Goro Akechi Sample (New)

STORY CONTEXT: This originated from a concept of the Metaverse composed by myself and another. Given that desires do not simply disappear, that prospect was used to create a new, darker interpretation of the Metaverse, that which exists after its supposed disappearance. Given his attachment to Shido’s palace, Akechi becomes bound to a monochrome stasis after being abandoned there, essentially becoming apart of this decrepit version of the Metaverse. In this state, neither quite alive or dead, he retains the ability to dream and think intelligently. While he is quietly despairing, a certain Trickster has taken the initiative to rescue him at last.





Silence: It was as perpetual as the sea of black that surrounded the wreckage of Shido's liner. The colossal manifestation of one man's greed had been reduced to a piteous display. Here, in the depths of the subconscious, what remained of its wretched glory now served as an eerie memoir of avarice. Thus, the remnants of ugliness would lie eternally in the midst of an ominous void. Discarded with his father's rapacity, he would rot in tandem.

At last, the curtain fell upon his perfect tragedy. Goro Akechi, though marginally redeemed, would presumably die a desperate charlatan. However, this was not the case... Even a heart composed of fragile glass retained the ability to function. From the perspective of those who had witnessed his sacrifice firsthand, he should have been dead. Yet here he lies: dormant, but alive.

He hadn't moved since being abandoned weeks prior. Following the confrontation with his cognitive replica, the boy was incapacitated, leaving him unable to find adequate shelter. Granted, he hadn't the will to seek refuge in the midst of the vessel's destruction. Through the screeching of flexing metal ━ synchronous with a consuming blaze ━ he could only press his back unto the wall and contemplate his transgressions. Bitterly, he smiled, closing his eyes in silent anticipation. If the grasp of death were to claim him there, he would have accepted it assuredly.

He hadn't anticipated becoming apart of a greater distortion; A denizen of an awry realm not suited to human eyes.

The present incarnation of the Metaverse was virtually desolate. Wretched desires, neglected by the hearts of their keepers, manifested in the form of decrepit structures amidst a foreboding haze. Apart from distant red lights with no definite source, the boundless vicinity was a lackluster portrait of desuetude. Aspects that were once vivid and animated were now desaturated and still. In regards to Shido's palace, the luxurious cruiser was in no better state than the misshapen mimicry of Tokyo surrounding it. The city, while no longer submerged under water, might as well reflect a post-apocalyptic vision of their society. Every motion made by a presence either hidden or known seemed to echo throughout. Even the slightest footstep was enough to tense the muscles and attribute to one's anxiety...

Despite this, everything tangible seemed bound by some form of stasis. It were as though time were a nonexistent concept here, making complexes and objects appear static. This seemed to transfer to some living specimens as well, seeing as Akechi's current state was... almost lifeless. Still rested against the metallic door that had sealed his fate, his personage was verging on monochrome. As his being was roughly attached to Shido's forsaken palace, his attire remained that of a previously anonymous foe. Through the broken portion of his mask, it would appear as though he were sleeping. His serene countenance is accompanied by the steady rise and fall of his chest: implying slumber rather than fatality. His opposing palm presides over a concealed wound dealt to his left shoulder. Whereas it would have spilled blood in its natural state, the aperture oozed an unsightly murk. It crept betwixt digits and rose slowly, dispersing into the artificial ether like a phantom...

While he resided solemnly in the pitch black, his mind succumbed to illusions both sweet and laced with sorrow. Even now, he could still dream.

His active imagination traversed several familiar settings. Perhaps, these were much less dreams and more so a case of comatose wandering: an out-of-body experience, if you will. If he were able to describe it firsthand, he'd call it purgatory or limbo. Alone, he walked empty streets, familiar yet uncanny. He'd often find himself drawn to an eldritch interpretation of Leblanc, for reasons he cared not to speak aloud. At times, he convinced himself that the scent of coffee still lingered with that of curry spices, though it was but a fragment of his memory. Likewise, images of confidants and a bespectacled boy played before him like mirages.

By the time he had seated himself, their likeness would be gone. His chin would be laid across folded hands, where his sight would become fixated upon a clock unmoving. It loomed overhead, reminding him of time wasted and of eternity itself. With a gaze unflinching, he anticipated the motion of hands that would never occur. So this is what it's like, to be frozen in time. Admittedly, It felt bittersweet.

His proceeding sigh is weighted by disappointed, much like the lids that fall to conceal his irises. His hollow spirit is reflected by a demeanor of sloth and apathy; It may best be summarized as despair. Any semblance of reality consistently escaped him, leaving him stranded in a space that aligned with neither quietus nor existence. His hand extended to grasp the handle of a solitary mug, dragging the fragile cup towards himself. Gazing into the once promising container offered little solace. He chuckled half-heartedly to catch himself in search of an intimate taste.

"I don't know what I was expecting." Though the mug was as vacant as its holder, he raised the smooth porcelain to his lips. It was cold to the touch, void of the rich substance that typically soothes the body with a subtle warmth. "Before long, I may very well forget the taste of coffee... Though I'd prefer to remember the pleasant aspects of life, I suppose this outcome was inevitable. I'm simply holding onto things that no longer exist."

Such is the realization of his plight. In his solitude, he clutched to every little piece that brought him momentary joy in life. He likely didn't recognize his own desperation... Even now, it was a quality that remained true to his character.

' 𝘼𝙠𝙚𝙘𝙝𝙞-𝙠𝙪𝙣! '

Silence overbearing is ultimately shattered by the jarring resonance of broken glass. A familiar voice managed to break through his affliction, stirring his heart to beat wildly in his chest. Akechi stumbled to his feet, immediately turning to face the door.

Behind him, the stationary clock began to tick...

The moment that his body was retrieved by an external force — a savior he never requested — the fallen vessel released a straining gasp. Though he had never quite been deceased, the touch of something real essentially breathed life back into him. The haunting oddments of a black-masked transgressor were effectively stripped from his person, leaving him in the ancient 𝒂𝒊𝒅𝒆-𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒊𝒓𝒆 of a high-school prince. The natural shade of skin, the warm auburn of his hair; His colored-composition was spontaneously reinstated. His brow quivers, his lips twitch, and an aching groan is drawn from his throat. For the first time in what felt like forever, Goro Akechi opened his eyes.

"Kurusu...” The trickster's surname is weakly addressed. It felt odd to say it out loud. It felt odd to experience the usage of his own lungs to this extent again... "It took you long enough . . . You're still the same 𝙛𝙤𝙤𝙡 you were back then . . ." It hurt to laugh... It hurt, but simultaneously resonated with the sensation of bliss. He savored the touch of something warm: alive, in stark contrast to all that inhabit this unfortunate stratum.

Part of him stubbornly denied the validity of these circumstances... but if this were a cruel trick of distortion, he hoped that it would last.