Our Connection Was the Only Thing That Could Save Us, So I Hooked My Leader Up to My Rig and Ended Up in His Arms

It started with a flicker of bad data in the Nav, a ghost in the machine that Futaba initially dismissed as junk code. But then the junk code grew, and with it, a strange tension began to worm its way into the Phantom Thieves. It was nothing overt, just small things. Ann would make a sharp comment about Morgana’s nagging, and he would stalk off, his tail lashing. Ryuji would get defensive over a simple question from Yusuke about his training regimen. The usual easy banter in their group chat became clipped, punctuated by long, uncomfortable silences.

For Futaba, the distortion was more than just a social inconvenience; it was a physical affliction. It manifested as a low, persistent hum behind her eyes, a migraine made of corrupted data that intensified whenever she tried to parse the new readings from Mementos. The signature was all wrong. It wasn't anchored to a single, bloated ego. It was diffuse, like a sickness spreading through the very connections of the collective unconscious.

Tonight, the headache was particularly bad. The others had gone home hours ago, the air in the attic still feeling thick with the unresolved argument they’d had about the best approach. Now, only she and Ren remained, bathed in the glow of her multiple monitors. The rest of the world had fallen away, leaving only the quiet hum of the computers, the distant rumble of the last train, and the rich aroma of the fresh coffee Ren had just brewed.

He sat on the stool beside her, close enough that their knees brushed when she shifted. The space had always been cramped, but they had long ago learned to move around each other with an unconscious grace. He watched the lines of code scroll past, his expression calm and focused. He didn't understand the intricacies of what she was doing, but his presence was a grounding force, a silent anchor in the swirling chaos of data on her screens.

“Anything?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

Futaba shook her head, leaning forward and rubbing her temples. The orange of her headphones felt like a clamp on her skull. “It’s garbage. Encrypted, nested, and deliberately chaotic. It’s designed to look like background noise, but it’s actively fighting back. It’s… malicious.”

Ren reached over and nudged the mug of coffee closer to her hand. “You need a break.”

She took it, her fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic. He’d already had some, and she drank from the same spot his lips had been without a second thought. It was their way. They shared everything up here—food, drinks, theories, fears. His shoulder pressed against hers as he leaned in to get a better look at a specific waveform she had isolated. The warmth of him seeped through her hoodie, a small point of comfort against the throbbing in her head. For a moment, she let her focus drift from the screen to the solid reality of him beside her. His clean scent, the soft fabric of his shirt, the way the light from the monitor carved his profile out of the darkness. It was familiar, safe. It was the only signal that came through perfectly clear.

A few days later, they were standing on a desolate platform in the heart of Mementos. The air was cold and smelled of ozone and damp concrete. This new realm was a vast, monochrome subway system. The tracks leading into the dark tunnels were rusted, and the glowing lines on the cognitive map that should have connected the stations were frayed and spitting sparks, some going dark entirely. A constant, low-frequency buzz vibrated through the soles of their boots, the same oppressive hum Futaba felt in her head.

“Oracle, status?” Ren—Joker, now, in his black coat and mask—asked, his voice steady in her ear.

“It’s… a mess,” she confessed from her position within Prometheus. Her tactical displays flickered, data streams corrupting into digital snow before her eyes. “The path ahead should be clear, but the connection is unstable. I’m getting ghost signals all over the place.”

“For real? This place gives me the creeps,” Ryuji muttered, shifting his weight.

“Stay sharp,” Joker commanded. “We’re just scouting. Find a path to the next platform, Oracle. We’ll follow your lead.”

His confidence in her was a small, warm pressure against the cold anxiety seeping in from the distortion. Futaba focused, pushing past the static. She found what looked like a stable service tunnel, a shortcut that bypassed a section of collapsed track. “Okay… got one! Take the maintenance corridor on the left. It looks secure. It should lead you directly to the Ebisugawa platform.”

“You heard her. Let’s move,” Joker said.

Skull and Panther took point, jogging down the narrow, dimly lit corridor. Futaba watched their progress on her monitors, their life signs steady. Then, a violent burst of static exploded in her ears, white and deafening. Her screens went black for a full second. When they came back online, a dozen powerful Shadow signatures materialized directly on top of Ryuji and Ann’s position. The floor beneath them wasn't solid concrete; it was a cognitive illusion, a trap.

“It’s a lie! Get back!” Futaba screamed, her voice cracking with panic. “The floor is—!”

The concrete under Ryuji’s feet fractured, and he and Ann cried out as they scrambled for purchase. Below them was a pit filled with writhing, grasping shadows.

Panic seized her. It was her fault. Her data was wrong. She was going to get them killed. The static in her comms wasn't just noise anymore; it was whispers, her own deepest fears echoing back at her. Useless. A burden. You failed them.

Then, one voice cut through the chaos, perfectly clear and calm, as if he were standing right beside her. “Oracle. Focus.”

Joker’s voice. It silenced everything else.

“Skull, Panther, fall back! Now!” he ordered the others, his tone leaving no room for argument. He was already moving, firing his grappling hook to secure a point near them. While the others provided cover fire, he spoke to her again, his voice a private, unwavering channel. “Futaba. I need an exit. Find me a real one. I trust you.”

His words struck her with the force of a physical blow, shattering the panic. I trust you. She took a shuddering breath, her fingers flying across her keyboard, ignoring the ghost data and the lying whispers. She pushed through the distortion, her will against its, and found it—a single, thin, but stable line of code. A structural integrity scan of a wall to their right.

“Joker! The wall to your right! It’s weak—blow it open!” she yelled, her voice hoarse but steady now. “It opens into a parallel service line. It’s safe.”

He found her exactly where he knew she’d be, hunched over her keyboard as if in prayer to some cruel, digital god. The retreat from Mementos had been a blur of adrenaline and relief, but once back in the attic, the others’ attempts at reassurance had bounced right off her. Now, hours later, she was still there. The only light in the room came from the monitors, casting her in a sickly blue-green glow. She was rocking slightly, her teeth worrying her bottom lip as she muttered a continuous stream of code and self-recrimination.

“Nested firewalls… it’s parasitic… should have seen the latency spike… should have… it’s my fault.”

Ren watched her from the top of the stairs for a long moment. He could see the tension in the rigid line of her back, the way her fingers trembled over the keys. She was spiraling, trapping herself in a loop of guilt that was more dangerous than any cognitive prison.

He moved silently across the room, the floorboards barely creaking under his weight. When he stood behind her chair, she didn't react, completely lost in the corrupted data on the screen. He placed his hands on her shoulders. She flinched, a sharp, sudden intake of breath, but didn't pull away. His grip was gentle, but firm.

“Futaba,” he said, his voice low. “That’s enough.”

“No,” she whispered, her eyes still glued to the screen. “I have to fix it. I have to find the vulnerability before…”

“You need to stop.” He squeezed her shoulders, a silent command. He leaned down, his face close to her hair, and with one hand, he reached past her and shut down the main monitor. The room plunged into near darkness, the only light now a dim glow from the street outside.

She went rigid, a choked sound escaping her throat. For a second, he thought she would fight him, but then all the energy seemed to drain out of her at once. Her shoulders slumped under his hands, and she leaned her head back against his stomach, a gesture of pure exhaustion and defeat. He kept his hands on her, grounding her, until her breathing evened out.

He gently pulled her up and guided her away from the desk, steering her toward the old, dusty couch. He sat her down before moving to the small kitchenette area to brew a fresh pot of coffee. The familiar, comforting actions filled the heavy silence. When it was ready, he brought two mugs over and sat down beside her, leaving only a few inches of space between them. He nudged her mug into her hands.

She stared down into the black liquid, her reflection warped and indistinct.

“I failed,” she said, her voice barely audible. “My one job is to keep everyone safe, to see the path. And I led them right into a trap. Ann and Ryuji… they could have died, Ren. Because I couldn’t see it. The whispers… they were right.”

He didn’t say anything. He didn't offer empty platitudes or tell her it wasn’t her fault, because he knew she wouldn’t believe him. Instead, he just sat there, a solid, unwavering presence in the dark. He took a slow sip of his own coffee, his gaze fixed on her. He simply listened, letting her pour all the fear and failure out into the quiet space between them, his silence a promise that he wasn't going anywhere.