Again

by martiniglass

Summary:

The cold stone bites into his knees as he kneels onto the ground. The air around him is stifling, the disappointed stares weighing heavily on his shoulders. And yet, as he looks up from the floor and meets those stares head on, he is the very picture of quiet defiance.

"Again."

Notes:

I'd like to apologize. I'm so sorry for leaving you guys so suddenly. I'm alright and I won't go too into it, but stuff happened and it took a little bit for me to overcome it. But hey, that's life, right? Regardless, I'm back. It might take awhile for me to get back into the groove of things but I'm back and I hope you guys can forgive me. While I work on finishing up my other projects, please enjoy this little bite that I wrote up one night. As always, constructive criticism and comments are always extremely welcomed. Enjoy!

“Again.”

The cold stone bites into his knees as he kneels onto the ground. The air around him is stifling, the disappointed stares weighing heavily on his shoulders. And yet, as he looks up from the floor and meets those stares head on, he is the very picture of quiet defiance.

He is broken, battered, barely able to hold himself upright. His gloves are torn and blood soaked, his clothing no better. His mask he’s tossed aside. He has no use of it now anyways. Hasn’t needed it for a long time. He stares at them, unmoving and unshakable in his resolve. He was promised a gift and he will use it to its fullest.

“Again,” he says once more and the stares morph into ones of pity.

“It shall be done,” Lavenza says, with a nod.

He falls, the ground bending underneath his hands and he drifts through the darkness. But this is a darkness he no longer fears. Instead, he embraces it, greeting it as one greets an old friend. He falls and, for a brief and euphoric moment, forgets.

Akira opens his eyes, safe and comfortable in his futon, to the sounds of his phone ringing. He swallows, all too aware of the weight of Morgana resting near his feet, and reaches for his phone. It’s a text from Makoto.

M: After school, we’ll meet up at Leblanc and discuss my sister’s Palace. Make sure to let Akechi know.

At his feet, Morgana lets out a loud yawn and enjoys a long, hard body stretch before nudging his head against Akira’s ankle. “Who’s that?” he asks and Akira has to violently bite his own tongue to keep himself from screaming.

Blood pools in his mouth and he swallows again, shuddering from the metallic taste coating his throat. It nearly makes him sick.

---

“Again.”

He hears Lavenza sigh softly but he doesn’t bother looking up at either her or Igor. He’s too busy wracking his mind over the past hour, going through every single second of information he’s seen now dozens of times. Despite his countless attempts and interventions, no matter how the situations change, the outcome is always the same.

It makes him want to vomit.

His gloves are pristine against the floor of the Velvet Room this time and his attire is just as spotless. His mask is still on his face and, when he finally does look up to the Master of the Velvet Room, he finds it somewhat comforting; with the mask still on, neither of them can see his tears.

“Again,” he says and his voice only wobbles a little, a sob threatening to overtake him.

Lavenza takes a single step towards him and he flinches so violently that she instantly stops, one hand still out stretched as if to provide comfort. He shakes his head and shakily pulls himself to his feet. Her comfort is neither needed nor wanted.

“Again,” he says one last time and it’s Igor this time who sighs.

“What do you hope to accomplish, my Trickster?” he asks and Akira has no time to answer as he’s pulled into that same, painfully familiar darkness.

---

With each repeat, he retains everything. Sometimes, he wonders if it would be easier if he simply forgot along with the rest of the world. The seemingly endless supply of powerful personas, the invaluable knowledge of all of his enemies weaknesses, the mental maps of each and every Palace. He finds himself praying with each awakening that they won’t be there, waiting for him to repeat yet another cycle.

It impresses everyone else, how cool and calm he always is. No matter which enemy is in their way, Akira knows exactly what to do. And he hates it.

Deep down, in a place where only he and Satanael reside, he knows that it’s futile, this personal Hell of his own design. He knows that it won’t matter how many times he returns, how many times he forces the residents of the Velvet Room to pull back the flow of time. He’s seen too much blood and death to hold onto the false hope he once clung to so desperately in the beginning.

‘Maybe if I can just get him to talk to me...’

‘If I can get him into Leblanc before everything goes to shit then maybe…’

‘I’ll tell him everything, everything that’s destined to happen and then…’

It all ends in the same heartbreak, the same betrayal, the same body. Sometimes there’s a wall of steel separating them, the only sign of death being a missing signal. Sometimes, the body’s cradled in his lap as Akira runs his hands through blood matted brown hair. And then sometimes still, he never sees the body. Sometimes he’s simply thrown a memento of sorts; the ray gun he’d had Iwai make as a special order or the knock-off lightsaber he’d been so fond of.

Every once and awhile, Akira is given a hand or some other body part as proof of his death. It’s after those encounters that he returns to the Room covered in blood that is not his own.

And then once, only once, Akira had held Akechi’s shaking form close to his chest and he’d been the one to press the muzzle of his gun against the teen detective’s temple. He’d held him close, something in him dying as Akechi clung to him and whispered, in a voice so devoid of anything but terror, “Please…”

He’d pulled the trigger. He’d awoken in the Room and had screaming for hours.

Akira doesn’t like to think about that encounter too often.

---

“Why do you torture yourself so?”

Akira is curled up in the cell that was once his own, knees drawn up to his chest and his fingers digging into his scalp. He’s drawn blood this time, he can feel it slowly oozing down his face, but he can’t stop shaking. Igor and Lavenza are staring at him, both of their gazes filled with pity.

His vision is still somewhat hazy from his panic attack so Akira has to blink a few times, fighting against the receding wave of adrenaline and the blood stinging his eyes, before he sees the small girl standing right in front of him. She’s practically vibrating with the desire to come closer but Akira bares his teeth at her in a silent warning. Judging from her barely there flinch, his teeth must still be stained with blood. He’d bitten his lips to shreds while in the thick of his attack.

Lavenza looks close to tears as her hands curl uselessly over her dress. “I do not understand,” she whispers and Akira can barely hear her over the empty melody that is constantly in the background of his mind here in this place. “You and your friends were triumphant. You defeated the false god and restored peace to your world. Why do you torture yourself with the impossible? What good is this self-induced punishment?”

Akira shivers, his body still curled up tight, and runs his tongue over his bloodied lips. He wonders vaguely if it’s normal to be so used to the taste of your own blood.

“Again,” he says with a voice raspy from hours of screaming.

Igor chuckles humorlessly from his desk. “You are a stubborn one, my Trickster.”

---

Sometimes, he doesn’t even bother with any of his friends or loved ones. He ignores them, save for the ones he’s most accustomed to fighting beside and even to them he is distant and cold, and lets everyone relying on him fall.

Ryuji remains the angry, jaded child with a chip the size of Tokyo on his shoulder. Ann never finds her sense of self-confidence, never finds peace with herself or with Shiho. Yusuke fails to find his inspiration, fails to connect with “Sayuri” and awaken as the artist he’s suppose to become.

Makoto bends to the will of those around her, never making the vow to honor her late father’s memories or making the personal changes she was so desperate for. Futaba never reaches those personal milestones, never makes amends with her old childhood friend. Haru fails to blossom into the confident woman she could have been, her dreams of owning her own coffee shop fading like dust in the wind.

Sojiro never sees him as a pseudo-son and he never becomes an honorary member of the Iwai clan. Takemi never learns of her patient’s survival and Mishima never finds his own self-worth.

Akira lets them all fall and crumble. He uses them, blatantly and without a hint of shame, and climbs atop their broken hopes and dreams in an attempt to reach the only one he wants so desperately to save.

And every time, the shattered remains of everyone lie at his feet along with the corpse of Akechi, their unwilling sacrifices all in vain.

Sometimes, Akira wonders if he’s becoming just as evil as those he fights against. He watches all of his friends lose the chance to become more, watches them fail as he refuses to give them all that extra push they need, and he wonders what they would do or say to him if they could remember like he could.

He doesn’t imagine they’d be very forgiving. He doesn’t think he’d want them to be.

---

“Please,” Lavenza says and this time, there’s a single tear sliding down her face. “Cease this madness.”

Her hands are folded together as if in prayer and Akira feels a stirring of guilt in his chest before it’s ruthlessly crushed by the weight of his grief and despair. He stays kneeling on the floor this time, his hands resting limply against his knees. There’s a bloodied hand print, so very bright and vivid against the crisp white of his shirt and he can only sigh at the sound of the Attendant weeping.

“Some things cannot be changed, my Trickster,” Igor says softly. Akira flinches at that but otherwise, stays stock still. “And this self-punishment you insist on? This unholy form of penance? It will only drag you further into your prison.”

The look Igor gives him is a strange one; it almost looks like regret.

“Will you not forgive yourself for his death, my Trickster?” he asks.

Akira stares at the stone floor for a long moment, closing his eyes only to envision in the darkness of his heart the staggering figure of Satanael. His persona, his true self, stares down at him with an expressionless mask and the sheer presence of him is enough to have Akira shaking. But even with the mask and the pressure of such a being within him, Akira knows where they both stand.

He opens his eyes and looks up at the both of them, the Attendant and the Master. He smiles and watches as their hopeful expressions fall.

“Again.”

Notes:

As always, constructive criticism and comments are always extremely welcomed. Thank you!