Shien pinched his eyes shut and meditated stubbornly.

Zenon smoked like a chimney and rebuilt his machine-gun for the ninety-sixth time.

Then he ran out of smokes and stomped off to bug Shien; misery loves company, after all.

"Explain to me again why we're here?"

"Because Homura-sama bade us follow," Shien explained blandly.

Zenon spat while loud, rythmical thuds from above kept on shaking the walls. "What the hell is he trying to prove this time?"

"That he is better than ghosties and ghoulies?"

"What?!" "Well, Hotojou is full of unpleasant creatures, and its prince is a healthy young male."

How the mighty can fall

Two men, one significantly taller and more, ah, macho than the other, squared off.

"Why the hat?" demanded the tall one.

"It's part of the attire, and it shields you from the rain," explained the short one. Then he struggled to lift his hands, chains rustling. "I must say I'm not thrilled about these..."

"Well I'm sorry, but they're part of the costume." The tall man sighed heavily and shook his head. "But honestly; I never thought anyone could be too skinny for the spandex."

The short man looked sour. "Let's just get this over with, hm? Don't lose the amulet."

"Sure. Take good care of the sword." The tall one turned with less flair than usual (the coat was just too small) and stalked off, only to trip and fall flat on his face.

"Blasted heels!" he growled.

The short man smirked, adjusted his rumpled spandex shirt and teleported away.

No more mr. Quiet!

Zenon slammed the door shut, closed his eyes and counted to twenty. Twice. Then he donned his "no compromise" face and opened the door again.

The scene of horror hadn't changed, so he felt compelled to ask a polite question.

"What the unholy FUCK are you doing?!"

Shien spun around with great flair of cloak and loose, long hair. His eyes glittered evilly. "I am preparing to fetch the Maten Scripture. Come."

Zenon stared as Shien swept past him in a way that could only be called imperious.

"Where's Homura?"

A devilish smirk. "He is learning how to navigate stairs."

Encore

Homura slept for many hundred years; his curse was cast by the very creators themselves, a part of the fabric of reality. His tomb could be found by no man.

He awoke on a bed of flowers, right where he fell. A woman knelt by him; tall, pale, thin as a whip-cord and strict as steel. There was no mistaking those features.

She stared in stiff-necked horror as her team of archaeologists and diggers perished by blade and flame.

"Bestow immortality." He sealed it with a kiss upon her forehead.

"I remember now ... Lord Homura."

And the Warprince smiled.

---

They found him 150 years later, sitting under a weeping willow; antique AK-47 by his side, cigarette in mouth, fishing pole in hand.

"Excuse me--" Homura started.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm ready. Sheesh. Can't a guy fish in peace anymore?"

Surprise. "You know us?"

"Hell yeah. The cloak and the shackles? Dead give-away, mate. Ten points for style, zilch for subtlety."

"How?"

The other got up and shouldered his gun. "My daughter's rotten taste in anime, followed by a some reiki regression bullshit. Nice breasts, Shien."

"Hmph."

Zenon smirked. "I guess we'd better get going."

"And your family?" Homura asked.

"Dead."

In the West that is best forgotten

Genjou Sanzou narrowed his eyes and peered at his most recent source of annoyance. A tall 'n' dark fellow in demins, a black shirt and a garish cloak. One eye golden, the other blue, an' a confident smirk that was just beggin' to be wiped off.

He chewed thoughtfully, then spit out the tobacco. "Whatcha want, stranger?" he rasped.

"The scripture and the boy, preacher," drawled the other.

"Fuck off."

The wind sped up and chased a couple of tumbleweeds between them.

"Guess I'll be seein' you at Konran Tower, then. Tomorrow, at high noon," purred the stranger and vanished.