Ikazuchi Hiroko

22

Female

Waitress at a small-time cafe / Newspaper delivery girl

Hiroko is a rather average female who doesn't stand out in any way, shape or form. She stands at a mere height of 5'6" and weighs averagely, though she is close to being underweight for someone of her age thanks to her substandard way of life. Her appearance, however, lets off the image of her actually being healthy. She tends to wear coats over simple shirts and pants - or whatever comfortable article of clothing she can get her hands on... or afford.

If one word can describe Hiroko, it's the word 'actress'. She can change almost in an instant depending on who she's interacting with. Interacting with her on the job would yield a rather polite, if a little sarcastic, woman who would be willing to help you. A rather apt personality from when you're a waitress. Personally, Hiroko tends to reflect who she interacts with to a certain degree. Cheerful and childish, she would respond with a joyful personality. Calm and collected, she would respond with a level-headed comment. She can form opinions of her own, yes, but she tends to take the personality of who she's with into consideration to make hers. Alone, however, she's pretty much the same as the previous personality she dons. Though she doesn't do much alone, except for reading whatever she can get her hands on - so there isn't really much to judge on.

Born and raised in a poor family, it was a wonder how Hiroko managed to get all the way to High school before dropping out as she graduated. Yes, the irony of her name was not lost in her - and she does make a joke out of it; a little bit of self-deprecating joke never hurt anyone. Her parents weren't all that good. With an alcoholic mother and an always absent father, Hiroko was bound to get a future that wasn't too bright. Her mother ignored her most of the time and her father was speculated to be the one to pay for everything. And honestly, she stopped caring after second grade. She tried to be an optimistic young child - dreaming up of grand things once she graduated from college and began her life as an adult. Her friends were cheering her on. Though, as one would expect from having an alcoholic mother, those friends were very numbered. What she did have an abundance of were bullies. Having no parents to defend her, and the teachers rarely caring, she was subjected to their torture. She was unsure when she actually gained the ability to reflect, but she does guess it was around this time.

It was funny, really. How everything in her life actually got worse, when she thought it couldn't get any worse than that. Her father lost his job and promptly ran away from the family. Her mother was thrown into jail for breaking into a liquor store to get some drinks. And Hiroko? Off to child services for her. However, she continued going to school thanks to some philanthropist's goodwill. Once she finished highschool, hitting the age of eighteen, she was let go from child services and out of the orphanage. Thrown into a merciless world without parents to support her, the government left her, and only a highschool diploma, the future was rather bleak. And it didn't get much better. Getting a job as a waitress to try and save up money for her own needs, and hopefully college. It had been years, and a silver lining still wasn't in sight.

There are many reasons why Hiroko could not be ideal for something as noble as being a 'hero'. You could say that she's rather selfish, and could even be obsessed with money if she's given the chance to get so much. Heroes are meant to be self-sacrificing, and admittedly, Hiroko is anything but. She will take care of those who she deems useful for her survival.

Hiroko embodies the Hero of Finesse - free-spirited with short-term goals whose loyalty only lies with herself. She can get under people's skins if she's allowed to do so, using her ever-changing personality to pry information out of someone.

- Pack of Cigarettes
- 2 Lighters
- Phone
- Small Notepad
- Pen
- Scarf Handkerchief

Iyasu Kaito

Twenty-four

Male

Therapist

Kaito's appearance has been likened to that of a prince throughout various points in his life, although whether the people saying such things were mocking him or not is something he's never been sure about. His long, flowing hair trails farther than that of most men, and his eyes always seem to be sporting a gentle sheen over their green irises. His body is just as delicate, with smooth skin over a tall, thin frame. He pays little attention to his clothing, often wearing dress shirts too large for him. Unbeknownst to him it only accentuates his slender features more, draping across his body in a style reminiscent of a flowing blouse someone would have worn in another age.

At the edge of dusk when his working hours are done, Kaito often finds himself collapsing over his bed, his hair spilling out in tendrils like the dead plants surrounding him in his cramped apartment. The sight looks like the sobering ending to a particularly depressing fairytale, one in which the prince finds himself at a dead end job, pestered by his family to carry their legacy and marry. But he doesn’t mope. He thinks, hard. It’s in moments like these his gentle disposition shifts towards a far bolder one, one where his eyebrows rock to the steady beat of his thoughts and his legs find themselves crossing and uncrossing an untold number of times. Problems are distressing to him, but solving them is what keeps him going. People trust him with theirs, and guiding his patients through them is the source of his momentum.

Kaito is passive, although not the least bit reserved in sharing his thoughts. His neverending anxiousness at the world at large never wanes, but he’s grown skilled at weaponizing it to deal with problems. If he’s not analyzing something, he’s reflecting on a previous analysis. If he’s not doing either of those things, he’s finding something new to worry about. The beat of his drum is slow and sometimes misaligned with the speed of the rest of the world, but it never stops.

Born as an only child to strict parents in Yokohama, Kaito’s life was never truly calm. There was always some chore or task to be fulfilled, be it some test to pull an all-nighter for or an overcrowded train to board. He felt like a lab rat racing along to a never ending circuit of alarms and authority figures, gaining nothing but fleeting approval from his parents and pieces of paper with signatures on them along the way. A lifetime’s worth of these experiences rendered him into somewhat of a hermit, one with no interest beyond his small office and the most underwhelming of life’s pleasures.

He is now twenty-four years old, satisfied with life yet too displeased to fully enjoy it. It was as if his parents' voices had permanently ingrained themselves inside his mind, scrutinizing every minor aspect of the things he found joy in.

Kaito’s knowledge of pop culture and video games begins and ends with public advertisements and whatever distraction of the month has found itself in his cellphone. He is, in the eyes of his parents and extended family, a failure with little to no chance of ever achieving a respectable career or a dignified marriage. There is no sane reason to ever consider him a potential hero. And yet… there is a desire within him, one to not only directly confront the world around him, but even help others along the way.

As the hero of sorcery, Kaito has a penchant for the mental rather than the physical. Taking apart the elements of anything that wasn’t a solid object had always been something of a second nature to him, so even something as bizarre as the arcane has an odd familiarity to it.

N/A

Kaneko, Ohta

19

Male

Office Worker

Ohta’s sallow skin and gray eyes give off the impression of someone who had aged beyond just the nineteen years he had lived so far, and that issue is compounded by how his eyes are perpetually half-open, bagged with dark circles. A heaviness clings onto his frame, grounding him to the earth even as he breaks into a sprint to catch the last train home. Deliberate in his movements, careful in his language, there’s a constant sense of slowness with him. His slender hands are often stained by pencil smudges or ink stains, while his brown hair gives off the impression that he’s just gotten out of bed, regardless of how long he actually spends in bed. At a height of 5’7, with a diminutive frame that naturally hunches into itself, Ohta’s just another face in the crowd, another file in the company’s folder.

The fingernails on his left hand are cut painfully short; the ones on his right feature deep crescents.

Ohta watches, listens, and keeps his thoughts to himself.

Introverted, he’s made it a habit to repress his emotions out of necessity, keeping people at a distance while he plugs along with his tasks. It’s convenient, to be thought of as a cold person, a distant person, so that’s what he leans into. Praise or encouragement for the work he does is strange, after all, and having coldness and distance be the norms for his attitude means that he can bow out of drinking parties without it being remarked upon. It’s good if people just think of him as naturally strange, an overly serious, boring anomaly of a youth. And if people begin thinking about him that way, that would create a Pygmalion effect. If he was perceived of as serious and hard-working, that’s what he could become. If he was perceived of as cold, he would not be hot. And if he was not hot, then he was not…

…passionate, desperate, and so, so, so furious. At the lost twilight of childhood. At the decisions others made. At the burdens he bore alone. At the costs of living for two, when only one brought in income. At the days that never seemed to end. At the assignments that he took so his managers kept him around. At unfairness, built into the very grain of the machine he served. At powerlessness, only able to fold inwards rather than lash outwards.

But when he finds the time to meet her, Ohta figures that he could remain cold, just a little longer.

He can’t meet her anymore.

Duty. Responsibility. Obligation.

At 18 years, on the cusp of graduation, Ohta came home to his family’s three room apartment suite to find it empty. The lock had not been broken. No sign of anyone rummaging through cabinets or shelves. The housewife next door saw the silhouette of his parents at 11:30 AM. They had left no letters, only taken what was theirs and disappeared. He was numb when he picked up Tamimi from school. He was lying when he told her they would be back. If he’d known what was coming, he’d have been a better student. Had picked up skills on his own time. Invested in crypto, started a Patreon, made a Soundcloud, done anything. But he hadn’t.

Strangers came two nights later. Loan sharks. He hid in the bathroom with his little sister. In the morning, it was obvious why they had come. As obvious as paint and pigs’ blood could make it.

Ohta missed out on his graduation. He pawned off most of what remained in the home. Sat on the money for a while. Considered his options. Decided that he didn’t trust his relatives more than he trusted the government. Had a chat with the men that his parents borrowed money from. Decided that it was better to lie again. Orphaned Tamimi.

Her parents were dead. He would work to pay off their inherited debts. After that, they should be able to live together again. Just four years, no, three. They can live together in three years. And then, once again, they can dream.

Office work with only a high school diploma was a miracle with a steep cost, but Ohta paid the cost regardless. Paid it with his body and his mind and did so willingly. Willingly? Out of necessity. Debts to pay. Costs to pay. Rent to pay. Utilities to pay. His cheap suit hung from his body; he was losing weight. His eyes could never focus and always itched; he was losing sleep. His life slipped away even as the days never seemed to end; he was losing time.

Sometimes, he found himself standing in front of the office of those loan sharks, a cheap lighter in hand.

Sometimes, he found himself alone with his boss, nails biting into the flesh of his palms.

But he had a duty to fulfill. A responsibility he could not abandon. An obligation to realize the dream he had spoken of.

The decision is no longer his to make.

Now, Ohta can only pray.

Righteous and dedicated, a person who could endure the weight of the world, who could think to dream still, no matter how many times he had to rearrange, reimagine it. An idealist who would contort himself to whatever shape necessary to realize his goals. A man who would sacrifice what he loves for who he loves. A hero, perhaps, who would work within the boundaries of whatever society he existed in, no matter how much he hated it.

That was what the wish was drawn towards, a hero who could draw back his instincts and ruminate longer on the consequences of swift action. But…

…the wish did not realize that such restraint was found in a sense of powerlessness. A sense that drove an earnest, crushing desire for power. For might. For the ability to break, rather than bend, to inherent unfairness, enforced bondage. Magma rages beneath the permafrost, willing, always willing to surge out and burn everything to ash.

Ohta is willing to sacrifice, but he’s just as willing to take, whether with words or with violence. So long as he can get away with it. So long as it gets him closer to his goals.

He does not want to endure. He wants to fight.

A business suit. It does not fit well, and the tie is a boring blue-with-gray-stripes.
A smartphone. The battery is at 53%, and it holds an agenda of meetings and deadlines that no longer matter.
A Tupperware container and chopsticks. Barley rice, mixed with corn. A preserved plum sits in the center.

Ohta was an acoustic guitarist, but now, he's just a run-of-the-mill office worker. Administrative tasks and note-taking have become second-nature to him, and he can enter data and make calculations with a swiftness expected of someone who's gotten accustomed to their job. He learned to sew on his own time, first to patch the holes in his clothing, then in hopes of making a gift for Tamimi.

He doesn't care for it, but he understands business etiquette.

His efforts have achieved nothing.

Arima Junichiro

20

Male

Freeter

A completely bland and unassuming young Japanese man, sporting long black hair normally tied into a ponytail, and an otherwise unremarkable face if not for the permanent scar on the bridge of his nose. Standing at 5'9", Junichiro sports a rather average physique, with a bit of notable musculature due to working in menial labor for a while. Junichiro's way of dress makes him look somewhat slimmer than he actually is, sporting long-sleeved shirts and jackets to hide scars both self-inflicted and received from an accident. Junichiro also walks with a very slight limp, although it is unknown to him if they are from injuries his body still has failed to heal, or his own overwork.

A nihilistic and rebellious youth who chafes against tradition. A quiet freak who's depressing to be around. An impertinent brat who says what he wants and doesn't respect his elders. All these things easily describe Junichiro on a surface level. A lot of Junichiro's current issues stem from his survivor's guilt, which did little to help his low sense of self-worth. Prone to self-destructive hobbies and posting on dubious message boards, it could be said that Junichiro is the epitome of all that is wrong with Japan's youth.

Living a quiet life in Kyoto, Junichiro's upbringing was quite average, obtaining average grades and doing all the normal things boys his age did. Having no drive to do anything extraordinary or groundbreaking, he was content to live an average life so long as it was with his childhood friend, Kaoru. To Junichiro, Kaoru was a shining beacon in his otherwise dull life, an outstanding student with dreams to one day become a doctor. Junichiro knew he needed to tell Kaoru his feelings at some point, but he never could quite find the right time to. Sadly, nothing in life was guaranteed, no matter how mundane, and Junichiro would find that out the hard way, months before graduation.

Junichiro awakened, almost sandwiched between two bus seats with shards of glass sticking out of his arms, and one of his legs bent at an unnatural angle. He called out Kaoru's name in the chaos, but to no avail, crying out for him to the point of exhaustion. When help finally arrived, Junichiro was already losing consciousness, the last thing he saw was Kaoru giving him a dull and lifeless stare. The lone survivor of a violent bus crash, the news called it a miracle, but Junichiro saw it all as unfair. Why did he have the right to live when there were others on that bus who lived more meaningful lives than he did, who were able to contribute more to the world than he ever would? Their deaths, all of them haunted Junichiro, but none more than Kaoru, his corpse forever burned into Junichiro's mind.

Even after his recovery in the hospital, Junichiro never quite healed from that crash. He stayed home every day after that, too afraid to come out of his shell, not out of fear for the world at large and its many dangers, but instead to avoid the attention his story entailed. Junichiro even missed his graduation, having more or less dropped out of high school after that. His family was worried, although there was little they could do to help him. Not wanting to trouble them any longer, Junichiro moved to the big city. To Osaka, where nobody would know him as "the one who lived."

In Osaka, Junichiro changed. Rather than the quiet background character, Junichiro developed into a punk who was not afraid to say what he wished, silently regretting the fact he could not say the one thing he yearned to. He became a laborer, doing odd jobs that were hard on his already broken body so that he could distract himself. No matter what he did, however, Junichiro still could not keep those memories, their faces, out of his mind. Junichiro felt he needed to be punished, to atone for the sin of living.

It was because of this that lead Junichiro to walk into that convenience store, wearing a face mask and clutching a fake gun tightly in his jacket pocket...

As scum of the Earth who could not conform to societal norms, those who knew Junichiro would be completely bewildered to hear he was summoned as a hero. However, despite his self-loathing and inability to move on from past trauma, Junichiro carries within deep him a spark to live on, an inborn desire to survive for the sake of those who had fallen. A rather contradictory sort, isn't he?

Possessing a will to endure and a body that has already been broken before, Junichiro is unafraid of putting himself in harm's way for others, believing that he is better off taking any injuries in their stead. Junichiro also possesses the decisive courage of a knight, to do what is required and say what is needed, as he knows the pain of being unable to say what his heart truly yearned for. A survivor in both body and mind, Junichiro's very being resembles the Hero of Defense.

- An airsoft M1911, painted black to resemble a real gun. Unloaded and without gas.
- A black, ragged facemask.
- A baseball cap with the logo of an American punk rock band.

As a freelancer who gravitated towards less glamorous ways to make a living, Junichiro possesses the physique of a laborer. That is to say, it is not quite impressive, and those who actually care about fitness would scoff at how much he could actually lift. Nonetheless, it would be a mistake to refer to Junichiro as merely "weak." Junichiro also possesses minor knowledge in construction work and waste management, well aware of Japan's complex garbage disposal laws.

Zero.