DISCLAIMER: Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and the staff of TYPE-MOON. Persona 5 Royal, the Persona series and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Atlus. Exalted, Scion and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of White Wolf/Onyx Path Publishing.
This is a not-for-profit, just-for-fun project.
Writer's Note: Certain dialogue sequences in this story are lifted from Persona 5 Royal, but I trust in the intelligence of my readers (and the availability of the game) to recognise them when they see them.
Jazz Jin
Kichijoji, Tokyo
March 14
“Love,” Frid mentally translated the name from Latin—though if it had any actual meaning in regard to the woman, going by her attitude, it was only as a joke . . .
Insofar as identifying her went, however, it was useless; no Persona character that he knew of—hell, no one in the entire Megami Tensei franchise—possessed it, even as an alias. The only time he’d ever heard it used as a name was by the gold dragon priestess in Slayers Try. And while he might be persuaded into believing that the Persona world was actually the one overseen by either the Dark Lord Chaotic Blue or Death Fog, there was no canonical reason to think that was the case.
(And really, that kind of fusion was really more the creation of fanfic writers, in his experience. And most often in those cases, it was used by either those writers whose enthusiasm outstripped their talent, or who just couldn’t be bothered to consider all the ramifications of what they wanted to do. Instead, they just slapped “Setting A” and “Setting B” together and hoping that their readers didn’t notice all the loose ends, plot holes and outright absurdities the concept generated . . .)
None of which helped him identify the being in front of him. That she was powerful was obvious; she wouldn’t be associated with the Velvet Room if she wasn’t. And she looked like an Attendant, with her complexion—once you allowed for the effect of blue light on white skin and hair, anyway—but her eyes were the wrong colour. That was absolutely clear: even allowing for the light; they were much too dark. That left . . . What? What could that possibly leave?
Had they added someone like Marie again to Royal’s plotline . . .?
It wouldn’t be the same, Frid reminded himself. Leaving aside the fact that it’s too soon to repeat that story idea, it doesn’t make sense under these conditions—not with the Velvet Room in shambles and under the control of the Enemy. And especially not when the Enemy would NEVER let an aspect of itself outside of its control like Marie was—to do so would be absolutely antithetical to its goals, never mind its nature.
Then again, he mused, if you looked at it as a recurring motif—escalating across the games from Pharos to Marie—then maybe . . .?
There just wasn’t enough data, the Exalt decided. Not yet.
“As you wish, Filia-sama,” he said carefully. She didn’t look remotely Japanese, but she was speaking the language, and presumably would understand the honorific; more to the point, what he’d seen of her thus far implied that she would demand it and be offended if he didn’t use it.
“May I ask what you mean about ‘teaching me magic,’ however? I already have access to spells . . .”
“Perhaps,” she said coolly, “but your means of learning and shaping that magecraft is bound by your contract with the Velvet Room—their purpose is to aid in the growth of a human’s potential, after all. As such, the means by which you acquire and hone your spells is shaped along the paths they follow.”
My “Sorcery Path,” in other words, Frid’s mind supplied. It was another new Third Edition mechanic, and one he hadn’t considered when filling out his “character sheet” with Igor; he’d been more concerned at the time with having an actual use for his potential to use magic . . .
(Wait—had she said “magecraft . . .?”)
Frid barely had time to register the sensation of her hand, as it reached out to touch his chest—
And her fingers closed around his soul.
His Exaltation, which nominally should’ve given him some protection against an attack like this—even if was just a chance to fight it off, especially since it was quite possibly genuine now, being made as it was—yielded to Filia’s touch like a faithful pet. And she was not gentle; the knowledge was carved into him as though by a beast’s claws, made of something as cold and hard as diamonds . . .
And
Some
Thing
S̸̨̬̩̭̱̹͈̩̘̓̌̄͜T̴̡̼͚͖̗̦̗̮̽̃͐̀͌͋̀I̶̛̎͗͛̾́̓̿͐̀̾͗̂̈̔͝ ͚̮͔͚͍̣̳͓̹͉͕̩̪̖̳̖́R̷̨̩͓̤͈͚̤͓̲̹̗͚̂̂͛̓R̸̛̮̭͕͐̀̑̕E̴̛̐͝ ̨͑̅͐̀̑̌͛̄͌͐D̷̥̉͋̀̽͐̋
Ishtar was not pleased.
In some respects, this should go without saying; she was, ultimately, a result and incarnation of the goddess’ wrath towards Gilgamesh and Enkidu. Still, this went far beyond her baseline state of mind.
Becoming aware of the upcoming reunion of the arrogant king of Uruk and his pet, she had deigned to set foot upon the world after untold ages, condescending to clad herself in a shell that was unworthy of her glory, that the ancient pacts against the gods be upheld. One that was merely a mortal imitation of that defective piece of junk Gilgamesh so prized, no less—which spurred her ire all the more—yet still, she had done it, that she might have satisfaction she had waited millennia for . . .
And to protect her children, whom she still loved, despite their betrayal of the Gods, came a small whisper in the depths of her.
(And if Ishtar deigned to acknowledge the whisper’s existence at all, it was to dismiss it as merely the wishful thinking of the shell she’d co-opted.)
. . . And then suddenly, her reason for being was obliterated, in a familiar blaze of power she had not seen since long before Gilgamesh had ever ascended to the throne of Uruk. In a single stroke, all her efforts had been rendered utterly wasted, and denied her a suitable target to vent her fury upon—the frustration alone had been sufficient to keep her active within the World. Someone owed her recompense for incensing her so, and she would have satisfaction . . .!
(It was, of course, utterly coincidental that her decision meant that she would be present at the same time as the potential threats to the World.)
The presence of the Enemy, specifically, had not been foreseen, but she had already prepared herself to hide from the World—which would insist on her return to the Reverse Side, the killjoy—so it was of little matter. Her binding to the Velvet Room, on the other hand, had been an equally unpleasant surprise . . .
Ishtar was aware of the trials, of course; like many deities and other supernatural entities, she had even participated in previous ones, after a fashion. Taking place in the layer of the World that they largely did, it was more like a dream of her, partially her own and partially humanity’s, than her true self . . . But it was something to while away the aeons—
(A way to guide and protect humanity once more—a way to help.)
—But the patron goddess of Uruk had never imagined that her compact could be invoked like this.
Nevertheless, here Ishtar found herself, performing a servant’s tasks—which she would do, however grudgingly, because the Enemy sought to usurp the place and authority of all gods, and that was an insult she would never bear. Still, it grated; for did she stand before the Trickster himself, that chosen human upon whose resolve and guile rested the fate of the World? No—she was instead directed to an interloper, a combination of human and divinity from far beyond these lands. And worse, one who was but a pale shadow of the humans of her age.
His body was tempered, aye, but no match for such as Gilgamesh. And his looks . . . Long- and sharp-faced, with hair a common brown, and blue eyes that lacked the vividness to look appealing. His manner of dress flattered as best it could, she supposed, but its make was clearly suitable only for peasants.
It was insulting—she, the Queen of Heaven, was supposed to associate herself with such as this . . .?
And so, she gave him the name of the shell, because he was unworthy of her own, and sought the quickest route possible to fulfill her obligation, that he might vacate her presence before she forgot her duty and gave into the urge to erase his unsightliness from her divine presence.
The act was simple enough, and well within her power: exalted or not, he was human, and therefore under her Authority. The shard of divinity was not, strictly speaking—but as his spirit half was an owl, she had an in there, as well.
(. . . All right, so the owl was more closely associated with Ereshkigal; that was immaterial! They were two sides of the same coin, and owls flew, so she had just as much right to command the beasts as her sister did!)
And so, Ishtar carved the Path of Human Arcana onto the piece of lunar divinity grafted to a mortal soul, performing the rites to bless the steps upon it already taken—a paltry effort, as it turned out.
The goddess scowled. That meant he would have to come back—and worse, that she would have to touch him again! Why couldn’t he have just completed the Path already . . .?
“See,” Ishtar grumbled, “this is what happens when you let mortals govern themselves . . . And you!” She glared at the divine fragment. “Why aren’t you helping your champion, instead of me? You call yourself a goddess? You’re nothing but a third-rate hack . . .!”
The goddess blinked. Now that she was looking closely at it . . .
A weaponised piece of a moon goddess, yes—but there were other blessings, too. One that faintly echoed her power; something to do with love and beauty, perhaps from one of her other incarnations? And the other smelt of order, and stars, and made Ishtar bristle for no reason she could justify to herself.
She scowled. If this man was actually a pantheon’s champion, that was even worse—how pitiable had humanity become, that they turned to gods who could do no better than this . . .?
Still, Ishtar admitted to herself, it was a pretty thing: a gleaming quicksilver shape with dappled patterning across its ever-shifting surface that suggested an owl in flight, emanating light which ranged from midnight blue, to indigo, to dark violet. It was a weapon, true, but she was the Goddess of Love and War, so it seemed no less appealing than something made for purely aesthetic reasons—if anything, that made it even more attractive.
And Ishtar was nothing if not a lover of beauty . . .
Her hand reached out to caress it, fingers tingling at the thrilling coolness of its touch. It was, indeed, a piece of the Moon, and it would surely better adorn her than a common mortal—after all, was she not the Queen of Heaven? And were the mortals not meant to face this trial on their own strengths? She was simply ensuring adherence to the laws set down . . .
Her grip closed around it, and tugged—
ThE wOrlD trEMbLed . . .
N̸̛͉͎̼͇̙̣͇̖̹̰̳̥̖̈̐̋́͠O̵͇̰̫͉̹̅̈̿͂͂̊̂͂̋́͂̉͘͜͠͝ͅ.̶͐̏̽ ̧̬̮̺̗̯͍͋̓̿̐͊͂͑̈͠
Ishtar recoiled—
. . . No.
No, it would be more accurate to say that she flung herself back, as far away as she could possibly get in a single motion from that—that . . .
With an effort (more of one than she would ever care to admit to), Ishtar forced the effects of her experience away (let the shell take it; mortals broke so easily, why not this cheap imitation?) and considered the . . . The event that had just taken place.
She had reached for the shining bauble (not a bauble, not a blessing—it was a mask, it was a seal), and suddenly found herself teetering over the threshold of a great abyss; an abyss that dwarfed her as the grandeur of the heavens overshadowed that of Uruk.
The only comparison she could think of was that of Tiamat, the primordial Sea of Life Herself; yet this was not composed of elemental life, but darkness—and yet, from its endless obsidian depths, Ishtar gleaned the certainly that abyss saw her . . .
The goddess closed her eyes, drew in a shuddering breath, and released it.
On that threshold she had wavered for a heart-stopping instant as her divine senses, limited as they were by her mortal shell, perceived what lay before her. And in the passing of that instant, she was thrown back, as easily as she might redirect the path of an ant—and with about as much comprehension as to the cause as the ant might have.
Never before had Ishtar felt so powerless—so insignificant.
She found that she did not care for it.
Were she the sort to admit to faults, Ishtar would say that she was impulsive. It was unavoidable; she was a creature of passion, by her very nature. This particular incarnation, in fact, was arguably little more than that—and the most destructive sort, to boot. As such, she immediately reached out, with all the power she could muster, to smite the being before her.
. . . And found herself stymied.
Ishtar had never cared for that.
And yet, with the limits on her strength, the contract was strong enough to hold her—long enough, at least, to consider the current state of things around her as it stayed her hand.
The walls between worlds, already thin here, had been further weakened, and would take time to recover. They might, in fact, require her power to do so—as such, there was a not-insignificant chance that unleashing her might at the level required to be certain of eradication could collapse them entirely—dooming the World to the horrors that lay Outside.
(And the backlash of that would certainly destroy her shell, and quite possibly this fragment of herself, as well . . .)
And so, she paused, though she hated it; Ishtar focussed her attention on the wake which had just passed, jostling time and space themselves out of place as it did so, and she sought to understand—
ThE wOrlD trE
Ishtar withdrew, scowling. She was a goddess—the patron goddess of Uruk, the Queen of Heaven! She had been showered with countless blessings from the day of her birth; she should COMPREHEND this . . .!
She gritted her teeth, extending all her senses—
“To name a thing is to define it, ‘Demiurge,’” came a voice—his voice. “And you have chosen poorly . . .”
There. A snippet of conversation, seconds of time out of order (for none of the Arcana Bonds she could see in that glimpse yet existed here) but connected to him, nonetheless. From there, she could trace back his path (and forward, as well) to determine what, exactly, she was dealing wi—
As a Divine Spirit, Ishtar was intimately connected to the World and its will. The Throne of Heroes lay outside of the World’s order, beyond time and space as they were understood. Having served elsewhere (and elsewhen) as “Servant Archer,” amongst others, she was connected to it, as well—and as a goddess, she had a greater understanding of it than, say, a mere Counter Guardian. As she was now, Ishtar was no more the whole of herself than a summoned Servant was the totality of a Heroic Spirit; nevertheless, with what help the World could give her, it was child’s play to understand the implications of what she beheld . . .
And Ishtar blinked.
That was the plan?! It was ambitious, to be sure—and possibly even wise, if it could be done—but it was a gamble she’d not considered. Nor, honestly, one that she would have expected the World to make, if only for the fact if the gambit failed, or went wrong, then . . .
The goddess shook her head. It wasn’t her decision to make, she supposed; more annoyingly, it meant that she couldn’t kill him for his effrontery, however much she wanted to, because there was a Plan in place. If that failed, then certainly—but by then, it would quite possibly be too late.
An idea occurred. But it was customary for attendants of the Velvet Room to challenge their guests, wasn’t it? And she was acting on their behalf, in that role—the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned contract had just reminded her of it . . .!
Ishtar’s lips twisted into an expression that only the blind could reasonably call a smile.
It would take no small amount of time to arrange, under the circumstances, but it appeared her plans to summon Gugalanna would serve a purpose after all . . .
Outside Borrowed Apartment
Shinjuku, Tokyo
March 14
If forced to answer honestly, Frid would be unable to say exactly what happened in a lot of the space of time between leaving the Jazz Jin and getting home. It was something of a blur—and sadly, that fact had nothing to do with the alcohol he’d consumed. Honestly, it would be much less alarming if it had.
Exactly how many people am I going to run into who can MANIPULATE MY SOUL, damn it?!
In some ways, Frid supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised; the underlying source of Personas was called “the Sea of Souls,” in Persona 3, after all—but he’d always ascribed that to dramatic license. As best he could figure out, a Persona (or Shadow, come to that) was an archetype: a psychic projection of the collective belief of what it represented (or personal belief, for a unique Persona), with maybe a bit of divine power (or demonic, or whatever else) from the original source. But they weren’t gods, or demons, or any of the other things they drew from—hence, the brief manifestations. They were “shadows” in more than one sense (or dreams); it was what made them different from the entities of the core “MegaTen” franchise.
(It also explained how Elizabeth could manipulate powerful Personas as she did, and destroy things like Erebus with a casual effort, but get overwhelmed by an actual deity like in that secret boss fight in Persona Q against Zeus . . .)
And then Filia just offhandedly reached in and engraved his Sorcery Path in place. She’d replicated a feat that had previously required a Divine Spirit’s Noble Phantasm backed by the World, or the efforts of the incarnation of the Greater Holy Grail, a potential Lesser Grail and a magus prodigy working in concert to achieve. And all the while, looking at him as though viewing a particularly hideous specimen of an unsightly breed of insect.
That was terrifying enough—the casual display of power, the ability to bypass protections he should have had as if they didn’t exist—but when you factored in the fact that she was hiding from the Enemy. . . Honestly, Frid didn’t remember a lot of the trip home because he was honestly too busy trying not to collapse into a gibbering wreck.
Eventually, however, he’d remembered that it was ultimately Joker’s destiny to face and defeat the thing, not his, and calmed down (though the thought that he had to train Joker to do it didn’t help). He’d decided, however, that he’d had enough for today, and that it called for comfort food—lots of it. And since he found himself on the subway once Frid returned to his senses, it was a simple matter to hit Shibuya . . .
Big Bang Burger was a space-themed fast-food chain in the vein of McDonald’s, Burger King, and the like—owned by Haru Okumura’s father, as it happened, and interwoven with the man’s Palace and plot arc. Today, however, what mattered to Frid was that it was the closest he was liable to get to food from home.
It might even be edible, since this body has no issues with acid reflux or the like, Frid thought. It’s too much to hope for that it tastes as good as Wendy’s or A&W does . . .
Sadly, it truly was too much to hope for—but it wasn’t terrible, either. A lot nicer than the medium-rare “steak” he’d had at that maid café in his old life. And he’d gotten a nifty badge out of it, as a result of completing “The Big Bang Challenge”—basically, a timed eating contest. Exactly what a “Second Mate’s Badge” did, he couldn’t recall right now, but Frid knew it was an “accessory” that could be equipped for tangible effects in the Metaverse . . .
Eh, if it turns out that I can’t use it, Frid decided, I’m sure one of the others can—and this is one of those things that requires stat-raising, so I’ve saved Joker a bit of time and effort.
He was so generally pleased with himself, he bought a “Big Bang Burger” to go, just to see if they reheated at all well; it would be a minor miracle, but why not? Still, the Exalt found himself feeling awfully tired when he finally approached the street of his apartment building—
But not so tired that the crash of something striking metal in a nearby alley failed to catch his attention.
Adrenaline flooded his system as he traced the source of the sound, washing away fatigue, and he tensed his grip on his takeout burger to form an improvised projectile if necessary. Stealthily, the Lunar approached the mouth of the alley, and cautiously leaned in around the nearest corner to peer into its depths—
Just in time to watch as the dog’s leaping form struck the dumpster again, making a second crash with the impact. Still, it didn’t quite reach the rim, falling back to the asphalt.
It was a Shiba Inu, at a guess. Frid had never seen one in person before, but between Hachiko and Persona 3, he knew what they were supposed to look like. This one, in fact, greatly resembled the latter’s Koromaru, being a pure white . . . Well, the parts of its coat that weren’t matted with dirt were, anyway. Overall, it resembled a miniature, slightly less fluffy Samoyed dog—and having grown up around those, the Lunar’s heart instantly melted.
This is a terrible idea, but . . .
Creeping away and back to a vending machine, it was the work of a moment to purchase a bottle of water—and not much more than that to tear the cardboard container holding his burger along its hinges to form two makeshift bowls. Into one of them, he dumped the meat patties of the burger, along with the bacon strips.
Returning quietly to the alley, he set the two containers down—and made a point of loudly pouring water into the empty one.
The sound, of course, caught the dog’s attention. The ears pricked up in the way Frid found so achingly familiar, the head swivelling to follow. What surprised him was the unhesitating way the dog trotted over to them, not even bothering to wait until he’d stood up, never mind backed away.
“Somebody loves you, don’t they?” he murmured.
In Frid’s experience, unless you were very lucky, it was rare indeed for a dog to be that naturally unafraid of a strange human; it made no barks, there was no tension in its muscles, nothing. Now, it might just be too hungry and thirsty to care—but it seemed more likely that this was a lost pet, rather than a wild or stray dog.
The dog, for its part, made no reply, being too busy enthusiastically down its first few bites of beef patty. Afterwards, it did its best to bury its muzzle in the impromptu water dish.
The Exalt crouched for a bit, watching the dog eat. Despite his assumption, he could see no sign of a collar; maybe it was chipped? Was that still a thing people did with pets?
On the plus side, he spotted evidence that the dog was male (and sincerely regretted doing so), so he could at least stop using “it” to refer to him.
Hang on—could this be Koromaru, from Persona 3? The series did love its inter-game crossovers and references, after all, especially in the expanded editions like Royal . . .
No, Frid ultimately decided. There’s an eight-year gap between the third and fifth games—I know smaller dogs tend to live longer, but he wasn’t a puppy during the game. Konomaru would be a very old boy by now if he’s still around. And you don’t look that old.
Having nosed and licked his way through the now-empty meat box hard enough to tear it to pieces, the dog began lapping at the last droplets of the water box, whining.
“Hey, buddy,” Frid said, in the breathy singsong he’d learned to use when dealing with animals and small children. “Here you go, more water com—ING!”
The dog had lunged for the water bottle, lapping at the neck as he went for the stream of pouring water. Startled, Frid nevertheless managed to hold steady, quickly working out how to let the dog drink, even as the parting stream splashed around the edges of his muzzle. Finally, the dog pulled back a bit, shaking and sneezing the excess water away.
“You startled me, little buddy,” Frid said chidingly. “Feel better, though?”
Now the dog barked, tail wagging. The Exalt imagined that if this was the video game, little flowers of happiness might be rising from it.
This is a terrible idea, he reminded himself, but he resolved to try it anyway.
“It’s gonna get dark soon,” he said to the dog, still in the singsong. “Did you want to come and stay with me for the night? It’ll be warm and dry—and we can try to get you cleaned up, and see if we can find your family in the morning, eh? I bet somebody’s missing you . . .”
There were so many ways this could go wrong. It was a strange dog, and he had no idea how to go about dealing with the authorities regarding a lost dog (or adopting a dog, if it came to that), or even if his building allowed pets—to say nothing of his own legal identity issues.
But at the same time, he hated the idea of just leaving the dog alone, on the streets . . .
(And he looked like a Samoyed . . .)
It was crazy—but he’d do it anyway.
“You don’t have to come,” he said. “And I won’t make you stay—but I’d like to you to be safe . . . And I could use the company,” he admitted. “Did you want to come home?”
He stood up, and the dog, with a bark, trotted fearlessly to his side, following along as he moved.
“OK, boy,” he said. “let’s—oh. I’ll need something to call you, I guess.”
“Koromaru” was the obvious choice; but the dog’s eyes were black, not Koromaru’s albino red. Likewise, he didn’t feel comfortable naming the Shiba after one of his childhood dogs, though the temptation was there to use the “T-name” theme all his family’s dogs had had—
And then, Frid remembered where, exactly, he was.
“C’mon, Cavall—let’s go home.”
Office of Doctor Takuto Maruki
The therapist was a tall, middle-aged man, with sandy, unkempt hair and black, square-framed glasses much stiffer-looking than Sumire’s more rounded frames. His face was unshaven, and though he wore a dress shirt and tie (both blue), he also wore sandals without socks (in March!), and the cuffs of his khaki slacks were upturned. He also wore a white lab coat—presumably to help people think “doctor” instead of “beach bum” at the sight of him.
(And, she decided, it wasn’t nearly as effective at the job as he’d probably like it to be.)
It certainly wasn’t helping her nerves. No matter how highly recommended he came, she couldn’t help but feel this was a major mistake . . .
“Yoshizawa-san?” the doctor said in a kindly voice, smiling with unexpected gentleness. “I’m ready to begin whenever you are.”
“How about never?” came immediately to her lips—but with an effort, she swallowed it.
(Because in the end, what other choice did she have . . .?)
Sighing in resignation, Kasumi rose from her seat and followed the therapist inside.
Originally Posted by Arbitrarity
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And in the meantime . . .
