Only Those Things the Heart Believes Are True

An LLS Production

Prologue: Dal Segno

Five...

Four...

Three...

Two...

One...

The Harlequinade opens. The curtain rises.

Columbine stands alone, draped in blue and white. Strings lead from her form to the frame, upon which the Clown makes his marionette dance.

Another frame enters the picture. It leads to Harlequin, who cuts a fine figure of red and black.

Harlequin does not dance. The harlequin improvises, snatching Columbine from her strings and stealing her away into the night, Pantaloon and the Clown giving chase all the while with Pierrot hot on their heels. Harlequin and Columbine dance and dance, until finally the swath comes; trickster and girl lie side by side, falling together. They sleep, only to wake, and the story repeats.

Here we go again.

Once, the body of Sherrinford Holmes disappeared. Within the next week, Sherrinford's hanger-on Jane Watson was tagging behind Shirley Sigerson.

Once, Sheridan Holmes was a high-profile serial killer. Jack Hammond Watson was the only psychiatrist to accept him. One day, Holmes did a murder-suicide; scientist and subject expired in each other's arms. The dying words of Holmes was puzzling: 'You will never take him from me.'

One memorable occasion, in one particular world, a nineteenth-century thing of swirling fogs and chintz chairs. Sherlock Holmes looked unsurprised, even with the unremarkable form in the room holding a knife to his throat. "I've been expecting you. To whom may I address the salutation?"

Mortar fire was part and parcel of life in Afghanistan, but John was pretty sure that this was the first time he had ever seen them directed towards demons.

"You do this often?" He asked the mysterious Puella Magi who had just arrived.

Her shadowy wings branched from either side of her back, reflecting the demon's attacks as John evacuated the injured patrol who had stumbled into the miasma. "From time to time,"the Magi responded, brushing a long black lock away from her face. "You... have magic."

John shook open his backpack, pulling out the highly illegal RPG-7V2 from the bag that technically should not fit inside. "Fitted for HEAT rounds- high explosive anti-tank," he translated as the girl looked lost, the weapon in her hand. "I need to drag a few more people out. Give me cover."

"Understood." Despite her clear interest, the Puella Magi did not press too much.

"What's your name, anyway?" John shouted as he went for the last one with preternatural reflexes, dragging the moaning and delirious soldier out of the miasma and then running back in, considering the Jezail rifle before deciding for the Webley Bulldog.

"Homura-"

A soft whizzing sound broke John's concentration, and something drew a line of ice across his right hip as he hurdled a small ditch. John stumbled and went to one knee, feeling blood dampening his trousers as he turned and aimed his gun into the sky. He pulled the trigger twice, and one demon plummeted to the ground, its head destroyed by the combination of improbable forces and a. 44 bullet. In the next instant, another arrow slammed into his left shoulder. The force behind it drove John onto his back, and he could see the wraith diving for him, shrieking in triumph-

A soft whizzing sound, and the demon was slaughtered by a violet flash.

"Are you alright?" Homura questioned. Her wings flared, deflecting the rest of the weapons but also leaving them as sitting ducks to a scourge of wraiths. Her tights had been torn, and one heel was missing. The red bow in her fringe drooped; clearly, the Puella Magi was unused to desert conditions.

Numbing cold was spreading from the wound like poison, and the world went dim and soft, like a picture fading out on a television. So cold and dark. So cold and so tired, and he could just close his eyes and slip away...

It's enough... a voice whispered. You can rest... you fought to the last.

He couldn't raise his hand and dig the thing out. He couldn't open his eyes. He felt disconnected from his whole body – it was worn and empty, and he could just cast it away and move on.

Except no, because where would that leave the Puella Magi still fighting?

It's enough. You've given up enough for our world. It's enough...

Slowly, John's eyes dragged to the thing embedded in his flesh. 'Pull it out,' was the only thought that ran through John's head. 'You need to get it out of you.'

Shouldn't touch it – the presence of the arrow could be putting much-needed pressure on arteries and veins to prevent bleeding out

Some deep instinct told him he needed to pull the thing out. In situations like this, John trusted his gut above his head.

John's right hand crept across his chest slowly, fingers wrapping tightly around the arrow. It probably should have hurt – he could feel his grip shifting, nerve endings attached – but then magic numbed the pain to only a numb feeling in every nerve. No bracing. No tensing. No need to make it more difficult than it should be-

The magic string projectile tore free with a wet sucking sound, and John cast it aside.

The terrible cold didn't ease, and within moments John was trembling as though he were lying on permafrost instead of the hellish sands of Afghanistan. Still, he pulled the pack on his back, the one that technically did not exist, and willed himself to ignore the pain to stand with a present in hand.

"Artillery fire!" He called.

Homura jumped back, the wings falling as John aimed the AT-4 and pulled the trigger. Right then, winds shifted and John growled, lugging the last soldier towards the nearest cave. "Cover!"

John's barrier closed after Homura stepped through.

"You survived it," Homura observed tonelessly.

"I'll live," John panted, already tearing shreds of his grey-white desert camouflage. "You okay?"

"I will heal, in time," Homura's head tilted. "I did not know that men... could be Puellae Magi."

"Pueri Magi," John answered. "To answer your question, well, I met an unusual Incubator."

"You do not refer to them as Kyubey," Homura said.

"Back home, Ebay made an impression," John gave a huff of laughter. "Compared to her, Kyubeys all over the world are dicks. She told me the blunt, honest truth of what we are; soldiers. Least I could do is bluntly answer her."

"Then in that, we are in agreement," Homura squatted, tucking her heels under her seat as she moved. "It will take a while before we can escape; even demons must hide in the sandstorm. But... you are a soldier."

"Disguise," John shrugged as he unrolled the tools from his pack. "Doctor, too. Can you help me with this guy? We can have this conversation as we're sewing him up."

"How did you achieve that kind of qualifications?" Homura asked, moving immediately to assist, even if just sterilising tools.

"I met another Pueri Magi, I know a few Puella Magi, we have a rotating shift," John mumbled. "Been a while since then, back home in London. We called ourselves the Irregulars. So, where are you from?"

"Mitakihara City. Japan."

"Sounds interesting."

"Most of the time," Homura tonelessly replied, still staring at John. "I did not know... that boys could be Magi."

John's fingers flew to the Celtic cross around his neck, upon which the grey-white Soul Gem glittered. "Ebay... the Incubator I contracted with... did not care. I wanted that wish. I didn't mind fighting."

"You are here," Homura mumbled quietly. "Were you desperate?"

John smiled grimly, and the grey-white light of the Gem glittered against the bloodstains that covered the grey-white of his fatigues. "I made a wish that I wouldn't regret."

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