THE GUILTY
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"If you're going to run, now's your chance!"
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𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝓃𝑜𝓌,
𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉,
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔,
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝑒𝓂𝑒𝒹 𝒹𝑒𝓉𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝒽𝒾𝓂𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻,
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎....
... 𝒢𝑜𝓇𝑜 𝒜𝓀𝑒𝒸𝒽𝒾! -
Akechi paced behind the closed curtains of the glitzy theater, wings pinned to his side in nervous distraught. The crowd tonight had proven to be the largest he'd ever seen at one of his performances, but the nervousness underneath the ceramic mask of his remained perfectly hidden to all that saw him. A gloved hand attempted to move it, but all the might in the world would not cause it to budge from his expression, and he didn't seem to argue with it much, either. As long as the proud expression and content face remained there, everything would be fine. It hid his internal struggles well.
It's exactly what they wanted to see.
"You'll be fine," reassured him a calmed voice, a gaudy lady in all an all-black dress way too revealing to be seen anywhere in public that he sunk into without resistance the moment her arms extended for him. The mask that suctioned itself to his face gave way to her touch, and a kiss on the cheek calmed his senses long enough for her to pull away and retreat behind the lines of the stage. Her departure made his eyes water, but he cleverly hid it through the facade on his face, and twirled in place when he heard his name finally get called.
From the curtains emerged a glossy individual, dressed head to toe in pastel white attire, peppered at every turn with anything reflective and eye-grabbing. From the buttons to the shoulder guards of his uniform shined a golden ensemble that lit up the room and reflected the eyes of a thousand strangers. all glued to the stage as if their very lives were dependent upon seeing this moment in time.
A million different lights of varying intensity and color all focused from the crowd to the man of the hour, and he took them in stride, even if the brightness blinded him like the sun. He stepped forwards with a greeting and a wave of the hand, and the simple action caused the crowd to yell, to beg excitedly, and all made the sounds he expected to hear.
He tenderly took a microphone that was offered to him from one of the stag-hands, dressed a little less gaudy than him, but still eye-catching, and thanked everyone politely. He took questions at first, portrayed his opinions on the Phantom Thieves (he lied about them, constantly, and the theater shook in rage), but the real purpose of the show was the flashy re-enactment of his detainment of the Phantom Thief leader. Akechi urged the crowd on and when the voices hit peak, he swerved his attention as a faux thief was thrown onto the middle of the stage, cuffed with his hands behind his back, and Akechi's foot landed on the side of his very head.
The artificial one was no different from the real Joker he had convinced himself he'd murdered. It is when he's handed the silencer that things begin to change. He thanked the nicely-dressed stage hand as the pistol is taken from them and he cocked it, and readily aimed it at the front of the portrayed thief's head. Despite everything looking so real, Akechi realized in that moment the true nature of the phantom below him, an innocent bystander with the face of the leader he had told everyone he hated. When the mask of the leader became skewed and the real face, an innocent teenager he was fond of, was shown, Akechi froze.
The crowed didn't like it.
He couldn't stop. The gun fired. 'Joker' came to a screeching halt.
Akechi wept underneath his mask, and under his breath, he begged for forgiveness he knew he would not receive, continued on with the appeal of the public, thanked everyone for coming, and retreated back into the building off-limits to the public.
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beneath the mask
Once the presentation was over, the star of the show slipped back into the cold, dark depths of the theater, welcoming the loneliness of the crypted theater that betrayed, from the outside, its true nature. The door of the stage slammed behind him, and down came pieces of the theater with the force that vibrated against the walls.
The walls remained tattered and torn, as if someone had desperately tried to claw them away. One door in particular remained unhinged, barely held in its doorframe, and up to it read the tattered lines of 'IT WAS ME' and 'I MURDERED THEM' and 'I'LL NEVER FORGIVE MYSELF' and 'THEY'LL NEVER FORGIVE YOU' in scraggy writing. Like some sort of monster had used its claws to dig into the walls.
The pinions dropped down, and dragged up dust along the floor onto the ivory coloration and pristine condition that his pride led him to keep them in. All but one set, at least, which finally extended into the darkness, flapped once, and sent what little feathers the barren appendage had every which way into the darkness. The feathers kicked up ounces of dust, and mingled with the white of feathers, and the shady view cloaked the slow shifting of flawless white to tattered black for clothing. The mask was ripped off his face in one fell swoop, and hung upside-down on a coat rack. It frowned at everyone who passed by.
"Master Akechi," a guard called out for him from around the corner as he passed. A drop of blood fell from the open gunshot on his forehead, and met with its dried comrades upon the regal, musty floor. The master's crimson vision did not falter in the darkness, and ignored the bloody splays that made up the walls of the inner theater that screamed anything and everything besides 'not-guilty' and 'not a murderer'. "It was surely a great performance. Lady Niijima will be very proud."
Akechi's abnormal movements halted the moment those words plastered upon his ears, and he glanced towards the guard, a finely-fitted man with exquiste taste in suits, covered from head to toe in liquid red that seeped from every invisible gunshot undereneath his suit, and spewed from the open gash wounds where the very master had, at one previous point in time, violently assaulted him.
"Where is she?" Akechi's voice cracked, so unlike the voice he had upon the stage in the presence of the strangers who had traveled to see him. Deep and desperate, it held the voice of a man with little regard to his appearance now, and bellowed with a darkness that hinted a close outburst if anyone should so much as whisper something to him he disliked. "Bring her to me."
There was hesitation moments after, and such hesitation only served to boil the man's patience hotter. It popped over the top as the two of them fell into the depths of the theater, and ignored the passageways that led down to a series of home movies. "I-I'm sorry, we don't--"
Akechi's mask broke the moment he heard 'sorry', because sorry was always followed by something he despised to hear. "I said bring her to me," he roared out again, and the walls of the theater regurgitated his anger in distaste, shook the entire theater suddenly, as the guard dropped from the claws that had plunged through where he was most vulnerable. As he retreated his arm backwards, he fell to horror when the figure of the shadow being suddenly shifted into the one he cared for. He became overcome with pain as the reality of the master bedroom now closed in on its mater, every inch of it reminding him of his murderous past and violent ways.
They'll never accept you, the voices called out to him. The man submitted easily as they closed in on the weakest part of his heart, dug into his flesh like damned hunters with a prey, encasing him until he suffocated and reminded him cruelly of everything he had hid underneath that blasted mask of his.
They were right.
