Why are we here?
To see the immediate precursor...to our current circumstances...
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Two timelines ago, before the present moment: tales were abundant, of a certain conflict that occurred in the City of Tokyo, in the year 2016; tales of a charismatic and mysterious group, who changed the hearts of criminals, convincing them to confess their crimes with their own mouths.
No one type was immune: from a lustful P.E. teacher, to a vainglorious artist, to a gluttonous mafia boss, to an avaricious corporate executive, to a prideful Prime Minister Elect, to the slothful and wrathful masses themselves...these vigilantes had been unstoppable.
They had been known as the Phantom Thieves.
Beyond that brief period of time—not even twelve months!—they had never acted again. Thus, did they fade into modern myth and urban legend...
Yet their members continued to live life, unknowing of what awaited them on the other side...
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View: https://youtu.be/3tv3Nw5uN8w
It had been many years since Akira Kurusu had donned the mask of Joker.
There were certain times where he half-convinced himself it had all been a strange dream...and he might have succeeded, were it not for the effects of that time he stilled lived with: his friends and his wife, chief among them.
"You got your head in the clouds, Aki?" joked Ryuji Sakamoto, enjoying a glass of flavored water. Age had treated the former athlete rather well, all things considered: bearing a face tanned from a life of labor, yet etched with laugh lines from plenty of joy and laughter.
Akira Kurusu smirked, sipping from his thermos of coffee; he was no spring chicken himself, all things considered. "Well, the clouds are so
very fine this day..."
"Even when we've got something more beautiful on earth to look at?"
"Staring for too long will make you go blind, you know," he joked; sitting upon the grass in Yoyogi Park, the two had prime view of a rather familiar scene: Yusuke Kitagawa, painting. His theme this time was 'Mother and Child', focusing on three families' proverbial matriarchs and the generations which claimed them as their origin.
Said matriarchs being Haru Kurusu, Makoto Sakamoto, and Futaba Kitagawa; the latter of the trio, sitting with crossed arms in a huffy manner, remarked, "Do you know
how hard it is to sit still with a grandbaby pulling on your hair?" Said grandbaby was sprawled on the ground beside her knee, grabbing at the longest lock with pudgy little hands.
"As hard as the hearts of the most wretched filth," Yusuke sagely remarked, his body still as a statue; only his arms moved with life, animated like a man possessed. "Yet such hearts are capable of being changed; and so are you capable of withstanding such trials."
"That metaphor
sucks, Inari," grumbled Futaba, ignoring how her two adult sons snorted at the exchange between their parents. "And I
know you know better ones!"
"Now now," cautioned Makoto, sitting prim and proper in her police chief's uniform. "I'd rather not have to give you a citation for being a public nuisance." Her two daughters — one holding a child of her own — and eldest son — helping out with two preteens — hovered at the periphery, long used to the eccentricities of their 'Uncle Yusuke'. "Especially on such a nice spring day."
Futaba, undeterred, ignored the grandson maneuvering to grab at her longest tress of black hair — the
only one bearing a streak of orange dye, these days — and said, "Madame Floof! I demand you bribe the cop with your best brew!"
'Madame Floof' — none other than Haru, sitting happily between her adult son and daughter, holding one grandbaby in her arms — smiled seraphically. "But bribing is
wrong, Futaba-chan." A strange shadow came over her face, even as her smile remained unaltered. "You wouldn't want to set a poor example for the children, would you~?"
"...I withdraw my objection," Futaba grumbled, defeated.
"You're mixing metaphors again, my Sweetest Citrus," remarked Yusuke.
Futaba
cringed at the nickname. "
Ugh...why did I fall in love with such a
lame-o..."
"
Because you two were a 'Match Made in Cringe', mother," chorused her two sons.
There were so many old jokes and ancient gags between them all that they flowed like water, unimpeded by the passage of time. The sheer nostalgia was intoxicating. "A shame that Ann couldn't make it," murmured Ryuji.
Akira, fiddling with his glasses, shifted through holographic images broadcast onto his digital lenses; the image was of his and Haru's youngest daughter—winning some foreign dance competition—with Ann Takamaki at her shoulder. The picture's caption—'
Dancing Idol Megumi Kurusu Dominates, Dazzling with Fashion from the Tower of Takamaki' line!'—elicited a smile. "Kind of hard when she's so busy, even now."
"We keep telling her to slow down," grumbled Ryuji. "I want to lock her up in a room with Haru so she can finally have a conversation about 'how to properly divest yourself of company resources' and 'how to prepare your subordinates for your eventual retirement' and all that junk,"
Akira chuckled, knowing that Ann was unwilling to slow down as they had, so dedicated she was to living life to the fullest...even if, to the surprise of some in the modelling profession, it came with mentoring numerous young ladies in the arts of fashion, dance, and entertainment. "Well, I can't exactly blame her with getting bored of us settling down." Settling down; that was such a defeatist way of looking at things. As far as Akira was concerned, he had
won at life: he had triumphed over an unjust game, and was going to leave the world better than he had left it.
(Such a strange sensation, to be sure; his will of rebellion had cooled, with the passage of time...manifesting only on behalf of his family and children, with wisdom and experience tamping down on youthful impulse.)
(
Yet, if the circumstances called for it...would you still rebel...?)
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View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zGxXoeexhnM
It was night by the time Akira and Haru returned to
LeBlanc; the times in which the lives of the Phantom Thieves and their children could intersect were few and far between these days, as the call of life kept them all away.
Yet, insofar as these two were concerned, they had a daily ritual which they kept to, without fail: they would retire at the cafe after closing hours, and treat each other to a cup of coffee. It was their way of signalling that the day was over.
"...it feels like everything is slowing down," murmured Haru, quietly stirring a spoonful of honey into her brew.
Akira, savoring the aroma of his cup — even after so many years, Haru's particular grind had an intoxicating diversity — remarked, "Well,
we're slowing down,
Madame Floof."
The matronly woman sighed, lightly tapping his shoulder. "You know that's Futaba-chan's nickname for me. I much prefer your own."
"...I know." Most would have found him unbearably sappy. How fortunate that his younger self had had an unabashed love for show and flair that could not help but come with its own level of cheese and dorkiness. If anything, it kept him humble. "But I think it's also called
getting old."
Haru frowned, looking genuinely concerned. "I know that our children have their own lives...but it seems like life just keeps narrowing down around us. I hardly ever hear of life outside of Japan, anymore..."
"To be fair, our life has had enough excitement to spare," he remarked, thinking back to all that had happened
after 2016: the awkward reconciliation with his birth parents, the legal and financial struggles Haru had endured with Okumura Foods, the sheer amount of
hassle that had occurred when Haru had elected to take on his name instead of retaining 'Okumura' upon their marriage, the various ups and downs of raising kids...etcetera, etcetera.
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Little did they know that the world itself was winding down, in preparation for a reset.
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A little bell tinkled; not from the main cafe door, but from a tiny pet door that they had installed years ago. The presence of a complicated lockpick was enough to keep out wild animals...save for one animal that was wild in an entirely different sense. "Mona-chan?" said Haru with surprise.
The bicolor tuxedo cat quietly sauntered towards their booth, hopping up onto the chair opposite them. "Hi guys."
"I thought you'd be gone for a little while longer, Mona the Seventh," joked Akira, referring to the charade they had been keeping to over the years. After all, when your cat survived
much longer than any actual shorthair should, it was better to pretend (if only for the sake of the normies, as Futaba would say) that Mona was a series of different cats, instead of the
same cat. "Or is it Mona the
Eighth, now?"
"Ha ha," griped the supernatural cat, quietly sprawling onto the table so Haru could scratch his ears. "I just...felt like I needed to be here, that's all..."
"...huh." He would have made a joke about how dead cats couldn't get homesick, were it not for Haru's palpable worry. "Well, I guess we'll find out tomorrow if it's anything to be concerned about. For now,
these old bones need to get some sleep."
Akira and Haru quietly shut everything down, heading upstairs to the cafe attic, which had been converted to a
proper living space over the years (complete with an actual bed not balanced on milk crates!). Having handed down their old home to their son after he had gotten married, this little place was just perfect for an old couple enjoying their golden twilight.
"...so many things could have been different," murmured Haru. "But...for all the downs...I'm glad I have this..."
That was enough to make Akira feel like a young man. "Good night...Noir."
Haru, smiling to herself, cuddled up against her husband. "Good night...my Trickster."
(Haru was the only one with 'Trickster' privileges...and it served as a reminder of Lavenza, and that odd little dimension called the Velvet Room, which he hadn't seen in years.)
(
Even now, the unreality of that year seems...puzzling, doesn't it...?)
Morgana quietly curled up on Akira's chest, his stunning blue eyes filled with surprising uncertainty. "Hey, come on Mona...we're good. It'll all be good."
"...I hope so," the cat whispered.
(Akira Kurusu would pass away while sleeping.)
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That night, the last vestiges of a lingering timeline were swept up without warning.
A mind that should have been swept up was instead caught by a singular spark, pushing against the tide.
With inhuman force, it delved into a turbulent sea, and towards a familiar door...!
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When Akira Kurusu opened his eyes, it was with the body of a teenager.
The fact he was in a Shujin outfit
and sitting in a room colored various shades of blue was another nostalgic reminder.
However, the utter lack of its characteristic song was...unnerving.
"It has been a long time, dear guest," a genial voice said.
Ren looked to his left, staring at the face of a long-nosed man. "Igor?" More importantly, standing by his side was a girl with silver hair that he had not seen in just as long of a time. "Lavenza...?"
"...Trickster," said Lavenza, her yellow eyes quivering with both gladness and uncertainty. "We are glad that we managed to divert you in time. It is crucial that we speak."
Akira, not quite sure if he was having a particularly vivid dream, asked, "About...?"
"
About a game which we all have the grave misfortune of being forced to play..." said a deep voice, amused yet irritated deep down.
Akira's head jolted to the right, his body
immediately going tense. Alarmed, he took in the sight of Igor...no,
not Igor. Though the form was similar, an inhuman power — seething with malice — overshadowed him from behind; beyond that murky mass, echoes of bizarre creatures could be seen. "What...?"
The Fake Igor—the Holy Grail;
Yaldabaoth—grinned, leaning his head against his fist. "
Trickster. It has been far too long."
Akira looked back at Igor and Lavenza. Then at the Fake Igor. Igor. Fake Igor. Finally, with utter disbelief, he exclaimed, "Is this
for real?!"
xxxx
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/the lyric even has a Rebuild-style spot for a word in parentheses
//
nice
