I wish I had more to give you, anon! most of my theories/headcanons about akira are just that—we don't have a lot. we do know that they have people they want to return to back home, but they also seemed to have lived a rather lonely life—this is not just inferred in their comfort in a community of cats, rather than mentioning specific people or those who made an impact on them (though this would be an obstacle for anyone looking to project onto akira, so I don't pay it too much mind), but that they also seem to consider the eastern country most like their own home in tokyo. the kind of foreboding, impersonal loneliness that the eastern country fosters is familiar to them.

realistically, they were probably a regular office worker, but my personal theory is that akira was a teacher! in particular a teacher for younger children, at least somewhat disillusioned with their field. they have an incredible knack for interpersonal problem-solving, especially with riquet and even more so with mithra, that I think really speaks to experience with children—you'll notice that rutile often does a similar thing! rutile and akira's outlooks on working together are also pretty similar, and those shared values might have led to convergent careers (shrugs)

the disillusionment comes from the fact they never really mention their job—obviously, this is also something that could alienate readers who want to project, so it's not something to take too seriously, but I feel like most stories in this same situation wouldn't hesitate to mention something like an office job. that's going to be the circumstance of a majority of their players, probably, but mahoyaku is also special in that regard—I think it takes great care in its storytelling in considering what kind of people play their game. iirc, it was one of the first joseimukes that allowed use of a protagonist of each gender, and the writers have spoken before about crafting a story that doesn't become outdated. leaving akira's job nebulous leaves open the opportunity for people who are alienated by characters who do more "professional work" to more thoroughly enjoy the story.

really, though, I think akira's strongest characterization is in how they handle their own personal conflicts. central etude, the second part of the main story, and anni4 (as examples) put akira in a lot of positions of conflict and strife, where they struggle over what to believe. it's those decisions that rely flesh out akira as someone "human," someone who makes mistakes and struggles and does their best to really reach those they care about. it's especially effective because akira pretty readily admits their own flaws when they think they're wrong—anni4 was particularly impressive here. a character who can't admit when they're wrong is bound to feel unreliable and dishonest to a reader, but akira is quite straightforward and honest with themselves.

I generally try to make my ocs look different from each other (emphasis on try, because I don't always succeed) but in terms of what kind of designs I like in fictional characters... if they have long white hair and even slightly blue eyes it is so over for me. this is my favorite kind of design and I predictably fall all over myself when one shows up. one just appeared in honkai: star rail and I am SO fucked. they don't necessarily have to have blue eyes, but blue eyes are what I see most often.

there are other color combinations I really like, though! blue and orange, mint and pastel pink, beach tones (pale yellow, white, seafoam green, azure, etc) ... I like seeing blue and purples together, and brown is my favorite color so I'm partial to brown/earthy palettes. I also really like darker-skinned designs with lighter hair! I'm trying to think of some of my favorite character designs so I can give some examples, mm... scarlita and bryon from afk journey; xueyi and firefly from hsr; roxie, steven stone, marley, palina, geeta, and rime from pokemon; ouni from children of the whales; firewatch, cantabile, and pramanix from arknights; sumika from yuri is my job ... maybe that's enough? haha

Her fingertips, marked with unfamiliar callouses, curl over the edge of the pages as she reads. Occasionally, she will place a finger against the text and trace the line it follows, tracking the words with her eyes. She does not look up at him.

She is dreadfully close.

His own eyes have gone hazy for the moment, so it is useless to work. It would be best to return to bed, but he cannot bear to move while Yona still hovers over the texts, desperate for answers. She may never be so close again. He had long dismissed the possibility of a moment like this. There is a foreign sense of gratitude (and stranger, of shame) gathered like fog in his chest.

Is this what one might refer to as "a miracle?" Even if...

Even if he cannot touch her?

Sometimes, Heathcliff hallucinates—it had been the cause of some confusion when he was a child, and though they seemed to diminish with age, only upon meeting Mr. Faust had he learned the truth of the matter: they were not hallucinations, but sensory experiences evoked by the presence of strong spirits. Younger wizards, Mr. Faust had explained, are particularly susceptible to the voices and whims of the spirits, though he had admitted such was rare for those born in the East.

"Eastern spirits tend to keep to themselves, so the fact that you could hear them so clearly indicates a particularly strong sensitivity. If you had been born in the West or the South, something much worse could have happened."

"The West or the South? Why?" he had asked, puzzled.

Faust had fixed his gaze on Heathcliff, a complex expression overtaking his face. "Are you familiar with the phrase 'spirited away?'"

Quietly, Heathcliff had gained a new appreciation for the servants and attendants who had always looked after him so closely.

And he clings, now, to that feeling of 'being protected,' hugging his arms around himself in his thin nightwear as he watches the manor burn. The wood is howling, shrieking, crying out in pain—and behind him, lurking under the flowers, a familiar panther creeps closer, hissing between its fanged teeth.

Alone, finally, on the balcony, Sunday lets out a quiet breath. It's still a little unsettling, to find himself ignored by the people of the Dreamscape, but Robin's technique has worked well for him. He was able to sneak away for just this moment. He'll have to thank her the next time he writes.

He pulls the handheld telescope from the folds of his mother's skirt. It's nothing impressive, little more than a children's toy. When he and Robin were children, its circumference scarcely fit into their hands, but now he loops his fingers around the cool metal with ease.

The first notes of Robin's song brush against his ears. The stars are about to fall. Sunday raises his eyes to the telescope.

The Dreamscape stars aren't quite like "real" ones. The stars out in the "real world" are much farther away; it would be impossible to pick out the detail in them from such an amateur telescope. But the stars of the Dreamscape are close at hand, and through that tiny lens he can pick out the threads of memoria woven through each fallen star. He painstakingly tracks a single star through its descending arc, watching through the telescope until the memoria collides with the ground and dissolves into sparks. Even after the star is no longer visible, he finds himself clinging to the telescope grown hot beneath his grip.

This is my last goodbye. I won't come back here anymore, Robin.

His ship all but staggers into the satellite's bowels. At first, he attempts to support his mangled gait by leaning against the wall, but the sensors that make up his system of touch are quickly overwhelmed by the mass of tangled, half-corroded wires, sending a terribly painful jolt through his shoulder and shooting him away from the wall. His outer layer must have been damaged in that area...

Fortunately, leaning his other shoulder against the opposite wall, equally canopied in masses of unkempt wire, produces only minor discomforts. His touch sensors detect forty-three unique varieties of wire as he heaves himself further into the satellite.

If Herta weren't its architect, it would be a miracle that the massive machine even functions.

"Screwllum!" Her figure careens out of an adjacent hallway, wreathed in floor-length pale brown hair She nearly trips over a mass of cables on the floor, her pale legs bent awkwardly and trembling with effort. Their strength gives way beneath her just as she reaches him, sending her careening to the floor—but the dexterity of her gnarled hands is firm and steady as she lifts a mechanical tool from the bag thrown over her shoulder.

"Vision: shut down," Screwllum softly commands. The cavern of cords and cables blinks instantly into darkness, but the reliable grasp of Herta's human fingers remains.

Girls' apartments are easier. They usually smell like something, even if it's just perfume, soap, or cigarettes—usually cigarettes. But this place? It's a little dusty, sure, but even then it's too damn sterile. There's nothing here. The only scent he can pick out is... maybe a little bleach? Glass cleaner?

Still, Haruki's way too damn tired to go anywhere else. If he just... sleeps the whole time, then he won't have time to think about where he's sleeping. And how bare-bones it all is. What kind of freak lives in a place like this, anyway? Does the guy have a fetish for hospitals or something?

Okaaay, that's enough thinking for today. Goodnight, Morichika Haruki.

He cracks his eye open a sliver as Natsume approaches the couch. And he fights the tremble in his shoulders as Natsume lays a hand down, stroking his fingers through Haruki's hair.

He remembers "waking up" choking, frantically clawing at his throat with his hands, desperate to free the blood trapped in his windpipe—only to find his airway empty, and his skin cold. He remembers circling the scene of the murder, searching for himself, heedless to the fact that his boot-soles went unstained, the white snow left untrampled by his footsteps.

Snow would later tell him that he was calling for White all along—that White just didn't hear him, or see him, but that's not how White remembers it. In his memory, he is alone with the red snow in a blizzard that he cannot see past. He is alone, scraping his throat raw with screaming, his hands searching uselessly along his cold, dead wrists for a pulse.

It is his only memory of true solitude.

There's something about Mr. Faust's room that reminds Mitile of the clinic. At first, it's a sensation he can't place—he's never inside long enough to ponder it, keenly aware of how uncomfortable Faust is with the presence of others and eager to evacuate. The sense of nostalgia lingers, unnoticed.

It's only once, when Mr. Faust allows Mitile to study in his room after fighting with Rutile, that Mitile truly makes note of how the room smells. Underlying the thick aroma of dust, old paper, and incense he finds himself recognizing medicinal ingredients: aloe, turmeric, chamomile, lavender. There are more that he doesn't recognize by name but by scent alone, and he finds his eyes darting along the surfaces of the room, trying to pinpoint their location. He wants to ask about them, to learn their names.

For some reason, Dr. Figaro would never tell him what they were called. "When you're older," he'd said, and brushed off Mitile's curiosity with a wave of his hand. He kept them shuttered in high, heavy boxes within the clinic, their smells drifting down over him as he slept uneasily in his second bed.

They must be dangerous, right? That's why Dr. Figaro wouldn't tell him... But if they're so dangerous, isn't it better for him to know what they're called? How to avoid them? To properly use them?

Mr. Faust's face takes on a strange expression when Mitile tells him this. There is something sad and confused in his eyes, a frustration biting at his lip. But in the end, he shakes his head. "I can't tell you. I'm sorry."