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[attr="class","vpostbg"]There's something very entertaining about freshmen. Mind, not entertaining in a fun way. No, to Homura, it's the same type of entertainment one might get out of watching a toddler fall while running around. It's hilarious, but you know the kid might hurt themselves, so you go and check on him. That, to Homura, is the same sort of humor at play here - barring, of course, the part about checking to see if the child's okay.

Cro-magnon? Homura thinks for a moment, then clicks his tongue. Oh. She must've learned about Upper Paleolithic figures today. Baby's first big word insult.

He pockets his phone, runs a hand through his hair, and looks down at the knocked over books. Not too many for one person to carry... In fact, now that he's looking at them, it probably wouldn't be that big of a hassle to help her pick them up. Then again, it also wouldn't be that big of a hassle for her to do it herself.

"You have no idea how social transactions work, do you?" It's asked bluntly, without a single trace of hostility or emotion. "First: Cro-Magnon? Seriously?" He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "Upper paleolithic insults only matter if someone knows what they're calling you. If I were anyone else, brat, they'd probably look at you like you're having a stroke - or that you're just trying to look smart."

He glances down to the books, then back to her. "And you're failing at it, by the way. No intelligent person carries that many books when laptops and binders exist. Second: You ran into me because you came out of that classroom like a damn chicken with its head cut off." He drums his fingers against his sleeves.

"Now, since your absentee parents clearly didn't teach you manners, let me give you a quick lesson." He waves a hand down to the books. "When you want help picking up your books, you say please. And when we want to look presentable out in public, we do something with our hair that isn't that." He nods to her haircut. "So. Let's run that again. You bumped into me. What do you say?"

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[attr="class","vpostbg"]Divine requests had been made to him, passed from glossy lips to passed ear ten times over. With their gloved hands behind their backs, his mother and father - those holy progenitors, monster makers - had decreed that they needed to get their name out there. Heroics were in the far future, and perhaps would prove unobtainable. In their absence, regardless of if it was permanent or not, other measures had to be taken in order to ensure Makishima's relevancy.

Enter Auden Verchetty or, more aptly, their business.

Rising Phoenix Talent Agency had caught the eyes of his parents. How fortunate, they said, that the owner of that particular business attended the same university! To put the two together was to guarantee some level of success. It certainly helped that, based off of what could be found via a passing glance here and there on campus coupled with a quick online search, Verchetty themself wasn't a horribly unattractive person.

"Think of it like this," His mother had said over the phone. "We're helping a small business. It's very heroic."

Of course, Homura hadn't objected to that notion. Not because he believed it, but because he didn't give enough of a shit to argue. Past experiences told him that it wouldn't do him any good to open his mouth during conversations that dared to dictate his life; he was heaven's doll, and they may as well have been divine hands, positioning and shifting his life based off of a combination of idle whims and claimed needs.

First, an email had been sent. It was semi-formal, nothing more than a pitch about meeting a prospective hero whose family wanted to put their message out further into the world. Second, regardless as to whatever Auden replied to the email with, there'd be a knock at his door - and we're at the present proper, wherein one Homura Makishima stands at the dorm room of one Auden Verchetty with one hand in his pocket and the other absentmindedly fiddling with the plethora of golden rings adorned on each digit.

"Auden Verchetty?" He calls, knocking again. His voice carries with it no particular eagerness, but instead a feigned politeness. "Do you have a second? I'd like to talk."

He can only hope this goes well, especially considering the fact that he's never even spoken to Verchetty before. He does not need another migraine today.

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[attr="class","vpostbg"]Two weeks ago, Miku went missing. It was six in the evening when anyone last saw her, and seven in the morning when the family started to grow worried. She'd gone out before - rebellious ones often did - but she had never gone out and stayed out. Time and time again, without fail, Miku would always return.

When she didn't come back after the second day, the Takiguchi family started putting up fliers. The first few were stuck up near gas stations in Tokyo. A handful rode the breeze in Shinjuku. A scattered four or five were plastered on telephone poles in Shibuya.

Two or three made their way to U.A.U, and one made its way directly into the hands of one Homura Makishima.

It might be grim to say, but he almost laments that this isn't a proper missing person's case. That, he thinks, would at least do him some good in terms of gaining experience. Maybe he would get the chance to cooperate with officers. Hell, if he played his cards right, this could have scored him a real chance at networking. It would have been a golden ticket to success and, had Miku been a real person, maybe this would have done wonders for his eventual career.

Unfortunately, Miky Takiguchi is not a real person. She is not even human. She is an orange tabby cat that wore a violet collar, and she has not been home for two weeks.

Homura cannot help but blame himself as he peers down one alleyway, adjusts his glasses, then keeps moving down the city streets. Of course this isn't a real person; no self-respecting parent would settle at putting up fliers for their kid instead of going to the police. Yet, the fact that Miku is a cat was only made clear by small print at the bottom of the poster, which lacks a photo or description of the creature beyond "orange hair, a little short, wearing a blue hero backpack, and is a little chubby".

Of course, being a responsible future hero, he called the number on the bottom once he found the flier. At that point, he was greeted by a crying child who was practically begging for someone to find her damn cat.

At that point, if he said no, it'd be damning for his future career. So, he said yes. That brat backed him into a corner with her tears, and he doubts she even knows it.

All of that being said, he still has half a mind to abandon the job as is. There's no real experience to gain with this. There is no greater purpose to be served. Attempting to find a missing cat is hardly real heroic work, and the time he's spending going from alleyway to alleyway and backlot to backlot could be better served, say, volunteering at a hospital.

He pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. The only redeeming part of this is that he shouldn't be the only person; with how scattered the fliers are, it wouldn't surprise him if someone else volunteered to find the damn stray. In fact, roughly thirty minutes ago, his prerogative changed from finding the cat to finding someone else who wants to find the cat.

Mind, he's not a social person. He doesn't want there to be someone else for the sake of making friends or forming connections. No, he wants there to be someone else so that they can either find the cat quicker or mutually agree to never speak of this again.

Bitter as he is, Homura will count either scenario as a success.

So, here's a portrait of a young man, bored out of his mind. He wears fine clothes that would probably get him mugged in another city, complete with expensive jewelry adorned on his neck and fingers. His right hand holds the neatly folded flier, and his left holds his phone. An over-the-shoulder bag bounces against his left hip with every step, its contents - mostly spare books to read, chewing gum, and a laptop to use for writing in the field - thankfully easily enough for him to carry. Rectangle-framed glasses sit on the bridge of his nose, and a separate mouth lingers on his right cheek, too occupied by chewing gum to voice his thoughts aloud.

There's got to be someone else wasting their time with this, He thinks to himself, I just have to find them.

homura makishima

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YOU'RE MESSING WITH A GOD

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■ WIN BIG → with @ pharaohleap [break]
■ MAMA'S FALLEN ANGEL → with @ pharaohleap [break]
■ LOSE BIG → with @ pharaohleap [break]
■ LIVIN' ON LIES → with @ pharaohleap

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[attr="class","vpostbg"]This is a portrait of a young man, destroyed and made again; a doll reborn through kintsugi. He stands with his hands behind his back, sharp amber eyes fixed forward with the same dedication - and perhaps muted fear - that a soldier may have when facing towards the front lines.

Enemy soldiers do not await him. Rather, it is only their wealthy commanders; those who point and watch as more profit-driven heroes race to collect their payments. Those faceless figures are dressed in their version of armor in the form of finely tailored suits with gold or silver trim, pearl necklesses and earrings that would cost some their entire homes to purchase...

Their wealth, he thinks, is their power.

They beckon to him, and - as an obedient doll ought to do - he goes to them. His mouth moves and his voice rings in his ears, yet he does not quite own the words spilling out from between his lips. They are sweet nothings, empty statements of joy that a stranger has arrived to help in raising funds.

No one dares to touch him as he mingles. No one dares to look him in the eyes. Their gaze, he knows, is always on the bridge of his nose, or on the center-bridge of his glasses.

No one sane meets the eyes of God.

A shame, he thinks, that no one here is crazy.