[Despite this being a world where no one cares—where no one is allowed to care, released from the burden of emotions weighing them down—Akechi still tries to look as if he appeals to others. It's not as if acquiring clothing and looking well put together is a difficult task. He wears a button-up T-shirt with a tie, everything perfectly tailored—undoubtedly the result of him being able to try on as many shirts at possible, rather than getting the right shirt thanks to an actual tailor. His pants, his gloves, his shoes. It's all habitual, a sign that he can't depart from the impression he tried to give the world.
Old habits die hard, even when the world strips away the need for approval. Akechi knows he lives in a world without approval. Who can approve of something if they don't care? As he walks by someone, half expecting them to point out that he's Goro Akechi, the Second Coming of the Detective Prince, it never happens. Their eyes glaze over. Sometimes they blink. Sometimes all they can do is blink, like their body can still react, even if their mind has left them.
They're subdued.
The TV station acts as a stage for Akechi, just as it did for the past year. Even as the world flung insults at him for his unkind words about the Phantom Thieves, he knew the game he played. Perfectly dressed on every occasion, he waited to see the results of his interviews. He saw the art featuring him. He signed multiple autographs. There was even a line of posters that was due to come out!
None of that matters now. No one can care for him. He removed the question of acceptance and rejection. No one can use him, use anyone.
He doesn't spot Akira before he steps into view, and Akechi turns toward him, eyes studying him at the same time. Unlike the version of Akira that's Joker, a dashing Phantom Thief, he looks so small here. Then again, so does Akechi. Desperate to look proper. To look good.
Perhaps he dressed like this for this day, fortifying the divide between them.
(Even he doesn't know.)]
I wouldn't be so quick to act like you're surrendering, [he tells Akira. Akechi doesn't bother to feign the softness that followed him before. It's still there—a natural part of the intonation of his voice—but there's a quivering, constant edge to every word.]
After all, Joker, I doubt that's what you're here to do. Do you tire of the mess I left? It was the only way things could be once it was done.
[Never mind the direct contradiction to his plans, the feeling of flying into a rage.
Of killing his father, and then watching him die on television.
Of picking ruin because that was the only way it could be.
Then again, Akechi has always been a result of chaos. What else can be born from that but ruin itself?]
no subject
Old habits die hard, even when the world strips away the need for approval. Akechi knows he lives in a world without approval. Who can approve of something if they don't care? As he walks by someone, half expecting them to point out that he's Goro Akechi, the Second Coming of the Detective Prince, it never happens. Their eyes glaze over. Sometimes they blink. Sometimes all they can do is blink, like their body can still react, even if their mind has left them.
They're subdued.
The TV station acts as a stage for Akechi, just as it did for the past year. Even as the world flung insults at him for his unkind words about the Phantom Thieves, he knew the game he played. Perfectly dressed on every occasion, he waited to see the results of his interviews. He saw the art featuring him. He signed multiple autographs. There was even a line of posters that was due to come out!
None of that matters now. No one can care for him. He removed the question of acceptance and rejection. No one can use him, use anyone.
He doesn't spot Akira before he steps into view, and Akechi turns toward him, eyes studying him at the same time. Unlike the version of Akira that's Joker, a dashing Phantom Thief, he looks so small here. Then again, so does Akechi. Desperate to look proper. To look good.
Perhaps he dressed like this for this day, fortifying the divide between them.
(Even he doesn't know.)]
I wouldn't be so quick to act like you're surrendering, [he tells Akira. Akechi doesn't bother to feign the softness that followed him before. It's still there—a natural part of the intonation of his voice—but there's a quivering, constant edge to every word.]
After all, Joker, I doubt that's what you're here to do. Do you tire of the mess I left? It was the only way things could be once it was done.
[Never mind the direct contradiction to his plans, the feeling of flying into a rage.
Of killing his father, and then watching him die on television.
Of picking ruin because that was the only way it could be.
Then again, Akechi has always been a result of chaos. What else can be born from that but ruin itself?]