That's all Mockingbird would see on the other side.
The quiet hum of fluorescent lights buzzed softly in the dim room as Maruki sat slouched in a chair, one arm trembling as he tried to wrap fresh gauze around the gnarled, pulsating wound on his left hand. His lab—the same one that had once been his Palace—was now a patchwork of reality and unreality and a whole fucking mess
Files and bookshelves stood where twisted roots and distorted landscapes once claimed dominance. The remnants of his power lingered like ghosts, whispering to him from the corners of his consciousness.
The mirror on the far wall reflected a version of himself he barely recognized. The black-green scarring that crawled across his face like veins seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. He winced as he touched the edge of his face mask—a haphazardly stitched piece of black conjured to fit his face while he worked away the healing spell in the background. The greenish hue seeped past the edges, an eerie reminder of Azathoth’s lingering presence.
His Persona was silent now, but its betrayal echoed louder than any words.
“Damn it...” Maruki muttered, his voice raw. The gauze unraveled again in his shaking fingers, and he slammed a fist against the desk. The pain shot up his arm like a firework, but he welcomed it. It was grounding.
The memory of Corvus—of Kou—stabbed at his mind. The look of sheer agony on his face, the anger that had echoed through the trauma maze... It hadn’t been meant to hurt him. Maruki had only wanted to help. To show him a path forward, past grief. Happiness.
But instead, he had unleashed horrors that no one should ever endure.
And in the end, Azathoth had deemed him unworthy of even his own body’s autonomy.
The bandage slipped loose again. This time, Maruki forced himself to breathe and tried again. His hands steadied, bit by bit, as he worked. He had learned to patch himself up after his power turned inward, when the Megidolaons had ravaged his body. Each layer of gauze and tape was both a physical necessity and a ritual—a reminder of his failures, yes, but also that he was still alive. Barely.
Alive enough to make amends. Or try.
After finishing the last knot, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the directory on his desk. Another tape bearing a label, a name, a story. His eyes fell on one in particular: Mockingbird. Hannei. Another Akechi, another thread to untangle. His body screamed for rest, but guilt refused to let him stop.
With a sigh, he reached for the mask he’d prepared to cover the veins. Its surface felt scratchy against his fingertips, and he hesitated before wearing it to his face. The scarring resisted, flaring briefly in pain before quieting down. The green-black lines, while still visible at the edges, were mercifully obscured.
Maruki stood, every movement slow and deliberate.
The tape labeled Mockingbird rested on top of the directory now. His fingers brushed over the label, lingering for a moment as he gathered his thoughts.
“Maybe this time... I’ll get it right,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the room.
With that, he gets up, leaves the Lab with the tape tucked in the wide pocket of his black hoodie (one that he widened enough using his persona) and opens the door stabnding effortlessly at the side of the streets of Odaiba. Whether it was simply the cruel twist of fate or something else entirely, he's back in the cold blue room. The woman's voice singing to him as he looked onward.
no subject
That's all Mockingbird would see on the other side.
The quiet hum of fluorescent lights buzzed softly in the dim room as Maruki sat slouched in a chair, one arm trembling as he tried to wrap fresh gauze around the gnarled, pulsating wound on his left hand. His lab—the same one that had once been his Palace—was now a patchwork of reality and unreality and a whole fucking mess
Files and bookshelves stood where twisted roots and distorted landscapes once claimed dominance. The remnants of his power lingered like ghosts, whispering to him from the corners of his consciousness.
The mirror on the far wall reflected a version of himself he barely recognized. The black-green scarring that crawled across his face like veins seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. He winced as he touched the edge of his face mask—a haphazardly stitched piece of black conjured to fit his face while he worked away the healing spell in the background. The greenish hue seeped past the edges, an eerie reminder of Azathoth’s lingering presence.
His Persona was silent now, but its betrayal echoed louder than any words.
“Damn it...” Maruki muttered, his voice raw. The gauze unraveled again in his shaking fingers, and he slammed a fist against the desk. The pain shot up his arm like a firework, but he welcomed it. It was grounding.
The memory of Corvus—of Kou—stabbed at his mind. The look of sheer agony on his face, the anger that had echoed through the trauma maze... It hadn’t been meant to hurt him. Maruki had only wanted to help.
To show him a path forward, past grief. Happiness.
But instead, he had unleashed horrors that no one should ever endure.
And in the end, Azathoth had deemed him unworthy of even his own body’s autonomy.
The bandage slipped loose again. This time, Maruki forced himself to breathe and tried again. His hands steadied, bit by bit, as he worked. He had learned to patch himself up after his power turned inward, when the Megidolaons had ravaged his body. Each layer of gauze and tape was both a physical necessity and a ritual—a reminder of his failures, yes, but also that he was still alive. Barely.
Alive enough to make amends. Or try.
After finishing the last knot, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the directory on his desk. Another tape bearing a label, a name, a story. His eyes fell on one in particular: Mockingbird. Hannei. Another Akechi, another thread to untangle. His body screamed for rest, but guilt refused to let him stop.
With a sigh, he reached for the mask he’d prepared to cover the veins. Its surface felt scratchy against his fingertips, and he hesitated before wearing it to his face. The scarring resisted, flaring briefly in pain before quieting down. The green-black lines, while still visible at the edges, were mercifully obscured.
Maruki stood, every movement slow and deliberate.
The tape labeled Mockingbird rested on top of the directory now. His fingers brushed over the label, lingering for a moment as he gathered his thoughts.
“Maybe this time... I’ll get it right,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the room.
With that, he gets up, leaves the Lab with the tape tucked in the wide pocket of his black hoodie (one that he widened enough using his persona) and opens the door stabnding effortlessly at the side of the streets of Odaiba.
Whether it was simply the cruel twist of fate or something else entirely, he's back in the cold blue room. The woman's voice singing to him as he looked onward.
Inaba.