6/2

IWAI: COME TO THE STORE

The eighth message of the same variety.

Whatever he wants, Akira thinks. It can wait. He straightens his back off the alley's wall as footsteps approach.

Ohya materializes around the corner in the dim sunlight, a frustrated look on her face. Akira raises his hand in greeting. If anything, she seems more cognizant than when last they'd spoken.

"Hi," Akira says as Ohya approaches, but the woman replies without greeting and extends her hand in a fist.

"There," Ohya says, unfurling once Akira reaches out. The small, circular camera enters Akira's palm. "You've got it. That's what you wanted, right? For your next mission?"

Mika issued her Request the day before.

‘Dear Phantom Thieves, My name is Mika Aizata. I was recently a part of Harajuku Girls Modeling Agency. Their manager, Kaito Miura made my life a living hell. He sexually assaulted a few of the other girls in the agency and me. It got so bad that I couldn’t stand it anymore, and I overdosed on pills in an attempt to take my own life. I don’t know if you guys are real or if this is all some scam, but if you’re legit, please do something about this bastard!’

"Pretty clear, yeah?" Ann had asked.

The group agreed.

"This is another job," Akira says. "The Phantom Thieves are looking into Kaito Mirua, a director at a modeling agency. I figured you could do something on Devil's Dispatch or-"

"I spoke with Daiki Aoe," Ohya says.

Akira stares at her, then asks, "What for?"

"Because I wanted his side of the story, Akira. I wanted to know why he killed Madarame. And here's the thing, he doesn't have a side of the story." Ohya quickly recounts her experience with Madarame's killer.

Akira slides the camera into his pocket as Ohya speaks. "Can we be sure he isn't just making stuff up?" Akira asks, once she finishes.

"I didn't get that impression," Ohya replies. "And I've been doing this for a long time. Something's off about this. Drugs can blot out memories, but they can't time things, and the timing here is everything."

Akira reaches up and sticks his fingers into his shoulder, and rubs. "Rumors're flying around. About the possible involvement of the Phantom Thieves with Madarame's death, and-"

"Yeah, I know," Ohya says, and shakes her head. "But that's bullshit. You didn't kill him. But it's still weird."

“Exac-” Akira starts, then stops.

Ohya frowns. “Gotta think before you speak, eh cuz?”

“I didn’t-”

“Can we skip to the part where I plainly lay out just how I know you’re a Phantom Thief, Akira, or do you want to pointlessly protest for another ten minutes before conceding that I know?” Ohya shrugs. “We both have busy schedules, but I can spare the time.”

Akira says nothing for a while. Then, he asks, “Did Daiki Aoe say anything else?”

Ohya shakes her head. “I gave you the gist. I don’t like it. Do you think it has anything to do with how you change hearts?” She leans closer to Akira. “Are you the only ones who can do it?”

Akira remembers Igor’s words. “Possibly. I’m not certain of anything. Just that we had nothing to do with Aoe stabbing Madarame.”

“That I believe.”

Akira nods. “Well, thanks for that at least. Am I supposed to say this is all ‘off the record’ or something?”

“You probably should’ve led with that, but I’ll let you off the hook this time. I’m not about to expose you. I think you will be making headlines for a while yet.”

Akira shrugs. “We’ll see. As for Madarame’s murder, I’m not sure. But do I think it’s possible for someone else to have made Aoe stab him? I don’t know. Maybe?”

“I don’t know what kind of resources you have, but they can’t be robust if you’ve got to rely on me and the Plague for help,” Ohya says. “But if you have any way of looking into this further, I suggest doing some sleuthing.”

“Yeah,” Akira says absently. “I think I’ll do just that.” He blinks. “Wait, how do you know Plague’s name?”

“Takemi?” Ohya asks. “I hacked your phone, remember?”

“Right, but how do you know her codename?”

“Codename?” Ohya asks. She spits out a laugh. “Wait, you’ve all got codenames? Oh my god, what’s yours? Is it ‘Glasses’? Tell me it’s ‘Glasses.’”

Akira frowns. “I’m not telling you that. But Takemi gave us that name. How do you know about it?”

Ohya rolls her eyes. “Do you even know who you’re dealing with, Akira? Takemi’s gone by that moniker for a while now.”

“I had no idea.”

“Maybe sleuth around on that front, too,” Ohya replies.

“Alright.” He straightens. “Don’t you have more questions?”

Ohya grins. “So many questions. I’m dying to know all this shit, but I think you’ve got bigger fish to fry right now.” She nods toward Akira’s pocket. “That’s for your next target, right? Is it going to be as big a splash as Madarame?”

“Hopefully yes,” Akira replies. “But only for the right reasons.”

#

Makoto breathes. Slow. Rhythmic.

Her assailant's arms tighten.

Adrenaline kicks, and she moves. Reaches up. Grabs. Holds. Pivots.

Makoto feels her opponent's body collapsing over her back as she pitches forward and pulls. A sudden lightness and a cry of brief panic, snuffed by a smack from the mat and an "Oof!"

Makoto winces. "I'm sorry. Was that too hard?"

Haru lays, spread-eagled, and blinks at the ceiling. She smells of sweat and cinnamon, and her groan manages to charm.

Makoto speeds to the mat's edge, snatches up the plastic water bottles, and returns to present Haru with one.

Haru's arm flops like a choking fish for a moment, then reaches up and grips the water. "I'm afraid I'm not quite used to this," she mumbles and takes a swig.

Makoto folds herself down next to her friend. "There's nothing wrong with that." After a sip, she continues. "You're pretty good for a beginner." She thinks of adding, 'I used to be much worse,' but she rejects the lie. Per her father, Makoto always possessed a, 'talent for connecting her fists with things.'

Haru smiles and forces herself to sit. "Is everything supposed to hurt?"

Makoto shrugs and smirks. "Yes."

"Wonderful."

Makoto hears the whistling before the footsteps. The older man, one who once tried to coax a 'smile' from Makoto, enters the gym. His jaunty tune faulters upon spying Makoto, and he turns and marches out. Makoto feels a contented purr in her chest, like a low-rumbling engine, and suppresses a smile.

"Who was that?" Haru asks.

"Some jerk."

"Oh."

"Speaking of," Makoto says, her voice rising a degree. "Are you okay? Regarding Sugimura?"

Haru's eyes dip toward the mat. "I'm alright. He's been distracted lately. His father keeps bringing him to these important meetings, so I haven't seen him much."

Makoto nods because she's uncertain about what else to do. The basic self-defense. The constant check-ins. Makoto aches to assist her friend in some final way.

There's someone you could ask. You already have, whispers a voice in Makoto's mind. She ignores it. "Haru," Makoto says, delicately. "If you don't want to do this, if you don't want to marry him, why are you going through with it? Why don't you ask your father to cancel the engagement?"

Haru stands, quiet. She lifts the pair of gloves from the edge of the mat, and approaches the punching bag. "Would you mind holding it?"

"S-sure." Makoto walks over, takes a position behind the bag, and settles.

Haru throws a punch. It's not terrible. Makoto offers a pointer. Haru's next improves. Makoto feels the next through the bag. The one after, faster.

Sweat escapes Haru's pulled-back hair. "My first memory of my father is him arguing with my grandfather."

Makoto remains silent.

"I mean," Haru continues. "I have earlier memories, but they're just pieces. A smile. A hug. Being picked up. Him shouting at someone. But the first, real, solid memory I have of him is him fighting with my grandfather. It was over food, of all things." Haru throws another punch, loses her footing, and steadies herself against the bag. "They were arguing over the proper way to cook something, I think. I remember them being so intense about it. Later, the two of them were sitting in our living room, laughing about something completely different. My father looked so happy then. My grandfather too." Another punch. "Then, my grandfather died, and my father changed. Smiled less. Argued more. Ordered more. I didn't notice, of course. I was young, very young. I had to hear about it from his assistants, employees, and mother in passing. You never really notice those things when you're a child, do you? Everything's so fresh and new that you accept whatever's happening as the norm. It doesn't matter if it hurts. It's just normal. That's what you think because you don't know how not to feel that way."

Haru pauses her assault and her speaking, and stares at the bag. Haru raises her arms for a few moments as if she intends to continue the strikes. She lowers them each time. "I've made my displeasure over my situation clear. I've tried to speak to my father about it. I've tried to make him understand. He doesn't. I think, he thinks, that this is all for the betterment of our family. I think he thinks, he can manipulate the Sugimuras. Maybe he expects me to do it for him."

Makoto speaks. "But that's not you."

Haru shakes her head. "That's why I started working at Rafflesia. I just wanted to do something for myself and not for the family, even if it was something small. Because, when my father says, 'Do this for the family,' what he really means is, 'Do this for me.'" With a low grunt, Haru hits the bag. "I'm sorry. I'm rambling. I've never really said any of this out loud before. Everything makes sense in my head, but it comes out in a jumble when I try to let it out. Does that make sense?"

Makoto offers her a smile. "Oh, I know exactly what you mean."

Haru sighs and leans forward, draping herself across the bag. Makoto keeps up the pressure so the bag doesn't buckle. "Doesn't your father ever make ridiculous requests of you sometimes?"

The words hit Makoto like a freight train. Her mind switches off, and it's all she can do to keep her grip on the bag.

Haru pushes away and blinks. "Mako-chan? Are you alright?"

"I, um... my dad is, well..."

Haru's eyes study her face, then widen by degrees. "You live with your sister," she whispers. Then, louder. "You live with your sister! Oh, Makoto, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize. I didn't think."

Makoto steps away from the bag. "It's okay." She tries to smile. "I just wasn't expecting that."

Haru buries her face in her hands. "Oh, I'm so dumb. It didn't even dawn on me."

"It's fine," Makoto tells her, voice insistent. "Really, it is." Except it isn't. Her mouth moves before she can stop. "It's been three years."

Three years is a strange amount of time. It's long enough to feel like the distant past, but short enough to still be fresh.

And just like that, Makoto returns to the house. Sae stands in the foyer, listening to the officers holding their caps in their hands. Their heads are bowed, and their mouths move.

Sae shakes.

Makoto waits. Waits to hear that everything is okay. That everything is fine. Waits to hear that the most horrible thing that could have happened hasn't happened.

In many ways, Makoto still waits.

"He was a police officer," Makoto says. "Our mother died when we were little. She got sick. Even though he was always busy, he spent as much time as possible with us." Makoto sits on the gym's floor. Haru joins her.

"Things had been scary," Makoto continues. "He'd been investigating this group. They were trafficking drugs and girls. They threatened him. Threatened all of us."

Haru whispers. "D-did they..." But she can't finish.

"Kill him?" Makoto asks. "No. It was a few days after my sister graduated from law school. Dad got hit by a truck. The driver was on drugs. He didn't even remember doing it. The impact killed him."

"I'm so sorry, Makoto."

"It's alright. Sorry. We were talking about your situation, and I made it about me."

Haru shakes her head. "I asked. And you should always feel free to talk to me about that stuff, even if it's hard. We're friends, yes?"

Makoto smiles. "Right. We're friends."

Haru sighs. "Perhaps we should change topics? Prepare for our upcoming interview with Mona-chan?"

Makoto laughs. "Sure." The word exits her mouth harsher than she intends. Haru's eyes study her own. "What?"

"We haven't discussed Madarame's death, have we?"

Makoto glances down toward her feet. "That's because I'm unsure what to say about it."

"Have you heard the rumors?" Haru asks.

Makoto nods. "The ones about the Phantom Thieves? Yes, I've heard them." Her pulse seizes, and she turns to Haru. "You don't believe them, do you?"

"That they had something to do with Madarame's death?" Haru asks, and shakes her head. "No, of course I don't. The murderer was some poor man Madarame took advantage of. Besides, Akira's several things, but I don't believe he's a killer."

"Exactly," Makoto replies. "It doesn't even make sense. How would the Phantom Thieves have even done it?"

Haru shrugs. "Then again, no one knows how they steal hearts. I still say-"

"Don't say magic."

"It's magic," Haru finishes, and smirks.

Makoto regards her friend with mock exasperation. "Hopefully, we'll finally get to the bottom of this once we've seen about this Morgana. But, until then," and Makoto nods toward the bag. "Want to go another round?"

#

Akira pushes himself away from his desk with a frustrated exhalation. The motion tips the chair, and only a significant amount of pinwheeling his arms saves Akira from toppling over. Once his heart rate slows, he stands and rubs his eyes. For the past hour, a headache drilled into his brain, between the screen's light and the lack of progress.

"Waste of time," Akira mutters to no one.

Morgana went with Ann to install Ohya's camera in the Harajuku Girls' office.

Yusuke and Ryuji tailed Yamaguchi.

Akira's self-appointed role involved digging up as much as possible about cognitive science, the Metaverse, Igor, and the Velvet Room.

The only reference Akira found to the 'Velvet Room' involved a store at a mall that closed years ago in a town he's never heard of.

And worst of all, the damn computer - assured by Mishima to be relatively high-end - slowed down whenever Akira accessed a new site or searched for something. More than once, Akira checked Mishima's provided notes, convinced he'd done something incorrectly, but no. Akira followed the instructions. Akira waited fifteen seconds for his search results to return with no helpful information.

Akira paces his room for a few moments, then beelines to his bed, where he collapses.

Too many threads, he thinks. I need a new approach.

Going haphazardly won't accomplish anything, one of the voices echoes. So pick something and dedicate some time to it.

Which thing? Akira wonders. Igor and the Velvet Room? The Metaverse? Cognitive science and its links to mental shutdowns? Yukio Kan? Daiki Aoe?

Then there was Ohya. Akira still groped for a way to explain that to the team.

Thus far, Ohya has earned her credibility. Knowing the identity of the Phantom Thieves, she'd said nothing, not even in a drunken blog post. The way Akira figured it, the Phantom Thieves represented a potential long-term story. Blowing their identities now gave Ohya something juicy in the short term, but in six months, it meant nothing. Akira hated selling himself and his friends short, but it was the truth.

Ohya wouldn't betray them so long as it suited her, and beyond that, Akira wanted to trust her.

Still need to break the news, though, Akira thinks.

That matter aside, there was the pressing issue of the two potential targets. Miura and Yamaguchi. Akira itched to try his experiment. The concept was simple enough.

The computer dings. Akira sits up and stares at it. It hadn't done that before. The recent search results on ‘cognitive science and researchers’ finish loading, and Akira approaches the screen, bracing for disappointment.

There was, predictably, nothing of interest except for a single hyperlink that Akira initially overlooked.

American Fringe Scientist Goes Missing.

That was odd. Most of Akira’s search results yielded data and strange feedback he couldn't decipher. This was the first genuine news article he'd seen. He checked the source but didn't recognize the name. It sounded American, and the link provided a translated text copy into Japanese. Akira clicked through.

A photo of a tired-looking white man appeared on Akira's screen. The man's close-cropped brown hair looked in need of a trim, and round glasses hung off his face as if he'd forgotten to put them there. A cigarette hung from the man's mouth, and the mouth itself seemed captured at the point of opening to say something. Akira could make out the fractions of yellowed teeth. The man, as a whole, looked sickly, with sunken cheeks and dried-out skin.

Robert Cunningham, the article read, a man shunned by academia yet revered within certain circles of fringe science groups, has gone missing during a layover in Tokyo, Japan, on a flight between San Francisco and Beijing. On route to a summit in Beijing, he did not disembark the plane he was known to have booked passage on from Tokyo, having arrived in the city the same day, six hours earlier, as confirmed by the airline located in San Francisco.

Authorities were alerted, but no word on his whereabouts has been forthcoming. Few seemed concerned beyond those at the summit expecting his arrival. When pressed for a comment, his semi-estranged son, Daniel Cunningham, said, 'He does this shit all the time.'

Robert Cunningham's research into the saccadal glitch, built on the study of Russian neurologist Yarbus, was considered cutting-edge. In recent years however, Cunningham drifted down more and more fringe avenues of science, including the effect of outside stimuli on the brain and its observation, as well as the relatively new fields of cognitive science and the neuro cohesion theory.

Akira sat back in his chair. He looked at the date of the article. October 8, 2011. Five years earlier.

What even is this? Akira wonders. He copies the text of the article and saves it to the desktop.

Some American disappeared in Tokyo some five years ago? Still, it did mention he'd been involved in cognitive science, among other things. Hopefully, that wasn't a translation error. Akira resolves to speak with Takemi about this and follow up on Robert Cunningham's fate.

#

She waits until she's sure the idiot's finished.

No key traces, no additional searches, nothing.

She rekeys the reminder to ensure the system prompts her whenever he begins doing dumb shit again.

Yawning, she lays her head on the keyboard, careful not to hit anything sensitive.

Whoever told him how to navigate the dark web had been an absolute moron. Only by sheer luck had he managed not to do something that landed him in jail before she'd managed to log in and safeguard him.

It wouldn't do to have the cops pick around Sojiro's place, after all.

She cringes at the idea of her used computers going to this airhead. Still, if everything she compiled about him panned out, they could do something with the article she'd slipped into the search field.

Long shot, but better than nothing.

#

Crow watches the scenery roll by out the window.

Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

He glances down at his gloved fingers and runs them over the armrest.

Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

Though fun, Crow's job came with drawbacks.

"What're you thinking about?" Asks the thing alongside Crow.

Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

Crow sighs. "I'm thinking about how utterly annoying your chewing is."

The thing replies with a laugh. Or the approximation of one. It's a loud, booming, horrid thing—animal noise.

And then.

Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

Crow turns to face his companion. "I don't appreciate my time wasted."

Junya Kaneshiro's Shadow smiles back. He appears very much like the real Junya Kaneshiro. Tall. Muscular. Clean shaven. Close-cropped hair. He's absent much of the glitz and glamor of his fellow Yakuza, at least here, in his Palace.

His teeth, however.

They shine like glass. Like razor. Each tooth - as long as Crow's thumb - slides together into a jack-o'-lantern grin.

"And I don't appreciate my meals being interrupted. Not my fault you showed up when you did." Kaneshiro's Shadow reaches into the bucket between his legs and pulls out a fistful of fractured bones. His jaw unhinges, and the teeth slide open to reveal a gaping maw. Kaneshiro tosses the bones in, and the teeth snap shut.

Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

Two cognitive representations of Kaneshiro's underlings sit in another row, chuckling amongst themselves. They appear very ordinary. Very human, save for the masks.

That the denizens of Kaneshiro's Palace closely resemble their real-world selves alarms Crow, but not by too much.

"Shall we get to it? Then we can go back to doing whatever we do," Crow says.

"I want a meeting."

Crow blinks. "A... meeting?" Realization hits hard. Crow stands. "You know exactly what my services are for. You do not contact me unless you've got a request for a shutdown. I am not some messenger that-"

Kaneshiro thrusts his hand back into his bucket of bones. A rattling, gravely sound emanates. "I did make a request, Crow," he replies, with a sneer. "But you couldn't follow through with it. Had to make that other kid go schitzo and do the deed for you." He shakes his head. "Sloppy. Real sloppy."

Crow takes a few deep breaths. "I would remind you, that your organization's failure to keep your facility secure led to the situation in the first place."

Kaneshiro's grin, somehow, grows larger. "Don't misunderstand me. I'm glad things settled the way they did, but I figure your poor handling should get me - real me, or whatever - some face time."

Crow glares down at him. "That is not how this works."

Kaneshiro lifts his hands over his head, tilts his face back, opens his mouth, and lets the bones fall into his gullet. His mouth shuts.

Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

He swallows and shrugs. "I don't really care."

Silence, save for the Palace, moving along.

Crow lets his body relax, and his fingers hang loose. "This isn't a negotiation, Shadow. You do not dictate terms to me." He keeps his voice low and calm. "Don't tempt me. If I wanted to, I-"

Shadow Kaneshiro launches out of his seat to his full, hulking height. A hand lashes out and wraps itself around Crow's throat. The arm extends and slams Crow's head against the glass window so hard it cracks.

"Don't tempt me, boy," it hisses. The windows seem to shake with each syllable. "I see you. You act big. You talk big. Walk big. But inside, you're real small. If you wanted to, what? You could kill me? Execute a mental shutdown on me? Try it." Crow tries to push himself free, but the grip holds firm. "So go back to your little hole, you self-important pissant, and tell the man upstairs what I said. And tell him no more of this spooky science bullshit." He leans in until Crow can smell his breath through his mask. "I want face-to-face."

Kaneshiro releases Crow. Crow pushes himself away from the window, and sets about straightening his outfit. "Do not-" he starts, but Kaneshiro interrupts once more.

"Spare me. I'm not interested in your posturing. Make no mistake. The head honcho of this whole thing may want to run the country." Kaneshiro points out the window. Crow looks. "But this? This is my town."