In the months following the fusion of Mementos with reality, the world was quiet.
For a while, it was a profound relief. Maruki hadn’t realized just how taxing his work with Azathoth had been until it was no longer necessary. When the world shimmered one last time before settling into itself — his dream finally realized — he fell into a deep, restorative sleep. Azathoth’s final kindness: ensconcing him safely in his Palace to rest. To give himself time.
Perhaps some would see it as a cruel twist of fate that utopia has no place for him.
But Maruki knew the deal when he made it.
He’s had years to accept being forgotten in favor of a better world.
He experiences it daily: Rumi’s eyes passing right over him in a crowd, her laughter bright as she walked arm-in-arm with a friend. She was happy—truly happy. Kawakami, across from him on the subway, buried in a book. Shibusawa at a crosswalk, no reason to look his way. Even the Phantom Thieves, posing cheerily for a photo, thanked him with the polite distance reserved for older strangers.
It’s a small price for perfection.
But with no work left to be done, no one who knows him, and no profession to return to, Maruki is left with...himself. For the first time, he has nothing and no one else to direct his focus toward.
He should feel relieved. Instead, he’s unsettled.
With hindsight—the gift of being the sole custodian of their old world’s memories—Maruki can see how unhealthy he’d been. If anyone had come to him as a counselor with his old lifestyle, he’d have told them to focus on themselves. Now he has that chance.
To do...what?
It doesn't bother him.
The savior is the only one left imperfect.
Maruki’s Palace should be silent. There should be no disturbances in perfection. Yet one day, as he paces its halls, a lone shadow emerges from the dark edges. Its form is indistinct, draped in its white trench coat, its face obscured under the weight of its otherwise shadowy body. Despite the dimness of the Palace, the creature seems drenched, as though it had walked through a storm.
“You have a problem case,” the shadow says flatly. Its voice is a hollow, echoing rasp.
Maruki’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
No one should be beyond the reach of his utopia.
Pale fingers hovered just above her shoulder, hesitant. They had no reason to wake her, no obligation to interfere.
And yet, something deep inside compelled him to act.
Gently, his hand settled on her shoulder- fingers clasping gently as they would shake her awake. Or at least attempt to.
The man's flat brown cap obscures the look of concern in his eyes as his voice speaks over the calm rustle of trees that must have sung to this young woman a sweet lullaby. "Hey, um...you will get a cold if you stay out in the open like this." Concern lingered in his voice, soft and uncertain, as though he wasn’t used to approaching strangers like this. "Are you alright?"
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the deleted comment from maruki lmao
For a while, it was a profound relief. Maruki hadn’t realized just how taxing his work with Azathoth had been until it was no longer necessary. When the world shimmered one last time before settling into itself — his dream finally realized — he fell into a deep, restorative sleep. Azathoth’s final kindness: ensconcing him safely in his Palace to rest. To give himself time.
Perhaps some would see it as a cruel twist of fate that utopia has no place for him.
But Maruki knew the deal when he made it.
He’s had years to accept being forgotten in favor of a better world.
He experiences it daily: Rumi’s eyes passing right over him in a crowd, her laughter bright as she walked arm-in-arm with a friend. She was happy—truly happy. Kawakami, across from him on the subway, buried in a book. Shibusawa at a crosswalk, no reason to look his way. Even the Phantom Thieves, posing cheerily for a photo, thanked him with the polite distance reserved for older strangers.
It’s a small price for perfection.
But with no work left to be done, no one who knows him, and no profession to return to, Maruki is left with...himself. For the first time, he has nothing and no one else to direct his focus toward.
He should feel relieved. Instead, he’s unsettled.
With hindsight—the gift of being the sole custodian of their old world’s memories—Maruki can see how unhealthy he’d been. If anyone had come to him as a counselor with his old lifestyle, he’d have told them to focus on themselves. Now he has that chance.
To do...what?
The savior is the only one left imperfect.
Maruki’s Palace should be silent. There should be no disturbances in perfection. Yet one day, as he paces its halls, a lone shadow emerges from the dark edges. Its form is indistinct, draped in its white trench coat, its face obscured under the weight of its otherwise shadowy body. Despite the dimness of the Palace, the creature seems drenched, as though it had walked through a storm.
“You have a problem case,” the shadow says flatly. Its voice is a hollow, echoing rasp.
Maruki’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
No one should be beyond the reach of his utopia.
Pale fingers hovered just above her shoulder, hesitant. They had no reason to wake her, no obligation to interfere.
And yet, something deep inside compelled him to act.
Gently, his hand settled on her shoulder- fingers clasping gently as they would shake her awake. Or at least attempt to.
The man's flat brown cap obscures the look of concern in his eyes as his voice speaks over the calm rustle of trees that must have sung to this young woman a sweet lullaby. "Hey, um...you will get a cold if you stay out in the open like this." Concern lingered in his voice, soft and uncertain, as though he wasn’t used to approaching strangers like this. "Are you alright?"