Wagtails are not a shy and retiring sort of bird.
~oOo~
He was the last unwinged sekirei. Miya had told him, and then Takami had confirmed it – along with news that Minaka had outed him via a mass text, thereby sending every asshole with delusions of capture after him. Considering Minato's response as he tried to talk through Homura's firmly closed door, maybe one or two well-intentioned ones as well.
Just like any other sekirei, Homura had wanted to find his rightful ashikabi. He'd been warned it was unlikely to ever happen, and given the number of years he'd been out and about, with no personal success even as he guarded other sekirei and helped to keep them safe until they found theirs...
And given how long he'd been in the same house as Minato, with no reaction at all, Homura was more than willing to chalk that reaction earlier up to his own fever. In part from being in the bath too long, in part from his own ever-unstable state (his gender as well as the difficulty controlling his flames), and in part that Minato had gathered a large flock and therefore read as 'appealing' to whatever hind-brain/instinct amalgamation guided sekireis to ashikabis.
For all he wanted his own ashikabi, he did not want a male one. Nor, honestly, did he really want to have to share with the likes of Tsukiumi and Musubi, to say nothing of Kazehana and Matsu. Or Kusano-chan.
Besides, hadn't he sworn to kill Minaka? With the way his powers were fluctuating lately, he might not last much longer. Being 'outed' by the madman was just the final straw. He wouldn't let anything stop him. Not greedy ashikabis, not their sekirei, not Miya or Takami or Minato and all their worry combined, not even his own physical condition would stop him.
He left out the window and immediately headed for the rooftops.
Homura channelled his hatred of Minaka into every forceful leap, his righteous and indignant fury forced his legs to move faster as he ran. Izumo Inn was a fair way from MBI Headquarters, so even as fast as he ran, the bright sunset had become night before he even reached the district that the tower was central to.
The sun had completely disappeared when the Scrapped Number appeared in his path. He barrelled past her. He didn't greet her, didn't waste time or breath, did not halt or pause. He didn't have time for her. He would be damned before the night was out, but he would not be damned before he was able to send Minaka to the shinigami.
When lengths of cloth wrapped around him, Homura was distracted for only a moment when he saw that Uzume was on the other end. He had no more time for her either, much as it pained him to have to see such a look in the eyes of a friend. He was near the tower now. He lit himself, and the cloths that had caught him, on fire. He left Uzume behind, and kept running.
He was almost there.
Under his feet, the roof tops he leapt to and from melted just enough that he left footprints behind as he went. A way to track him, certainly, but it no longer mattered. The Scrapped Number had caught up with Uzume, and they'd gotten into a fight over which of them was going to be the one to catch him.
Homura couldn't have cared less.
He could see him. That bastard Minaka was standing on top of his tower, in that stupid white cape and the white platform shoes he needed to be as tall as Takami was in business flats, and the cream suit over the white shirt and tie, and the white gloves. Grinning stupidly. Like he was completely invincible just because he had declared himself the 'game master'.
Homura was a black mass at the centre of a raging inferno as he descended. He was certain that even the Disciplinary Squad would think twice about getting too near him if they were around – and they were certain to be, as it was MBI headquarters he was assaulting. A living fireball, he landed feet-first on an uncomprehending Minaka with vindictive satisfaction.
As a sekirei who controlled the element of fire, even if only to a limited and ever-fluctuating extent, Homura was able to withstand much higher temperatures than any other sekirei before he began to suffer any ill-effects. Any other sekirei would be more vulnerable than him, but would still be more resistant to fire – indeed, to any sort of damage – than a human was.
Minaka's chest melted under Homura's shoes. As the fireball caught the rest of the man, he bubbled and charred. His clothing vanished in a ripple of glowing heat, leaving only the finest ash to stick to the burning flesh of an already dead man.
Homura himself was beginning to succumb to the extreme temperature when the Disciplinary Squad arrived on the roof. All three of them. Bloodthirsty Karasuba, hot-tempered Benitsubasa, and the counterpoint to both of them that was Haihane.
Haihane was the only one to fall back at the sight of him. Benitsubasa didn't move from her confrontational stance – not moving forward or back. Karasuba... smiled at him.
Homura grit his teeth behind his mask and flared his power for what would definitely be the last time. He extended it out to the Red and the Black Sekireis of the Disciplinary Squad, and smiled at their pained exclamations. Benitsubasa screamed. Karasuba roared at him and charged him through the flames with her sword drawn.
Impressive pain tolerance, that one, Homura thought to himself with detached surprise as her sword – red hot from its exposure to his fire – pierced his chest.
Well, he had already been planning on dying that night, just from his flames. A white-hot sword through the chest wasn't what he expected at all. Still, it was not so bad, as deaths went.
Homura's mask burned away, and it became possible to see the smile on his face. He had killed Minaka, and horrifically scarred two of the three current members of the Disciplinary Squad. Not bad, for a prototype sekirei with poor control over his powers and no control over his physical sex.
"Homura!" a voice yelled. Tsukiumi.
A torrent of water crashed down on him and his fire, but it only turned to boiling-hot steam – further burning Karasuba and Benitsubasa. It made no difference to him.
Satisfied, if maybe not completely content, Homura breathed out a plume of smoke, closed his eyes, and died.
~oOo~
The god of fire smiled to himself sadly as he claimed the soul of one of his children, and bundled up the remains of the young fire elemental. Tenderly, he settled the soul into a vessel on his shelf, content to wait until the soul was ready to wake and be put to use once more.
~oOo~
Homura was warm. Not burning any more. It was a comfortable warmth. He was curled around his legs, with his fingers draped together just above his ankles. He could feel... something... at his back. Solid. He could feel something... else... beneath him. Soft. Like he was sitting in a sturdy chair with a soft cushion.
There was no pain, no sense of urgency. No need to open his eyes, even. Wherever he was, he felt safe.
Homura curled a little tighter around himself, smiled, and went to sleep.
~The End~