Notes1: Hot damn, it's been a while, hasn't it? I don't really have any excuse to give other than the usual procrastination, depression, and other life things. However, since I got my new job last month, I've been saving up money and with a bit of it I'm going to slowly build up a collection of manga and other things I might find use for in and outside of fanfiction. I've come into possession of the first volumes of Madoka Magica and a peculiar story called Homura's Revenge!, the latter which I was going to pass on for much later until I read that it's a spin-off and screams of temporal shenanigans. I couldn't let that chance slip by.
Notes2: And here is this story, which took at least two days to type out. It's very surprising that I could pull off a Stephen King in that short amount of time. (Now me typing out a novel in two-three days like he did with one of his books - yeah, fat chance of that happening!) It started out as a really short poem that I wrote on a notepad at work during the start of my training, and for a time it was really going to be about...other characters that would make an appearance post-A Passing Glance, rather than just Homura. However, as I've since picked up a couple manga, things changed and the end result is what you see here.
Notes3: For now, I've decided to leave the poem out because it doesn't fit the overall tone of this chapter. There will be an epilogue that will be somewhat spoiler-ish in regards to a future "inheritors" chapter and later installments in APG.
Notes4: Fun fact: The way the OC speaks is very much like how I talk and joke around whilst playing Heroes of the Storm, because it's better to be a jester than a raging, toxic teammate piling on the salt.

"Back for another round, little miss?"

Homura snaps her head up from the ground at her feet to the sound of the voice breaching her thoughts. At the young man in the purple shirt and ripped jeans lounging on the bench—or, rather, he looked as though he lying on his back and ready to slide off at any given notice and, still, not care if he fell. His vocal intrusion is so sudden, so clear-cut, that for a few scant seconds she didn't know what to say; and when she did, she couldn't find her voice to give them the life they deserved. So she wanted to, but instead, all she managed was a dumb, owlish, stuttering: "E-Excuse me?"

The man shrugs. "Ah, don't mind me. You got that look in your eye, see. Like, you are so dead-set on getting things done no matter what the cost. Determination! Preservation! Stuff like that." He rolls his shoulders and his neck, which elicits an audible crack that makes her wince. "It's cliché, I know. I'm sorry, I couldn't help it. I have a knack for…what's the term…seeing beneath the underneath, but I've always had a knack for people watching. It's just so…interesting, wouldn't you say?"

Again, Homura is at a loss for words, but she decides to press on for posterity's sake. It would be rude of her to ignore a stranger, even one so odd and chatty as he. "I…guess so?" She didn't have the time to watch people. She only has the time needed to find Madoka, warn her of the dangers Kyubey presented, and then go hunt for the little white son of a bitch before he can make contact with her and present the opportunity to enact the contract. This fellow here? She thought for a certainty that he was wasting her time. "Look, I'm sorry, but I have something to do—"

"Of course you do! It can't wait!" says the man, and he smiles at the startled face she makes. "Then again, I don't know what it is you're really doing. That's all you, my friend. I don't read minds. It's just that look you have."

"And, pray tell, what sort of look do you think I'm wearing?"

"That you're a girl on a mission—a very important mission, I might add— and that if I were to cross your path in any way whatsoever, you'll have me on my ass in two seconds flat. Am I right on that?" He quirked an eyebrow at her, still with that knowing, smug smile on his lips.

Homura's eyes narrow. "Yes. Yes, you are. I would make you get out of my way, if that's what it takes."

"And so you would," says the man, nodding. "So you would. It's not just the look that makes a person. It's the attitude. It's the motives. It's their strength…and their weakness. With enough time, enough patience, I think anybody can succeed. It doesn't matter what the goal is. If your mental fortitude is great, your body able, your heart set, and your thoughts clear, why, I think he or she can do anything they have their mind set to."

Homura sighs. "I wish that were the case." His words summon a barrage of memories she both wants to forget and pretend they had never happened but at the same time must hold onto lest they repeat themselves—the temporal resets; the contracts; the warnings that went unheeded and the warnings that were heeded but by then were too late to change and the truth already hammered home; the crumbling of the Quintet as magi pitted herself against magi, aiming to kill, aiming to end the other's suffering; the destruction of Mitakihara in the wake of Walpurgisnacht, the timelines where Madoka died, the timelines where Madoka transformed into a witch, the times where Homura almost didn't want to rewind and simply wanted to sit back with Kyubey and watch the world be torn asunder by her friend's mindless, bottomless hunger. At least, in that capacity, they would die together and this foolish charade of trying to save Madoka from her own kindness would be put to an end.

But giving up isn't an option; it never was.

The man cocks his head at her. "Oh? You don't think so?"

"No. Not really," she said honestly. "It would appear that no matter how many times I try, the end results are still the same."

"And yet you persist."

"It's my choice. I want to persist."

"Regardless of the cost?"

"Regardless of the cost."

He nods again, slowly, sympathetically. "That's very admirable, little miss. I can respect that in a person."

"What makes you think my motives are admirable?" Homura asks, to which the man's eyebrows now lifted and switched from amusement to inquisitiveness. "For all you know, I could be on my way to doing something very heinous, like, for example, staking out a place to bomb or studying someone's daily routines so that when the chance arrives I may kill them in such a manner it would look accidental. I could be planning to shoot up a school and rack up a kill count, higher than what has been achieved in America the past couple decades. I could be planning to assassinate a very important politician because I do not agree with their views. If anything, you should be very cautious of someone you have never met before. I might be very determined, but I might also turn out to be someone far from what you think me to be."

The man smiles for the third time. "No, no. You're very much in the right, little miss. Caution is a good thing…but one look at you and I can tell you're not that kind of person."

"In what capacity, if I may ask?"

He picks himself up from the bench, straightens his back against the curve of the wood, throwing his arms over the back as though they are worms pinched onto a fishing hook as bait. He tosses one leg over the other and bounces it up and down, up and down. "Like we both said, you're a very determined young miss. If you wanted to, you could kick my ass right now and my condition thereafter would be of little if any concern to you if it meant the obstacles to your goal, whatever it may be, was cleared and out of the way. But you haven't; you've been very patient with me, even though you want to get a move on, and I'll say right now that I thank you for, well, taking the time out to have a palaver with a person as…heh…insignificant as me." He covers his mouth and laughs. "At the very least, this shows you are very human. A good person with good intentions, even if those intentions turn out to be very muddy and very grey. Or very bloody. I do not know. Does your road lead you to hell or to heaven?"

"Hopefully heaven," says Homura, thinking of what the world would be like when her mission is fulfilled: no more magi, no more resets, no more deaths, no more Incubators. Madoka would be a normal girl, living a normal life, and she would be happy. They would both be happy. "Heaven on earth." She reiterates. "I don't plan to die anytime soon."

"Ah, but some would say that heaven is for when you die. Some would say that there is no such thing as heaven or hell, and that the only hell we have is the one we're in right now: physicality, solidity, this one chance at life to live to our fullest, in love, in anger, and in pain. It really depends on what side of the religious spectrum you're on."

"Religion isn't high on my list of priorities." It is very, very far from her mind. "However, I do recall hearing the old adage, 'hell is what you make of it'. Perhaps the same can be said for heaven, as well. Perhaps we are living in it right now, imperfect though it might be."

"Heaven isn't supposed to be imperfect. That's what hell is for."

"You can be a good person who makes mistakes and still go to heaven. The really bad mistakes, the ones that are wont to put a black mark on your record and your soul, are what guarantee you a one-way trip to hell."

"Or jail."

"Or jail," Homura agrees, nodding. "That's another thing I don't intend on doing."

"Not dying and not getting caught," says the man. "Sounds like quite a mission, milady."

"I have a name, you know," Homura sighs, irritably. "You could at least introduce yourself, seeing as you're the one who struck up this conversation in the first place. Aren't you just a little bit curious? It doesn't look good on you to speak to someone if you don't mention your name, let alone ask for mine."

The young man places a hand over his heart in mock affront. "Why, you're right! I've been enjoying this conversation much—and the sound of my voice, too—that I've forgotten my manners. My poor old ma would've tanned my hide a good one. Very well, let's start over. My name is Matthias, your average North American. People-watching is my vocation; bird watching, too, but there's nothing quite like getting to know the ins and outs of your fellow human being. Other than that, there's really nothing special about me. What of you, little miss? What might your name be?"

"Homura Akemi," she says, using the American convention of introductions. "You could say my vocation also lies in people-watching…but that would be a lie. No, Matthias, my only vocation is my mission, which, I'm sorry to say, is of little concern to you. Not when you're racing against the clock.

"That important, huh?"

"Very. It's a matter of life and death." Not just for Madoka, but for her family, her friends, the planet, and the galaxy. This guy would be no exception. "Every second I spend not on my vocation, as we so put it, is a second wasted on preserving life, and if I were to fail that then the consequences," she blows air from her cheeks, "well, the consequences would be more than just 'dire'."

"Well then," Matthias says gently, "if that's the case, don't you think you should get a move on? Important matters shouldn't be put off to the very last minute."

Homura scowls. "No thanks to you."

"You've only yourself to blame because you choose to pursue the conversation. I'm just rolling with the punches. I mean, I don't mind stopping all of a sudden and just kick back here. It's a perfect day for cloud-watching. I can imagine boats and trains, maybe birds and dinosaurs."

"You really like watching things, don't you?"

"That's what eyes are for, Miss Homura," says Matthias, pointing at his own eyes with fingers in the shape of V. They are very peculiar eyes, just like her own, and it is something of note that, in the pit of her belly, feels both alien and familiar. His eyes are a brilliant shade of violet speckled with a colorful cocktail she can only describe as black and blue. She could easily put them off as contacts, but that would be a lie. No one in Japan—nay, no one on Earth—had purple eyes like they did. These were the real deal; it was something she didn't need to ask. "They're here to transcribe to the brain what we see and process the information so that we learn."

"And what else do your eyes show you?"

He taps a finger to his chin. "Hmmm…well, I see a girl standing in the middle of a cobblestone path, one of many in this park; and it's a good thing that hardly anybody's about to say 'excuse me' or 'out of my way', or maybe nothing at all."

"That's stating the obvious," says Homura. "What happened to seeing beneath the underneath?"

"You're right, Miss! How could I forget? Well, I've already made my prior statements—about your determination, your convictions, your grey nobility. But do you know what else I see? I see that you might be in need of assistance."

Her eyes narrow again. "I have no need of it."

"Why not? Didn't you just say your mission is a matter of life and death? Why not accept a helping hand? I mean, maybe the mission is 'little concern' to me, but surely a life is? You don't need a reason to help a stranger in need."

"It's something I have to do alone. I," don't know you, I don't trust you, you wouldn't understand, my powers don't extend to bringing other people back in time, you won't remember this anyway if I did go back, she thinks, and wants to say, but instead she presses on with, "I just have to." It's lame, but it is the truth.

Matthias levels her a questioning stare. "Do you have to? Truly have to?"

"Yes. I'm the only person who can do this." To lessen the blow, she adds, "I'm sorry. I appreciate your offer, but I must decline."

He hangs his head and sighs. "For shame! I was really hoping you'd allow the pleasure of being at your side. I can do more than just watch for creepy shadows and chat away in your ears."

"I'm sure you can." She waves the statement aside with a dismissive hand.

The corner of his lip quirks upward, and when he lifts his head both corners are raised and his teeth bared in a boyish grin. A grin fit for a wolf. "Well~" he begins; he pushes himself off the bench and doubles over, brushing off his jeans. "If you change your mind, just let me know. Here," he tacks on just as she's about to protest. He straightens up and holds out to her a small, purple, rectangular business card. Homura doesn't want to, but her hands move and accept the card from his callused fingers. The print is even smaller, so she brings it up to her face to decipher what the words—dark blue on light purple—have to say:

MATTHIAS HANSON
PROFESSIONAL WANDERER & SIGHT-SEEING EXTRAORDINARE

1-(888)-888-8888

I am that is—my sword will wield for me.

She finishes reading and balks. She reads the card again and still balks. She looks up at Matthias, who stands patiently before her, one hand jammed in a pocket, the other toying with the chain links attached to the belt loops. "Are you for real? What kind of number is this?"

"It's a working number, don't worry," he says.

"This is an American number."

"So it is."

"But you don't have a Japanese phone number?"

He shrugs. "I came here on short notice." He fidgets under the hard, cold stare she gives him. "Seriously!"

Homura sighs. "At least set up an email address if you're serious about this. I don't do long distance calls." She doesn't do phone calls or emails period, but he didn't have to know that.

"Hey now, that's my line! But, you know, just keep it in mind and on hand. You never know when you might need it."

She highly doubts it, but, "Yeah. I will. Thanks, I guess."

"You are most welcome! Everybody gets one." He taps at the business card. "If I don't answer, somebody else will. There are many others like me who'd be glad to come to your assistance. Anybody's assistance. Long distance might cost you a pretty penny, but our service is free of charge, I should like to add."

"…There are more of you?" she ventures disbelievingly. There were more weirdoes like him in the world?

"Why, yes. Some are quite talkative like me. Others are…pretty reserved. Focused. Dedicated. It's alright, though; some things we just like to keep to ourselves."

"Oh." That seemed simple enough. "Alright. But what about the name of your service? I see you don't have one."

Matthias's smile broadens, eyes twinkling mischievously. "We're still coming up with that. Have to make it sound original! Flashy! Intriguing! It helps trying to beat out the competition. But fret not! We have all the time in the world to think of a proper name."

"And your…ahem, company logo? Shouldn't you have that, too?" Homura flashes him both sides of the business card.

"Yes, that too. That too. We're, uh, not really artists."

"Then it sounds like you have work to do. Make it your…vocation."

Matthias chuckles. "Clever girl. Well then, as much as I enjoy our palaver, I'm afraid I will have to take my leave. I just remembered there's a bit of something I have to take care, and as soon as possible; the boss will rip my head clean off my shoulders if I don't. I wish you luck on your mission, Miss Homura, whatever it may be. Perhaps luck will be on your side." Then he turns around and walks away, raising a black gloved hand in the air and tipping her off with a perfunctory wave. Homura watches his back until he disappears around the bend, and then returns to staring at the card.

And later that night, in her apartments, as she is getting ready for bed and—eventually—another day of lurking in Mitakihara's shadows, chasing Kyubey, and observing Madoka from afar, Homura will look at the card again. She's surprised she's kept it on her person this long. She's not one to go around making random conversation with strangers in the park on a day off from school, nor is she wont to accept help from someone who has no idea how much she's putting at stake trying to protect the one girl she calls friend from a fate that is, quite literally, worse than death. People are ignorant, and that is for the best. She wants no one else to get involved.

Still, the card, plain as it is, intrigues her, and on that night she sets her shield that she has been polishing off to the side and plucks the card off the nightstand. Reads the name on the card—MATTHIAS HANSON. Reads the silly titles underneath—PROFESSIONAL WANDERER AND SIGHT-SEEING EXTRAORDINAIRE. Reads the number below it—1-(888)-888-8888. Reads the italicized line that may or may not be a reference to some fantasy book she's never read in her short life—I am that is—my sword will wield for me. Her fingers brush the card, which feels like it's been made from construction paper.

They brush something bumpy. Embossed.

Homura turns it over.

Taking up the majority of the space is a stylized eye, drawn with two arching lines—one on the top, one on the bottom—and a circle in between. In the light of the lamp it is a glaring red, but in the shadow it is a dark, gloomy blue, almost black hue.

Underneath the eye are runes. One would venture a guess and say they are Old Nordic, perhaps even Elder Futhark, or a mixture of both, but they are not.

Memories slumbering in the recesses locked away from the mind in the present stirs awake and resurfaces, peeking over her shoulder and, against her will, translate them for her. They spell out a single word:

ZURVAN

She scoffs. "Get real." That life was gone. The life before, long ago, in a time removed from her own, when the stars winked out and fire rained from the heavens onto nine hundred years of deeply ingrained tradition.

When the casteless struggled to make ends meet, stealing and whoring and warring and envying the bastard highborn with their houselords and baseborn children from up above in their mansions and castles as they drank and feasted and passed legislature on laws that eased the burdens on their taxes and hefted them onto the backs of the pack mules in the streets below. That life was gone.

When the Talonite warned her of the risks and costs her mission would impose upon her that day in the Church of the King of the Hunt and, later on, when the War was in full swing and Neptune had not yet collapsed to its prodigy's ignorance and she had confronted the Archmeister in the open ley line deep in the bowels of the Manakademia. That life was gone.

When she had gazed into the Brink, that life was gone, and when that Child of Aeon had approached her in those final hours, blade drawn and cloak trailing behind like a second skin, sloughing on the cracked and broken ground, that life was gone. The old life has no bearing on this one now.

But it wasn't completely without merits. The Brink still flourished within her. Madoka had reincarnated. She still has her friend.

She still has a chance.

She has all the time in the world.

"I'll do whatever it takes to protect you," Akemi Homura tells herself, crumbling up the card in a tight, white-knuckled fist. "Anything."