced around, his paranoia infectious as he scanned the streets. "Tell me you see them. The shadows move when you're not looking. They're always there." You could see the desperation in his eyes, and for a moment, you almost believed him. You almost saw the shadows flicker at the edges of your vision, just out of reach.

AN: Enjoy.

Part 6: A Gentle Touch (Adventure Zero: A Scarecrow's Lament)

[] The Library
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John looked so much worse than you could ever have imagined when you finally found him. His hair, once neatly combed, was now a tangled mess. His clothes, crumpled and disheveled, hung loosely on his frame as if he hadn't slept or eaten in days. But it was his eyes that told the real story—bloodshot, rimmed with dark circles, and darting from shadow to shadow as though something unseen haunted him. There were deep, heavy bags beneath them, as though every ounce of energy had been drained from his body, leaving only the shell of a man behind.

When you arrived at the library, the air felt cold, and unnatural, as if the very room had been waiting in silence for something terrible to happen. The familiar scent of old books and dust now seemed oppressive. You had searched for him for days, through alleys and hideouts, and now you found him here, slumped in the corner of this once peaceful sanctuary.

"John," you said softly, walking toward him with careful, deliberate steps. "What's wrong?"

He didn't respond at first, his gaze shifting from the dark corners of the library to the rain-splattered windows. Outside, the downpour beat relentlessly against the glass, turning the world beyond into a blurred, watery gray. Even the librarian, the ever-watchful guardian of this place, was conspicuously absent. It felt as though the entire world had recoiled into itself, leaving the two of you alone in this strange, eerie quiet.

John's fingers twitched, and for a moment, he stared blankly at his own hands as though he was seeing something terrible hidden just beneath the skin. Then, his voice—hoarse and cracked—broke the silence.

"They're after me," he whispered, barely audible. His voice sent a chill down your spine, but you held steady. "The monsters… in the shadows… They're watching. Waiting."

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your own voice calm. "John, what are you talking about?" you asked, but he seemed lost in his own nightmare, unable to hear reason.

His grip tightened suddenly, knuckles white, as though he was holding on for dear life to something only he could see. His eyes met yours, wide and filled with terror. "Beware the Court of Owls," he rasped, his words barely more than a breath. "Beware… beware."

You frowned. The Court of Owls, an old Gotham legend, something whispered about in the dark corners of the city's history. A secret society of assassins, and manipulators, pulling strings behind the scenes, ruling the city from the shadows. But they were just a myth, a story told to scare children. The Court had disbanded ages ago—if they even existed at all.

"John, the Court of Owls isn't real," you said gently, trying to reassure him, but your words seemed to slide off him like rain off a window. He wasn't listening.

"They're real," John insisted, his voice gaining strength as desperation flickered across his face. "They visited me. They said I had potential. That I was destined…"

He trailed off, his eyes glazing over as if lost in some horrific vision. His body sagged, barely able to hold itself upright, and he seemed to tremble with every word as if the weight of whatever revelation he had experienced was too much for him to bear.

You glanced around at the shadows creeping along the edges of the library, suddenly feeling less certain of yourself. You wanted to dismiss his ravings, to chalk it up to exhaustion, to fear. But something in his eyes, something in the way his voice trembled when he spoke of the Owls—made your skin prickle.

"John," you said softly, stepping closer and touching his shoulder. "They aren't real. You've been through a lot. You need rest."

He shook his head violently, his eyes wild with fear. "No! No, you don't understand!" His voice cracked as if it pained him to speak. "They… they see everything. They know everything. I was chosen. They said it's not over. They said it's only the beginning."

You could hear the sheer terror in his voice now, and for a brief moment, the rational part of your mind wavered. Legends didn't shake people like this. Myths didn't drive men to the brink of madness.

As you stood there, a cold draft swept through the library, and for the first time, you found yourself looking at the shadows differently. You could almost feel them… watching, waiting.

You wanted to tell yourself it was all in John's head, that there were no monsters, no ancient society plotting in the dark. But the way the shadows seemed to flicker in the corners of your vision, and the palpable fear radiating from John, left a knot of doubt coiled deep inside you.

And in the back of your mind, a tiny, unshakable thought whispered: What if he's right?

And than the world went dark.
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You awoke abruptly, the cold dampness of the stone floor seeping into your bones. The first thing you noticed was the weight—the heavy, unyielding chains binding your arms, legs, and neck. There was no gradual return to consciousness, no slow fade from darkness to awareness—just a sharp jolt of panic as your senses came alive all at once.

Your head pounded as you blinked through the haze, your eyes adjusting to the dim light. You were in an old place, somewhere ancient and forgotten, the air thick with the smell of mildew and decay. The walls around you were crumbling, the stonework chipped and worn, yet still holding together as if by some stubborn force of will. This was Gotham—*old* Gotham, where the past lingered like a ghost, refusing to fade away.

You strained against the chains, testing their strength, but it was no use. They held fast, the cold metal biting into your skin. Your heart pounded in your chest as you took in your surroundings. A cellar, maybe, or a dungeon? It didn't matter. You were trapped.

And then you saw him.

A figure stood watching you, shrouded in shadow. The only visible feature was the mask—a grotesque thing, its hollow eyes and dark contours radiating an aura of something… *wrong.* The kind of wrong that creeps up your spine, primal and ancient. It was more than just a mask—it was a symbol of terror, of the unseen horrors that lurk in the darkness of Gotham's forgotten places.

A voice, low and raspy, cut through the silence.

"We only needed one… why did you bring two?"

Another voice responded from somewhere in the gloom, this one calm but laced with irritation. "Crane was uncooperative… paranoid. The fear toxin dosage wasn't enough to break him into what we needed."

You groaned, a dull ache pulsing through your body, making it difficult to focus. The names they mentioned… John was… Where was he?

"Why did you take his son?"

"Leverage."

You then saw your chained friend… and then there was only the mask.

"Who is this?" The first voice asked, closer now, a faint echo as if bouncing off the walls of the empty chamber.

"An orphan?" the second voice suggested, but with a hint of doubt. There was a pause, and then the next words sent a shock of ice through your veins.

"Bruce Wayne?"

Your breath caught in your throat, and you froze, forcing yourself not to react, not to flinch. Your heart hammered in your chest as you realized they thought you were someone else. Bruce Wayne?*You gulped, your mind racing as you processed the gravity of the situation. If they thought you were Gotham's most famous orphan, things were about to go from bad to worse.

You didn't look anything like Bruce Wayne. But in the dim light, battered and bound, who knew what assumptions they'd made? You were just another person caught in the crosshairs of Gotham's madness.

"No." The voice was cold, indifferent. "Just a bystander who was with Crane. Expendable."

The word hung in the air, thick and suffocating, as though your very existence had been casually dismissed in an instant. Your body tensed, fear gripping you like a vice. Expendable—a word that promised nothing but pain and oblivion.

But something shifted inside you. The terror, the confusion, began to dull, pushed aside by a strange sensation—a pull, something calling you to focus. Your mind, foggy and overwhelmed just moments ago, sharpened. The dim light of the dungeon seemed to blur and fade, the chains biting into your wrists and neck no longer mattering. There was something else.

And then you saw it.

It floated in the air with a strange grace, moving slowly, deliberately, as if unburdened by the weight of the world around it. It didn't seem to belong to this place of death and decay. No, it was something else—something pure, something beautiful.

For a moment, everything else faded away. The chains, the fear, the voices—it all melted into the background as you watched the velvet butterfly drift through the darkness. It was mesmerizing, the way its wings moved so effortlessly, gliding as though time had slowed just for it. The soft rustle of its flight filled your ears, and with every beat of its wings, you felt something stir deep within you.

Hope.

Was this real? Was it some vision born of delirium, or had something greater come to guide you out of this nightmare? You didn't know, but it didn't matter. The butterfly seemed to carry with it a promise, something more than just escape… no it was something more.

The butterfly had shown you a way out… and then you heard the voice.

"You can save him..."

what do you do?

[]Reach Out: "Let me help you?"

[]Pull Away: "Let me set you free."

AN: There is a difference between what is said.