OH MAN I WROTE SOMETHING HERE HAVE IT :O oh man ive got so much headcanon regarding hanekoma it's ridiculous. if you squint you can see my desire for minamimoto/hanekoma what is wrong with me

Art is Relative

There were a million and a half reasons why Minamimoto was the perfect choice. Ambition was an easy thing to manipulate—give him the right information and the mathematician would take an all too predictable course. Due to the Reaper's reputation for rabble-rousing, it would take time for the Higher Plane to even realize there was an information leak, let alone be able to pin the source. Minamimoto possessed incredible Imagination; saturated with raw power, he was likely second only to the Composer himself and still with potential for exponential growth. Not to mention he didn't walk the line between genius and insanity—he erased it.

From the first mention of the Composer's Game, the idea did not sit well at all with Hanekoma. The destruction of a section of the Underground was not unprecedented, but had only been used before in dire circumstances. There had been some murmured questioning amongst the Angels, but the Composer essentially had carte blanche to do as he pleased, within limits, of course. And destroying Shibuya was well within his power. In so many ways, the Composer was still the same spoiled child that he was when he first entered the Underground as a Player so many years ago. When one of his toys didn't work the way it was supposed to, he was more likely to throw it away than try and fix it.

It was times like this that made Hanekoma regret taking the position of Producer of his own Shibuya. There had been concerns of a conflict of interest, given the strict regulations of Angelic non-involvement, but he'd always been known as a stickler for the rules, even during his time as a Reaper.

Oh, if they only knew what he was considering.

He hadn't the faintest idea how Kitaniji planned to change Shibuya. Or even what made the Conductor think that he could. No one seemed to account for the fact that Shibuya was practically a living entity, with its own force, its own will. And with only one month, any change Kitaniji might impose would be too quick, too sudden, and too different to be for the better.

It figures that Joshua would leave something this important to one of his stupid fucking Games.

By the end of the week, the proxy would be chosen, Higashizawa would be the Game Master, and everything would be set in motion. He was running out of time if he was going to do something.

Hanekoma had kept a close eye on Minamimoto since he'd first entered the Underground. He'd practically faulted his way up through the ranks as a Harrier, becoming the youngest officer ever—before anyone had a chance to realize that he wasn't just eccentric, he was certifiable. And he had his black little heart set on the Composer's throne. All of these things—plus the fact that he was on a very short list of possible Game Masters—made him the ideal choice to thwart the Game. But Hanekoma hesitated. What if Minamimoto actually managed to defeat the Composer? The possibility was slim, but he had a better chance than anyone else. How would Shibuya fare under him on the off chance that he succeeded?

Hanekoma had to get out. The café, normally his place of refuge, felt stifling. The Composer had been a regular visitor all week, since he'd retreated to the RealGround. He was likely to show up at any moment, babbling about his proxy or the Game. The Game that was bound to end in Shibuya's destruction. Hanekoma couldn't listen to another word without snapping.

The jingle of the keys in his hand felt familiar as he locked the door to WildKat. The joy of running his own place was the fact that he could open and close whenever he felt like. Money was hardly a concern—the upkeep was mostly paid for by his meagre allowance from the Angel hierarchy, and supplemented by players looking for rare pins or a bit of extra information regarding the Game. Sure, the place might be closed more than it was open, but people kept coming back because, damn, he made a good cup of coffee.

He'd lost track of how many he had to drink in a day to keep his own caffeine addiction at bay. His sixth cup today was in his hand as he walked down Cat Street, and it was only two-thirty in the afternoon. Maybe some down time in Miyashita Park would put his mind at ease. Unlikely, but it was worth a shot.

Extremely unlikely, considering the first person he came across was Minamimoto himself.

The Reaper didn't even notice Hanekoma stop beneath a tree and watch him. He was wrapped up in some project with the refuse he'd surrounded himself with. He removed his trademark coat, revealing a black sleeveless shirt, and laid it carefully on the ground. Then, he set to work.

Hanekoma couldn't help but watch, mesmerized, as one piece of garbage after the other was hauled into a growing pile, each one carefully selected and even more carefully placed into the heap. Every now and again, Minamimoto would stop to measure a line or an angle, and sometimes to rearrange a piece or two. No jutting bar of metal was unaccounted for, and slowly, the debris became recognizable as a work of art.

Minamimoto was truly a unique character. Some unholy hybrid between a mad genius, a tortured artist, and a deranged sanitation worker.

The Angel had lost track of how long he'd watched Minamimoto work. The younger man was now seemingly satisfied, having fit all of the pieces into this hideously and beautifully complex puzzle. He perched himself atop the heap—which was decidedly less precarious than it looked—watching as the sun dipped towards the horizon, facing away from where Hanekoma was standing.

He couldn't help himself; clutching his now empty coffee cup, he approached the heap, reaching out to touch what was once a child's bicycle. He circled it, fingertips carefully ghosting across the sometimes rusted metal. The whole thing was practically an ode to unconventional geometry—that or tetanus waiting to happen. He smiled as he noticed things such as discarded bird feeders, refrigerator motors, and aluminium siding forming perfect isosceles triangles, rhombuses, (rhombi? he wondered) and dodecahedrons. The idea of scaling the heap to inspect it further flitted across his mind, but was squashed by the sound of a pair of combat boots hitting the grass next to him.

"Who the factor are you?"

The spell that the art had cast over him was immediately broken. It felt as though reality had crashed down around his ears, the Game, Composer, caffeine headache and all. He slowly let his fingers fall from a former lawnmower blade. He raised the coffee cup to his lips, momentarily forgetting that it was empty, and then lowered it again. "Someone in the know," he answered simply.

That was it. The art had made up his mind for him.

The soon-to-be Fallen Angel thrust one hand into his pocket and turned to face Minamimoto, an enigmatic smirk curling his lips. "So I hear you're looking to take on the Composer. I think I have a solution for you."